SOLO

 One of my lasting boyhood memories occurred in 1965 when I was twelve. I lived in the small village of Nelson, located on the banks of the Miramichi River in North East New Brunswick. I was shovelling the walkway to my parents' house near the end of a massive winter storm. The unmistakable whine of jet engines decelerating got my attention. The sound was not uncommon as our house was on the glide path for aircraft landing at the nearby Canadian Forces Base Chatham. I was used to the reverberation of planes overhead night and day, but not in a snowstorm. The unusual whistling continued to build as I peered into a wall of snow. A powerful light suddenly sliced the darkness, followed briefly by the sight of a colossal form finding its way steadily into the squall. It was my first look at the CF101 Voodoo. It was massive compared to the other planes I had seen at the base. I had read they were bought from the American armed forces and were being stationed in Chatham. 

The next school day, I went to the library and found what I could about these powerful behemoths. They were almost 70 feet long and had a wingspan of 39 feet. The Voodoo operated at a 35,000ft level, driven by two engines with a combined force of over 15,000 hp. Voodoos were an all-weather jet interceptors. For years following, they repeatedly proved it as they flew in any conditions. They would be scrambled (quick mobilization) to intercept Russian aircraft flying down from Greenland. Capable of flying over 1,000mph, they often took off late at night, occasionally hitting their afterburners and lighting the night sky. The memory of that lone jet finding its way home has stayed with me for sixty years.

In October 1986, I was thirty – three years old and working in educational management. Things were good. During this period of relative calm in my life, I began to think of learning to fly. This was not a sudden urge but one that grew slowly and steadily over the years. The curiosity and enjoyment I felt watching any aircraft had to be satisfied. 

First, a bit of background. I am one of those people who try to control as many parts of my environment as possible to avoid "complications." I won't bore the reader with my attempts to find a source of the neurosis. It is enough to say that while its effects on me today are not as crippling, the scars remain, and the dark horse never entirely disappeared. The first experience of this "condition" came in the form of claustrophobia. When I was about ten, Tim, the meat manager at the local Co-op, on a lark, locked me in the store freezer. He was probably having a slow day and looking for some harmless entertainment. What emerged when he opened the door was me, like a scalded cat, plowing through customers and upsetting display cases. That set the stage for more events, some with equally dramatic effects over my developmental years. 

Strangely, against this phobic backdrop, the seed of flying began germinating. By the time I was thirty, I had flown enough as a passenger to know how uncomfortable and, at times, terrified I was in a plane. But when my mind was set, there was no going back. I wanted to understand flight theory and practice so that, at some point, I could learn to enjoy rather than fear flying. One evening, I saw an ad for flight training while reading the weekly newspaper. Miramichi Air, a local flight training company, was holding an open house. I took a free introductory flight and talked with a few instructors. It was brief, but the spark was lit. 

Miramichi City is a community of fewer than 20,000 people. The flight training school was also small, with a few single-engine planes, including a Piper Arrow trainer and a Cessna Cherokee. The "school" was a room off the garage. 

The facility was tucked away in a far corner of the CFB Chatham base. In those days, the security regime at tactical air facilities focused more on the main runway and service areas. The instructors were active-duty pilots or navigators except for one individual (more details on him later). This made for a top-of-the-line learning experience. As it turned out, it also provided many hours of informal learning as these seasoned veterans recounted their countless experiences in various combat aircraft. For me, it was enjoyable to sit quietly in a corner and listen to them exchange stories, each sometimes competing for the stage. 

Let me briefly introduce you to some of these people. I have changed the names in the unlikely event that any still living should stumble upon their name in this amateur's story. Glenn English was the first person I met, and he eventually became my lead instructor. Glenn was about forty years old, slightly overweight, with a full head of black hair. He had that confident, easy-going manner of some professionals, past the age of having to prove his rank or status. Among the aircraft Glenn had flown was the B-52 bomber during the height of the Vietnam War. He was one of several American pilots stationed at the base. During dual flight training hours, Glenn would occasionally talk of that experience. He described it as doing "milk runs," not to diminish the intensity or havoc, but rather to accentuate the routine. Targets and support aircraft were pre-assigned. Enemy anti-aircraft fire was usually not a problem, as the advanced technology of the day could draw fire to drones and other devices. The workhorses were the F-4 Phantom jets used in air-to-air and ground support. He described the combination of defensive and offensive capacity as a blanket surrounding the bomber crew. 

