Spare parts. That’s what they’re loading into a cargo truck right now. It arrived at about 10 pm to begin dismantling Mecca. A few odd-and-end airplane parts, the flight simulator, and all the furniture from the school are now piled haphazardly in a giant box truck with “U-HAUL” plastered on the side. Mixed in there somewhere are my joy and contentment. All bound for Indianapolis.
The company headquarters called this morning and, in quite the matter-of-fact manner, advised that they were closing this location. A mere matter of hours later, the phones had been disconnected. And as we speak Matt and a company representative are loading all of the office furniture and training materials into a truck. They’re flying a pilot down to get the Cessna tomorrow, and the Seminole that I’ve been flying will be shortly behind. That’s all, folks. It’s over.
And with the end of this era, so ends some of the happiest, deepest enchantments in my recent memory. I’ve had more fun here than can be described, and it truly breaks my heart that I have to leave. To say that I love it here is a colossal understatement, and I’ve basically been on the verge of depression all day. I simply don’t want to leave. I want to stay with the Boss, Ryan, Ed, Glenn, Sara, Dan, and the rest. It’s no secret that I’ve become completely disillusioned with the school itself, but I love this location. The things that I get to do outside of the school are amazing. My flights with Ed. Flying the Baron with Glenn, as we did today. Enjoying the company of some of the most wonderful people I’ve ever met. Not to mention the daily inspiration I draw from being around the Boss. All of these things do so much for me; more than any ridiculous excuse for a ground lesson. From flying in Big Red, to riding through Jasper with Ryan and the Boss in his Cadillac (windows down) singing George Jones’ “Yabba Dabba Doo” at the top of our collective lungs, these are the things I’ll miss and the lost prospects that leave me with the broken heart that I’m currently suffering. It’s truly like leaving family.
The only silver lining here is that the company offered, as an obvious olive branch, my unquestioned choice of locations to which I may transfer for my cross-country stage. Based on its reputation, as well as its geographic location, I chose Bowling Green, Kentucky. It’s a small location as far as the company is concerned, roughly the same size as the one which I enjoyed here. It’s also actually closer to home, and a stone’s throw from Nashville. I don’t know when I’ll have to go there; in fact, no one seems to know anything. I expect that this will be expected within the next few days, but who knows? They sure don’t. My disenchantment with this company grows exponentially with each passing minute, and this mess sure isn’t helping. I’ve seen train wrecks that were better organized than this.
The sorrow I feel right now is truly indescribable. It’s one of the oldest, corniest lines in the book, but it honestly feels like a part of me is dying. To lose the daily interactions that I enjoy here is devastating to me, and I’m still grappling with that prospect. My resolve has yet to falter; if anything it’s grown stronger just to spite these invisible forces that obviously seek my demise. My morale, however, is on life support now as a result of this. To be so simple a place with such modest accommodations, I love it here; more than I can begin to describe. This airport shone as a beacon of hope after my experiences in Atlanta. My arrival here reminded me that I was meant to fly. The not-so-subtle hints abound; like my intense affection for my mentor, the Boss – who just happens to be a FedEx MD-11 Captain (the dream I’ve held since the age of 8), or the twice-weekly flights that just happen to go to McMinnville, Tennessee, of all places on this earth. Folks, my solo airplane from 2004 even showed up here the other day. I did my first solo in it in 2004, and a few months later it was sold to an attorney in Pensacola, Florida. Somehow, it ended up here a few days ago. Five years after I spread my very own wings (with its help), N548DC is sitting on our ramp right now at this very moment. But above all of these things, the greatest hope and inspirations that I have enjoyed here have come in the human form. The support of my local family, just like the support from my extended family of readers, has been invaluable. These kind, successful people have supported me for more than four months now and I don’t know how I’m going to make it without them. Thankfully, I have a habit of forming fierce loyalties and long-lasting attachments; evidenced with such examples as elementary school teachers that maintain an interest in my progress and well-being. My goal for my airport family is no different. While I may not see them daily anymore, they will always be a part of me. And I’m not going to like it, but I’m going to press on.
I’m not looking forward to saying goodbye to Jasper. I dread it, really. Like I said, with each armload that was carried out of the building, it was like I was watching a component of my very soul walk out of the building for the last time. I just stood in silence and somberly observed the opening minutes of the process. The beginning of the end.
“Lloyd, aren’t you going to help?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head as I dropped it and turned. “I won’t be a part of this funeral.”
And with that, I disappeared into the darkness.
Joey
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Day 131 - The $100 Hamburger
Me and Ed in his RV-6 I don’t know exactly what the device is called, but it’s a push-button type lock that’s attached to the end of some throttle control sliders. These are actuated by moving a large knob in and out of the dashboard of some airplanes (like a Cessna 172), as opposed to one or more vertical throttle levers. I had only once before flown an aircraft with this type of throttle, and that was for all of a whopping twenty minutes. But that was a 172, and it didn’t have this irritating little knob attached to the end. You have to depress and hold it while manipulating the control otherwise it locks the throttle in place. I silently cursed whoever had originally designed the thing as I cumbersomely advanced the throttle all the way to the stop. The engine roared, shoving the little airplane forward at an acceleration rate that was probably greater than that of any takeoff I’ve flown to date.
Today was my first tail-wheel lesson, and my training ground was Ed’s personal airplane. Ed participates in a phenomenon known in aviation as the $100 hamburger, so he took me along with him today. We had flown to Pell City, Alabama, to eat lunch with several other pilots that all own airplanes just like Ed’s; sporty little winged missiles known as RV’s. The restaurant was one of the coolest things I've seen yet; a totally aviation-themed restaurant located on the airport property. We literally taxiied up to their ramp and walked inside. As is customary with me and Ed, we take turns flying the legs of our trips. Ed had flown the first leg in order to demonstrate to me the finer nuances of tail-wheel aircraft, specifically this one, and had allowed me some stick time in the air so that I could get the feel for it. And now, with lunch behind us, it was my turn to fly.
Thinking with the mindset of a tricycle-gear airplane pilot, I had asked Ed about rotation speed (the point at which I should pull back on the stick to allow the aircraft to take off) as we were pulling onto the runway. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just firewall it and hold it straight. It’ll do the rest.” Ummm…. A’ight. I did exactly as Ed had instructed, and in short order the earth seemed to involuntarily fall away from us. It was a good thing, too, because I couldn’t have looked at the airspeed indicator if I wanted to. All of my attention was directed toward keeping the nose straight; coordinating my eyes and my feet in their constant manipulation of the rudder pedals. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected. It wasn’t effortless either. But it sure was cool.
Good night this thing’s fast! I thought, as I glanced down at the airspeed indicator. Its needle was already heading past the “100” in a matter of mere seconds. We had taken off behind a Piper Cub, which I knew would be moving much slower than us, so I lowered the nose and leveled off a few hundred feet over the runway in order to visualize him. Got him. This also allowed me to see that plenty of runway length remained underneath us. The Cub was making a painfully slow straight-out departure, which now put us in trail of him, though the distance between the two aircraft was closing. On the flight over, I had gotten a feel for just how quick and maneuverable Ed's airplane was. In fact, Ed and I took turns performing rolls as we crossed 5,500 feet over the outskirts of Birmingham (I never, ever get tired of being upside down in airplane). As such, I had a fair idea what the aircraft was capable of, so I decided to have a little fun.
