Thread: A Fear of Flying

Back in the 1980s I was fortunate in that I owned my own business and could indulge myself in my whims. I decided to learn to fly. Not far from where I was living at the time was an airfield made famous during the War by pilots chasing the likes of Oberst Adolph Galland. By 1984 it had become an exclusive private aerodrome with three grass landing strips, and as such a perfect setup for flight training. Inevitably I signed up to be a pupil of the Goodwood Flying School. The countryside thereabouts has always been idyllic and the school owned a small flight of Piper Tomahawks PA28s in which gentlemen of my ilk would be taught to fly. Flying is one of those things that some men acquire a hankering to try. I suppose it must have been the influence of all those Biggles books which we used to read as kids. The flight office issued me with a pilot’s log book and back to school I went. After a few initial sessions I was assigned a personal instructor and for the next year or so every week, subject to the weather, I would turn up at the airfield for a session in the techniques of touch and go.

The course of flying had been well proven. The student arrives to be briefed by the instructor on the lesson for the day. The instructor will always sit on the right hand side, the student on the left side of what is a dual controlled aircraft. First step is to walk around the plane to make sure nothing has recently fallen off and then once seated and strapped the budding pilot performs the pre-flight checks. So long as all is well, the novice pilot is ready to call up by radio the flight controller in the tower. The pilot is given the runway number and the QFH which is a reading of the air pressure at ground level with which the pilot will adjust the instrument which will measure the plane’s height above ground level. I did not know at the time but this routine was very much Royal Air Force Training procedure by which tens of thousands of pilots, including my own father, had been trained during two world wars.

Steering a modern light aircraft is easy enough, There is a yoke and there are rudder and brake pedals to press with the feet. Acceleration is controlled by a lever on the dashboard. Taking off is easy: merely point the plane up the runway, pull on the wing flaps, keep the foot on the brake, rev up the engine with the throttle lever, then take the foot off the brake and tally ho. Once the speedometer indicates that the plane has reached minimum take off speed, then all that is need is a slight pull back on the yoke and up the plane soars but not too steeply, mind you, otherwise the plane might stall, that is: drop out of the sky. Always remember to take off the flaps, otherwise the plane flies more slowly at the wrong angle and uses too much fuel. If carburettor heat had been applied, then take it off. Check for straight and level flight then sit back an enjoy the ride. And don’t bump into any other planes on the circuit

I never really got used to the feeling of a small plane in flight. The little Tomahawk, widely used for training, was quite light and even a mild gust of wind would throw it about. In turbulence the plane would shoot upwards readily and drop down equally readily. The instability was all very disconcerting for the trainee pilot. I have a suspicion that since my instructor was a well built chap and that I weighed almost 200 lbs then what with a full tank of fuel in the wings we probably exceeded the weight limit for the aircraft but nobody with authority ever said anything about two fat chaps being squeezed side by side into a very small cockpit.

Eventually in Nov 1984 when I had flown 21 hrs dual my instructor jumped out of the plane and told me to take off and land all on my own. I was to go solo. What a day that was. There is still a photograph of me and my instructor and the invoice for the flight up on my wall in my office.

There were three remarkable flights which I shall always remember. On my qualifying cross country solo flight I took off and flew to nearby Shoreham and landed, then took off again and flew over to Headcorn in Kent where I landed again after, I must admit, one enforced go round. Then I took off yet again and flew back to Goodwood. On that day I felt I had the wings of a dove.
A few weeks later, together with some of the other students, I flew over the English Channel and landed at both Mauberge and Troyes in Northern France. This was the heavily contested region of France where the aerial battles of the First World War were fought by young pilots in biplanes made of wood, canvass and wire. Oh, my instructor let me take off but he would not let me land the aircraft. That was not fair because I was paying the bill. I never forgave him.
The third flight was right at the end of my flying experience in Oct 1985 when I asked my new instructor if I could disregard the usual lesson in an A5 and fly around the locality and over several houses which I had owned near the aerodrome He agreed and then I told him I wanted my wife to sit as a passenger in the back seat of the Grumman. He was surprised at the request but he agreed to that too. Throughout the flight I had control, my instructor kept his hands off the controls and my wife looked out of the window at our old homes.

