Solo

Most people found checklists monotonous. Not Lynn. As a high masking autistic woman, Lynn found comfort in step-by-step procedures. They ran her life. When she left home, she stood at the door. Phone. Purse. Cup of tea. Sunglasses.

At work she walked into the office. Lunch in fridge. Clock in. Spray out kennels. Rotate dogs in the exercise yards. Scrub. That’s what the day looked like at the boarding facility she worked for.

“Niner Zulu Papa, runway eight, line up and wait.”

“Runway eight, line up and wait. Niner Zulu Papa.” Release breaks. Increase power. Line up with the runway, pull power back, apply breaks. Wait.

Work dynamics had been changing. Lynn was a high performer with social anxiety, though she was working very hard to develop her people skills. Even so, she couldn’t outperform the manager’s sudden disklike for her.

It came subtly. The lack of acknowledgement for her dedication to her work. Rewarding others for smaller tasks. Micromanaging her to the point where she felt stressed. Lynn wanted to prove she was capable. That she could do things well, that she could perfect what wasn’t yet perfect. But sometimes people don’t care if you’re good at something. They care whether or not you fit into the boxes they put you in.

Lynn didn’t really understand this. What she knew was that her checklists helped. Just follow the to-do list, and she could survive.

“Niner Zulu Papa, runway eight, clear for takeoff.”

“Runway eight, clear for takeoff, Niner Zulu Papa.” This was it. There was no turning back. Lynn took a breath. She had done this countless times. Release the breaks. Smoothly push the throttle. Apply full power.

The engine roared, the propeller gaining speed and the aircraft, 739ZP, accelerated. Lynn gritted her teeth, forcing deep, shaking breaths. Yes, she’d done this countless times. But this was her first time flying solo.

No instructor sat beside her. No one to take over in an emergency. No one to tell her if she made a mistake. No one to save the plane if she did something wrong. Her grip on the controls tightened, her knuckles turning white.

55 knots meant airspeed was alive, enough air flowing over the wings for lift to override gravity. Lynn pulled back lightly on the controls. Tires lifted from the pavement. She turned her attention beyond the windshield. Still on centerline.

A quick glimpse down at the instruments and the turn coordinator suggested she needed more right rudder (of course) so she pressed the ball of her foot against the respective pedal, orienting the plane to fly straight instead of yawing.

Airspeed built to 65 knots. Time to leave ground effect. She pulled back a little more, the sensation of gravity tugging down as she peeled away from the ground.

Release back pressure. Build speed to 75 knots. Add elevator trim, stabilized the climb.

Everything felt so familiar and she moved through each step, cross-referencing the outside horizon with her instruments. Flying under visual flight rules meant seventy percent of the time should be spent looking outside the aircraft.

739ZP wasn’t fancy. It had the traditional six pack of instruments verses the newer glass cockpits that could display all the information on one screen. She liked the traditional six pack more. They were familiar, like old friends handing her all the extra information she thrived on.

“Front Range Tower, November One Seven Two Seven Victor, seven miles east of the airport, requesting full stop with information Delta,” a new voice came over the intercom. Another pilot was joining her in the pattern.

“November One Seven Two Seven Victor, notify us once you’ve crossed the interstate and prepare to enter downwind right pattern for runway eight.”

“Notify over interstate, right pattern to runway eight, November One Seven Two Seven Victor.”

As Lynn reached pattern altitude, 1,000 feet above the airport ground level, the terror that had nearly held her to the ground vanished, falling behind as the aircraft climbed. Exhilaration filled its place. she peered out her window. Open fields of farmland stretched below, forever away. She found herself beaming. She was flying a plane. She was flying a plane. Alone in the cabin, she was flying a plane.

“Front Range Tower, over interstate, November One Seven Two Seven Victor.”

“November One Seven Two Seven Victor, enter downwind for runway eight, clear to land.”

“Runway eight, cleared to land, November One Seven Two Seven Victor.”

“Niner Zulu Papa, make right traffic.”

