Recently I was talking to Julien of Making Time for Flying and he mentioned that his wife was from the same part of Germany as I am. He had never flown into the local airfield there and I was able to reassure him that it is a very nice airfield with easy access and friendly ATC and staff. It reminded me of an older blogpost I wrote about a staff member who was perhaps a little bit too helpful. So this week, something from the archives: Fear of Landing » Just Being Helpful originally posted in September, 2008

Cliff taxied the plane over to the pumps and I hopped out to get us some fuel.

“I’ll get out in a moment,” Cliff said. “I just want to put our route into the GPS first.”

“No problem.”

I walked over to the tiny booth behind the pumps and tapped at the door. A pale round face peered out at me.

“Hi,” I grinned. “We radio’d to say we needed some fuel?”

He chewed his bottom lip and then nodded. “How are you going to pay?”

I paused for a quarter second and he started listing the payment methods they would accept.

“Credit card,” I interjected quickly.

“We only take VISA and Mastercard,” he said with a frown.

“VISA is fine.”

“OK,” he said and finally came out of the hut. “We don’t take American Express though.”

I presumed he’d had a bad experience with a previous client. I nodded in what I hoped was a reassuring manner.

He put on a large pair of goggles and walked over to the tanks. Then he stopped and stared at the plane. I scuttled over to him.

He nodded at Cliff. “The pilot will need to disembark,” he said, distaste dripping from every word. “I can not start until he exits the plane.”

I nodded and walked to the plane to tap in the window. Cliff climbed out of the plane and then watched as the man reset the pumps. He glanced around to make sure no one was near the plane and then hooked the earth wire to the front before wandering back to the pumps to pulling the hose out.

“Could have finished by now,” muttered Cliff.

One last look around to make sure everyone was in position and finally he was ready to offer us fuel.

He filled one side and called Cliff over. He handed him the cap to screw in and watched Cliff close the tank. “You should have checked it,” he said.

Cliff looked at him blankly.

“The fuel. You didn’t check the level before closing the tank.”

“I did,” growled Cliff. The man shrugged and moved over to the other wing. He then smiled at Cliff and held up the cap.

“Check the level and then close it!”

I sniggered as Cliff stalked over and closed the tank under the man’s watchful eyes. Once he was happy that Cliff had done his job correctly, he rolled up the hose, took off his goggles and asked us to follow him to the hut.

He smiled as the credit card transaction went through without a hitch. Another potential crisis averted through proper planning. Cliff signed and we turned to go back to the plane when the man put his hand on Cliff’s shoulder.

“Your safety stickers,” he said, shaking his head. “They are old.”

Surprised, we walked out to the plane to look at our decals. They seem fine: big print stating AVGAS ONLY, a picture of a pump and Grade 100LL written underneath. Everything you need to know to to ensure someone doesn’t fill the tanks full of jet fuel.

The man waved a sheet at us with two bright red squares saying AVGAS. “It says AVGAS on our stickers already,” complained Cliff.

“Yes, but they are getting dirty around the edges. These are new.” He pressed the stickers into my hand. “You can put them next to yours if you want but I think replacing them would be better.”

I searched for a response that would get us out of here. “I will,” I told him. “But the wings are so dirty now. I will go wash the wings and put the stickers on once they are clean.”

His chest swelled with satisfaction. He patted me on the arm. “That’s a good idea,” he said and retreated back to his hut.

(Something from the archives: a 2008 post about Air Traffic Service Units in the UK and my native ability to talk too much. I’ll be back with fresh content next week.)

Air/Ground Radio Airfields with A/G Radio offer an information service with a radio operator who are not licensed and not under close CAA supervision. They identify themselves by saying the airfield name followed by the word radio. It could just be a guy on a mobile radio with no other support. They will offer a basic information service and report known traffic to you.

“Enstone, this is November 666 Echo X-ray.”

No response. I frowned.

“Enstone Radio, this is November 666 Echo X-ray, radio check.”

It had been a chaotic day and we were late leaving. And now that finally everyone was bundled up into the plane and ready to go, the youngster on the radio wasn’t responding. Technically, I didn’t have to request permission to start but it’s generally the polite thing to do. The last time I flew from this airfield, the chap called me just as I was entering the runway to let my know my son had left his bookbag in the cafeteria. Service like that is invaluable and so I didn’t like to risk upsetting anyone but it was frustrating to be sitting here waiting on someone who’d walked away from the mike.

I called a third time, no response. Had he gone for a cup of tea or what? Cliff frowned at me and I shrugged. I decided to try once more. This fourth call elicited a response: a confused voice came back over the radio.

“Are you talking to me?”

I winced. Who was playing with the radio, for god’s sake? That’s when Cliff’s mum piped up from the backseat.

“I don’t understand why you are saying Enstone Radio,” she said.

I started to snap back an answer when it sunk in. We were at Bembridge on the Isle of Wight. I’d been flying in and out of Enstone the previous week and we’d be landing there today but right now? We weren’t talking to them.

“Bembridge, this is November 666 Echo X-ray, request, uh … geography check.”

I could hear the relieved laughter as he responded. “November 666 Echo X-ray, confirmed, you are parked just outside of my window.”

“Thanks for that. Request start.”

“Nothing to affect,” he told me and we were finally on our way.

Flight Information Service Airfields with FIS are an information air traffic support unit staffed by licensed Flight Information Service Officers. They identify themselves by saying the airfield name followed by the word Information. Their function is to assist pilots to operate safely by offering a traffice service and helping with information regarding weather and aerodrome details.