I grew comfortable talking with Glenn. There was never an air of superiority about him. His instruction was always clear and professional and, above all, calm. On a quiet, sunny Sunday morning, I told him about my phobia and why I wanted to fly. Afterward, there was a moment of uncomfortable silence. I thought I had crossed a line, and he would give me a condescending pep talk. His response shocked me.

 "Doug, on every one of my flights in Vietnam, I was terrified. It wasn't the fear of being shot down because we had a great cover. I just realized in my head that each flight would be my last. Every time I buckled myself in, I was sweating heavily. It was a phobia, and it took working with some good people I learned to trust to overcome. I understand what and how you feel, Doug." Glenn's honesty and willingness to share were a gift I still cherish.

Jim Seeling was a navigator on the Voodoo. He showed the professional confidence you would see in an Armed Forces recruiting video. He was about 6ft 1", 210 lbs. He had over twenty-five years of experience flying jets, and no doubt he could still fit into his first flight suit. Jim was probably in one of those voodoos movies I watched, flying over my parents' home when I was twelve. He and the CF101 were near the end of their careers. Our times in the cockpit were great experiences. Jim would show me maneuvers by the book and often add neat alternative actions in case something didn't go as planned. He was very safety conscious and drilled that constantly. 

We were doing "short field" take-offs and landings one bright September afternoon. He had selected a farmer's field with a line of trees at the end. He did a few setups and then handed control over to me. He talked me through the procedure in his uniquely laconic style. I began the maneuver, levelling nicely over the field, then started climbing. Jim's voice began to have an edge as we neared the trees at the end. It went up several decibels when we were not rising fast enough for him. Jim's feet lifted off the floor just as we cleared the grove. He looked ahead momentarily, took off his ball cap and exclaimed, "That was interesting, Doug." Flights with Glenn and Jim always followed the private pilot manual. My skill level and confidence increased with each one.

The third instructor in the group was King. I will use only his first name, as some older local readers may recall him. King was a colourful, outgoing businessman who owned his own Cessna. He had an instructor's rating and, from time to time, would help teach students. I heard stories of King as a pilot and tried to avoid having him in the left seat. 

One event that caused a sensation in the community involved him and two friends enjoying a leisurely Sunday afternoon flight in the Miramichi region. One of his buddies bet King he wouldn't fly under the bridge connecting Chatham to the north side of the Miramichi River. Anyone familiar with Ministry of Transport (MOT) regulations or common sense would understand the danger of such a maneuver. But neither of these was much concern to King, as he readily agreed to the wager and collected the one hundred dollars. A six-month suspension of his licence cooled King's flair for excitement just slightly. 

Our paths crossed at the training center a few months after his instructor permit was reinstated. I was scheduled to do "touch and goes" at the airfield with Glenn. These procedures train the pilot to safely take off and land at an airport. It was a beautiful, warm October afternoon when I strolled into the hangar with building self-confidence. King was behind the counter where Glenn should have been. He announced that Glenn had taken the afternoon off and that he, King, would be instructing that day. He probably detected my lack of enthusiasm, but King was not to be put off. He took my logbook and began looking through it. 

"Ok, no problem, Doug, let's do a few of the touch and goes, and we will see after that." I wanted an excuse to get away, but was coming up empty. We took off, and I performed the scheduled exercise without problems when King announced a program change. "Let's do some stalls and spins, Doug." "No, King, that's lesson eight; I'm only on lesson three." With my knuckles tightening on the yoke (control column), he replied, "Don't worry, Doug, it's easy. I will walk you through." Before I could say anything, King had the mike and told the control tower we would operate in an area south of the field (and south of my comfort level). I swung us over to the assigned area. King showed me the procedure. "Doug, there's nothing to this; you just watch me, and then you do one…. so, you reduce your power, then pull back on the yoke. Feel er shaking Doug? Ok, now you drop the nose. Let her drop a while; now, pull her up. There, see, Doug, nothin' to it!"