I glanced to the right and depressed the radio transmit button on the top of the control stick. “Four Echo Bravo’s right turn outbound, northeast departure, Pell City.” Simultaneously, I rolled control the stick to the right and pulled back. I’m not sure if I broke the sacred no-more-than-60-degrees-of-bank-in-a-traffic-pattern rule, but if not I came awfully close. The tiny aircraft laid over on its side and blasted away from the airport, skimming over a nearby ridgeline and leaving the Cub in the dust. Once our 90 degree turn on to our course was complete, I leveled back off; a permanent smile now firmly plastered onto my face. Ed giggled as he saw the visible joy that I was experiencing at the controls of his airplane. "Oh I have GOT to get me one of these!!!"
So that was my day. Still no instructor, still no progress. Thus, out of boredom, I’ve decided to pursue things that don’t particularly affect my airline career, but do put hours in my logbook and smiles on my face. That’s why Ed and I undertook the task of working on my tail-wheel endorsement. I’ve also been promised a seaplane lesson, so I think I’ll pursue that rating next. Useless? Yeah. Fun? It’s bound to be.
I’ve still not decided which article to submit, nor to whom I’m going to submit it. I was sorta fishing for a bit a more in the way of suggestions (hint hint). I seriously don’t have a clue. I wish I knew someone in the publishing business; help would be invaluable right about now. And speaking of that, special thanks go out to Hailey and Sandy for responding to my pleas for input. Everyone else… Well, did I happen to mention that you’re cut out of my will?
No, wait a minute. I’m putting you IN my will!
Ha! You’ll owe millions!!!
Joey
Today was my first tail-wheel lesson, and my training ground was Ed’s personal airplane. Ed participates in a phenomenon known in aviation as the $100 hamburger, so he took me along with him today. We had flown to Pell City, Alabama, to eat lunch with several other pilots that all own airplanes just like Ed’s; sporty little winged missiles known as RV’s. The restaurant was one of the coolest things I've seen yet; a totally aviation-themed restaurant located on the airport property. We literally taxiied up to their ramp and walked inside. As is customary with me and Ed, we take turns flying the legs of our trips. Ed had flown the first leg in order to demonstrate to me the finer nuances of tail-wheel aircraft, specifically this one, and had allowed me some stick time in the air so that I could get the feel for it. And now, with lunch behind us, it was my turn to fly.
Thinking with the mindset of a tricycle-gear airplane pilot, I had asked Ed about rotation speed (the point at which I should pull back on the stick to allow the aircraft to take off) as we were pulling onto the runway. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just firewall it and hold it straight. It’ll do the rest.” Ummm…. A’ight. I did exactly as Ed had instructed, and in short order the earth seemed to involuntarily fall away from us. It was a good thing, too, because I couldn’t have looked at the airspeed indicator if I wanted to. All of my attention was directed toward keeping the nose straight; coordinating my eyes and my feet in their constant manipulation of the rudder pedals. It wasn’t as bad as I had expected. It wasn’t effortless either. But it sure was cool.
Good night this thing’s fast! I thought, as I glanced down at the airspeed indicator. Its needle was already heading past the “100” in a matter of mere seconds. We had taken off behind a Piper Cub, which I knew would be moving much slower than us, so I lowered the nose and leveled off a few hundred feet over the runway in order to visualize him. Got him. This also allowed me to see that plenty of runway length remained underneath us. The Cub was making a painfully slow straight-out departure, which now put us in trail of him, though the distance between the two aircraft was closing. On the flight over, I had gotten a feel for just how quick and maneuverable Ed's airplane was. In fact, Ed and I took turns performing rolls as we crossed 5,500 feet over the outskirts of Birmingham (I never, ever get tired of being upside down in airplane). As such, I had a fair idea what the aircraft was capable of, so I decided to have a little fun.
I glanced to the right and depressed the radio transmit button on the top of the control stick. “Four Echo Bravo’s right turn outbound, northeast departure, Pell City.” Simultaneously, I rolled control the stick to the right and pulled back. I’m not sure if I broke the sacred no-more-than-60-degrees-of-bank-in-a-traffic-pattern rule, but if not I came awfully close. The tiny aircraft laid over on its side and blasted away from the airport, skimming over a nearby ridgeline and leaving the Cub in the dust. Once our 90 degree turn on to our course was complete, I leveled back off; a permanent smile now firmly plastered onto my face. Ed giggled as he saw the visible joy that I was experiencing at the controls of his airplane. "Oh I have GOT to get me one of these!!!"
So that was my day. Still no instructor, still no progress. Thus, out of boredom, I’ve decided to pursue things that don’t particularly affect my airline career, but do put hours in my logbook and smiles on my face. That’s why Ed and I undertook the task of working on my tail-wheel endorsement. I’ve also been promised a seaplane lesson, so I think I’ll pursue that rating next. Useless? Yeah. Fun? It’s bound to be.
I’ve still not decided which article to submit, nor to whom I’m going to submit it. I was sorta fishing for a bit a more in the way of suggestions (hint hint). I seriously don’t have a clue. I wish I knew someone in the publishing business; help would be invaluable right about now. And speaking of that, special thanks go out to Hailey and Sandy for responding to my pleas for input. Everyone else… Well, did I happen to mention that you’re cut out of my will?
No, wait a minute. I’m putting you IN my will!
Ha! You’ll owe millions!!!
Joey
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Day 127 - A Democratic Process
Folks I’m considering a foray into the world of criminal justice. I’m not totally unconvinced that I couldn’t single-handedly end the war on crime with one single method of deterrence. The intense boredom and total lack of productivity that I now know are bound to be enough to scare anyone away from prison. As previously discussed, the flight school has reassigned my instructor (as is becoming the norm); only this time they are not replacing him. So here I sit, awaiting word on my fate. Ryan has abandoned ship (I can’t say as I blame him), and the airport has now been established as the Sovereign State of Lloyd. Yippee.
There’s only so much busy work that one can do before he begins to run out of projects to occupy his time. Ask me; I know. I’ve done so much mowing that it’s seriously killed the grass (whoops), every inch of inhabitable space now sports a sterility that would rival any operating room, and I spent the better part of six hours washing, waxing, polishing, vacuuming, and otherwise detailing the Boss’ company truck the other day. I’ve flown the sim and studied as well, but let’s face it; there’s only so much studying one can do before it becomes counterproductive. The brain is literally beaten into submission. It becomes sorta like those stupid rice cake things that people “eat;” it occupies space but there ain’t a whole lot going on inside.
Between my utter boredom and violent disgruntlement, I’ve dredged up a new project; one that requires your input! So in the spirit of democracy, baseball, apple pie, backyard barbeques, the loyalty of a fine dog, and all other things deliciously American, we’re gonna hold a good old-fashioned vote!
There are those among us that labor under this ridiculous notion that I am a talented writer. Let me say immediately, that I do not agree with this assessment, and am undertaking this project under protest. Talent (or lack thereof) not withstanding, I do particularly enjoy writing my little passages, so I figure that it might be worth a try. It has been requested that I submit a sample of my work to various aviation-themed magazines, offering a perspective of the ground-level guy working his way up. I honestly don’t believe myself to be talented, so I’m letting my audience choose the selection that I submit. Here are your marching orders: Pick a post throughout the last four months that you think should be the one to go to the magazines in hopes of garnering attention. If you don’t find a suitable post, suggest a topic. Choose something that you think I should discuss if I have not already written something to suit you. The winning topic (if not an existing post) will elicit a composition that will be posted prior to submission for the approval of the periodical publication gods.
