I’m not one to get excited by big planes but I love this video of Boeing building Southwest’s “Florida One”.

From the Southwest Airlines website:

Date unveiled: April 23, 2010
Process time: 8 days
Number of People: 32 over 3 shifts
Paint colors: 16
Total gallons: Approximately 46
Premask (stencil outline): 15 boxes or approximately 150 different pieces to create the logo

The challenge of this plane was to recreate the Flag Logo without the use of tools, using only the drawing for reference and the stencils for outline, while at the same time making both sides exactly symmetrical.

Slightly odd note at MetaFilter though, where someone points out that the plane being built is a 737-800 whereas the plane being painted is a 737-700.

Watch it again. The plane they build has two big chunky doors right above the wing. (They’re very conspicuous.) The plane they paint only has one big chunky above-the-wing door. (It’s very conspicuous after the paint has gone on.) Also, the plane they paint is conspicuously shorter. As well it should be, since it’s a different plane.

I suppose it’s easier to get all the footage as a composite but I’m a little bit disappointed.

But not so disappointed that I’m not going to watch it again!

The ash from the eruption of Eyjafjallajökull in Iceland has had a very personal knock-on effect on our household.

Connor, my son, was supposed to fly to England to return to school after his Easter break and his flights were one of the many cancelled. The Saratoga was parked in England so we couldn’t transport him underneath the cloud and so we decided to wait it out until commercial aviation was back to normal. Unbelievably, he is still here because we’ve been unable to come to a resolution with Thomson’s (TUI) who seem to believe that it is not their responsibility to provide him with a new flight.

You can read about it on BBC News: Volcano ash: Airlines dispute passenger rights. As quoted in the article, TUI are telling us we should accept a refund and purchase a new flight at the current extravagant prices. Meanwhile, Connor is missing important revision for his GCSEs which he’ll be taking in just a few weeks.

I’ve learned a lot about home schooling in the past week, primarily that I never wish to consider home-schooling as a full-time option. I’m pretty sure Connor agrees.

Anyway, while I bone up on my GCSE-level poetry analysis and pretend that I understand the chemistry questions, you can find out more about the effects of the volcano eruption on these great sites.

The Big Picture has a collection of breath-taking photographs and Sulako posted video of the volcano taken from a local flight on Monday.

An amusing and educational video on YouTube attempts to help news reporters in their attempts to name of the volcano. In a similar vein, the New York Times has a fun article asking random subway users to attempt to pronounce it.

Aviatrix writes about the nitty gritty volcanic ash and why it is a risk and Matthew Stibbe takes a look at flying through an ash cloud.

For General Aviation, there were positive aspects to the closures. Plastic Pilot asks whether This cloud is THE opportunity VFR pilots are waiting for, Max Trescott points out that Volcanic Ash Clouds Present Unprecedented Opportunity for General Aviation Pilots and Runway Repairs and Aluwings has photographs of Touch and Goes at Zurich.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to practise my French verb conjugations.

The cross country navigation exercise is required to complete the JAR private pilot’s licence. It is effectively the first time the pilot is left alone with the plane, dependent on the new skills learned over the past few weeks. It is now not simply a case of handling the plane but also juggling the full navigation and radio without someone to take over if it becomes hectic. This is a flight that I think every pilot remembers, regardless of how long ago it was.

Part One: Granada
Part Two: Almería

At Axarquía we made blind radio calls. There was no one officially manning the radio on the ground so the pilots using the airfield simply talked to each other. You can speak either in Spanish or English on the radio in Spain. That works fine when there is an air traffic controller speaking to the pilots and keeping everyone up-to-date but in a tiny airfield like Axarquía it could be somewhat confusing. I made a point of doing my calls in English, keeping to the specific set phrases we had learned, so any Spaniard who had studied English Radiotelephony (rather than English as a language) would have no problems understanding me.

I do speak Spanish, in a conversational sense. I speak enough to get by as long as I don’t drink too much red wine and I avoid deep philosophical conversations. But I am very reliant on context and body language. I knew I was prone to guessing words, filling in the blanks when then Spaniards began speaking quickly. So I did not admit to understanding Spanish when I was on the radio, trying to lessen the chance of a misunderstanding – or at least, to ensure that if there was one, it wasn’t my fault.

