Learning Experience

Solo experience becomes less valuable lesson

Flight training for me has been one moment of excited anticipation after another, starting from the day that my husband, an instrument-rated pilot, talked me into buying a share in a Cessna 172. I was too excited to sleep the night before my first lesson and had to admit to my instructor the next morning that I probably wasn't fit to fly on account of fatigue and excited jitters. We went up anyway, and it has been great since then with no more sleepless nights.

Throughout my training, people had been saying that fall was the best time of year for training. October in Virginia is beautiful and comfortable as summer's heat and thermals give way to calm and clear conditions. And it was nice to be able to focus on learning how an airplane feels by itself before introducing external complications like wind. For all 15 hours leading up to my solo, we never had more than a three- to four-knot wind.

The night before my solo, I grinned while going through the procedures from abeam the numbers to touchdown until...my alarm went off and I realized that I had had a great night's sleep.

I met my instructor at the airport in the early morning and we flew a few patterns together. The winds had started to pick up a little, but the crosswind component was minimal, so we did a few more just to make sure that the headwind was manageable. Then he got out, and I went up for my very first solo flight.

The bubbling excitement I had been feeling turned to anxiety as soon as the wheels left the pavement. The skies around the airport had suddenly become very turbulent, and the airplane was reacting in ways that were new and unsettling. On my first turn onto downwind, the bank was abruptly exaggerated by a gust of wind, and it shook up more than just the airplane. On the final approach I found myself crabbing for the first time ever, trying to stay on the extended centerline. The bumpiness was much worse on this end of the runway, over a swampy area with breaks in the surrounding trees, and the crosswind component had obviously increased. Later I would find out that the real problem was 8- to 14-kt gusts, almost wholly as crosswind.

I knew I was in over my head and was terrified. It didn't seem that landing at a different airport with more favorable winds was an acceptable alternative, and it also didn't seem that going around would yield better conditions when I got to the same point a few minutes later. Trying to stay positive, I told myself I was going to land and make the best of it.

I did land, and it was crazy. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the jolts the airplane was producing. I couldn't determine corrective measures since the conditions were changing every few seconds, and I hadn't learned corrective measures for crosswinds yet anyway. I did the best I could to stay on the centerline, using rudder to point the nose into the wind.

Amazingly, it was a really soft landing, until the nosewheel came down. I hadn't thought far enough ahead to realize that right rudder in the air means right steering once the nosewheel comes down, and before I knew it, I was swiftly moving from centerline into the grass and out past the runway lighting. By some stroke of grace, I was able to correct the directional control and get back onto the pavement without hitting any lights.

After a short debrief with my instructor and a check for damage, I had to choose whether or not to go again. I had not been ready for what just happened, and no amount of exuberance would overcome that. But upon seeing the weak winds indicated by the windsock, I decided that perhaps those gusts had passed and it would be a good experience to just set aside the bad first landing, neutralize my emotions, and try again.

Unfortunately, the second pattern was much like the first: bumpy, crabby, frightening. Had I misjudged the windsock? This time the reality (and stress!) of reduced rudder authority while floating over the 60-foot-wide runway at low airspeeds and trying to counteract the effect of crosswinds settled in. It seemed much more difficult than the slow-flight practice maneuvers at 2,000 feet, but the real problem was that the ground was much closer and everything seemed to happen much more quickly. I felt very out of control in trying to stay on the runway and not get into the grass again. It was luck that let me land on the pavement, and with shaking knees I rolled off the runway.

Another debrief, another check of the winds, another deep breath, and--believe it or not--I decided to go up for the final pattern of my first solo. The third time around had all the same problems as the first two, although they seemed more manageable. On this third landing, I flared too soon, bounced several times, and thus was introduced to pilot-induced oscillations. Luckily, a little throttle and elevator neutralization in anxious preparation for a last-second go-around took care of it, and the landing rollout went smoothly after that.

Thus ended my first solo and I felt helpless and downtrodden. So much of what happened seemed out of my control.

For the next several days, I replayed that first solo in my mind incessantly. I relived the extreme anxiety that every moment of each pattern held. I questioned every response I had in the air and every decision I made on the ground, especially the decisions to go up again. I marveled at the amazing luck I had in getting through situations for which I did not feel prepared with no damage to the airplane or myself.

Worst of all, I questioned whether I should continue training. I couldn't think about flying with excitement anymore; just the thought of getting into the cockpit again made me nervous. How in good conscience could I continue?

A few good nights' sleep helped to put it in perspective. It turns out that I got a great deal more experience than neutralizing crabs and correcting from pilot-induced oscillations. I now have a frame of reference against which I can set my own limitations. In retrospect it's easy to say that I shouldn't have flown since I had only ever trained in calm conditions and that day was gusty. I relied on my instructor to make that decision for me, and he believed I could handle it. Now I have experienced crosswinds with gusts and can assess them myself in the future.

I also learned to trust myself more. If I don't feel good about the situation, I can confidently call it off based on my own judgment. If I question whether I'm prepared for a flight, I know I'm not prepared.

I learned that I have better stress- and crisis-management skills than I ever knew. That solo was the scariest time of my life, yet I stayed calm and maintained a logical approach to the situation. The procedures and structure I've learned for everyday flying must have implanted some fundamental tools for dealing with the unexpected, for setting aside emotions and taking care of business.

What I learned about my capabilities, my limitations, and myself has encouraged me to continue. Flight training is all about evolution. It's about developing capabilities to handle both the normal and the challenging situations. It's about identifying limitations and working to push them back. Most important, it's about gaining skills to safely enjoy the view from above.

By Krista Miller

"Learning Experiences" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for students and pilots to learn from the experiences of others. It is intended to provoke thought and discussion, acknowledging that actions taken by the authors were not necessarily the best choices under the circumstances. We encourage you to discuss any questions you have about a particular scenario with your flight instructor.