Now, you may be reading this dialogue and thinking that maneuver sounds straightforward; what is my concern? There would be no problem, but for two variables that I could not control. The first is my fear of sudden airplane moves. The second is my lack of trust in the nut behind the wheel. Suddenly, I felt like the young boy being locked in the meat freezer. Hoping I could hurry through and return to the airfield, I agreed to do the maneuver. With King's annoyingly lilting voice playing in the background, I followed his directions. The plane performed precisely as he said and wasn't as terrifying as I feared. 

King encouraged me. "Ok, Doug, that was good. Now let's go on to spins! It's the same as doing a stall, except you bank the plane to one side by hitting the left rudder pedal and then the right to level er out. Ok, now, Doug, you watch me. Away we go!"

Where the first maneuver had a predictable smoothness, this one involved me feeling like I was being pitched out of the plane; simultaneously, we were headed toward the ground. It all happened within a few seconds; we returned to level flight. I was not liking this at all. King casually says, "See what I mean, Doug? Easy, eh? "No, King, it wasn't easy. It makes me feel like I'm going to puke." My tone-deaf instructor continued. "Don't worry about that, Doug. Ok, now let's try it together. You follow through on the yoke and pedals with me. "Ok, I'll set er up now, reduce power, pull the yoke back….". I stopped hearing his voice.

Most dictionaries describe the state of shock as having two categories. The first is "experiencing a sudden unpleasant or upsetting feeling because of something unexpected." I can check that box. The second is a person's hearing is compromised. King was going through motions he had been trained and conditioned to complete. This was my first experience. My mind, now reduced to a primordial function, determined we were about to crash. 

My brain directed my left foot to step hard and stay on the left rudder pedal. "DOUG, DOUG, HIT THE RIGHT PEDAL!" (I didn't include a few colourful adjectives King added).

Much to our mutual relief, King completed his instruction of Lesson Eight in the Private Pilot Guide by hitting my left leg several times and bringing me out of the stupor.

When I recovered my situational awareness, I was determined that one thing would happen: King and I would never again be within two feet of each other. Two weeks later, Glenn announced that King had surrendered his instructor rating, saying he no longer enjoyed the challenge. I smiled to myself with quiet satisfaction.

All airfields are configured in a similar pattern designed to allow an airplane to enter and depart safely and efficiently. The pattern a plane follows is called a circuit. The air traffic controllers in the tower are the police of the air. They rule the circuit. The reality and significance were made clear to me on a cold November morning. I was setting up for a landing at about 60mph. A call from the tower sharpened my focus. "LRC (the plane's call letters), turn right base now and clear the area. We have a Voodoo on emergency 10 miles out. ATC (Air Traffic Control) is not known for making small talk, for a good reason. I was being told to get the heck out of the way now! In the time it took me to exit the circuit, a gray blur shot past with smoke trailing from its right engine. The shoot deployed as it landed. Fire engines and an ambulance chased it down the runway. After things had calmed down, I finished my lesson and landed. Jim was tinkering with the Cessna (ZTN) when I came in to log my time. I asked what had happened. In Jim's terse style, he reached for a wrench and said the plane had an engine fire. "That's a big deal," I said. Jim responds without looking up, "Only if you don't have a second engine."

Later that same week, I had my chat with the control tower. Once again, I was practicing in the circuit at about 1,200 ft. The weather was partly sunny, with a few snow showers and light winds. 

My training program followed (VFR) Visual Flight Rules, unlike the more complex (IFR) Instrument Flight Rules. VFR requires that you always have visual awareness outside your airplane. IFR requires you to rely on flight instruments, allowing you to fly through and above clouds. 

By this point in my training, I had accumulated 30 solo hours. I was comfortable with the routine of take-offs, landings and some maneuvers. I even conquered stalls and spins despite the debacle a month earlier with King. 

