The Long Island Railroad Islip line carried me through the steaming August heat, leading me towards a fateful encounter with Long Island MacArthur Airport and the nerve-wracking yet thrilling day of my first solo flight as a fledgling pilot.
I received my flight training at a renowned flying school dedicated to nurturing future airline pilots. The instructors, mostly in their early to mid-20s, sported cheap ties and mismatched shirts while accepting meager pay in exchange for building up their flying hours. After enduring 10 hours of stalls, turns, and the occasional jarring landing, I hoped with all my heart that I was adequately prepared.
That evening, I was flying with an instructor whose attitude had, on more than one occasion, irked me. Flight instruction is a peculiar mix of long stretches of monotony interspersed with brief, heart-stopping moments of terror. Tonight, my companion in the right seat seemed listless and bored. We made three circuits around the traffic pattern, and he watched in indifferent silence. My state of mind, however, was evolving. The realization that the three landings I had executed were satisfactory dawned on me, and I was about to take flight with the least experienced pilot I would ever fly with – myself.
The instructor broke the silence.
“Okay. Turn off here.”
In the fading daylight, I taxied the aircraft to a spot in front of the control tower. My instructor had made the decision to set me loose in the dusky skies of Long Island.
“All right! Are you ready?” Despite my valiant efforts, my enthusiastic “you bet!” failed miserably to convey the expected level of courage. “Okay, keep it in the pattern and watch your airspeed. If you have any trouble, I’ll be in the tower, and you can reach me on their frequency. Okay?” “Uh. Sure?!”
He slammed the door shut, leaving me alone with the rumbling engine and the whirling propeller. A breathtaking red sunset greeted me as I focused intently on the impending flight. It was getting late, and the tower instructed me to taxi to the runup area. Only a fool or a liar would claim not to be nervous on their first solo flight, and I am neither. My nerves were on edge, and I felt tiny trickles of perspiration streaming down my face and onto my shirt. My hands, cramped with tension, pressed against the instrument panel for some relief.
I told myself, “Just relax, just relax. But hold on.” Then, in a sudden panic, I realized I had no clue where the light switches were! How on earth would I be able to see the instruments if darkness fell?
Before I could even begin to answer this terrifying question, a voice crackled in the cockpit: “Four-Niner Juliet, cleared for take-off.” My voice quivered as I announced, “Four-Niner Juliet is rolling.” I taxied the Cessna onto the expansive runway.
I advanced the throttle, and the airspeed indicator sprang to life, climbing steadily towards the crucial 65 mark. I gently pulled back on the control wheel, and the nose of the plane lifted gracefully before me. Then, the vibration of the wheels ceased. The lights of Long Island twinkled like a carpet of stars as the sun bid its final farewell for the day.
“Okay,” I reassured myself, “everything looks good.” But my nerves were as taut as piano wires. After making two right turns, I informed the tower that I was on the downwind leg for Runway 24. An experienced and composed voice calmly informed me that I was cleared to perform a touch-and-go as soon as I was ready.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” I thought. A touch-and-go is a landing without coming to a complete stop and taking off again while still in motion.
By then, dusk had gradually stolen away the remaining daylight and showed no mercy for this novice pilot who had no idea where the lights of his aircraft were located.
It was blatantly obvious to me, now a seasoned trial lawyer who has witnessed countless horrors of poor judgment, that it was high time to contact the tower and ask the instructor for guidance on what to do next. I radioed the tower, and the verdict came promptly.
“Four-Niner Juliet, do a touch-and-go.”
Still able to discern the all-important airspeed indicator, I obediently followed the instruction. As I throttled back, my thoughts were consumed with the sole objective of landing the aircraft safely in one piece. Descending towards the darkening landscape of Long Island, I meticulously executed the necessary right turns, and the runway loomed larger and wider before me. I muttered to myself. “Airspeed 65, good. Keep it there.” I depressed the flap switch, and with an electrical whine, the flaps extended, compelling me to push forward on the yoke to maintain the desired airspeed.
The runway revealed its full width before me, and I eased back on the yoke. The plane decelerated as the nose of the aircraft rose. I gritted my teeth as I waited for the touchdown that felt like an eternity in the making. A thump, a small bounce, the wheels squealed, and I had successfully executed my first landing. But there was no time for self-congratulation.
