A crisp blue, cloudless sky greeted my arousal from a deep slumber the morning of November 15, 1984.  A usual Thursday morning ritual followed; get up, get dressed, get out to work.  This day however, was slightly different, for included in my usual backpack for a day in the life of Manhattan, among the usual brown bag lunch, the shoes which would replace my cement-friendly sneakers, and a handy paperback for the grueling subway ride to Manhattan, was my flight gear. 

Carefully placing each item in my bag, I mentally recited purposes for their use: fuel strainer -- check color, odor, texture, and insure there is no debris or water present; checklist -- my insurance for forgetfulness; earplugs -- we wouldn't want to go deaf now, would we?; logbook -- several minutes it takes to once again read the pages that profess that, although under supervision of a qualified flight instructor, I have piloted an aircraft and performed maneuvers committing that craft to me; student pilot certificate -- I am legal; and of course, all my flight handbooks, which will probably take the place of the paperback novel while I ride into the city.

Yes, today, this afternoon, I have a flight lesson.  The weather does not seem to be foreboding today, and I quickly don my corporate apparel lest it changes its mind.  Red wool suit and white silk blouse should do fine to satisfy the dress code.

My supervisor understands my distraction and impatience when I tell him to "take his own damn memo!" as it is only an hour until I leave for the airport.  But I rarely had the opportunity to fly and afford it on a perfect VFR day, and I wasn't going to let job security get in the way of realizing the dream I held for so long.  I have a scheduled dual flight this afternoon, and I am not going to miss it!  Finally, after the last tedious request was duly responded to by my last courteous gesture, I wave adieu to my land locked coworkers and take off for the wild blue yonder.

Ah, the wonderful streets of Manhattan: smell those fumes, soak in that hindrance of spirit -- but that is not for me.  I seek the sky, high above; higher than intolerance and greed and infidelity and insecurity, high up off the ground.  I rush to the Port Authority of the City of New York. 

Ironic that I must first suffer to experience wonder. 

I ponder the poor souls in need of a handout; I want to take them flying with me.  But I am going flying.  Get away from me!  I must get out of the city; get out!

I buy my bus ticket.

Once on the familiar bus, I now break out my magic books and study during the thirty minute bus ride.  I study my notes on take-offs, landings, stalls, emergencies, maneuvers, and precautions.  I pore over the Pilot's Operating Handbook, hoping a fellow rider would see what I was reading and maybe ask me a question on the Piper Tomahawk which I will soon be gently lifting into the sky.  Then I dream.  I dream of a day that can command that ship to take me places I have yet to seek and conquer.  I am ready to fly.

At my assigned stop I alight my diesel chariot and further continue my journey to Essex County (Caldwell) Airport.  This walk takes approximately 30 minutes in the summer, but due to the decreasing temperature of a New York/New Jersey winter, I make it to the airport in record time; and in plenty of time for my preflight briefing with my instructor.

My instructor, confident, yet unassuming and calm, young and quick to match my wit, informed me that we would be practicing take offs and landings (touch and go's) this bright November afternoon.  After a discussion in the office, we ventured out so he could supervise my preflight inspection of my lovely Piper Tomahawk, named 9218 Tango.

All seemed airworthy, so we climbed aboard and began our adventure.

Hitching up my skirt a bit, I adjusted my seat and soon became familiarly comfortable in the tiny cockpit.  I was a little nervous because my landings had been less than perfect... well, (why lie?) not so good, in the past, and I was afraid I would hear from him that I would need much more time than I could afford before I became proficient enough to take that baby up for myself.  But as I composed myself, I prepared mentally for the flight.  I assured myself that I would fly the best that I could.

Bolstering every ounce of confidence I could muster, I started the engine.  Starting the engine in November in New Jersey is not an easy task.  I tried again.  When my little Tomahawk finally purred, then growled into life, I felt my spirits lift. 