On this last leg of my solo cross country, I left Almería and followed the coast. I turned inland at Torre del Mar and called on the Axarquía frequency to say that I was inbound to the airfield. I didn’t expect a response. The afternoon wind always came in from the mountains, which meant it would be blowing straight down the runway towards me. I didn’t even have to do a circuit, I could fly straight in and land.

I was surprised to hear Mercedes, the woman from the office, make a call in rapid Spanish. She knew who I was – if her call were meant for me, she would speak more slowly, or even find someone to translate and pass me the message. I hadn’t heard anyone else in the air so she was likely to be speaking to someone on the ground. That fit with the few key words I’d understood: something about people on the left of the runway. I felt sorry for them, I had a tendency to land slightly to the left which would be loud and possibly nerve-wracking for whoever was on the grass. I didn’t give it any further thought as I started my downwind checks.

I set up the plane for my final approach and looked out to see who was on the field. It was Juan, mowing the grass alongside the runway. His granddaughter and the airfield guard dog were bounding in circles around him. They were far to the left and not in my way. I reduced power and continued my descent.

I was about 200 feet above the ground, just passing the threshold, when the dog – this dog who had spent his entire life on the airfield – inexplicably panicked at the sound of my engine. I was focused on the runway, willing myself to get the flare right and finish this expedition with a perfectly smooth landing. Oliver would be proud of me.

At that moment I saw … I’m not sure I knew what I saw, something brown and black cross my field of vision. The dog, I thought. The goddamn dog just cut across the runway right in front of me. I can’t believe it just ran into the runway.

That’s when I saw the girl chasing after it.

There was no time to breath, no time even to think. I put on full power and pushed the nose up up up, anything to get away from the runway suddenly filled with child.

I went straight into the circuit, turned onto crosswind and levelled out without conscious effort. I felt almost dizzy with adrenaline. My heart was still pounding with fear.

I turned parallel to the runway and made another radio call, downwind. No response. I could see the girl running across the apron, still chasing the dog, her grandfather trying to keep up with her. I completed the circuit and came in to land, still shaking.

Oliver and Cliff came running to the plane as I taxied to the parking spot. “Jesus,” Oliver said and then, belatedly, “well done.”

“I had visions of blood on the windshield.”

“We were up in the disused tower, I was screaming GO AROUND, GO AROUND”

“I couldn’t hear you,” I said. I was trembling.

“You did fine.” He hugged me. “You did it! You’ve done your cross country solo.” He turned back to Cliff. “She’s unbelievable. She just ran, right across the runway. Right in front of the plane! I’ve never seen anything like that.” Then he remembered me again. “You did it! You were great.”

“I did it. And now I want a beer.”

I sat in the dark gloom of the bar, watching the Andalucían men crowded around the ancient oak table, watching the news. Oliver chattered excitedly about the runway incursion, repeating again he’d never seen such a thing in all his years at small airfields. I sat at one of the low tables and sipped my beer. Juan sat in the darkness behind the bar with a small glass of brandy. The grass, he told me, could wait. I could see the little girl, playing with her dolls in the gravel of the parking lot. She was laughing. She had no idea.

One of the men tipped his head at me. “Pilota,” he said with a wink. I smiled back. Today, I had conquered my fears. I was flying.

I saw this on xkcd and laughed out loud.

Why did I never think of that?

The cross country navigation exercise is required to complete the JAR private pilot’s licence. It is effectively the first time the pilot is left alone with the plane, dependent on the new skills learned over the past few weeks. It is now not simply a case of handling the plane but also juggling the full navigation and radio without someone to take over if it becomes hectic. This is a flight that I think every pilot remembers, regardless of how long ago it was.

I learned to fly in Spain with English instructors from a flying school at Oxford. My first leg was Axarquia to Granada where I was fine in the air but then panicked at dealing with the people on the ground. I survived and made my way back to the plane for the next leg of my flight, from Granada to Almería.