The input of ALL readers is requested, so I expect lots of comments on this post! Non-commenting readers will be abducted and sold to the primitive tribe of my choosing; I'm just letting you know up front here folks. So unless you wanna end up a Darfari shish kabob I suggest you listen up. Aside from your topic choice, please tell me if you have additional suggestions. Who should I send samples to? Should I even do this? Why or why not? Hold nothing back! You my either call, text, email, or post your suggestions and any additional input with regard to this project. If you don’t have my email address or cell phone number but wish to speak to me directly via either method, post here and I’ll send them to you. If you can’t post here, find someone that can. If they can’t… Well, it looks like you’re taking a trip to Jasper. Let nothing stand in the way! I seriously need your help on this one folks. I have no idea if a market even exists for this sort of thing, and frankly I expect total rejection. But then again, who knows? A small tree is some shade (quote Mike Fortune). Either way, I need to make sure that this shot in the dark is as accurately aimed as possible.
Let the discussion begin!
Joey
No purchase necessary to win. Purchase will not improve your chances of winning. Void where prohibited. Details on specially marked boxes at participating retailers only. Sweepstakes is open only to legal residents of the United States and Canada (excluding Quebec) who are 18 years or older at time of entry. Limit one (1) entry per participant. Contains small parts which may be hazardous to children. Some assembly required.
There’s only so much busy work that one can do before he begins to run out of projects to occupy his time. Ask me; I know. I’ve done so much mowing that it’s seriously killed the grass (whoops), every inch of inhabitable space now sports a sterility that would rival any operating room, and I spent the better part of six hours washing, waxing, polishing, vacuuming, and otherwise detailing the Boss’ company truck the other day. I’ve flown the sim and studied as well, but let’s face it; there’s only so much studying one can do before it becomes counterproductive. The brain is literally beaten into submission. It becomes sorta like those stupid rice cake things that people “eat;” it occupies space but there ain’t a whole lot going on inside.
Between my utter boredom and violent disgruntlement, I’ve dredged up a new project; one that requires your input! So in the spirit of democracy, baseball, apple pie, backyard barbeques, the loyalty of a fine dog, and all other things deliciously American, we’re gonna hold a good old-fashioned vote!
There are those among us that labor under this ridiculous notion that I am a talented writer. Let me say immediately, that I do not agree with this assessment, and am undertaking this project under protest. Talent (or lack thereof) not withstanding, I do particularly enjoy writing my little passages, so I figure that it might be worth a try. It has been requested that I submit a sample of my work to various aviation-themed magazines, offering a perspective of the ground-level guy working his way up. I honestly don’t believe myself to be talented, so I’m letting my audience choose the selection that I submit. Here are your marching orders: Pick a post throughout the last four months that you think should be the one to go to the magazines in hopes of garnering attention. If you don’t find a suitable post, suggest a topic. Choose something that you think I should discuss if I have not already written something to suit you. The winning topic (if not an existing post) will elicit a composition that will be posted prior to submission for the approval of the periodical publication gods.
The input of ALL readers is requested, so I expect lots of comments on this post! Non-commenting readers will be abducted and sold to the primitive tribe of my choosing; I'm just letting you know up front here folks. So unless you wanna end up a Darfari shish kabob I suggest you listen up. Aside from your topic choice, please tell me if you have additional suggestions. Who should I send samples to? Should I even do this? Why or why not? Hold nothing back! You my either call, text, email, or post your suggestions and any additional input with regard to this project. If you don’t have my email address or cell phone number but wish to speak to me directly via either method, post here and I’ll send them to you. If you can’t post here, find someone that can. If they can’t… Well, it looks like you’re taking a trip to Jasper. Let nothing stand in the way! I seriously need your help on this one folks. I have no idea if a market even exists for this sort of thing, and frankly I expect total rejection. But then again, who knows? A small tree is some shade (quote Mike Fortune). Either way, I need to make sure that this shot in the dark is as accurately aimed as possible.
Let the discussion begin!
Joey
No purchase necessary to win. Purchase will not improve your chances of winning. Void where prohibited. Details on specially marked boxes at participating retailers only. Sweepstakes is open only to legal residents of the United States and Canada (excluding Quebec) who are 18 years or older at time of entry. Limit one (1) entry per participant. Contains small parts which may be hazardous to children. Some assembly required.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Day 123 - Then and Now
The Alabama sun shone squarely down upon me as I leaned on my Callaway #8 iron. The eagle on my retro-styled American Airlines baseball cap spread his wings defiantly in the afternoon heat, and blades of grass tickled my feet through my standard airport uniform flip-flops. Matt and I had decided to take in an afternoon of golf at our new private resort, and it occurred to me now that, in the history of bad ideas, my selection of a navy blue t-shirt for today’s attire had to rank somewhere in (at least) the top third.
“Fore!” Matt announced.
I stood a fair distance from him, and a good 60-70 degrees offset of his point of aim. He glanced in my direction, making eye contact with me despite his oversized, highly exaggerated aviator sunglasses, which have apparently clawed their way back into contemporary fashion. I never really understood the nomenclature; they seem more like something a highway patrolman from 1973 might wear; or maybe Hunter S. Thompson after a drug binge.
I peered through my much more conservative, much smaller, metal-framed Revo specs and nodded in approval, confident that I was in no danger. This confidence evaporated instantly as he released a furious swing that sent the diminutive white ball rocketing toward my head. In my best Matrix-like response, I rocked backed on my heels and bent aft and left at the waist. Time seemed to slow, the air blurred, and I even performed the melodramatic windmilling of my arms as the ball passed. It inched a long, leaving a trail of wake as it flew by, headed for God knows where. Then all at once, the earth caught back up with my time warp and I stood back up straight.
“Good Lord, Pitts!” I yelled (Pitts is Matt’s last name). Rapidly I glanced around, checking for successive line-drives aimed at my head, and also for witnesses to my spectacular evasive maneuver.
“What?”
“We’re awful!” It was true. I was making a 100% accurate and totally clinical assessment of our respective performances. We each had slices that would make jealous even the most skilled of samurai, and that is only if we actually made connection with the ball. The few that did not slice lacked in other ways. Matt’s skipped across the earth like grounders at a little league tee-ball game, while my shots performed more like bottle rockets: straight up and straight back down, landing merely a few mocking yards in front of me with a sarcastic “thud.” It was sad.
One wrestle with Hola Alpha usually takes us somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 to 30 minutes by the time each of us chase a ball all over the airport, but today we had to modify our game slightly. Someone had arrived overnight in a Diamond DA20, identical to the ones that I had completed my primary training in years before, and parked it next to our Seminole. Unfortunately for us, the crew of this particular aircraft had apparently mistaken this place for an airport. They had maneuvered their airplane to the edge of the ramp in such a manner that the tail now encroached upon the fairway of Hole Alpha. So, being the considerate folks that we are, we had decided to shorten the hole and modify the par accordingly instead of risking damage to the offending Diamond with our wildly unpredictable, drunken-monkey style of golfing.
Though slightly miffed by its insult to our afternoon game, I found the tiny bird to be an interesting sight to behold. It was almost a paradox of “then and now;” my beloved trainer aircraft of yesterday parked beside my current mistress. It made me wonder longingly if one day I would lay eyes upon a Seminole parked beside my next conquest, say, an MD-11 or 757. Would I react the same way upon visualization? Would I ever even reach that point? I certainly hoped so. This vista of encouragement illustrated to me the progress that I had made, with more to hopefully be made in the future. I let out a sigh as the visions of David and Goliath comparisons of Pipers and Boeings ricocheted through my brain. Maybe one day.
