Alex held the ticket to his self-preservation in his hand, the pre-flight checklist, laminated for its own protection against the grime of aviation. On it, a step-by-step guide to inspecting his, well not his but he was barrowing it, Cessna 172. A single engine propeller driven aircraft with seating for four, used around the world for general aviation flight training. It is a simple aircraft, rugged, reliable, and can withstand quite a bit of abuse which was good since most students are not gentle with them. This Cessna, C487PT was Alex’s favorite since it had the least issues, sometimes the radio button on the yoke stuck but it usually popped back out with a gentle smack to the side.
“Okay, four eight seven papa tango, let’s have a nice safe flight. You and I are going out on my first solo.”
Brandon my flight instructor stood off to the side watching me go down the checklist. His blond hair always un-kept tussled by the wind. Grinned over at me, he always thought it was funny when I would talk to the planes before I flew them.
“You know Alex the airplanes are just machines, they can’t actually here you.” He says.
I ignored him; I was determined to inspect every inch of my plane. For the first time in my training, I would be solely responsible for my safety. I step up onto the landing gear with my left foot, grab the handle on top of the cowling haul myself up and throw out my right foot onto the strut. Getting my torso over the wing I see the last item on my checklist, verifying the fuel level. I uncap the tank and drop in my high-tech measuring device, a metal stick with markings along it. Plopping it in will tell me how many gallons of fuel I have, based on how deep it goes. Looking at the wet mark, this tank has eight gallons, the left wing has nine gallons. Combined seventeen gallons enough for about an hour and forty-five minutes. More than enough for the two touch and goes and one full stop, most likely not even a full hour worth of flying.
“Brandon, I’m all set everything looks good, I don’t think I missed anything?” I ask hopping off the plane. I pull out my grease pencil and mark off the last block for fuel level.
“No, I think as always you probably spent more time than most, and you looked in every nook and crevice. You of all my students I rarely worry about the pre-flight. I’m sure the mechanics would like you to ease up a bit. They are getting frustrated with fixing all the minor write ups you leave for them.” He says with a chuckle, looking out over the airfield, smoothing down his untamed hair.
The airfield is full of parked aircraft of all types, North Las Vegas airport is not a super busy place, but it has a large parking apron and most of it is full. Plenty of wealthy people in Vegas keep their aircraft here, or at least the ones not rich enough to keep them at McCarren. There are also a few flight training schools here including the one I was part of Wing-right Aviation.
The school is not a big one or a popular one, it is just Brandon and a few other instructors he trusts and maybe fifteen students at any given time. I like them because it is easy to get flight time not having to fight for aircraft slots and of course he has fair prices! I knew learning to fly was going to be expensive, but I have been saving up cash and studying all the materials I can get my hands on before ever sitting down in a plane.
I work at a table in one of the smaller hotels on the strip. While I live comfortably, flying still cost me a lot. I have my sights on moving up to a bigger hotel where the tips are bigger, then I could devote more money to flying.
“Nervous yet? No one’s going to be up there if you mess up, just you the sky and a bunch of people in the tower with no power to help if something goes wrong.”
“No, I have been waiting for this long enough. If anything, I’m excited to have my own freedom and prove to myself that I can do this.” I say with a confident smile.
“Good now get in there and have fun, I’ll be at the fuel pumps for your first pull through. Two thumbs up mean continue with your next lap.” He says giving me two thumbs up. “And two thumbs down if I need to stop you and do some remedial training.” He demonstrates with two thumbs down and a frowny face. He quickly turns it into a grin and make a shewing motion with his hands.
With that I crawl into the small cockpit, settling into the small worn seat. Reaching over my shoulder, I grab my seatbelt clicking it in. I’ve seen a few students nearly fall out of the plane reaching for the door handle, to everyone’s amusement thus the seatbelt first. I grab the door and seal myself in, my own little box of seclusion. The world and everything else seemed insignificant from in here. This was not just a Cessna; this was a vehicle to escape earthly bonds and see the world on high.
Flipping the pre-flight over to the inflight checklist, I clip it to the yoke pull out my trusty grease pencil and began going down the list.
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Inserting the key, I give it a twist and hold. The engine gives a little cough before the propeller roars to life. The plane bucks forward, my eyes pop open, and a flash of chills goes down my spine. I mash my feet down into the rudders applying the brakes. “Oops” even though the parking brake is still on I forgot to press down with my toes for the wheel brakes.
I take a breath pausing to calm down. “You can do this, slowdown”
Brandon! He’s probably still watching I look back outside not seeing him, he must have walked over to the fuel pumps then. Glad he did not see my slip, nothing worse than making a stupid mistake in front of others.
I take my time going through the rest of the checklist, making sure not to miss any more steps.
With everything done it’s time to taxi, I press down on the radio hoping it doesn’t stick.