Lynn perked up at her aircraft’s callsign. “Right traffic, Niner Zulu Papa.”

“Niner Zulu Papa, traffic inbound two miles ahead. Notify when you have them in sight.”

“Searching for traffic, Niner Zulu Papa.” Lynn scanned the blue sky ahead of her. She glanced down at her ADSB, the system that would show her precisely where other aircraft were. There, off to her right. She looked back out the window. Sunlight glinted off a piece of metal in the sky.

“Traffic in sight, Niner Zulu Papa.”

“Niner Zulu Papa, follow traffic, number two for runway eight, cleared the option.”

“Number two for runaway eight, following traffic, cleared for the option, runway eight.”

She cringed at her call. Her instructor would be on the ground shaking his head.

A recent mistake she’d made at work rushed into her head, her dam of fortitude against it shattering. Something reached inside, squeezing her heart. This sensation haunted her whenever she thought about screwing up.

She turned her attention to the prelanding checklist. She didn’t have time to dwell on past mistakes. 739ZP was being pushed by the wind and needed a crosswind correction. A touch of aileron. Coordinate with rudder.

And of course, the prelanding checklist needed to be done.

Traffic ahead was abeam to the runway numbers. They would be off the runway long before she touched down. Time for her to turn to the downwind leg.

Landing was the most dynamic part of flying, which also made it the most complicated. As the popular saying went, taking off was optional but landing was mandatory. When 739ZP paralleled the numbers, she pulled power back to 1700rmp. The engine quieted just a little bit as she set up for landing configuration. Flaps to ten degrees. Nose down to compensate the change in lift.

Airspeed and altitude would tell her if her approach was stable.

During landing, pilots used reverse order of commands. If she was too slow, she could trade altitude for airspeed. If she needed to gain or lose altitude, she needed to adjust power. It wasn’t intuitive at first, as most people wanted to pull up when they were low and add power if they needed speed.

Lynn was a smidge high when she turned final. She considered declaring a go around, aborting the landing. She wanted everything to be perfect.

But no. She could save this. If she wanted to chase perfection, she might end up flying around in circles until she ran out of fuel.

She pulled back power slightly and added her last degree of flaps. The sink rate increased. The papi lights, which should have two whites and two reds for perfect glide slope, all turned to red. Now she was low.

She shoved power back in. The engine roared and the plane started to lift. Red lights turned back to white, and she cut some of the power back out.

There. Two red lights. Two white. She was on glide slope.

Her jaw clenched, her right hand over the throttle, her left gripping the controls, she let 739ZP come down as it crossed over the runway threshold. Power to idle. Airspeed 65 knots. Look down the runway. 739ZP hit ground affect, causing it to float as the proximity of the ground changed its flight characteristics. Her eyes flashed between the runway and her slowing airspeed.

Carefully, smoothly, she pulled back on the controls, the nose of the plane tilting up so the main gear would touch first. Her heart flew when, a foot away from the pavement, the stall warning horn screamed through her headset.

Any other time that was bad. But not right here. She had bled off the airspeed until the plane had nothing left. The main gear found the pavement as smooth as soft butter being spread over bread. Lynn continued to hold backpressure, until the front tire was forced to come down, kissing the runway.

She had done it.

Her hand moved automatically, pulling the flaps up and shoving the carb heat in. “Niner Zulu Papa, touch and go,” she announced on coms. Requesting the option had allowed her to either perfom a touch and go or a full stop landing. Lynn had feared one time around the pattern would do her nerves in. But it hadn’t. It had the opposite effect. She craved more. She smoothly pushed in the throttle. The engine revved, and 739ZP picked up speed.

“Niner Zulu Papa, make right traffic. And congratulations on your first solo landing.”

“Right traffic, Niner Zulu Papa. And thank you,” she replied.

Gauges were in the green. At 55 knots, airspeed was alive. Lynn pulled back on the throttle, her heart soaring as the plane took off. She had done it. She was flying.