11
The first flightinstructor I reached out to years ago told me I needed to finish ground school before he’d consider flying with me. I figure George will tell me to get back in touch with him when I reach that mark, then we’ll go up.
But no. He offers to take me flying again immediately.
George:The more time you spend in the air, the better.
That’s what his text reads, and I decide not to fight him on it. Why would I? This is exactly what I want.
Plus, you can have your arm touch his arm in that tiny cockpit, my horny brain reminds me.
Like the last time, I meet George by the tied-down plane.
“Tell me what to do.” I step up beside him. “I want to learn.”
He starts with weather reports. Pilots need to understand what the weather forecast is and how it could affect their flight. Then there’sthe notice to air missions George got off an app called ForeFlight. These are the details about any issues with the airspace we plan to fly, like a temporary no-fly zone if someone like the president was flying into or out of a nearby airport. After that we discuss any issues with the airplane, which is mainly that the panel lights are not working. I worry for a moment, but George claims that’s okay because we’re flying during the day, and it’ll be addressed during the upcoming annual inspection.
That’s just the start, and I absorb each detail of the flight preparation process.
And I only panic a little bit when George directs me to sit in the left seat. The pilot’s seat.
“But I can’t fly!” I squeak. Not yet. That’s the whole reason I’m here.
“I’ll still fly the plane,” he explains in a no-nonsense voice. “I can do everything from the copilot seat. But this will get you used to the pilot position.”
“Oh…okay.”Right? Okay? Am I okay?
I follow George’s direction and get settled in the pilot’s seat. Trying to do anything to distract myself from a potential breakdown, I blurt out a silly question.
“This is called the six-pack, right?” I point at the cluster of instruments.
“Yes.”
“The first time I read that, I thought it was going to be oriented the other way. You know? Like a guy’s six-pack. A six-pack of abs.”
George pauses, blinking at the control panel. In the end, he doesn’t respond, which leads me to believe the image of a shirtless man doesnotoften enter his mind when flying a plane. And there’s definitely no need for me to ask George ifhehas a six-pack, although inquiring minds would like to know.
I keep all unnecessary observations to myself after that.
Like he claimed, George taxis the plane out and controls the takeoff all while using the copilot seat controls.
As much as I’d like to say the last flight we took cured me of all lingering fear festering from our emergency landing, I can’t. Especially when I’m in the lead seat. When a strong gust of wind rocks the plane, my hand whips out to grab the door handle in a useless move of self-preservation. My heart pounds and my pulse rushes in my ears, and I stare out the windows with the certainty that I’ll see the ground rising to meet us.
But no. George is in control of the plane the whole time. Seemingly unaffected, too.
“That’s Washington Dulles International Airport over there,” he informs me during my first round of panic.
“You can spot the Washington Monument far off to our right. See it way out there?” he asks when I’m trying to remember how to breathe fifteen minutes later.
“Maybe next flight we’ll head to the mountains.” George points to the west. “Pass over the foothills at least.” His voice is calm, while stress sweat soaks my bra’s underwire.
I’m on the verge of snapping at him. Demanding to know how he’s so chill and can’t he tell I’m occasionally on the verge of shitting a brick?
But then I realize that George is silent for most of the flight. Except for the moments when I’m freaking out. That’s when he decides to share random observations.
As if he wants to distract me.
Or maybe to ground me when we’re twenty-five hundred feet in the air.