“North Vegas Ground, Cessna Four Eight Seven Papa Tango at Wing-Right apron. Request taxi for take-off information India, first solo. Cessna Four Eight Seven Papa Tango student”
Information India being the current weather information, nothing but a gentle breeze perfect for flying.
The radio blares to life with a chipper woman’s voice speaking so fast her words garble together.
“Seven Papa Tango, taxi Hotel, Bravo, Kilo for runway Three Zero Left hold short altimeter 29.95, squawk 4612, departure switch approved 122.95. Good luck and good flying!”
My hand flies over my kneeboard I have strapped to my leg. The pencil squeaks’ as I hurry to copy everything down so I can read it back. While I do remember everything, she said it’s always good to have the information in writing just encase.
I read back everything to her exactly and thank her for the sendoff, I release the parking brake and ease my toes off the wheel brakes. The plane pulls forward out of her spot, manipulating the rudder I bring the nose about and follow the yellow line out to the taxi lanes.
A brief flutter sweeps through my chest, I’m doing this. I have my own freedom and control of my fate in my hands.
A slight vibration from the prop shimmy’s up my legs through the pedals as I maneuver the plane across the apron and taxi ways. A few other pilots are out ahead of me, I see a Cherokee Warrior sitting at the far end doing its run up. By the time arrive it has already taxied onto the runway and begins its roll out.
I press in on the pedals, steering my plane into the wind on the run up pad. The wind will keep the engine a bit cooler while I stress the engine on the ground. Whipping out the grease pencil I start down the checklist.
I tick off the rest quickly mostly checking the instruments and wash the control surfaces.
Pulling the throttle down to idle, I complete the run up. Finally, I’m ready to leave this earth!
Releasing the brakes, I mosey the plane up to the runway hold line, then verify the runway is clear.
“Departure Seven Papa Tango student, holding short runway Three Zero Left solo flight check, ready for departure Seven Papa Tango Student”
A different voice from the woman earlier answers quickly. He’s only slightly slower than she was.
“Seven Papa Tango, clear for lineup and takeoff make right traffic for Thee Zero Left”
Quickly jot the info down on my knee board.
“Departure, cleared for takeoff left traffic for three zero Left, Seven Papa Tango student.”
Making another check that the runway is clear, you never know people make mistakes. I pull out onto the runway, lining up the centerline with my right knee. Everyone has their own visual preference for what is easier to keep them centered. Brandon says he uses the cowling, but I’ve always found my knee works best.
I breathe in and close my eyes; the faint scent of oil and old leather fills my nose. My heartbeat picks up and my hands shake slightly, freedom awaits.
Opening my eyes, I steadily but firmly press in the throttle to full power! The plane responds to my commands and pulls itself down the runway. I jostle the rudders back and forth keeping centerline, keeping steady pressure back on the yoke. The plane is picking up speed, the indicator shows 30 knots and climbing. Looking out the window I see the airport rushing past. Then it feels as if time freezes just for a moment. Warmth spreads through my body, the adrenaline is pumping through my veins, and suddenly the front wheel lifts off the ground, shortly followed by the back wheels.
Bliss, freedom from the world, the sky awaits me.
Vibrations from the spinning wheels losing contact with earth cease as I tap the toe brakes.
Looking ahead I maintain centerline and continue the climb up to 1,000 feet, the traffic altitude for North Las Vegas. Once clear of the runway I make my left turn, keeping an eye on the runway maintaining about a mile spacing off its center.
Making downwind or parallel I straighten out, and immediately begin the pre-landing checklist. I have only a few minutes at most before I will be back on the ground. So, it’s important to get it all done but not skip anything.
By the time I’m done it’s time to begin decent and turn to base. The radio crackles to life just before I start to press down on my button.
“Cessna Seven Papa Tango, Departure you are clear for the option on Three Zero Left.”
Sounds like departure is helping me out by calling me first, often when they are not too busy, they call us first. Especially if they know if it’s a student in the traffic pattern. I key my radio back. “Clear for the option three zero Left Seven Papa Tango Student.”
Rolling out from my base turn into final I align with the runway’s centerline. Making small corrections to the yoke, and rudder pedals. My stomach does a few flops in my abdomen as I guide the nose up and down to maintain airspeed and rate of decent. 65 knots, and slowly dropping, crossing 600 feet, everything is looking great. I’m hardly even having to compensate for wind, when something streaks past my window.
A cracking popping noise fills the cockpit, and a violent jolt snaps the yoke out of my hand. Seemingly between one breath and the next the world is spinning outside, and I’m thrown against the side of the plane. Something large and white smashes into the window blocking my view. My breath escapes in short choppy bursts as the cold grip of dread tightens around my heart and permeates into my limbs. I can feel my stomach rise into my throat, a sudden jolt and then darkness takes me.