fifty-five miles per hour with the nose pointed downward, you can smoothly but briskly pull the nose right back up to the horizon again. You’ve recovered and in the process lost minimum altitude.
A stall is a clumsy state of affairs—you momentarily lose control of the aircraft—and Mr. Vaughn was so precise and safety-conscious that his participation in a stalland recovery seemed incongruous. Nevertheless, we practiced and recovered from many power-on stalls, power-off stalls, and turning stalls.
All kinds of things can go wrong just after the moment of stall, depending on what the pilot is doing with the flight controls (yoke, rudder pedals, and throttle). The pilot may, for example, instinctively pull back on the yoke to keep the nose up, when the nose should be allowed to fall or should even be pushed over so that speed will increase. And in general, the closer to the ground a stall occurs, the more dangerous it is.
Mr. Vaughn and I practiced stalls at high altitudes, of course. We’d name an altitude that we would pretend was ground level. Let’s say we chose five thousand feet. We’d pretend we’d just taken off from the ground and then at fifty-five hundred we’d stall our aircraft and attempt to recover from the stall while remaining above five thousand feet.
O N THE DAY I thought I might fly my initial solo flight (usually planned after about nine hours in the air), we took off and stayed in the traffic pattern—the pattern that airplanes fly for orderly landing. We made several touch-and-go landings (as soon as the wheels are firmly on the runway, full power is applied for a normal takeoff).
Then Mr. Vaughn said, “Make the next landing a full stop.”
After the next landing, I taxied off the runway and to the flight building.
“Okay,” said Mr. Vaughn, “I’m getting out of the aircraft,and you take it up for a couple of touch-and-gos and then a full stop. Say ‘initial solo’ on all your radio calls”—sniff, sniff—“right after your call sign.”
“Yes, sir.”
I sat alone as he walked away, and then I took a deep breath. “Ground, this is Cherokee Six Seven Two Sierra, initial solo, taxi for takeoff.” The empty space beside me seemed as big as the Arctic, as silent as snow.
I took off, entered the traffic pattern. On downwind, I looked at a parking lot far below. Sun glinted off a tiny automobile. My mind held panic at arm’s length. I knew my procedures, but the runway looked so narrow. I knew that if the approach didn’t feel right, I could execute a go-around, which meant leveling off, adding power, and coming around to land again. As I turned to final approach for the first landing, everything seemed normal. “Throttle controls altitude; nose controls airspeed,” Mr. Vaughn’s mantra, ran through my head. The Cherokee was doing its job. I’d learned that, left alone, it could fly pretty well by itself. I just needed to make the right adjustments: Add a little left rudder and aileron, a bit of power, pick up the left wing a bit, back off on the power. Airspeed is hot; back off the power some more—no, just lift the nose and wait. Things are looking good. Drop the nose a bit; it feels good. Now flare, hold it off, hold it off. The sudden
uurkurk
of the main wheels touching, the rattling of the empty airframe, the
urk
of the nose wheel. Down. Add power for takeoff.
I put the little airplane down twice more, then taxied in, all by myself, relieved and happy.
Mr. Vaughn was waiting for me in the flight building with a pair of scissors. I pulled out my shirt and he cut off my shirttail, wrote my name and the date on it, and hung it on the wall beside shirttails of those who’d recently gone before me.
I walked out into the sunlight and pumped my fists above my head.
Cross-Country
A FTER TWENTY HOURS IN THE AIR , it was time for me to plan and fly a cross-country trip all on my own. The trip was to Wilson, North Carolina, then over to a small airfield near
A stall is a clumsy state of affairs—you momentarily lose control of the aircraft—and Mr. Vaughn was so precise and safety-conscious that his participation in a stalland recovery seemed incongruous. Nevertheless, we practiced and recovered from many power-on stalls, power-off stalls, and turning stalls.
All kinds of things can go wrong just after the moment of stall, depending on what the pilot is doing with the flight controls (yoke, rudder pedals, and throttle). The pilot may, for example, instinctively pull back on the yoke to keep the nose up, when the nose should be allowed to fall or should even be pushed over so that speed will increase. And in general, the closer to the ground a stall occurs, the more dangerous it is.
Mr. Vaughn and I practiced stalls at high altitudes, of course. We’d name an altitude that we would pretend was ground level. Let’s say we chose five thousand feet. We’d pretend we’d just taken off from the ground and then at fifty-five hundred we’d stall our aircraft and attempt to recover from the stall while remaining above five thousand feet.
O N THE DAY I thought I might fly my initial solo flight (usually planned after about nine hours in the air), we took off and stayed in the traffic pattern—the pattern that airplanes fly for orderly landing. We made several touch-and-go landings (as soon as the wheels are firmly on the runway, full power is applied for a normal takeoff).
Then Mr. Vaughn said, “Make the next landing a full stop.”
After the next landing, I taxied off the runway and to the flight building.
“Okay,” said Mr. Vaughn, “I’m getting out of the aircraft,and you take it up for a couple of touch-and-gos and then a full stop. Say ‘initial solo’ on all your radio calls”—sniff, sniff—“right after your call sign.”
“Yes, sir.”
I sat alone as he walked away, and then I took a deep breath. “Ground, this is Cherokee Six Seven Two Sierra, initial solo, taxi for takeoff.” The empty space beside me seemed as big as the Arctic, as silent as snow.
I took off, entered the traffic pattern. On downwind, I looked at a parking lot far below. Sun glinted off a tiny automobile. My mind held panic at arm’s length. I knew my procedures, but the runway looked so narrow. I knew that if the approach didn’t feel right, I could execute a go-around, which meant leveling off, adding power, and coming around to land again. As I turned to final approach for the first landing, everything seemed normal. “Throttle controls altitude; nose controls airspeed,” Mr. Vaughn’s mantra, ran through my head. The Cherokee was doing its job. I’d learned that, left alone, it could fly pretty well by itself. I just needed to make the right adjustments: Add a little left rudder and aileron, a bit of power, pick up the left wing a bit, back off on the power. Airspeed is hot; back off the power some more—no, just lift the nose and wait. Things are looking good. Drop the nose a bit; it feels good. Now flare, hold it off, hold it off. The sudden
uurkurk
of the main wheels touching, the rattling of the empty airframe, the
urk
of the nose wheel. Down. Add power for takeoff.
I put the little airplane down twice more, then taxied in, all by myself, relieved and happy.
Mr. Vaughn was waiting for me in the flight building with a pair of scissors. I pulled out my shirt and he cut off my shirttail, wrote my name and the date on it, and hung it on the wall beside shirttails of those who’d recently gone before me.
I walked out into the sunlight and pumped my fists above my head.
Cross-Country
A FTER TWENTY HOURS IN THE AIR , it was time for me to plan and fly a cross-country trip all on my own. The trip was to Wilson, North Carolina, then over to a small airfield near
Similar Books
3 A Brewski for the Old Man
Phyllis Smallman
The Girlflesh Institute (Nexus)
Adriana Arden
Sterling
Dannika Dark
On This Day
Melody Carlson
Wildwood Dancing
Juliet Marillier
Maid to Match
Deeanne Gist
The Gates of Hell (Matt Drake 3)
David Leadbeater
Escape From Reality
Adriana Hunter
Gates of Neptune
Gilbert L. Morris
A Touch of Minx
Suzanne Enoch