The tricky thing about Information stations is how they let you know what you should be doing without ever actually telling you what to do.

“Shobdon, this is November 666 Echo X-ray, inbound to you.”

“November 666 Echo X-ray, this is Shobdon Information, go ahead.”

“November 666 Echo X-ray is a PA32 inbound to you, I’m looking to join the circuit downwind for runway 09, right hand.”

The response was immediate. “November 666 Echo X-ray we have three in the circuit, recommend an overhead join.”

I had already descended to 1,300 feet, too low for the manoeuvre that he was referring to, flying over the runway and then descending on the dead side. I also couldn’t see the point, I was perfectly set up to simply turn right and join the circuit in another mile.

He repeated the call. “November 666 Echo X-ray, recommend an overhead join.”

As I continued towards the airfield, I felt frustrated and confused: the advice that the Officer was giving me didn’t make sense. I didn’t like to argue with him, however, and I had to admit it wouldn’t make that much difference to me.

“November 666 Echo X-ray is climbing to 2,300 feet for overhead join.”

A moment later, it suddenly clicked. I was saying Runway 09 but I had been heading for the join for Runway 27, that is, the same runway going the opposite direction. I couldn’t possibly join downwind from my present position which is why he wanted me up and out of the way of his traffic.

I went overhead and joined downwind from a sensible position, much to the relief of Shobdon Information.

Air Traffic Control Airfields with an ATC service have an active control tower staffed by air traffic controllers and are under close CAA supervision. Only ATC are authorised to issue clearances. They identify themselves by saying the airfield name followed by their function (Ground, Tower, Approach, Director, Radar). They offer a variety of services including control, flight information and traffic.

The flight from Guernsey to Alderney was only notable in its simplicity: it took longer to get everyone into the plane than it did to make the journey. Only as we landed did it get hectic.

“Backtrack and exit at Alpha.”

I always feel a faint Top Gun thrill at phrases like that which sound so complicated but I now know are simple. “Wilco” I said with a knowing nod.

Except that having spun the plane around, I couldn’t find Alpha. There was a bit of a turn-in on my right but it disappeared into grass and with the wet weather I was worried about taking a wrong turn and getting stuck in the mud. I grabbed for my plate with a map of the airfield.

“Turn right,” said an impatient voice on the radio. “And expedite, I’ve got another one coming in.” Two planes at the airfield at once, this must be a veritable traffic jam by Alderney standards. I bit my lip and turned the plane right onto the grass and paused.

“Carry on,” said the voice again. “Straight ahead, between the two markers. I take it you’ve never been here before?”

“Affirm,” I said in my best professional pilot voice. Followed by “Sorry,” blowing away any semblance of radio competence.

“Just carry on straight. And expedite!”

Finally the map and the ground in front of me clicked into place, I wondered if the air traffic controller could see the small light bulb appearing over the cockpit as I made my way to the parking area. I had just chosen a nice easy spot to park when the voice came back.

“Pull forward to the blue markers, then face south and then west.”

I frowned as I pulled forward, was he trying to make it difficult?

“Which way is south,” I hissed at Cliff as I fumbled to get the map out again.

“Turn left,” he said. I turned then tried to picture a map in my head. If I am facing south then I’m looking towards Texas. California is west and on my right. Got it! I opened my eyes and looked around. “So west is to the right now, right?”

Cliff sighed at me. “Just use the Directional Indicator?”

I blushed and turned the plane until the DI pointed west.

“Just park there,” said the voice. The other plane had landed and radio silence descended. It would probably be at least an hour before they see any further traffic. I shut the engine down.

Military Air Traffic Zones It goes without saying that you should be unfailingly polite to any controller who has fighter jets to back him up. In the UK, the pilot should contact the controller either 15 nautical miles or 5 minutes flying time from a military boundary, whichever is sooner, requesting penetration. To enter the central area (Aerodrome Traffic Zone) you must receive permission and comply with the controller’s instructions.

My first run-in with the military was actually in France.

We had landed at an airfield for refuelling but they were having technical difficulties and informed us that they would not be able to offer fuel for the rest of the day. A quick glance at book showed us another airfield on route that listed AVGAS 100L and so we jumped into the plane and went straight there, plotting the route as we went.

“Cognac, this is November 666 Echo X-ray.”

“November 666 Echo X-ray, pass your message.”

“November 666 Echo X-ray is a PA32 inbound to you, currently 20 miles to your NW at 4,000 feet, request airfield information and joining instructions.”

There was a brief pause.

“November 666 Echo X-ray can you state your intentions.”

“We’re inbound to you for refuelling.”

“November 666 Echo X-ray are you aware that this is a military airfield?”

“Oh. Uh, no. Negative. I was not aware.”

“November 666 Echo X-ray I say again, can you state your intentions?”

I bit my lip but silence seemed likely to get a missile aimed in my direction.

“Er, I intend to ask your advice on where we could go for refuelling in the local area?”

The controller was perfectly friendly about it, verifying that I was not in an emergency before recommending that I fly direct to Angouleme and even offering me a heading and a flight information service directly to the airfield. Anything, I guess, to keep me out of his zone.

Using the radio professionally has become an essential requirement in the modern aviation environment. Radio provides the interface between you and others, especially the Air Traffic Service Unit (ATSU) whose frequency you are using. You will make life more comfortable for yourself (and others) if you can use the radio efficiently.