The plane was still hurtling down the runway, and there were numerous tasks to attend to. Get a move on. Raise the flaps. Close the carb heat, retrim – let’s go. I advanced the throttle and took off once again into a nearly pitch-black sky. A faint red slash of light in the west provided only a dim view of the instruments as I began to question how long I would adhere to the instructor’s directives before I rebelled. I called the second downwind leg, and the tower’s lackluster response informed me that the instructor, oblivious to my predicament, desired another touch-and-go. Despite the instruments being barely visible in the encroaching darkness, I chose not to protest.
Somehow, that second landing was a flawless operation; the wheels squeaked and rolled smoothly. But I had no time to savor the moment. I busied myself raising the flaps and advancing the throttle for the third and unquestionably final landing of the evening. The barely distinguishable instruments seemed to be vanishing into the darkness. Flying the plane mostly by instinct, I maneuvered through the pattern and turned onto the final approach with a hand on the microphone, ready to inform the tower that I had reached my limit. Just as I raised the mike to my lips, I was interrupted.
“Four-Niner Juliet!” The voice, suddenly urgent and animated, shouted, “Four-Niner Juliet, perform an immediate go around! Runway 24 is no longer clear for landing; there is an aircraft on 24!” It was an undeniable and terrifying truth. The lights of an unauthorized airplane on the runway glared at me through the windshield. I opened the throttle to full power as I buzzed over the field and bid farewell to the final opportunity of landing with any remaining traces of daylight.
At that precise moment, I could only strain my eyes at the instrument panel, but it was all in vain. I leaned as far forward over the control wheel as physically possible, inching closer to the instruments. Still, nothing. “All right,” I asked myself, “now what on earth are you going to do?”
The internal debate ended before it could truly commence – on one hand, there was the prospect of embarrassment; on the other, there was the specter of death. I chose embarrassment. “Islip tower, uh, this is Four-Niner Juliet, uh. Could you please ask my instructor where the interior light and landing light switches are?” A burst of laughter erupted over my headset. I failed to see the humor. The controller, struggling to contain his amusement, informed me that the elusive and precious switches were situated somewhere in the middle at the bottom of the instrument panel.
In total darkness, I embarked on my desperate search. My hands fumbled blindly in the murky cockpit. Nothing. I looked up and searched again, more vigorously but careful not to trigger anything that might land me in even deeper trouble. Once again, the location of the switches remained a mystery, and I gazed outside at Long Island’s sea of lights, which revealed the harsh reality.
I had lost sight of the airport. Below me passed a dazzling display of streetlights, automobiles, and neon, but no runways. All my instincts told me the field was to the right, so I took a deep breath, mustered the courage for a right turn, and after three heart-stopping moments, they appeared – a series of blue taxiway lights. I was halfway there.
The controller, doing his best to suppress his amusement, announced that the next landing would be the final one for Four-Niner Juliet for the evening. He informed me that I was cleared to attempt my third landing ever, in the darkness without the aid of instruments or landing lights. My heart pounding like a drum, I turned towards the runway.
The white lights marked the runway’s position and enabled me to align the aircraft. Everything else was concealed in darkness. Watch the airspeed! How could I? I had no way of knowing whether I was 50 feet or 10 feet above the ground as I began to gently pull back on the wheel. I learned the hard way. The plane and I were a little too slow and a little too high. Gravity greeted us with a forceful slam and a screech of rubber. Transforming me from a novice pilot to a rodeo cowboy, the airplane lunged forward, causing my head to snap back, followed by another tire-screeching jolt and another and another. Then, as we rolled down the runway, I heard some distant heavy breathing that I couldn’t identify until I realized it was my own. A somewhat embarrassed instructor offered his congratulations.
Later, in a peaceful spot where I could reflect on the events amidst the August humidity while enjoying the coolness of a bottle of beer, I drew some conclusions that would shape the rest of my flying career. I understood that to survive in the skies, I had to be intimately familiar with every system of the aircraft and their operations. And there would be one, and only one, ultimate judge of my actions when I was alone up there: myself.