My spirits, I believe, aided in lifting that little craft off the runway as my hands were frozen on the controls.  Gradually, I relaxed and enjoyed the ride!  I'm in the sky!  I'm off the Earth!  I'm in the sky!

As the moment's elation waned to the task at hand, responsibility took over, and I became pilot in command once again and guided my craft through its intended maze.  Subtle insecurities took hold, but my faithful instructor guided me through them until without my knowledge, I had performed enough successful takeoffs and landings without his assistance, and I heard those unbelievable words on base leg, "Can I give my prettiest student a kiss before she solos?"

I protested.  Not to the kiss of confidence which he wished to place upon my cheek, but to the task that he had entrusted upon me.  So many questions were going through my mind when I should have been thinking about my desired airspeed and flap configuration!  SOLO!  ARE YOU CRAZY!

As of matter of fact, I believe I verbalized that thought, to which he replied, "Just make it a good landing."

I landed.  He got out and signed my log book and student pilot certificate. He then sent me on my way.  (of course, he informed ATC that I was "first solo," and as such should be "taken care of").  His last words to me before my adventure were, "Be careful, but I know you will." 

I wish he would have said, "Have fun!" or "Enjoy!" or anything else!  So, I guess this wasn't supposed to be pleasurable..... but, oh, the wonder, the mystery, the ecstasy, the glamour, and of course the inevitable photographers on the other side of the Atlantic……………fueled my determination.

I suppose that he didn't wish me enjoyment for he knew I would have too much on my own.

I was scared, for the record.  All I could think to myself as I taxied to the runway was, "This is insane."  I kept telling myself that I am not going to actually be by myself when this aeroplane leaves the ground.

I did forget momentarily to contact Ground Control before I started to taxi to the active runway.  Fortunately, they were aware of my predicament and absolved me of all violations.  When I finally spoke to them (precisely the moment I was able to verbalize any thought), I requested to be cleared to taxi to the active for my first solo.

"Caldwell Ground, Tomahawk 9218Tango, taxi to the active with information Tango, student pilot, first solo."

The words rang inside me, inciting every avian instinct that I possessed.  I wanted nothing more, yet I feared nothing else.

"9218 Tango cleared to runway 22, hold short of 22" came a soothing yet authoritative voice over the radio.  He is not even mad that I started taxiing without permission.  This was  good sign.  He is friendly and understanding.

"9218 Tango taxi to 22, hold short," I replied in the most confident manner in which I could persuade myself to convey.

Several aircraft needed the runway to land before I took off on my solo journey.  In anticipation, and as a learning experience, I observed those incoming flights.  Such perfection, I thought, could never be imitated, and by so witnessing these events in my vulnerable state, I was not happily sent off when the controller finally said, "9218 Tango cleared for take off."

I found my voice and replied, "9218 Tango cleared for take off."  Never have I realized what that meant.  It does not mean that the air traffic controllers are at your service; it does not mean that the airspace is yours.

I found out that it means that you can attain what dream may be yours; that you can do what you have been challenged to do; that you can achieve that which you desire to accomplish; that life is fun.

Truly, the sky is the limit.

 So, here I find myself on the afternoon of November 15 1984, taxiing to Runway 22.  After being cleared to the active runway and performing a self-assuring run up (set brakes, fuel mixture full rich, check magnetos @ 2000 rpm, left and right, 175 max drop, not more than 50 rpm between the two, check fuel pressure and temp gauges in the green, circuit breakers set and alternators and carb heat on, then bring throttle to idle and check that it doesn’t go below 500 rpm, then set to 900 for taxi), I proceeded through the checklist.

Still not believing I am going to fly this thing by myself, I taxied to the threshold and went through the motions of the rest of the Before Takeoff checklist.

Flight controls free and correct, flaps set 25 degrees, trim set, radios set, altimeter set to elevation, check navigation  instruments once again.   Mixture rich, fuel pump on.  Don’t forget the seat belt!   (remind me to tell you one time I forgot that as a flight instructor and had to open the friggin door over the atlantic ocean to get it back inside, but I digress…………ooops).