When I first started my PPL, I was told that I had a real knack for using the radio. Getting my radio licence was the easiest part of the entire training. Little did I know that in the meantime, I would manage to mess up speaking to every different type of Air Traffic Service Unit in existence.

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.

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

Shobdon Airfield started as Pembridge Landing Ground, a long strip in an isolated area used to support Army manoeuvres. In 1942 it was upgraded to “a proper airfield” by the military.

Shaun McGuire has made a website dedicated to the Hereford Parachute Club at Shobdon and has reprinted an article found in Action Stations 3, The Airfields which tells the history of the airfield:

The first visitor after the new airfield opened on May 28, 1942 was a Grumman Martlet which forced-landed whilst on a flight from Yeovilton to Donibristle on June 20. A few days later two Canadian Spitfires landed after getting lost on a cross-country flight. On July 14 the first aircraft to be based – a Lysander – was delivered by an ATA pilot, followed by two dismantled Hotspur gliders brought by road.

I was flying to Shobdon on a whim. Its location on the border of England and Wales meant I was likely to get some lovely views and the attached café had a good reputation. At the time, I didn’t think to look at the history of the airfield, or else I might have seen this:

Shobdon’s grass surfaces on which the gliders usually landed were muddy and unserviceable and half the runway width was unusable because of re-surfacing work.

I was blissfully unaware that the airfield had a reputation for mud when I planned a day trip to Shobdon and back, I was just pleased I could conveniently get my three take-offs and landings in a single afternoon.

Shobdon has a hard runway, over 2,700 feet of asphalt, so I wasn’t particularly interested in the state of their grass. I felt much more prepared than I usually was, as I’d met someone at my local flying club who knew the airfield well.

“Keep a good look out,” he told me. “You get the fighter jets over-flying the place without bothering to talk to anyone. Check the noise abatement procedure, it’s a wide circuit there. And always, always watch the other planes: they have two overhead join procedures: one for locals and one for people who know what an overhead join is.”

He also told me that air-to-ground was “intermittent” so I wasn’t concerned at the radio silence when I approached the airfield later that afternoon. It was quiet, no other planes in the air and no sign of military activity. I landed without any excitement and head over to the clubhouse to get some lunch.

It seemed a nice enough place – the café was tidy and the people were friendly. I got lost looking for the restrooms and ended up in room at the back which seemed the epitome of a Victorian gentlemen’s lounge: wood panelled walls, dark green furniture, varnished tables with crystal ashtrays large enough to hold a cigar or two. I felt quite guilty being in there, an intruder in a masculine world that I’d only ever read about. I backed out nervously before anyone caught me touching the velvet curtains.

A friendly woman in a small wooden cubicle accepted my landing fee and commented what a lovely day it had been and how lucky I was. The week before had been miserable, she told me, non-stop rain. I chatted to her for a bit and then made my way back to the plane.

It was lunchtime and the café had just begun to fill. I’d seen a table full of old airmen, no doubt telling tall tales of the type I love to hear – but I needed to get back home. I settled for a quick cup of coffee at the table next to them. One day I will learn to appreciate tea – after all these years in the UK, you’d think I’d have acquired a taste for it.

I rushed back onto the apron and started up the plane. There was still no one on the radio so I did my calls blind. I was meandering along the taxi-way when I belatedly noticed the sign: “No power checks beyond this point!” I looked around. No other planes were moving. I turned the plane hard to the right so that it was somewhat vaguely into wind and started my checks on the spot.

When I went to turn back onto the taxiway I realised I hadn’t left myself any room to make the turn, I was going to have to enter the grass runway which ran alongside the taxiway. But in that case, I thought, why not just cross the grass and head directly to the asphalt. The radio was silent, no one was coming in, it wasn’t like I was going to be causing any inconvenience.

I made the call and pulled onto the grass. The plane bumped forward and then slowed to a crawl over the uneven ground, losing momentum. I pushed in the throttle but it seemed I was too slow, the plane stopped moving. I increased the power again and then once more. It took a moment before it sank in: I was at full throttle and the plane wasn’t moving. I bit my lip, shut down the engine and clambered out of the plane.

There was no denying it, I was stuck. There was a 3-foot long furrow in the mud. I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the swearing of the future gliders landing on that runway.

At the end of the rut was my nose wheel, covered in mud and dug into the grass. The propeller had bright green streaks all around the edges. If I’d managed to go any deeper, I would have probably taken out the prop but luckily, no damage was done. Except that I needed to get the plane off of the grass somehow.

Help appeared rather rapidly, a plane shutting down perpendicular to the taxiway and runways has that effect. A friendly, sturdy looking guy came out from wherever he had been working to see what had happened.

“The grass runway isn’t usable after the weather we’ve had,” one said, looking at the plane. “It’s a bit muddy out there.” Yeah, I’d noticed. I showed him the nose wheel and he grimaced. Others arrived and a moment later there were four of them in a circle around the Saratoga, shaking their heads at the mess I’d gotten myself into. I stayed on the periphery, they looked like they’d spent their life around planes and were probably taking them to pieces while I was still hoping I’d grow tall enough to be a stewardess. I didn’t think they’d appreciate my input and I didn’t have a chance of getting the plane out without them.

“She’s stuck, all right.”
“If she used full power, couldn’t she…”
“No way, look how close her prop is to the ground already.”

I couldn’t help nodding furiously in agreement every time someone vetoed the “full power and press on” theory.