“Ya know,” I said to Matt as we set off, side by side, trudging across our makeshift country club. “We’ve really gotta get the golf cart fixed.”
“Yeah, all this walking isn’t healthy.”
“Oh?” His response shocked me. Matt is an avid health nut and connoisseur of finer weightlifting equipment, as has been previously discussed. I couldn’t imagine him finding any form of exertion or exercise repugnant; that was my job! Thus, I could not help but investigate further. “How so?”
“It’s giving me a rash,” was the matter-of-fact response.
“Ah!!!” I reeled from the nauseated amusement at his excessive revelation of information, unsure which to perform more; chuckling or gagging. “Niiiiice…”
So I’m in Montgomery for the weekend. I’ll be staying with my grandfather, so God help the citizens of this fair state as the two grumpiest old codgers ever to unleash their coffee-fueled wrath upon a population have once again been reunited. I’m really looking forward to it, as we always have a great time together. I’ll be returning to the airport on Monday, and I learned this evening that it shall be empty upon my return (or at least the school and pilot quarters will be). Matt is being sent to Las Vegas for a few weeks, leaving me all by my lonesome, and once again on the back burner. In fact, I’ve been taken off the back burner and put all the way back in the cabinet. The back burner would be an improvement. That’s the bad news. The good news is that since single-pilot ops in the twin are prohibited, I’m basically guaranteed that my recheck will be with The Boss, as I had hoped, since I obviously can’t fly anywhere else to take my recheck.
I’m not sure how this is going to work. I just know that the time keeps passing, I’m growing increasingly restless and impatient, and the circus music keeps getting louder. But I guess as Hailey says, “one day at a time.” I don’t know, though. It’s just hard to keep focus when it feels like you’re spinning your wheels. At this rate, I’ll have to go straight into retirement upon graduation. But then again, maybe that’s not such a bad idea after all.
Shuffleboard, anyone?
Joey
“Fore!” Matt announced.
I stood a fair distance from him, and a good 60-70 degrees offset of his point of aim. He glanced in my direction, making eye contact with me despite his oversized, highly exaggerated aviator sunglasses, which have apparently clawed their way back into contemporary fashion. I never really understood the nomenclature; they seem more like something a highway patrolman from 1973 might wear; or maybe Hunter S. Thompson after a drug binge.
I peered through my much more conservative, much smaller, metal-framed Revo specs and nodded in approval, confident that I was in no danger. This confidence evaporated instantly as he released a furious swing that sent the diminutive white ball rocketing toward my head. In my best Matrix-like response, I rocked backed on my heels and bent aft and left at the waist. Time seemed to slow, the air blurred, and I even performed the melodramatic windmilling of my arms as the ball passed. It inched a long, leaving a trail of wake as it flew by, headed for God knows where. Then all at once, the earth caught back up with my time warp and I stood back up straight.
“Good Lord, Pitts!” I yelled (Pitts is Matt’s last name). Rapidly I glanced around, checking for successive line-drives aimed at my head, and also for witnesses to my spectacular evasive maneuver.
“What?”
“We’re awful!” It was true. I was making a 100% accurate and totally clinical assessment of our respective performances. We each had slices that would make jealous even the most skilled of samurai, and that is only if we actually made connection with the ball. The few that did not slice lacked in other ways. Matt’s skipped across the earth like grounders at a little league tee-ball game, while my shots performed more like bottle rockets: straight up and straight back down, landing merely a few mocking yards in front of me with a sarcastic “thud.” It was sad.
One wrestle with Hola Alpha usually takes us somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 to 30 minutes by the time each of us chase a ball all over the airport, but today we had to modify our game slightly. Someone had arrived overnight in a Diamond DA20, identical to the ones that I had completed my primary training in years before, and parked it next to our Seminole. Unfortunately for us, the crew of this particular aircraft had apparently mistaken this place for an airport. They had maneuvered their airplane to the edge of the ramp in such a manner that the tail now encroached upon the fairway of Hole Alpha. So, being the considerate folks that we are, we had decided to shorten the hole and modify the par accordingly instead of risking damage to the offending Diamond with our wildly unpredictable, drunken-monkey style of golfing.
Though slightly miffed by its insult to our afternoon game, I found the tiny bird to be an interesting sight to behold. It was almost a paradox of “then and now;” my beloved trainer aircraft of yesterday parked beside my current mistress. It made me wonder longingly if one day I would lay eyes upon a Seminole parked beside my next conquest, say, an MD-11 or 757. Would I react the same way upon visualization? Would I ever even reach that point? I certainly hoped so. This vista of encouragement illustrated to me the progress that I had made, with more to hopefully be made in the future. I let out a sigh as the visions of David and Goliath comparisons of Pipers and Boeings ricocheted through my brain. Maybe one day.
“Ya know,” I said to Matt as we set off, side by side, trudging across our makeshift country club. “We’ve really gotta get the golf cart fixed.”
“Yeah, all this walking isn’t healthy.”
“Oh?” His response shocked me. Matt is an avid health nut and connoisseur of finer weightlifting equipment, as has been previously discussed. I couldn’t imagine him finding any form of exertion or exercise repugnant; that was my job! Thus, I could not help but investigate further. “How so?”
“It’s giving me a rash,” was the matter-of-fact response.
“Ah!!!” I reeled from the nauseated amusement at his excessive revelation of information, unsure which to perform more; chuckling or gagging. “Niiiiice…”
So I’m in Montgomery for the weekend. I’ll be staying with my grandfather, so God help the citizens of this fair state as the two grumpiest old codgers ever to unleash their coffee-fueled wrath upon a population have once again been reunited. I’m really looking forward to it, as we always have a great time together. I’ll be returning to the airport on Monday, and I learned this evening that it shall be empty upon my return (or at least the school and pilot quarters will be). Matt is being sent to Las Vegas for a few weeks, leaving me all by my lonesome, and once again on the back burner. In fact, I’ve been taken off the back burner and put all the way back in the cabinet. The back burner would be an improvement. That’s the bad news. The good news is that since single-pilot ops in the twin are prohibited, I’m basically guaranteed that my recheck will be with The Boss, as I had hoped, since I obviously can’t fly anywhere else to take my recheck.
I’m not sure how this is going to work. I just know that the time keeps passing, I’m growing increasingly restless and impatient, and the circus music keeps getting louder. But I guess as Hailey says, “one day at a time.” I don’t know, though. It’s just hard to keep focus when it feels like you’re spinning your wheels. At this rate, I’ll have to go straight into retirement upon graduation. But then again, maybe that’s not such a bad idea after all.
Shuffleboard, anyone?
Joey
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Day 121 - Fore!
Me Teeing Off"Now this is beautiful." The Boss stood, handly planted firmly on hips, in the middle of the freshly cut grass between the ramp and the taxiway. His torso oscillating gradually to the left and then right, proudly surveying the latest capital improvement to the facility. We'd worked literally all day on it, and he was right; we didn't do half bad.
It all started at about 8:30 this morning, when I was informed by the Boss that we had a project for the day. I was told that I was to mow and manicure every inch of inhabitable grass that was between the fuel ramp and the taxiway. Ok, simple enough. The Boss strode about the land, gesturing grandly with his arms to illustrate his vision to me.
"I want it to look just like a golf course."
"Ok," I responded. "Why a golf course?""Because we're fixing to make one."
"Wait a minute." My mind processed what he just said. "We're making a golf course? On the airport?"