But it was to be the end of my flying adventures. By then I knew very well that there was no way I was ever going to be able to take my final examination with the Chief Flying Instructor so as to obtain my private pilot’s licence. The thought of deliberately putting the plane into a steep turn which would be part of the exam absolutely terrified me. I should have known from the very beginning that some people are destined to scuba dive and others to fly. Whereas even deep down in sea green cold water I felt in my element, I felt anything but confident in the air. By the end of my course I had done almost 100 hours of flying but only 15 of which had been solo. I studied for but never took the General Flying Test.

And to think that young Pilot Officers in World War 2 with less than 30 hours in their log books were often sent into combat flying Spitfires. It was just as well one of them wasn‘t me. Life was too short especially in those days.

Dv

I found this very educational and a fun read. Well done. I read it without noticing nits. Flying has always been interesting to me. My grandpa was a jet and helicopter pilot in the Canadian aiforce for ten years. He used to say it was the best feeling ever. Yes, all things considered.

Hi Divus,

Another wonderful story, so interesting and masterfully told.

Perhaps, "On that day I felt I had the wings of a dove." and maybe, "Just as well it wasn‘t me, life is too short."

Good to get back on here, even if just for a brief visit. Being a working stiff, fitness fanatic, husband, father and general diy dodger doesn't seem to leave much time for writing pursuits. LOL

Nevertheless, started typing ideas and a book plan in the "life and health" genre. Not sure if I can hack it. Will try anyway!

Thanks again for another absorbing extract from life. Really enjoyed.

Best,

Ian (smile)

Ian, stay close, a man has to have time for his hobbies.

I have adjusted the 'the' for a 'that'. But I have left the last paragraph.

Somehow I have to put a big distance between me and those young men flew Spitfires, not easy planes to fly. In 1940 they were led out to be cannon fodder - literally- for the Luftwaffe. Me, I became frightened to fly a puny PA28 for a hobby. Those young men volunteered to fly off the same runway to die in the same airspace. I am now wondering whether I should re-write the piece.

Originally Posted by Divus

The thought of deliberately putting the plane into a steep turn which would be part of the exam absolutely terrified me.
Dv

It’s easy for me to say this, Divus, but I would have thought a way to ease into this would have been to do a few such turns accompanied by the instructor, where he first put the plane through the turn on his own, then had the two of you do one or two with the two of you in control simultaneously, and then had you do it alone.

Originally Posted by Divus

Somehow I have to put a big distance between me and those young men flew Spitfires, not easy planes to fly. In 1940 they were led out to be cannon fodder - literally- for the Luftwaffe.

Something else to lay at the door of that bastard Churchill.

Hi Divus,

Love the essay as-is, which came across (to me) as being primarily about your amazing adventure into flying and ending with a sobering and respectful thought for those incredibly brave young pilots of WWII.

Rather than a re-write, perhaps you have another wonderful story Divus? A hitherto unseen window on the Battle of Britain through the eyes of a child, now grown, who remembers those years as he takes to the air in a P28.

As you turned your plane into the wind at the head of the runway, was it deserted and quiet? In that moment could you "hear" the roar of a thousand and thirty horsepower, drowning air raid sirens as it draws breath, ready to launch at the enemy above?

Oops, getting carried away I am. LOL

I owe, I owe, so it's back to work I go!

Ian (smile)

Ox. in some of us, including me especially, there is a fear of even standing on the top step of a pair of step ladders.
During those steep turns my brain was saying: "if you were supposed to be able to fly then you would have been issued with gossamer wings".

As for Churchill, Mmmm-!!?? some day in the future, someone is going to write yet another history of our historically revered leader but next time with the benefit of hindsight. Perhaps 2011 is too early. There is still the largely unaswered question as to why the British voted him out of office before the war had finally ended. But little is new. Quite a few of the honoured leaders of the British might not have been allowed through the Pearly Gates. Still I can't see St Peter clipping my entry ticket either.

Ian, there is very little to celebrate about war. The history books record the daring deeds of the gallant few whose sacrifice did not go in vain. But for myself, I find it difficult to write in such terms. It is not the way it happened. I can't remember much about the war itself but I do remember the dreadful poverty and
squalor of the years that followed. Even that story is a sad one.