“Can we push her?” They circled around the plane. I was pretty sure that the female pronoun referred to the plane, not me. I checked to make sure no one was shoving a part of the plane that shouldn’t be shoved, then positioned myself at the nose to heave on the count of three.

The Saratoga rocked backwards and then hit the side of the ridge and lurched forwards again, comfortable in its rut. We could push it out, if we could follow the muddy crevasse I’d created exactly. As it was, we weren’t creating the momentum to push the nose wheel out and over the rut. Even with six of us, it was not enough.

One of the men looked as if he might mention the full power theory again but my new friend who had taken charge spoke first. “We’re going to have to tow her out.”

I didn’t have a clue what this would entail and how this would work. In the end, I simply admitted my helplessness. “I guess I’m not much help.” I got a tolerant smile as a response. I took a chance. “Would it be OK if I took a few photographs of you pulling the plane out?

Luckily they were a friendly bunch; they grinned at me, happy to be captured on film as they rescued this damsel in distress. A battered Landrover was quickly sourced to tug the plane out backwards. They affixed the rope to what we all thought was a tow point on the back of the plane. I later discovered the handy loop was actually for tying the plane down – to my dismay I discovered that the handbook specifically warns against using it to tow. It’s probably a good thing that I didn’t know this while the men positioned themselves: one at the nose of the plane, one at each wing, one in the Landrover and one to stand with the rope. On the count of three, the men shoved, the driver revved carefully and the Saratoga shuddered gently before majestically lifting up and over the rut and then rolling smoothly back to the taxiway. The Landrover towed her back to the sign: “No power checks beyond this point!”

From there it was easy. I thanked them all profusely and did a quick walk-around. Everything looked fine, even the tie-down point. I got into my plane and flew back home, impressed at how friendly everyone had been. I made a mental note to come back to Shobdon … in the summer, after it’s had a chance to dry out.

This three-part story was originally published in the November 2007 issue of Piper Flyer magazine.

Part One: If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Your Mother
Part Two: Sylvia’s Mother Said

After spending over two hours filling out paperwork at the Rome Urbe airfield, I asked the one friendly person in the place for details about getting fuel for the plane. He looked at the clock. “It is Sunday,” he said. “They will leave at noon.” It was 11:30.

“You must hurry,” he told us.

Cliff dashed out to the plane and then came straight back with a scowl. The battery was dead.

We soon found the culprit, a light switched to the on position in the back. My son went pale. Connor had blocked up all the windows to avoid the sun glaring on the screen of his Gameboy and when he found he was sitting in the dark, he had turned on the overhead light. In the excitement of arriving, he had forgotten all about it. And now, the battery was dead.

He ran straight to his grandmother as the only person who might protect him from the lecture that was clearly due. I made a mental note to sort out a passenger check-list for the future flights.

Funnily enough, this took the pressure off as we now had no chance of getting away at a sensible time. We called the people at the gas pumps who expressed sympathy for our situation and arranged to send out help. They committed to staying until we were able to taxi over and get fuel, I was still going to be able to fly the family to Mannheim today. Just one issue left: I still needed VFR charts.

I invited my mother to join me in a visit to the main building to sort out the charts. A long-haired man in a rumpled shirt greeted us. This place looked much more like a general aviation terminal and he confirmed in very slow Italian that this was where in future all pilots would go, but not yet.

His English was minimal and my Italian worse. I waved my clip-board at him and he handed me a blank flight plan which I filled out quickly.

“The time? Do you have the time?” Assuming no further problems, we should be able to take off within half an hour. I tapped my wrist, the spot where my watch would be if I hadn’t lost it.

“Dodici,” he said followed by a moment of thought before he remembered the word in English. “Twelve.”

“No, it’s not,” said my mother. He frowned, wondering what he’d said wrong. “It’s two.”

“Two,” he repeated uncertainly.

“No, twelve,” I said. My mother frowned. “Zulu,” I told her and then more helpfully: “It’s the time in GMT.”

The man didn’t appear to be sure what the problem was. “Dodici,” he said, just to be clear. I nodded with a smile and then tried to ask him about charts.

I drew a rough outline of a boot kicking Sicily on the back of the flightplan with a little dot for Rome and a box around it. He smiled in comprehension. He led me to a table with a glass-encased chart of the area on it. It was beautifully done, clear VFR paths shown for all directions out of the airfield.

It was exactly what I needed. I smiled happily and told him I’d like one.

He looked at me in bemusement for a moment and told me I couldn’t have it.

I tried again: I want to buy one?

Nope. This was his map. It is there, for looking at.

He refused to part with it. I got a blank flightplan and sketched a more precise boot, with notes of our route and the visual reporting points we would pass. I just hoped I could find them again on the IFR chart.

I returned to find the battery charged and the plane fueled. The customs man admitted he had no further reason to detain us. Three hours after our planned start, we were finally ready to go but I was still nervous about not having the local VFR charts. I had tried recreating our route on the IFR charts, using the VORs to cross-check, but it wasn’t exact. I told Cliff that perhaps we should cancel the flight.

Hot and grumpy, he showed little patience: “Well, we could just never fly anywhere when we don’t have the charts.”

“Well, yes, precisely,” I muttered under my breath, with just enough self-preservation to ensure he couldn’t hear me.