Lock door, call tower.

Performed my final BLTT check (boost pump, lights, transponder and time) also adjust heading indicator, attitude indicator and set ailerons into the wind after positioning  myself on the threshold.

“Cleared for takeoff”

“Who me??????????????”  no way!!! Ack    but yes it was so, and since there were about five planes lined up behind me, I couldn’t turn back if I wanted to anyway.  

Lined up with the centerline, I felt so tiny looking at those big numbers.  Weird that I never felt that way before when my instructor was on board.

Well its now or never, so before I realized my brain told my hand to push the throttle forward, I was accelerating down the runway!  

Look for that magic number, 60 kts………… then slow back pressure on the yoke.  Believe me the airplane wants to jump in the sky before it can, so a little forward pressure right after liftoff is sometimes necessary.   Once you feel the lift take charge, acceleration quickens and flaps are no longer needed, so they are slowly retracted allowing the plane to adjust to each attitude change, and the speed builds up.  Shut off electric fuel pump, check gauges and make sure fuel caps on the wings aren’t leaking (always good to check that!)   Keep the glare shield about an inch above the horizon for climb.

Ok now I’m like whoooooooooooooo  omg ack and “am I dreaming” all at once.

So I’m ready to turn crosswind to get into the landing pattern.  Gentle 45 degree right climbing bank and throttling down to cruise once leveling off at 1,000 feet, lean mixture, take a look down………..

Looking down I’m like, whoa, this is really cool!

Next turn is downwind, parallel and opposite direction of landing.  Correct distance should be where the fuel tank caps look like they are right over the runway.  Then call the tower for clearance.

Now, I always heard that first solo’s always do 3 touch and go’s (take off and landings), so I requested a touch and go and got my clearance.

So, I get my clearance and set up for landing.  Mixture rich, fuel pump on, flaps set.  Check airspeed and attitude.  Everything seems to be going well, and I’m finally over the numbers, touching down.  Next thing I pull flaps up, throttle back up and prepare for the next take off.   Checking wind sock, I start to ascend again.

Lo and behold, my instructor is on the side of the runway with his hands over his eyes yelling something!

Not a very good sign in my book as I am approaching 100 feet agl!

So whatcha gonna do?

I get configured, climb to altitude while turning crosswind, then enter downwind and then get to the radio to call the tower.

Before I could, the tower called me.    They advised me that “my instructor wanted me to make it a full stop this time.”

To myself, I’m like, what?  What the hell is wrong?  Do I have a wing friggin falling off or what?

So I was like, Oh ok, request full stop, a little disappointed.   Distracted by this dilemma, I turned a tad too soon, and then saw a plane coming from the other direction on base leg intending to turn to final on my runway.

Now you know, there can only be one diva on the runway (or is it catwalk?) at a time…………

So,  since they were closer and I had to wait,  I performed some S turn maneuvers to kill  time and  provide much needed distance while descending.  Not to mention it was damn fun to do that maneuver and looks pretty cool too!

I seriously can’t remember that landing cuz I was looking out to see my instructor on the side.  For the record, I know I didn’t skid or bounce or anything.

I pulled the plane off the taxiway and jumped out and screamed, “What the hell what that all about!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

He’s like, what?  I’m like, covering your eyes and scaring the hell out of me when I took off again!

Sheepishly, he said, I was just worried about you and didn’t think you were gonna take off again.

I told him, “Well it woulda been NICE TO KNOW!”

Then he said, “Nice S turns” and all I could do was shake my head and laugh!

Took me almost 30 hours of training over four years to do it because of the intermittent training  (most students who can fly a few times a week can do it in 10 hours), but I guess it just goes to prove that you should never give up on a dream, no matter how long it takes.

Blue skies and tailwinds : )