"Yep. I wanna play by this afternoon," the Boss replied, a slight mischievous grin glowing around his aviator sunglasses.
My smile was much broader and more obvious. And I responded in the best way that I knew how. "Yes, sir!"
"Play it as it lies, Lloyd!"
Yep, we officially opened the Gordo Beach Golf Resort today. Since this is an airport and 
numerical values would just not be appropriate, we've declared the lone hole to be known colloquially as "Hole Alpha." She's a Par Three, complete with tee markers and pin. After a day of mowing, weedeating, and installing the cup on the green, we officially teed off on the inaugural round of golf at 5:30 this afternoon. As one might well imagine from anyone crazy enough to build a private golf course on an airport, we had an absolute blast. Someone once asked me why I worked EMS, and I told them that it was the only place that I could find people that were almost as crazy as me. I now stand corrected; I've found a whole slew of people that are as crazy as me. I'm telling ya folks, we ain't right.
numerical values would just not be appropriate, we've declared the lone hole to be known colloquially as "Hole Alpha." She's a Par Three, complete with tee markers and pin. After a day of mowing, weedeating, and installing the cup on the green, we officially teed off on the inaugural round of golf at 5:30 this afternoon. As one might well imagine from anyone crazy enough to build a private golf course on an airport, we had an absolute blast. Someone once asked me why I worked EMS, and I told them that it was the only place that I could find people that were almost as crazy as me. I now stand corrected; I've found a whole slew of people that are as crazy as me. I'm telling ya folks, we ain't right.So that's how the day went. A day of landscaping followed by a relaxing afternoon of golf at the redneck country club. While "Sweet Home Alabama" boomed out into the air at an earth-shaking volume from the hangar stereo, the four of us teed-off from the road cones at the west ramp like it was Pebble Beach. Today was, for obvious reasons, some of the most fun I've had in a while. Flying is so much fun, but the camaraderie that comes along with it is priceless. I mean seriously, who installs a par three hole of golf on an airport? Who does that???
The recheck situation is still up in the air. We think we have it sorted it out, but I don't wanna get my hopes up too much. The Boss says it's gonna be ok, and I tend to believe a guy that wakes up one day and decides to make his own personal golf course. If it works out the way we plan, I'll be doing my recheck with him early next week. Until then, I suppose I at least have something to do. Lots of practice, that is.
Fore!
Joey
Monday, June 15, 2009
Day 119 - A Tribute To The Fallen
On Friday, June 12th, 2009, one of my faithful supporters was sadly taken from us. Shirley Hoyer, life mate & adored companion of my beloved grandfather, died suddenly and quite unexpectedly of a massive heart attack. Her passing leaves a hole in many hearts, and she will be deeply missed. Shirley was a cherished family member and faithful member of my support staff. She offered frequent encouragement of my aeronautical passions, and assisted other members of the staff by printing the contents of this blog for my less-than-computer-savvy grandfather so that he too could have a glimpse into the daily life a fledgling pilot. So dedicated she was, that with each update she, albeit inadvertently, reprinted the blog in its entirety. This suggests to me that a massive anthology exists somewhere in Mt. Juliet (each stack a little taller than the previous), and that the proprietors of various paper manufacturers and office suppliers are quite pleased with her performance.
Kidding aside though, her passing gives me cause to reflect upon those that have helped, loved, and supported me, and have since departed. In no particular order, the following are brief tributes to the other fans of the Lloyd whom, like Shirley, are no longer with us today.
Mary “Nana” McCormack – My dear grandmother. A staunch supporter of my aviation career, to be sure. Some of the fondest memories I have of my most primal fantasies of aviation revolve around the commuter flights I took to Tuscaloosa to visit my grandmother. Nana was one of my biggest fans; so much so that she thought everyone else was a fan, also. This is how ended up on several memorable adventures, to include breaking in to a closed museum because HER grandson wanted to go in, run-ins with law enforcement for illegally detonating pyrotechnics within the Tuscaloosa city limits because HER grandson wanted to, and getting stranded in Montgomery after I decided that a cross-town bus ride was in order (apparently we didn’t catch the part about it being a one-way trip). It was just beyond Nana’s comprehension that the driver would not go out of his way to return THE Joey to his point of origin. “But this is my grandson! MY grandson!” Do you see where I get my delusions of grandeur come from?
Bob “Papaw” Lee – Avid fan, loyal defender, faithful supporter of my aspirations, and huge contributor to my warped sense of humor and obnoxious-- err, I mean, creative forms of self-expression. Throughout the formative years of my life, Papaw nurtured my eccentricities by purchasing for me the loudest, most obscenely obnoxious toys and gadgets that he could find (a trumpet comes to mind), and providing me an endless stream of grouchy old man-isms to add to my repertoire. After all, what is a pilot without a penchant for toys and noise and the obligatory dry sense of humor? But more than that, he was a devoted advocate of my success, and vicious opponent to any that stood contrary to it. Just ask any one of the endless stream of umpires that he mercilessly heckled, harassed, and berated throughout my Pee Wee baseball career. The only man I ever knew that got thrown out of a Little League baseball game.
Bill Gilley – Without a doubt, one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever met. Truly a genius. Mr. Gilley knew something (usually a lot) about everything, and there was not a day that we were together that I didn’t learn something. Mr. Gilley played a vital role in my continued success by igniting certain flames within me that would eventually grow and manifest themselves in ways that would have far-reaching impacts on my life. Mr. Gilley introduced me to public service through the American Red Cross, and also ignited my enjoyment of teaching by ushering me into service as a Lifeguard Instructor. These pursuits would later serve as a catalyst for my foray into EMS and firefighting. He was also an amazing supporter of my passion for aviation. Whether it be from bringing souvenirs from his annual trip to Sun ‘N Fun, or just endless conversation as we rode all over creation in that little black car, he always evoked my passion for aviation and offered relentless encouragement. His confidence in me was astounding, as he was primarily responsible for the Red Cross (much to their continued dismay) appointing me both the youngest Board Member and Lifeguard Instructor in county history. I point out this fact not to draw attention to myself, but to illustrate the stellar support that I enjoyed from Mr. Gilley. All that happened solely because he went out on a limb and believed in me. Or perhaps it was a subversive plot to exact perpetual retribution on the organization by releasing a madman into the ranks. Either way, I like it!
Jim “Pa Jim” Braxton – The man that taught me how to drive (and operate) a fire engine, and also the first person to ever dub me “Alan” of Two And A Half Men fame. I also suspect him to be the architect of a vast global conspiracy, considering that everyone in the English-speaking world now apparently draws the exact same parallels between me and the fictional character. Thanks, Jim. And while not a direct link to my aviation career, Pa Jim has indirectly impacted it in immeasurable ways. He taught me so many things in the time we spent together. These include, but are not limited to, how to cuss at passing cars on wreck scenes, how to outrage blue-haired old women, how to run a rolling blockade on a highway, and how to sufficiently mortify any curious passerby from ever again inquiring about the severity of a car wreck. (“Yeah, there’s 10 or 12 dead up under there. There’s bodies everywhere. Get on outta here.”). More importantly though, he gave me life lessons. He taught me about calm and calculated control, leadership under pressure, and valiant decision-making against insurmountable odds. This education has been applied to my flying with fantastic results. And as is the case of the other watchdogs, more than one individual met comeuppance and the wrath of Pa Jim after messing with me. Two years departed now, Jim’s spirit and his trademark skid lid hat go everywhere with me. The photo taken of me and the rest of the department honor guard during his funeral is one of my most prized possessions, and sits on my dresser in Jasper at this very moment. And I still hate a paper route.