On the other hand, I couldn’t quite imagine the response at the airfield if, after all the waiting and the jump start and staying on to get the fuel, I told them that, on second thought, I wanted to cancel owing to bad planning. I looked at the IFR charts and my notes again. It looked straight-forward and there were frequent VOR references for the route out. I was pretty sure I had it right and we had the GPS to ensure I knew where we were at any given time.

We flew at 2,500 feet, following their low-level routing as I watched for my landmarks and reporting points, some of which were marked on the GPS making it even simpler than I’d imagined. As we joined our flight-plan proper, I started to feel more confident.

“Sylvia.”

“Yes, Mom?” She had been so quiet up to now, I was impressed.

“You are talking really fast when you are on the radio. It makes it hard to understand you, especially for non-native English speakers. You need to slow down.”

I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. I knew that her words were undoubtedly true but I really didn’t want to set a precedent of my mother helping me to fly over the next three hours.

“Yes, Mom.”

It was surprisingly easy to understand the Italian guys on the radio. The only problem was place names, I’d never heard of most of them and finding them quickly on the map wasn’t easy. Report where? Pruja? I can’t find it! Ah, Perugia! I dove for the chart over and over again, ignoring my mother’s entreaty to keep my eyes on the road. Each time I found the place in question and we carried on, climbing in preparation for the Alps, the sun streaming in through the windows. Even Connor (still suitably chastised) looked out the window and pointed things out for us to look at.

We crossed the border to Austria and switched frequency to Innsbruck as we climbed to FL105. The view was astounding. Lakes nestled in dark green valleys surrounded by rough mountains glistening with snow. Glaciers loomed up ominously at us, too close for comfort. My instinct was to climb further but we couldn’t get much higher without needing oxygen. I stared, amazed and nervous, at the mountains so close to us; spell-bound until ATC interrupted me with my next reporting point: Brenner Pass.

I had been totally distracted with the view and panicked for a moment – unnecessarily, the pass was part of my route and clear on my map. But still I stuttered and by the time I had responded, we had already reached the pass. I immediately reported it. He sounded vaguely impatient as he asked me to report the Sierra VRP.

Busted – that was neither on the map nor marked on the GPS. I asked if I could report the Patscherkofel VOR instead please.

“Sierra is just south-west of the VOR,” he told me. “You should have a VFR chart with you.” I turned beet red. I could hear my mother shifting around in the back, clearly aware that I was being told off but not sure why.

“If you look down,” he continued. “you might notice there are mountains. It is dangerous.”

I struggled for a moment for the correct response. Affirm? Roger? Wilco? Nothing seemed right. “Understood,” I said after a moment. I prayed for another plane to cause a distraction but the radio remained silent: the other pilots in the air were no doubt grinning quietly as they listened to him reprimand me.

My ink pen chose that moment to begin leaking violently – my fingers and clipboard turning a deep blue. My friend at Innsbruck continued his lecture, this time receiving no response at all while I tried to minimize the staining. I wanted to make a note – “always bring pencil for high level flights!” but my pad was covered in ink. Innsbruck finally concluded the tirade with “report the VOR”. By now I had reached it. I reported this, leaving a blue fingerprint on the control.

We exited the pass and as we gently turned left the autopilot disengaged with a loud series of beeps.

I made sure we were straight and level and then checked – my dark-blue fingers weren’t anywhere near the button. The switch was in the correct position. I re-engaged the autopilot and it took control. Someone must have knocked it.

I was relieved when we switched frequencies to Munich and entered Germany, for which I had the correct maps. Then the autopilot disengaged again. Definitely no fingers near the button, the switch was normal. The electric trim was on, the power settings were correct. I re-engaged the auto-pilot. It disengaged.

My mother became very quiet as I cursed.

I was uncomfortably aware of how long it had been since I had needed to hand-fly the plane. Every time I spoke on the radio, I deviated 5 degrees or 50 feet.

We stuck with our routing but I was sweating, blue ink now smeared on my forehead.

Munich switched me to Stuttgart who cleared me to transit at not above 3,500 feet. I have not tried to fly a precise height since I got my license. Cliff volunteered to do the radio so that I could simply concentrate on keeping it straight and level. I glanced at him and realized that he had turned an odd shade of green: his offer was a desperate attempt to stop me pitching up and down like a rollercoaster.

I agreed and took the chance to check the gadgets again. I reset the electric trim and looked for any anomalies. I made sure I knew where we were on the map and shut down the GPS, resetting everything. It booted up nicely and the autopilot gave me a warm beep to say that it was ready, immediately followed by a series of jarring beeps as it disengaged itself again.

But without the distraction of the radio I was getting back into the swing of it, remembering the thrill of getting the plane perfectly in trim and letting go of the control – look Ma, no hands! She looked terribly disconcerted at my hands in the air, which made it even more of a pleasure. In no time at all we were over-flying Heidelberg and coming into Mannheim. We would arrive just in time for dinner.

As I focused on the approach, Cliff tried the autopilot and it engaged. I couldn’t help but take it personally, we were now ten miles out from our destination and I no longer needed it. I disengaged it and brought the plane in smoothly.

We parked by the terminal and my mother thanked me for a very interesting flight … but would I be terribly offended if next time she just went commercial?

This three-part story was originally published in the November 2007 issue of Piper Flyer magazine. As a result, I received my first ever piece of fan mail – a reader asked if I could possibly put him in touch with my mother regarding a conference that he thought she might be interested in.

As an epilogue: My mother will be visiting Germany and Rome in August and I couldn’t help but notice that she’s already purchased commercial flights for the trip.

