No Soap, RADIO!
by A.G. Lindsay
Challenges are God's way of telling you to use your imagination.
So, you think you don't like radios. I would have said the same during my primary training. Actually, the truth is that they didn't seem to like me much especially just after I had soloed. I had three com failures in quick succession. The first two were caused by an intermittent sticky mike which I didn't find out about until much later. I thought there was something I was doing wrong because, as everyone knows, it's always the pilot's fault, isn't it?
Pleading hadn't worked, so around Thursday, I started threatening weather deities to improve their performance by Saturday midmorning for my practice slot. Someone up there must have heard since it was gorgeous, if a bit cold. "Everyone must be flying." I thought as I left my house for the 40 minute drive to the airport.
When I got to the airport, I was surprised that if "everybody was flying" they weren't doing it out of my FBO. I had checked the weather, but perhaps I should have checked the astrology as well. I had my choice of planes: my beloved 147 (which I soloed in but didn't trust since I had experienced two radio failures in it) and 357.
You know, and I know, that all those 152s are created equal, but sometimes I SWEAR they each have a different personality. 147 thinks I talk too much.
Mentally slapping myself for being too whimsical, I asked for the one with the most fuel, which ended up being 357. I preflighted my trusty steed...okay, "plane"...and everything looked fine. Or was it?
"Why is the nose so low?" wonders our usually resourceful, but frequently bemused aviatrix. "Is it the shocks? Is the tire flat? Am I suddenly taller that I used to be?" (One lives in hope...) No such luck, it turned out that 357's nose wheel is in a major ditch (a couple of inches deep.) So much for my new-found personal altitude.
I never thought of 2-seater Cessnas as being particularly heavy or difficult to move until that moment. I probably should have taken that as "a sign."
But I didn't. Instead, I went back to the office with my best "poor pitiful student pilot" expression on. Unfortunately, no one was lounging around in the FBO like they usually do. Actually, no one was even in the building except Ann, who does the scheduling. However, upon hearing my plight, she volunteered to help.
We collected another pilot from the ramp, who had just finished preflighting a twin. He joined Ann and myself in getting 357 out of its ditch and then he off on his own adventure. Sometimes that woeful student pilot look works better than others.
I finished my checks and cranked up 357. Adventure time for Amy. Just as I was ready to call Ground control, I noticed there was a Lake Amphibian on the other side of the taxiway, ready to go as well. Raised to be polite to everyone, I waited for her to get her acknowledgment call and trundle off to the active.
And waited.
Perhaps, I
should have considered this foreshadowing as well.
A little later, I hear a Sierra asking for taxi clearance. Briefly I wondered if it was the same Sierra who had taxied up behind the Lake. This turned out to be so, since Ground kept asking if the Lake could hear him. I realized, victims of politeness or not, no one from over there could go, but I could. I asked for my clearance.
I was given the go ahead if I was "not blocked by the Lake." As I taxied by her, I tried to gesture that Ground was trying to contact her. This must have been interpreted correctly because a few seconds later I caught a glimpse of the Lake taxiing across to where I had been, thus allowing the Sierra to get out of the parking area.
I did my runup like a good little student pilot. As I finished and was about the call the Tower for my clearance, I heard the Sierra get a go-ahead to move to the active, having taxied around me and done his runup closer to the runway and blocking my path to it in the process.
Well, I was a bit miffed, but what can you say? At times like these, I just take a deep breath and think of The Two Rules Of Life From Which All Others Derive:
1. Don't be stupid.
2. Don't be a jerk.
I'm still working out the details of number one, but parents usually give one a good foundation on what constitutes number two.
So, I called in, and the Tower told me, to wait (big surprise.) It may have seemed quiet and trafficless when I got to the airport, but now there were at least four planes in closed pattern, soon to be a fifth, if the evil Sierra got his clearance.
I spent, what I felt was at least a decade listening to a rapid series of Tower issued clearances. The day brightened slightly as Mr. Sierra decided to opt out of landing practice. Unfortunately, this directly coincided with the entry of Yet Another Small Trainer on the scene. Obviously, Beverly airport was the happenin' place on the coast this morning.
I watched Mr. Sierra fly off into the... er, northeast. I guess he decided he'd rather check out the beach population which is usually more worth watching when the weather was quite a bit warmer.
Finally, it was my turn, and the Tower came back with: "357, unable touch and goes, state intentions." Uhh... In retrospect, I probably should have thought something clever like "I intend to hit Megabucks and live off the interest from my stocks and bonds," but my real, true thought was much closer to "Uhh..."
My instructor and I had discussed this first unsupervised solo and I was to do a couple of touch-and-goes, to get a feel for the winds, and then go the practice area. Neither of us had been expecting the morning to be this frustrating. Must have been weird planets in conjunction or something.
Resisting the impulse to through up my hands in defeat and taxi back to the flight school, I decided "Well, if I can't, I can't." Maybe, flexibility is one of those skills you're supposed to develop in flight training if you're not lucky enough to have it before then.
So, I asked for a northeast departure, thinking I'd go directly to the practice area and just putter around until I got used to the conditions.
No response. How odd. Had I said the right thing? In English?
I was starting to get a little annoyed, after the Tower cleared three planes for touch-and-goes. Something inside me thought "Maybe this should be a clue." I try not to listen to those voices and this was not an unexpected development.
Light dawned a few minutes later, but not on me. The Tower Controller told me that although he could hear that I had tried to call him (my carrier), but he couldn't hear my voice. Uh-oh. Another com problem. Did Mercury suddenly go retrograde?
I moved the mike on my headset, fiddled with the connections, and tried again, still no luck.
My patience snapped all at once. "No more games with gadgets. Let's used the tools Cessna intended...the cabin speaker and the handheld mike."
I took my PTT switch out (ripped it out, I should say.) I stabbed the plug for the hand mike into its socket, and, bingo, the world, and, more importantly, the Tower could hear me again.
ATC cleared me to the northeast, but I must have sounded pretty rattled because just as I made pattern altitude on the right crosswind, he asked if I wanted touch and goes.
Normalcy had returned to the world. Breathing a sigh of relief, I said "yes, I would." Even as the words leapt from my lips, I thought: Bozette! It should have been 'Affirmative.' Like he couldn't tell I was a student pilot before. I guess I should have been glad that anything coherent had gotten out at all.
The first pattern was sloppy. I had never done a right-hand pattern before. It looks easy in print. Thud.
I should have been glad the Cessna made the 152 to take alot of punishment on landing, but I was too concerned at my sudden lack of ability to look far enough down the runway. Thud.
By the third takeoff, I had lost what little confidence I had started with. The speaker was scratchy and the cable for the handheld mike kept either evading me or getting in the way. To make matters worse, the wind shifted and picked up during the middle of my second thud. This was no time to start doubting the truism: caution is the better part of valor. I landed for the third time and returned to the flight school, see Rule Number 1.
As I was pushing 357 back in line, the lady of the Lake walked over to talk to me. Obviously, she had had a bad alignment of planets as well. It was good to talk to someone else whose day was not going totally as expected.
Upon reviewing this flight, I think maybe I should change my future ambitions. When I started flying, my next step after getting my ticket was to learn about engines and airframes to I could work on my Stearman when I get it, but, perhaps, my True Aviation Calling should be diagnosing and repairing avionics.
Have soldering iron, will travel?
To return to the fiction and poetry page, close this window.