Ok, so before you condemn me for disrespecting the dead by utilizing humor in their tribute, let me just ask you one question: How exactly do you think I got like this? I didn’t just wake up this warped, it takes the fantastic input of very special people. People like the ones listed above. The aforementioned statements utilized humor because all five of my departed fans would have wanted it that way. They each had a hand in molding the person I am today, and they each would appreciate a light-hearted approach to the amazing lives they led. Besides, this post isn’t for you, anyway. It’s for them.
So anyway, Shirley, we’re gonna miss you. Thank you for everything did for me, and thank you for accomplishing the unimaginable task of keeping my grandfather on the straight and narrow for the last 16 years. He means the world to me, and I thank you for looking after him. I’m sorry that you, Nana, Papaw, Bill, and Jim won’t make it to the finish line with me, but just know that this one’s for y’all.
Joey
AUTHOR'S NOTE: For some reason, in the original post, I stated that Shirley passed away on February 12th. In fact, she passed away this previous Friday; well into the month of June.
Kidding aside though, her passing gives me cause to reflect upon those that have helped, loved, and supported me, and have since departed. In no particular order, the following are brief tributes to the other fans of the Lloyd whom, like Shirley, are no longer with us today.
Mary “Nana” McCormack – My dear grandmother. A staunch supporter of my aviation career, to be sure. Some of the fondest memories I have of my most primal fantasies of aviation revolve around the commuter flights I took to Tuscaloosa to visit my grandmother. Nana was one of my biggest fans; so much so that she thought everyone else was a fan, also. This is how ended up on several memorable adventures, to include breaking in to a closed museum because HER grandson wanted to go in, run-ins with law enforcement for illegally detonating pyrotechnics within the Tuscaloosa city limits because HER grandson wanted to, and getting stranded in Montgomery after I decided that a cross-town bus ride was in order (apparently we didn’t catch the part about it being a one-way trip). It was just beyond Nana’s comprehension that the driver would not go out of his way to return THE Joey to his point of origin. “But this is my grandson! MY grandson!” Do you see where I get my delusions of grandeur come from?
Bob “Papaw” Lee – Avid fan, loyal defender, faithful supporter of my aspirations, and huge contributor to my warped sense of humor and obnoxious-- err, I mean, creative forms of self-expression. Throughout the formative years of my life, Papaw nurtured my eccentricities by purchasing for me the loudest, most obscenely obnoxious toys and gadgets that he could find (a trumpet comes to mind), and providing me an endless stream of grouchy old man-isms to add to my repertoire. After all, what is a pilot without a penchant for toys and noise and the obligatory dry sense of humor? But more than that, he was a devoted advocate of my success, and vicious opponent to any that stood contrary to it. Just ask any one of the endless stream of umpires that he mercilessly heckled, harassed, and berated throughout my Pee Wee baseball career. The only man I ever knew that got thrown out of a Little League baseball game.
Bill Gilley – Without a doubt, one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever met. Truly a genius. Mr. Gilley knew something (usually a lot) about everything, and there was not a day that we were together that I didn’t learn something. Mr. Gilley played a vital role in my continued success by igniting certain flames within me that would eventually grow and manifest themselves in ways that would have far-reaching impacts on my life. Mr. Gilley introduced me to public service through the American Red Cross, and also ignited my enjoyment of teaching by ushering me into service as a Lifeguard Instructor. These pursuits would later serve as a catalyst for my foray into EMS and firefighting. He was also an amazing supporter of my passion for aviation. Whether it be from bringing souvenirs from his annual trip to Sun ‘N Fun, or just endless conversation as we rode all over creation in that little black car, he always evoked my passion for aviation and offered relentless encouragement. His confidence in me was astounding, as he was primarily responsible for the Red Cross (much to their continued dismay) appointing me both the youngest Board Member and Lifeguard Instructor in county history. I point out this fact not to draw attention to myself, but to illustrate the stellar support that I enjoyed from Mr. Gilley. All that happened solely because he went out on a limb and believed in me. Or perhaps it was a subversive plot to exact perpetual retribution on the organization by releasing a madman into the ranks. Either way, I like it!
Jim “Pa Jim” Braxton – The man that taught me how to drive (and operate) a fire engine, and also the first person to ever dub me “Alan” of Two And A Half Men fame. I also suspect him to be the architect of a vast global conspiracy, considering that everyone in the English-speaking world now apparently draws the exact same parallels between me and the fictional character. Thanks, Jim. And while not a direct link to my aviation career, Pa Jim has indirectly impacted it in immeasurable ways. He taught me so many things in the time we spent together. These include, but are not limited to, how to cuss at passing cars on wreck scenes, how to outrage blue-haired old women, how to run a rolling blockade on a highway, and how to sufficiently mortify any curious passerby from ever again inquiring about the severity of a car wreck. (“Yeah, there’s 10 or 12 dead up under there. There’s bodies everywhere. Get on outta here.”). More importantly though, he gave me life lessons. He taught me about calm and calculated control, leadership under pressure, and valiant decision-making against insurmountable odds. This education has been applied to my flying with fantastic results. And as is the case of the other watchdogs, more than one individual met comeuppance and the wrath of Pa Jim after messing with me. Two years departed now, Jim’s spirit and his trademark skid lid hat go everywhere with me. The photo taken of me and the rest of the department honor guard during his funeral is one of my most prized possessions, and sits on my dresser in Jasper at this very moment. And I still hate a paper route.
Ok, so before you condemn me for disrespecting the dead by utilizing humor in their tribute, let me just ask you one question: How exactly do you think I got like this? I didn’t just wake up this warped, it takes the fantastic input of very special people. People like the ones listed above. The aforementioned statements utilized humor because all five of my departed fans would have wanted it that way. They each had a hand in molding the person I am today, and they each would appreciate a light-hearted approach to the amazing lives they led. Besides, this post isn’t for you, anyway. It’s for them.
So anyway, Shirley, we’re gonna miss you. Thank you for everything did for me, and thank you for accomplishing the unimaginable task of keeping my grandfather on the straight and narrow for the last 16 years. He means the world to me, and I thank you for looking after him. I’m sorry that you, Nana, Papaw, Bill, and Jim won’t make it to the finish line with me, but just know that this one’s for y’all.
Joey
AUTHOR'S NOTE: For some reason, in the original post, I stated that Shirley passed away on February 12th. In fact, she passed away this previous Friday; well into the month of June.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Character Analysis - The Last Of The Hangar Kids
"There was a Stearman here earlier." I had walked out the door and onto the ramp just in time to hear Matt say this to two other pilots within the program that had stopped for fuel during their cross-country venture for the day.
"A what?"
"A Stearman," Matt repeated.
"What's a Stearman?" My ears perked, and I devoted full attention to the conversation. The thought of a pilot, much less two, being unfamiliar with a Stearman had completely blown my mind. What planet are these people from?
"It's an old military biplane," Matt responded. "What about a T-6, have you ever seen one in person?"
"What's a T-6?"
Oh for God's sake. "Ok, let's start with something simpler," I interjected. "Are you able to recognize shapes and colors?" My sarcastic jab was met with predictably blank stares. There might as well have been have been electronic signs on their foreheads, each one flashing the phrase "DOES NOT COMPUTE." What didn't compute, to me, was a pilot being unable to visually identify to staples of classic aviation history, not to mention lore. In the aviation community, such an offense is roughly tantamount to the failure to recogize the sky's color to be blue. It was almost apalling. We stood in silence for a moment while they attempted to mentally calculate what exactly a shape and color were, and whether or not they could readily identify subcategories of each with reasonable accuracy. In attempt to prevent mental overload and subsequent vapor lock, I decided to put a stop to it.