Heide is a highly respected literacy practitioner and researcher based in New Mexico. She is highly regarded within her profession and invited all over the world to speak at conferences. She crosses the Atlantic at least once a year and usually ties in the conference with a trip home to Germany to visit her family. She flies United Airlines when she can. She’s very efficient and likes for everything to be just so. She’s also my Mother.

When she told me she was going to be in Italy for a week and then a further week in Germany, I started making plans to meet up with her. I made the mistake of copying my boyfriend on the email with her travel plans. He immediately mailed her.

“Don’t book a flight yet – Sylvia can fly you from Rome to Mannheim.”

Er, Sylvia can do what?

My mother was thrilled. I went into an immediate panic with deadlines looming but Cliff soothed me, promising he’d do the footwork and phone the airfields and sort out the navigation and all I would have to do is fly the plane. How hard could it be?

I relaxed. Big mistake. A week before we were due to fly to Rome, I suddenly realized I had barely flown in the past few months. A look at my log book confirmed my fears: I had not managed to take off a measly three times in the past 90 days, the minimum required for taking passengers. The thought of telling my Mother that I wasn’t going to be able to fly the plane (or at least, not with her in it) spurred me to immediate action: I needed to get up in the air and fast.

The problem is Málaga. Málaga is “the only real airport of merit in Andalucía” and the fourth busiest airport in Spain. In 2006 they handled 13,000,000 passengers and over 125,000 flights.

To put this into perspective, JFK International Airport handled 42.6 million passengers with 25 miles of taxiway and four runways. Málaga has a single 10,500 foot runway with a single parallel taxiway. They are building a second runway, planned for 2010 but in the meantime, it’s a bit busy there.

As a result, Málaga does not allow circuits and have gone so far as to ban VFR traffic during the weekends. The simple solution is to go to Axarquía, the small airfield 30km northeast of Málaga where I did my initial flight training. That’s where all the light aircraft go for practice and I knew I was being unreasonable in trying to avoid it.

I’ve not flown to Axarquía since the flying school took the Cessnas away and I did my conversion to the Piper Saratoga. The airfield is surrounded by hills and the runway is 1090 meters (3500 feet) but it has a displaced threshold and thus the landing distance available is actually 637 meters (2000 foot) if you land on the numbers. This was fine for the Cessna 172s that we trained in but I didn’t fancy trying to get the Saratoga in safely. I knew it could be done: Cliff had taken me there just to prove it was possible. Even then, I closed my eyes as we appeared to race towards the trees at the end of the runway.

However, given a choice between admitting to my Mother that I’d let my license lapse and landing the plane on a runway with an LDA twice the minimum length stated by the pilot’s operating manual, the way was clear. We went to Axarquía.

Cliff relocated the plane from Málaga, a process that involved an hour of prep and 5 minutes in the air. I drove there so that we would have the car: we wanted to leave the plane at Axarquía for its 50-hour check. Also, I wanted to have lunch at Las Cruces, one of my all-time favorite restaurants which is near the airfield but not quite in easy walking distance.

During the week Las Cruces acts as a type of venta, a Spanish restaurant aimed at the working class offering what I like to refer to as “old-fashioned fast food” with a set menu that the waiter rattles off. There are always three starters and three main dishes – you pick one from each category and choose a drink: water, beer or red wine. Because there are so few dishes, your food arrives in minutes. At Las Cruces, they are a bit more up-market: they offer a third course of dessert, again with three options. After your food, the waiter reappears with a cafe sólo and takes your money: a set price of 8 Euros per person. I have seen them deal with difficult tourists who wandered in looking for an authentic experience and then want to personalize their dish: “Can I have chips with that? Substitute the vegetables with some salad, please!” I always cringe but the waiters take it with good grace and comply when they can. Las Cruces is off the beaten track so they don’t get too many tourists, the place is generally full of farm workers and truck drivers shouting jokes at each other as they make their way through the quick and hearty meal.

On Sunday, the scene changes to cater to the after-church crowd with a full menu and more traditional pricing. They run it with a single seating, you are expected to stay the afternoon. They have a huge outdoor barbecue which they fire up at noon with two people working through the dishes as quickly as they can. Lamb chops, slices of pork loin, beef entrecote. Grilled peppers, grilled cheese, grilled bread rubbed with tomato and olive oil. If they can put it on the barbecue, they will and everything is done to perfection.

But the Las Cruces barbecue is off-limits on a flying day: weight and balance would be seriously skewed after such a meal. I knew, deep down, that I shouldn’t combine flying and a three-hour lunch and that it wouldn’t quite be the same if I couldn’t sample their house red wine and so, with regret, we arranged to go in the middle of the week.

I drove up to the airfield and let myself in. There was a new banner draped across the fence advertising the flying school but the place seemed deserted. No one was outside at all. The television at the bar blared the local news into an empty room. A German Shepherd which I remembered well from my training (he ran across the runway in fright as I was landing from my first solo nav flight) was locked behind a chain link fence, watching me balefully.

When I had been here before, everything was organized by the instructors who had flown in from England. I remember them complaining about how lackadaisical everything was, shaking their heads at the street map with Málaga’s visual reporting points drawn onto it, finding out about the local airfields and where we could go for the cross country navigation or even just a few circuits. I hadn’t realized at the time, but they’d livened the place up immensely: from the moment I (or any other student) walked through the door, we were greeted and organized. As I crossed the dusty courtyard, it felt like a ghost town. Cliff had just touched down and parked the plane while I went in search of someone to talk to. I found a woman in the back office who looked unhappy to have been disturbed. I told her that I was planning to fly circuits and she told me not to bother her until I’d done them, then I could pay.