The sun was shining and, although the horizon wasn’t as clear as I might have liked, I didn’t have to do any difficult manoeuvres. I’d survived Granada, now I just needed to fly back to the coast and then east to Almería. It was a quiet journey and no one seemed to want to speak to me at all. I was humming to myself by the time I called Almería to tell them I had them in sight. There was no one in the local area but me. The runway was huge: 3,200 metres. It was the biggest runway I’d ever seen from the left-hand seat and I had it all to myself.

I landed without incident and parked in the corner before realising that I was going to have to trek across the hot apron to find someone to speak to. Eventually I found a tired looking building with a black C on a yellow background over the doorway, the international symbol for “Pilots, come here first.”

A red-faced Spaniard sat a grey desk, grimacing at paperwork. A younger, short-haired man stood to the side of the desk, arms crossed against his skinny chest as if in self-defence. They both glanced up as I walked in.

“Buenos días,” I said with a bright smile and explained that I was here to pay my landing fees.

The unhappy official looked at me for a long tired moment. He said “I need to speak to the pilot,” in rapid Spanish and then returned his attention to the paperwork in front of him.

“That’s me!” I tried the bright smile again. He glanced up with a harassed look.

“I mean the person who flew the plane.”

“Sí. That’s me.”

He furrowed his brow but finally got up from the desk. His too-tight jacket rode up over his waist.

I waved the form in front of me. “I also need to get this signed by someone in the tower.”

He glanced at the paper in my outstretched hand but didn’t take it. Then he spoke to me in slow and concise English. “I need to speak to the pilot of the plane.”

The young man hovered behind the desk, twisting his hands.

“Yes.” I took a deep breath, trying to drown out the blood pumping through my ears. “I am the pilot of the plane.”

“You?”

“Me.”

He slipped back into Spanish. “¿Sola?” Alone?

My friendly smile had long since slipped off. “Sí, sola. Alone. Me. I am the pilot of the plane.”

He stepped past me and looked over towards the General Aviation parking.

“Where is the plane?”

I pointed. He stared at the Cessna as if perhaps I had some able-bodied young man hiding behind the wing. When no one appeared, he scowled, snatched the paper out of my hand and stormed out of the room.

The young assistant took a step to follow him and then paused. He glanced around before putting a hand on my shoulder to pull me closer. “I think that’s great!” he said in a whisper, and then turned to run after his boss.

The young man’s proud smile undid the knot in my throat. What I was doing was great! It didn’t matter what some overheated damn bureaucrat thought. I was doing a solo cross-country: how could that not be great? I was flying alone, in a foreign country, in command of a beautiful plane on a beautiful day in a … well, less than beautiful airport. But amazing, nevertheless.

By the time the man in the too-tight jacket returned, nothing could dampen my broad smile. He handed me the certificate with a grunt. Someone had signed to say that I had landed at the airfield, all I had to do now was make it back home. I clapped my hands in glee and chattered happily as I paid the landing fee, ignoring his stony silence.

I’d planned to stop for a coffee but I was in such a good mood, I saw no reason to delay the rest of my flight. Besides, this was the easy bit. I just needed to fly straight back to Torre del Mar and then make a right turn to Axarquia.

It was impossible to get lost as I just had to follow the coastline. The worst possible case was if I saw the rock of Gibraltar come into view which would mean I had gone too far.

There simply wasn’t anything left to go wrong…

Conclusion

Now that the weather has started to show some semblance of Spring, a number of students are posting with excitement having finally completed their cross country solo. This is a flight that I think every pilot remembers, regardless of how long ago it was.

I put off going solo for as long as I could, until my instructor was so exasperated with me that inside the cockpit alone seemed the safer place to be. I learned to fly in Spain with English instructors from a flying school at Oxford, so it was all a bit confusing. Here’s my recollections of that first solo flight away from my home airfield of Axarquía.

The cross country navigation exercise is required to complete the JAR private pilot’s licence. It is effectively the first time the pilot is left alone with the plane, dependent on the new skills learned over the past few weeks. It is now not simply a case of handling the plane but also juggling the full navigation and radio without someone to take over if it becomes hectic. Oliver had a list of prerequisites: the horizon needed to be clear, the wind calm and my practised forced landings needed to be perfect. If, god forbid, I had an engine failure, I had to be able to bring the plane down.