"Nevermind."
Somewhere down the line, there is a major hitch in the get-along. These two pilots are not the first two I have seen that are lacking major components of their aviation cultural knowledge, and I assert that these ignorances are a direct result of the fact that many don't seem to actually enjoy flying. They spew flawless procedural knowledge from memory, and perform preflight inspections that would put most A&Ps to shame, but when it comes time to actually get in the airplane I have noticed that many don't appreciate the magic of it. And make no mistake, it is magic for me, no less now than it was 15 years ago. I may not be able to shoot an SDF approach exactly right the first time, nor can I quote the FAR/AIM chapter and verse (That's why there's an index in the back of that thing). And frankly, I don't think that's extremely critical. As I've told many people with regard to medicine and emergency services; if you have the heart for it, then you're fine. Skills and knowledge can be developed. Passion is either preexisting, or absent. Period. You cannot teach someone how to love. It has to be within them. And once its presence is identified, the trick is to merely elicit that portion of their soul and channel it into positive results. This is true of any field. Aviation is no different. Passion is the key. For me, and many others, that passion has always existed. While other 6th graders drew monster trucks in art class, I drew FedEx DC-10s. Some kids wore the t-shirts of their favorite baseball teams; I chose the Blue Angels. While the rest of the teenagers I knew played Grand Theft Auto and other intellectually stimulating video games, I flew Microsoft Flight Simulator in a simulated ATC environment for hundreds and thousands of hours (Yes I'm a nerd, shut up). Most 16 year olds go to the movies or on car dates, while this one drove an hour and a half to flight school. I learned to drink (and eventually love) black coffee. I hung around the airport, and could sit for endless hours watching airplanes takeoff and land (I'm amazed at the pilots around here whom have either never witnessed the nightly FedEx push at Memphis, or don't even know what it is). At any rate, I was, and still am, a hangar kid. Flying is just something I've always wanted to do, and I am truly amazed how few people say that. For a time, I thought that it was just the inherent, almost instinctive desire of every pilot to fly. Almost like sea turtles. The minute you're born, the fire is lit.
For all these reasons, most pilots within my age bracket, and of commensurate experience, think that I'm insane. Now mind you that these are the same people that sleep with a FAR/AIM under their pillows and have Low En Route Charts tacked up on the walls in their room like decoration, but I'm certifiable for pursuing the spirit of aviation more than the logistics. Right. Where have all the hangar kids gone? Who knows. But apparently very few hangar kids actually grow up to become pilots. From the best evidence that I can collect, it seems that most of the people in my demographic literally woke up one day within the last 10-12 months and decided to become a pilot. Seriously.
Make no mistake, the purpose of this analysis is not to belittle those that do not share my obsession. In fact, I feel rather sorry for them. As hard a time as I sometimes have with all of this, I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. Some of the things that I am fortunate enough to be able to do evoke feelings within me that I cannot describe. This little adventure has been one mess after another, but the opportunity to pursue a fantasy that I have held for nearly 23 years makes it all worth while. I put up with all this crap because it's pragmatic to do so. The juice is worth the squeeze, so to speak. How they persevere and put up with the nonsense without displaying any appreciable enjoyment is beyond me. Is it the perceived glamour of being able to say, "I'm a pilot?" The mythical six figure salary? I honestly don't understand. But investing the time, effort, blood, sweat, and tears, without being able to extract that child-like excitement and fulfillment from the backside is what seems crazy to me.
Truly, I am the luckier of the two personalities discussed here tonight. I can retake a checkride. I can study more. I can even flip to the index in my trusty FAR/AIM. But they can't carry spare passion in their flight bag. They can't try again to love this, and they can't get someone to implant the desire within them through extra ground school. But to each his own, I suppose. And even though my road sometimes seems a little rockier, it sure is more fun.
I'll stick with it.
Joey
"A what?"
"A Stearman," Matt repeated.
"What's a Stearman?" My ears perked, and I devoted full attention to the conversation. The thought of a pilot, much less two, being unfamiliar with a Stearman had completely blown my mind. What planet are these people from?
"It's an old military biplane," Matt responded. "What about a T-6, have you ever seen one in person?"
"What's a T-6?"
Oh for God's sake. "Ok, let's start with something simpler," I interjected. "Are you able to recognize shapes and colors?" My sarcastic jab was met with predictably blank stares. There might as well have been have been electronic signs on their foreheads, each one flashing the phrase "DOES NOT COMPUTE." What didn't compute, to me, was a pilot being unable to visually identify to staples of classic aviation history, not to mention lore. In the aviation community, such an offense is roughly tantamount to the failure to recogize the sky's color to be blue. It was almost apalling. We stood in silence for a moment while they attempted to mentally calculate what exactly a shape and color were, and whether or not they could readily identify subcategories of each with reasonable accuracy. In attempt to prevent mental overload and subsequent vapor lock, I decided to put a stop to it.
"Nevermind."
Somewhere down the line, there is a major hitch in the get-along. These two pilots are not the first two I have seen that are lacking major components of their aviation cultural knowledge, and I assert that these ignorances are a direct result of the fact that many don't seem to actually enjoy flying. They spew flawless procedural knowledge from memory, and perform preflight inspections that would put most A&Ps to shame, but when it comes time to actually get in the airplane I have noticed that many don't appreciate the magic of it. And make no mistake, it is magic for me, no less now than it was 15 years ago. I may not be able to shoot an SDF approach exactly right the first time, nor can I quote the FAR/AIM chapter and verse (That's why there's an index in the back of that thing). And frankly, I don't think that's extremely critical. As I've told many people with regard to medicine and emergency services; if you have the heart for it, then you're fine. Skills and knowledge can be developed. Passion is either preexisting, or absent. Period. You cannot teach someone how to love. It has to be within them. And once its presence is identified, the trick is to merely elicit that portion of their soul and channel it into positive results. This is true of any field. Aviation is no different. Passion is the key. For me, and many others, that passion has always existed. While other 6th graders drew monster trucks in art class, I drew FedEx DC-10s. Some kids wore the t-shirts of their favorite baseball teams; I chose the Blue Angels. While the rest of the teenagers I knew played Grand Theft Auto and other intellectually stimulating video games, I flew Microsoft Flight Simulator in a simulated ATC environment for hundreds and thousands of hours (Yes I'm a nerd, shut up). Most 16 year olds go to the movies or on car dates, while this one drove an hour and a half to flight school. I learned to drink (and eventually love) black coffee. I hung around the airport, and could sit for endless hours watching airplanes takeoff and land (I'm amazed at the pilots around here whom have either never witnessed the nightly FedEx push at Memphis, or don't even know what it is). At any rate, I was, and still am, a hangar kid. Flying is just something I've always wanted to do, and I am truly amazed how few people say that. For a time, I thought that it was just the inherent, almost instinctive desire of every pilot to fly. Almost like sea turtles. The minute you're born, the fire is lit.
For all these reasons, most pilots within my age bracket, and of commensurate experience, think that I'm insane. Now mind you that these are the same people that sleep with a FAR/AIM under their pillows and have Low En Route Charts tacked up on the walls in their room like decoration, but I'm certifiable for pursuing the spirit of aviation more than the logistics. Right. Where have all the hangar kids gone? Who knows. But apparently very few hangar kids actually grow up to become pilots. From the best evidence that I can collect, it seems that most of the people in my demographic literally woke up one day within the last 10-12 months and decided to become a pilot. Seriously.