I’d rather hoped for an excuse to put this moment off but Cliff had thoughtfully refueled the plane in Málaga and there was nothing for it: it was time to get into the air. I got into the plane and remembered my first solo flight here: I spoke to myself, DJ style, throughout the circuit. “You’ll be just fine, Sylvia, they wouldn’t have let you out here if they didn’t think you can do it, all you have to do is get the plane up into the air, turn it around, and bring it back down.” As I remembered that first solo, my fear suddenly melted away. I’d been so worried about the short landing distance, the hills, the lack of a tower and blind radio calls that I’d forgotten the huge advantage that this airfield held for me:

I learned to fly here.

I spent 50 hours flying in and out of that airfield, compared to a few hours at any other airfield. I could hear Tom’s voice from the start: telling me to leave my hands on my thighs while I taxied to curb my urge to “steer” with the column, showing me where to pull off the runway and how to best angle the plane into the wind for my power checks without blocking access for other planes. As I took off I immediately heard him telling me that it was inconsiderate to fly too low over villages and that I should turn crosswind just a little bit early to avoid the buildings we could see coming up, the corner of Vélez-Málaga. I knew exactly where the circuit was, as if someone had drawn the lines onto the ground for me to follow.

I struggled a bit trying to get everything done in time for what is definitely a small and very fast circuit in the Saratoga but it was not a big deal – there was no reason for me to be nervous about the airfield at all. By the second circuit I was on top of things and Tom’s voice stopped nagging me by the third. I did two more for luck and then landed the plane just as the banner planes started to head out for their afternoon run over the beaches of Marbella.

My reward followed at Las Cruces. A cold glass of San Miguel, a bowl of picadillo (a soup made with chunks of Spanish ham and pieces of boiled egg) followed by a hot plate of pork in garlic. I was feeling pretty good about everything. In a few days, I would be in Rome, taking my son to see the Coliseum and the Vatican City. Cliff had plotted us a route over the Alps with a slight diversion so that we could fly over my cousin’s Bavarian bed and breakfast on the German-Austrian border which we were saving as a special surprise for my mother. Our destination was Mannheim, the city where I spent a good chunk of my childhood so I was sure I would have no problems finding the airfield, which was quite conveniently located just five minutes away from my Uncle’s house where dinner would be waiting.

What could possibly go wrong?

Part Two: Sylvia’s Mother Said

Ask a CFI has done a post on Checkride Butterflies and it reminded me of my first time.

“You fly just like a woman.”

I blink.

I am sitting in the left seat of a Piper, somewhere over the beautiful English countryside known as the Cotswolds. On my right is Bob, an experienced pilot and examiner in his early 60’s. He is checking me out for my complex rating. We’ve done circuits, a few different landing configurations, then flown out and up for general handling. I remembered my HASELL checks, managed to get the plane into the stall on my second attempt (something about it still makes me shiver) and I am feeling pretty good about the recovery. The steep turn to the left was a bit of a roller coaster but I was within limits when I turned back onto the straight and level. I didn’t panic during the practice false landing and I could swear I saw his mouth twitch into a smile when I had plenty of time spare for a passenger briefing. I thought it was going well.

His words fill the cockpit and time stands still.

I was no stranger to the attitude that women shouldn’t fly. I did my PPL training in southern Spain which was a unique introduction to Mediterranean machismo.

When I did my cross-country solo, I planned a straight-forward route from Axarquía to Granada, Granada to Almería and Almería back to Axarquía. I’d flown the run a few times and I was feeling quietly confident about it. Granada and Almería both have reassuringly large runways and very little traffic, a perfect combination. Everything went fine for the first leg, then I landed at Almería and strolled in to sort out the landing fee.

A red-faced man fired questions at me in Spanish: was it a private plane? Where had it come from? How long was it staying? A younger man stood nearby with a pad and pen as if ready to take notes if I contradicted myself. It was a bit odd but seemed to be going well until he asked about the pilot.

“That would be me.”
“No, I mean the person that flew the plane,” he said. Perhaps he thought it was a language issue.

“Sí.” I gave him a winning smile. “That’s me. I’m the pilot.”

He frowned. “You?”

“Yes, me.”

“All on your own?”

I could feel the blush creeping up on my face, as if I’d done something wrong. “Yes, alone. Sola. I am the pilot of that plane.”

He stepped passed me and walked over towards the apron, looking out towards the plane, as if I had some able-bodied man hiding beneath the wing, ready to pop out and fly the plane when no one was looking.

I fumed inwardly. I was pretty sure he was airport security and had no business stopping me from getting to Ops. I bit my lip, kept the harsh words from escaping.

He shook his head and stormed out of the room. The young assistant stepped forward to follow him and then stopped, put his hand on my shoulder.

“I think that’s great,” he whispered, then rushed to follow his boss.

I grinned like a maniac all the way home.

So yes, I’d seen it before and I knew that there were men out there that felt women just didn’t belong in the cockpit. It wasn’t such a big deal for me, personally, flying for a hobby as opposed to fighting against a glass ceiling. Still, it pushed me through my PPL, made me strive for more than just competent. I wanted to be good, good enough to erode the stereotypes.

“You fly just like a woman.”

