Flight Lesson: Cross-country adventure

Murphy’s Law wasted no time.

The excitement started when I lost radio communications on takeoff. I tried cranking up the volume, checking my headset connection, and even switching frequencies. All was met with silence. I knew this wasn’t technically an emergency, but I didn’t want to go bopping around the New England skies as a student pilot with a failed radio. Squawking 7600, I turned back and was shot my first light gun signal from the tower.

The second leg of my trip was long, but mostly uneventful. Things started to get a little bumpy as I neared the coast, but I shrugged it off as just winds off the water. By the time I reached my destination, with 120 nautical miles behind me, I was feeling like a rock star. Basking in my glory, I made sure to park in direct view of the patrons at the airport diner.

But my glory was short lived. Shortly after the next takeoff, the perfect weather went perfectly wild. Twice, the winds shifted so sharply that I felt I was being ripped from the sky. I had experienced moderate turbulence before, but this was a different beast.

While the sky was turning violent, chatter on the radio was turning dark. ATC had lost contact with an airplane in distress. When a pilot got in the vicinity of last contact, ATC asked if he or she could see smoke or signs of an incident. I glanced below to a sea of trees and noted the lack of emergency landing options. Fear crept in.

When I finally reached my third destination, the CTAF was quiet. Since I saw no other traffic, I assumed I was alone. As I was on final, I noticed a dark blob on the runway. It wasn’t an airplane. The closer I got, the bigger the blob appeared. It wasn’t a car. Then I realized: helicopter.

I was able to execute a quick go-around, but the pilot didn’t see me and lifted off just as I was overhead. We managed to dodge each other, barely. I circled back, shaken and annoyed. I couldn’t believe that jerk didn’t use the radio! Only, the mistake was on me: I was on the wrong frequency. I was the jerk.

It took me a while to collect myself at the airport. I closed my eyes. You can handle this. You’re a great pilot, I repeated to myself until it stuck. Finally, I pushed forward. The last leg of my journey felt more like bull riding than airplane flying.

After being denied flight following, I was anxious to get back in range of my tower. Traffic was heavy and I was tired. “Six-November-Delta, multiple targets in your vicinity, 2,800; 2,400. Both southbound. Additional traffic 3,500 southbound,” the controller said. I was northbound at 2,700. Just as his transmission concluded, a small jet zipped by off my left wing. I had to stay sharp.

By the time I got back on the ground, I was upset and even a bit angry. Despite my meticulous planning, there was nothing perfect about my perfect day. But as I was tying down the airplane, my annoyance turned to pride. It suddenly dawned on me just how many hurdles I had overcome—alone, without my instructor to lean on. I had learned so many things he never could have taught me—not just about flying, but about what I was able to handle. I no longer felt like an imposter. While it would be another three weeks until I became official in the FAA’s eyes, that night—in my eyes—I went to bed a pilot.

By Desiree Kocis

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