Make no mistake, the purpose of this analysis is not to belittle those that do not share my obsession. In fact, I feel rather sorry for them. As hard a time as I sometimes have with all of this, I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. Some of the things that I am fortunate enough to be able to do evoke feelings within me that I cannot describe. This little adventure has been one mess after another, but the opportunity to pursue a fantasy that I have held for nearly 23 years makes it all worth while. I put up with all this crap because it's pragmatic to do so. The juice is worth the squeeze, so to speak. How they persevere and put up with the nonsense without displaying any appreciable enjoyment is beyond me. Is it the perceived glamour of being able to say, "I'm a pilot?" The mythical six figure salary? I honestly don't understand. But investing the time, effort, blood, sweat, and tears, without being able to extract that child-like excitement and fulfillment from the backside is what seems crazy to me.
Truly, I am the luckier of the two personalities discussed here tonight. I can retake a checkride. I can study more. I can even flip to the index in my trusty FAR/AIM. But they can't carry spare passion in their flight bag. They can't try again to love this, and they can't get someone to implant the desire within them through extra ground school. But to each his own, I suppose. And even though my road sometimes seems a little rockier, it sure is more fun.
I'll stick with it.
Joey
Monday, June 1, 2009
Day 105 - On The Way Down
So, most of you already know that I failed my multi-engine instrument checkride yesterday. I won’t reinvent the wheel there. I was emotionally destroyed yesterday (not much better today) and didn’t feel like writing about it, so I didn’t. I came back to the trailer and threw myself a "pity party," to quote Hailey. Then I got in the sim to practice what I failed. Then came another pity party. It was a good plan, I think. But the question remains, now what?
I am scared to death, folks. I cannot put into words the visceral, crippling fear that has been constant within me since yesterday, but I threw up three times yesterday if that gives you any illustration (Gotta love total honesty and transparency. Gross details. And remember, you heard it here first). I was unsatisfactory on two things during the ride, and those are the two items that I’ll have to repeat. The first was an SDF approach (Mr. Page, that's for you), and the second was a DME arc. A DME arc is really simple, but I was so rattled and upset from busting the ride that I lost my head and turned the wrong way. It was an extremely stupid mistake and 100% my fault. The examiner tried to get me rattled, and I let him. I get one more shot at it, and if I fail that, they kick me out of school. I’m not dealing well at all with that prospect, and am honestly mortified. This is the first checkride that I’ve busted in my burgeoning flying career, and I feel about three inches tall. I’m very angry that I was not taught the approach that I failed, but the overwhelming emotion is quite simple: fear. Fear of failure. Fear of disappointing all of you. Fear of the shame that I will feel if I don’t make it. Fear of being nothing. Fear of having nothing. This is really all I’ve got, and if I fail again it gets taken away from me. Every egg I've got is sitting in a basket with the word "pilot" written on the side of it. My college education, this huge investment that my family and I have made in my training, my hopes and dreams; they all revolve around aviation. I just don’t understand why every time I start to make a little progress I get shoved backwards again. I don’t know what the answer is, or what to do, or think. I just know that I’m scared. I’m waiting to hear what happens to me now, and all I can do is my best if I get to retest. Truly, that’s all I can do. But I’m deeply concerned that it’s not enough.
I spent most of the day today with the boss. He is always a comforting presence to me and tried his best to reassure me, but not even he could assuage the anxiety I’m feeling. I feel just totally hopeless, like it’s already over. Being around him did help, though. I would do anything for the guy and think the world of him, but it is sorta embarassing to ride in a car with an MD-11 Captain when you can't even pass a checkride. I did at least smile and laugh a little bit, though. The boss says it’s going to be ok, but I’m not so sure. I hope he’s right. My emotions run the gamut and undergo complete polar shifts. When I talk to the boss, it sounds so simple: like something I can do. But when I relive what happened and really process what I’m going to have to do to pass, I descend back into total despair. I’m really trying to overcome it, but failure is not easy for anyone; especially when everything is riding on the line this time. That’s what really, really scares me. If I bust, it’s over for me. Over.
I’m still waiting to hear my fate, at least in the interim. All I can do now is sit and stew on what happened, and listen to the stress-induced ulcers develop in my stomach. I’ve started naming them as they develop. As best I can figure, I have three. So far I’m calling them Groucho, Harpo, and Chico. I’ll keep you informed, and please lemme know if you and ulcer-nomenclature suggestions. Please hang in there with me guys. I’m trying.
I promise, I’m trying.
Joey
I am scared to death, folks. I cannot put into words the visceral, crippling fear that has been constant within me since yesterday, but I threw up three times yesterday if that gives you any illustration (Gotta love total honesty and transparency. Gross details. And remember, you heard it here first). I was unsatisfactory on two things during the ride, and those are the two items that I’ll have to repeat. The first was an SDF approach (Mr. Page, that's for you), and the second was a DME arc. A DME arc is really simple, but I was so rattled and upset from busting the ride that I lost my head and turned the wrong way. It was an extremely stupid mistake and 100% my fault. The examiner tried to get me rattled, and I let him. I get one more shot at it, and if I fail that, they kick me out of school. I’m not dealing well at all with that prospect, and am honestly mortified. This is the first checkride that I’ve busted in my burgeoning flying career, and I feel about three inches tall. I’m very angry that I was not taught the approach that I failed, but the overwhelming emotion is quite simple: fear. Fear of failure. Fear of disappointing all of you. Fear of the shame that I will feel if I don’t make it. Fear of being nothing. Fear of having nothing. This is really all I’ve got, and if I fail again it gets taken away from me. Every egg I've got is sitting in a basket with the word "pilot" written on the side of it. My college education, this huge investment that my family and I have made in my training, my hopes and dreams; they all revolve around aviation. I just don’t understand why every time I start to make a little progress I get shoved backwards again. I don’t know what the answer is, or what to do, or think. I just know that I’m scared. I’m waiting to hear what happens to me now, and all I can do is my best if I get to retest. Truly, that’s all I can do. But I’m deeply concerned that it’s not enough.
I spent most of the day today with the boss. He is always a comforting presence to me and tried his best to reassure me, but not even he could assuage the anxiety I’m feeling. I feel just totally hopeless, like it’s already over. Being around him did help, though. I would do anything for the guy and think the world of him, but it is sorta embarassing to ride in a car with an MD-11 Captain when you can't even pass a checkride. I did at least smile and laugh a little bit, though. The boss says it’s going to be ok, but I’m not so sure. I hope he’s right. My emotions run the gamut and undergo complete polar shifts. When I talk to the boss, it sounds so simple: like something I can do. But when I relive what happened and really process what I’m going to have to do to pass, I descend back into total despair. I’m really trying to overcome it, but failure is not easy for anyone; especially when everything is riding on the line this time. That’s what really, really scares me. If I bust, it’s over for me. Over.
I’m still waiting to hear my fate, at least in the interim. All I can do now is sit and stew on what happened, and listen to the stress-induced ulcers develop in my stomach. I’ve started naming them as they develop. As best I can figure, I have three. So far I’m calling them Groucho, Harpo, and Chico. I’ll keep you informed, and please lemme know if you and ulcer-nomenclature suggestions. Please hang in there with me guys. I’m trying.
I promise, I’m trying.
Joey
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