Only human

It was my first solo at a towered airport, and my instructor and I flew to Chattanooga, Tennessee, for the event. He hopped out at the FBO and blurted in rapid succession, “First listen to ATIS, then call clearance delivery, then ground control for taxi, and go to tower when you get to the runway. Just do what they say.” Somehow, I managed to blunder through those steps, after which the tower controller cleared me for pattern work. As I began to apply full throttle on Runway 21, I realized that he hadn’t specified left or right traffic, so I stopped, keyed the mic, and asked. No answer. I asked the question two more times only to hear deafening silence. With such a busy traffic pattern, I was sweating bullets and probably the closest I’ve been to a panic attack, when the tower controller finally asked that I “say intentions.”

After we got a game plan, I managed to complete my required three takeoffs and landings and taxi back to my instructor who seemed none the wiser about my clumsy (at best) performance. I flew back in silence and resolved to avoid speaking with ATC at all costs.

Learning to fly at the Sewanee Franklin County Airport (UOS) was a blessing in so many ways. I had no problems flying a light wing-loaded airplane from a short, narrow field with perpetually gusty crosswinds. But that confidence evaporated at the mere prospect of speaking with a controller. And my experience in Chattanooga only made things worse.

My instructor, though, never caught on to my fear. A couple weeks later, after I returned from my long solo cross-country, he reminded me, “You’d better close your flight plan!” Of course, you need to open a flight plan to close it. Too ashamed to admit that I hadn’t, I went to the back room, picked up the phone, pretended to dial, and “fake closed” my flight plan.

I earned my private certificate with my only ATC experience having involved the phrase “say intentions.” Talk about a deficiency! But I wanted an instrument rating, so I knew I’d have to buck up and overcome my extreme mic fright. I signed up for a tower tour at a local Class C airport, figuring that if controllers became human to me, instead of the scary voice on the radio, perhaps my embarrassing fear would subside. And that turned out to be a great move.

I learned first that air traffic controllers can multitask better than anyone I know. A controller, Dave, said, “Thanks for visiting, Catherine,” (keys mic) “Archer Three-Two-Lima, Huntsville Tower, cleared to land one eight left,” (unkeys mic) “Where are you from?”

“I came over from Sewanee to learn what you do here,” I said.

Then came over the loudspeaker: “Huntsville Tower, Archer Three-Two-Lima, say again.”

(Keys mic) “Archer Three-Two-Lima, Huntsville Tower, cleared to land one eight left,” (unkeys mic). Dave asked his colleagues, “What’s so hard to understand about ‘cleared to land’?” I sheepishly offered, “Well, it does get sort of busy up there sometimes.” The tower controllers all laughed at my comment. I mustered the guts and asked them all, “How many of you are pilots?” Not one raised his hand. And that became the moment I overcame mic fright. I’m not sure why it worked—perhaps learning that they weren’t so all-knowing or maybe that I had an expertise they didn’t—but I communicated with confidence from then on.

Over the years, I have taken groups of students on tower tours at several Class C airports and learned that controllers are generous with their time and expertise and appreciate opportunities to engage with pilots and give advice. In the air, I’ve witnessed many times how helpful they can be when I’ve needed to circumnavigate weather, change destination because of a sick passenger, and especially when I declared an emergency one day.

If speaking with a controller causes anxiety, then perhaps a tower tour is in order. I took my first one with the hopes that they would become real people to me. What I’ve learned over the years is that they’re really superhuman and ready to help when they can.