I had just taken off and was over the Miramichi River when I spotted a line of clouds at flight level. I followed the band and came parallel to the airport runway. As I stated earlier, my training was strictly VFR. But my curiosity and overconfidence worked to draw me into a cloud. It was one of those giant, fluffy marshmallows you often see against the bright blue sky. I was in and out in the blink of an eye, "no harm, no foul" until I realized the snow was inside my plane! LRC (Lima Romeo Charlie) was a well-maintained but older aircraft. Like many older things, it had a few quirks. In this case, it was a door handle that sometimes didn't quite catch. It was rarely an issue until it became an issue, like now. A vacuum had been created with the door partially open, drawing moisture from the cloud into the cockpit as snow. My first reaction was more curiosity than concern. The warmth in the cabin was melting the snow almost as soon as it entered. However, the ever-alert folks in the tower noticed my plane's attitude (the plane is level or pitching up or down) change as I was momentarily occupied brushing snow off the instrument panel. The conversation ran like this: "LRC, are you having a problem with your aircraft?" Wiping the snow off my instrument panel, I responded casually, "No, I just have a bit of snow in the cockpit." "LRC, would you repeat, please?" "Yes, err, my passenger door was open a bit, and snow came in."

"RC, are you declaring an emergency?" Was it laughter I was hearing behind the voice? As students, Jim (the instructor and school owner) told us to call an emergency if we were sure it was an emergency. 

The incident and commotion with the Voodoo the week before had made a clear impression on me. And now, the thought of Jim looking to me for reimbursement on emergency equipment deployment made a bigger impression. I responded, "No, the situation is under control. Thank you." "Roger that LRC. When you land, please call me. The number is posted on the wall at your hanger."

Another thing we learned as students is that when ATC asks you to call them, it isn't to invite you for a coffee. When I landed and contacted the tower, the voice on the other end was straining to be serious as he told me the importance of airplane maintenance and flight safety. I agreed and thanked him for his time. At his request, I handed the sweat-coated receiver to Jim. They had a brief animated conversation. Jim sighed deeply, looked at me, and shook his head. The door was fixed the next time I went out.

The day of my solo "cross-country" check ride was one of those rare late November days that felt more like September. The conditions were VISCU (Visibility and Ceiling Unlimited). The night before, I had plotted my trip. It would take me from CFB Chatham (YCH) to Fredericton (YFC), a brief stop to check in, then it was over to Moncton (YQM), followed by a return home. That morning, I reviewed my plan with Glenn, adjusting for the current temperature and the light wind at the three locations. After a careful "walk around" the aircraft, including a fuel check, Glenn casually bid me a good flight. I taxied out to the runway and received clearance for takeoff. 

I was comfortable flying solo in the circuit and designated areas. I had completed the dual 'cross-country" check ride with Jim. He had signed off, declaring it a smooth flight. This was different. I was on my own, flying solo cross country. I got to cruising altitude, powered back and set the plane on course; there was little traffic. The view was incredible. Being able to look in any direction for twenty-five miles gives one a sense of solitude, yet feeling part of something much more significant. The flight went well, with a slight hiccup as I drifted slightly off course, but a quick check with Fredericton control set me back on track. 

As I was flying over the Kouchibouguac National Park on the final leg, I looked to my right at the Northumberland Strait. The effect of the sun on the water was to create a carpet of shimmering diamonds that extended to Prince Edward Island. I had come a long way from that boy in a storm looking at the plane landing. But in another sense, when I realized how small my plane and I were in this stunning scene, I appreciated how insignificant we all are. 

After I got my pilot's license, I flew very little, eventually letting it lapse. I did, however, meet and fly with a new friend. Bob Heath was doing a courier run around the province and asked me to join him. Bob personified the independent contract pilot who flew on demand. His laid-back view of life was a break from my perspective on the career-focused "hamster wheel." We spent many hours flying the night skies. Bob later moved to take on a job in Inuvik, NWT. On a bright sunny day in January 2013, I listened to a news broadcast detailing the death of Bob and two other pilots. They had been flying a medical mission in Antarctica when their plane, caught in a whiteout, crashed with no survivors. The following month, I read of a church service in his honour. The crowd heard many stories of this man's generous and genuine nature. 

I have been fortunate to meet some wonderful people whose paths I might not have otherwise crossed. Learning to fly was one of these occasions. I worked on my phobia and experienced some absolute joy in doing it.