I drove up to the High School on the first day of my senior year in my white Camero, found a parking spot, leaned around to the back seat to grab my bag and started walking toward the front door of the familiar school. I didn’t have to go to first period that semester, so I was the only one walking in the parking lot. The warm summer morning air blew across my face, waking me up from my stupor and allowing my first thought of the day. “I can’t believe I’m still in High School,” I said to myself in a self-pitying and self-righteous exclamation of sentiment. I was surely too old…well, too mature…to have to be doing this.
That year I enrolled in a class called Independent Studies. It was only available to seniors who had gone through the Challenge curriculum at our school. Challenge is basically a class for students that teachers see are gifted and instead of putting them in regular or AP English classes, they put them in these classes to explore their creativity. My challenge classes consisted of either the highly intellectual student or one of those really strange kids that draw ligers on their trapper keepers and fluently learn the language of the elves. I was put into the program in second grade, before I cared about popularity and the negative impact being smart would have on my reputation. By the time I was in High School, I enjoyed the class because we could draw pictures for our final exams instead of taking multiple-choice tests, but I didn’t feel like I fit in with the rest of the class. And to my shame today, I didn’t take the time to know many of the other students.
The goal of the Independent Studies class was to have the students work on a project for the entire year, setting goals along the way, keeping a portfolio, and preparing a presentation at the end of the year. The idea was to reach for some high achievement, put a lot of work into it and see that big things can happen when you work hard for it. I wanted to take it because there was no class to attend. I only had to check in with the teacher once a week to update her on what I was doing and turn in my time sheets. Also, it gave me an excuse to try for something that I’ve always wanted to do…fly an airplane. Being eighteen, I had no idea what I was getting into. I had been to driver’s ed, but I knew this would be different.
In hindsight, the idea went over amazingly well with my parents. My dad got his pilot’s license in the 70’s and we were kindred spirits’, so I took it for granted that he would want me to have the same experience. He took me to the flight school and enrolled me in the training program. I had to sit in Ground School every night for a few weeks. No big deal, I was missing High School for this. The flight training was what I really loved, though.
I would go to school until noon then head out to the airport. My flight instructor’s name was Troy. Troy was just out of college and had been a pitcher for his college baseball team…not a bad looking young man for a girl to take flying lessons from. The very first lesson Troy walked me through the pre-flight checklist. We went over the entire outside of the plane then got in our seats. Before I started the engine he told me to yell out the window, “Clear Prop!” to inform any passersby that the propeller was about to start spinning. I looked around the empty area and gave him that look most teenaged girls have that says, “You expect me to do what?” “There’s obviously no one there to warn.” I informed him. “I know, it doesn’t matter, you have to say it…and say it loud.” I tried to alleviate every bit of embarrassment that was seeping up in me about yelling something out the window to absolutely no one. I slowly opened the window, sucked in air and yelled out “Clear Plop!” “That’ll do.” Troy said smiling as my face turned beet red… half with embarrassment and half with anger that he made me do that.
Troy would sit in the co-pilot’s seat while I worked on maneuvers and stalls, takeoffs and landings…brave man. I remember the first time I landed the plane on my own, it wasn’t until the plane was on the ground that Troy turned to me and said…”That was all you…I didn’t touch a thing.” A great and scary moment. Then was the day he informed me that I was ready for my solo. I wasn’t too afraid, I had been doing touch and go’s on my own for a while now and I was confident I didn’t need Troy there anymore. But when he got out of the plane and shut the door behind him, I felt more alone than I ever remember feeling before. It was just me and a humming two-seater Cessna…757WP.
“McKinney tower, 757 Whiskey Pop, request taxi to runway 3-6.” I said into my headset.
“757 Whiskey Pop free to taxi to runway 3-6.”
I had my clearance. All I had to do was chug along to the runway like I had done so many times before. My head was a fog as I pulled onto the taxiway. Who do I think I am trying to do this on my own? I felt like was ten years old, wearing a giant headset, barely able to see over the dash. My childhood was flashing before my eyes. Then my thoughts were interrupted…
“7 Whiskey Pop, that’s runway 3-6 not 1-8”
Turns out I was heading for the opposite end of the runway. I can imagine those men in that tower laughing as they watched the little plane turn completely around and head for the opposite end of the runway… the way masculine men do when they don’t think girls should be doing the things they do. And who knows what poor Troy was thinking. In some way, I guess it was what I needed to give me the gumption to prove them wrong. I took off…soaring through the sky on my own. It was just me, 757WP and two thousand feet of air. I landed the plane just fine as Troy came bounding out of the tower to congratulate me.
I went on to get my Private License that summer. I flew solo to Oklahoma once, jumping out of the plane at a sleepy little airport where three old men sat with jaws dropped as I asked them to gas her up. I don’t fly anymore, except for the occasional flight with my dad. Its turned into an expensive hobby and nothing more. Maybe one day it will fit into my life again in some way that Providence designed from the beginning. I sure hope so. Until then, I will cherish the hours I spent in the clouds.