I decided not to go when the other students did their solo cross country navigations: I was the least competent and the least confident of the group. But in the meantime, I’d flown with Oliver every day for the past 11 days. I was desperate to catch up and spent every available minute at the airfield. When I arrived home I did only the work that absolutely couldn’t wait before collapsing into bed until the next morning when I stumbled back into the car and drove back to Axarquía. It was time to take the plunge and just do it – I needed to fly cross country solo.

The weather was bright and beautiful. I spent hours poring over the maps, making sure I understood the distances involved and the heights needed. The wind was slightly gusty but not enough to cause problems.

“Phone me from Granada,” Oliver said. He tried not to look nervous. “We’ll take a decision then as to whether you should continue on or come back.”

“Or you could drive there and bring me back.”

“Not an option.” He handed me a sheet. “And you’ll have to find someone from ATC at each airfield to sign this sheet.” I looked at it, it was in English. “There won’t be a problem, the others did it too.”

I took the sheet and got into the plane.

I felt nervous but ready. I knew how to fly the plane. I’d taken it around the local area, done general handling over the sea, done hundreds of circuits around the airfield. I had flown to both of these airfields with Oliver to do circuits, so I knew the airfields, understood how to approach them and knew what to do when I was on the ground. I had to land and take off on my own but I was used to Axarquía’s runway at a measly 703 metres. Granada’s runway is 2,900 metres and Almería is 3,200 metres! Honestly, I could probably land on those runways sideways.

I knew which radio frequencies I needed, all written neatly on my knee pad. I had copied the information three times to make sure there were no scribbles. At this point, I was close to having the frequencies memorised. I marked my route on the map in bright red wax pen and then again on a blank sheet on my clipboard. I even had my mobile phone with me, so if I got completely confused overflying one of the airfields, I could put the plane into an orbit and phone someone to ask for advice, like they do on the game shows. I thought perhaps I better not mention this idea to Oliver.

There was no further preparation I could think of. It was time to do this.

The flight to Granada was remarkable only in that it was probably one of the most boring flights of my life. I chattered quietly to myself as I flew straight there and was given a straight-in landing. I parked without issue and strode into the building. It had been so slick, I should have been patting myself on the back. Instead, I felt sick to my stomach. I had to talk to people and get my form filled in and pay a landing fee and only now had I realised: I had no idea where to go.

When we came here before Oliver had seemed to know instinctively whom to talk to and what needed dealing with. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, I just wanted to stay in my plane. I wondered what they would do if I simply took off without paying. I thought about Oliver’s face if I showed up without my signed form and a military jet chasing after me. I took a deep breath and made my way to the window and smiled hopefully at a man sitting behind a desk.

“I need to pay my landing fees,” I told him in mediocre Spanish, “and also I need someone from ATC. I need someone to sign this piece of paper.”

His friendly demeanour wilted. “Sign what?”

“This paper, see?”

“It’s in English.” He fingered the form with suspicion, he clearly had no idea what it was.

I went for the heartfelt-plea approach. “It’s for my licence. I am a student, learning to fly. The paper is to say that I landed here without breaking any planes or causing any problems.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did you break any planes?”

“No! I think – I think you’ll find that ATC are happy to sign it. I was told they wouldn’t mind. It has my name and the plane’s registration on it.”

He made a quick phone call and then disappeared down the hall. I was supposed to phone Oliver and tell him I’d landed safely but I didn’t want to risk being on the phone when the man came back. I paced until he arrived a few minutes later.

“He said you did everything perfectly correctly.” His smile was back. “And he signed the form and told me to tell you good luck.”

I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath until he finished. “Gracias,” I said with a huge smile and took the form.

My phone rang, it was Oliver. I started to apologise but he cut me off. “The weather looks fine. Take a break and have a coffee before heading to Almería.” Stage 2 of my cross country flight was on.

Do you remember your first solo cross country flight? Tell me about it in the comments!

Part Two: Almería