Today is important to me, today I am expecting to become a real pilot. And now this. We’re straight and level. The examiner, who seemed a very nice British gentleman when I met him an hour ago, is looking at me expectantly.

I blink again and promise myself I will keep my cool, whatever happens.

“Pardon?” The word comes out as a whisper.

A smile flashes across his face. “By which I mean, you have bothered to learn the theory of what you are doing rather than just jumping in the cockpit and going through the motions. It’s refreshing.”

“You mean, I passed?”

“Of course you passed! That was great. You need experience, of course, but who doesn’t! I’m utterly confident you will continue to apply yourself like you did today and make a very good pilot. That’s the airfield at your two o’clock, by the way, I want to see a flapless landing.”

I set up for the approach, trying to quell the semi-hysterical laughter bubbling in my throat. I passed! How silly of me, to assume that was an insult. I should know better. Women pilots – after all, it’s not some newfangled idea, just think about Amelia Earhart and Amy Johnson!

As the plane touches down, I allow myself a huge smile. That’s a comparison worth striving towards. I want to fly just like a woman.

I found myself with a week clear in Southern Spain; free time spanning in front of me and not a single claim to my time. Add to that a Piper Saratoga parked in Málaga gathering dust and it was clear: it was time to go flying. After months of bad weather followed by hectic schedules leaving no time for private flying, I looked forward to getting back into the air. I picked up my PPL and log book and then I looked at the dates. How long since my last flight? A refresher might be in order!

Someone was working on my behalf in the karma stakes. I spoke to Lee, my ex-instructor, who agreed that a short break in Spain sounded like fun, even if it was going to involve spending a day flying with me.

And so we fly.

Lee still remembers my weak spots from training and has a good idea of what I’m probably out of date on. To my dismay, he informs me that we will do engine failures, my most unfavourite past-time. This involves the normally quite sympathetic man sitting next to me suddenly closing the throttle and saying “Your engine has failed, now what?”

Screaming, apparently, is not an option.

I bite my lip and try to remember the sequence of events. This should be second nature, I know that. In a real emergency, there’s no time to sit and think. I exhale sharply as I realize that I’ve instinctively started to deal with the issue: while I’m pondering, I’ve put the plane into a glide configuration, maximizing our time in the air. OK, I remember this now: the next step is to work out which way the wind is going. I scan the ground for smoke stacks, hoping to get a hint, but no one has thought to oblige me with a bonfire. The trees seem still, there’s no local train, I’m running out of things to look for. Meanwhile the plane is drifting along the way a heavy Piper Saratoga drifts, which is with a distinct downward motion.

“You are taking too long,” Lee says, sounding calm and patient despite the fact that I’ve clearly lost the plot.

I point the plane based on our runway direction, at least that’s generally in line with what the wind was when we took off. He smiles and waits. It seems to be falling into place now, my next move is obvious.

I start looking for some place I would be able to land without killing us. The Spanish landscape looks uninviting: dusty hills and rivers weaving their way to the coast, the occasional road twisting around the landscape. Orchards of olives, a favourite sight down on the ground, frustrate me now that I’m looking for something flat. The main crops of Andalucía: oranges, olives, almonds: none of these can help me now. My forehead prickles with perspiration. Finally I see a gap, a flat rectangle at about the right distance.

“That field, there.”

“The one with the tree in the middle?”

I wince, but there’s plenty of room either side. Yeah, that one.

It’s time to start looking at what is wrong with the engine and whether it’s recoverable. I put my hand on the throttle: that’ll fix it!

Lee knows me too well; he shakes his head. I leave the throttle where it is and pretend to check all the other things that might have gone wrong. Fuel, oil, magnetos, fuel pump. I try to take the checks seriously, but it’s difficult. I tap the things I would check and pretend to turn off the fuel.

“Right, I’m taking her down.”

I’ve failed to find the problem with the engine; we have run out of options. I mime making sure the plane is secured, feathering the prop, turning off the magnetos and then I say the words: “We’re landing in a field.” Now my stomach tightens, even though I know it’s not for real.

“Might want to tell someone?”

“Oh yeah…. Mayday mayday mayday November 666 Echo X-ray has an engine failure, somewhere south of Granada, putting her down in a field.”

I should be trying to give them a more exact location but at the moment I’m more concerned about lining up on my base leg; the fake radio call is the least of my worries. I turn the plane again and my eyes flit between the field and my altitude. What’s ground level here?

It strikes me that this is rather critical and I break protocol to ask.

“How high is the ground?”

“Coming up quick, Sylvia, come on. Wheels?”

Lee doesn’t give hints. Well, I guess he does, as landing gear is pretty critical. I put the wheels down and turn again, now I’m heading straight in for my field, on final. I’m proud of myself for remembering the next step.

“As we come down could you please open your door and adopt the brace position.”

He nods with a slight smile.

I’d feel good about this but we are still going down. I’m expecting him to break off the exercise and let me put the power back on, but he’s taking advantage of the fact that we are in the middle of nowhere. Low flying rules are a bind in southern England, less so “somewhere south of Granada” where it’s all fields and no populated areas to avoid. My knuckles turn white as I clench the control. We are now 3000 foot above sea level, I reckon the ground to be at least 1800′.

I put the flaps down and we continue to descend. The ground is scarily close. On the third level of flaps, with the tree now stealing my entire focus, he finally says the magic words,

“That’s fine, go around.”

I push the throttle in and climb away.

“You’d have made that,” he says.

The ultimate praise.