Seaplane Seduction

On the way home.  Same plane - different pilot.
I've forgiven him but don't tell my mother.

On a cold December evening when I was eight months old, I was dropped out of a float plane by the pilot, narrowly escaping the icy cold Queen Charlotte Island winter water by about an inch and a short second.  My father caught me.  My mother said the pilot threw me out of the plane as if I had been one of the bags.  And so began my love affair with seaplanes.

I have hundreds of photos.  Read all the books.  Stalk Pat Bay Air’s website.  Read the syllabus more times than I would like to admit.  Even though in recent years there has been a bunch of not-so-hot press, an inquiry and a ton of sass, it’s still my dream to fly floats.  You cannot be a pilot living next to the sea and not know how to fly a seaplane can you?

Float planes are magnificent to watch from any perspective.  When I am flying 1000 or 2000 feet above them they look like speed boats racing against the blue-grey sea.

When on Salt Spring Island I stay in the same room at the Harbour House Hotel because I know Salt Spring Air is going to fly directly over my room.  I’m the girl that will mow down old ladies for the cockpit seat on a Harbour Air flight.  I had a pilot friend once say to me that he and I could never travel on the same harbour-to-harbour flight because it would be a fight for the right seat.  Here’s a newsflash – I used to box competitively AND I wear high heels every single day.  You try and fight me for that seat and when you get my shoe out of your temple we’ll talk about who is sitting next to the pilot.

When I was younger my girlfriends used to talk about their first dates and I would always say: “Was there a float plane involved?”  Nobody got it.

Now my cougar girlfriends talk about their “dates” and there is always the inevitable “… and you’ll never guess where we went…”  My response is always the same: “I don’t know.  Was there a float plane involved?”  I don’t know why they don’t talk to me about that stuff anymore.

According to the CFS (Canadian Flight Supplement) our harbour is an airport, which means I live on the edge of a runway.  Depending on what direction the wind is blowing, short final is my backyard.  Literally my backyard.  Whether I am on the walkway, in my car, my sun room or Starbucks, every time I see a float plane I look up, point and say to no one: “There’s our guy.”  What I love about being me is that people say it to me now:  “Hey, here comes our guy.”  Could be six planes in a row – they are all “our guy” and they are all for me.

These pilots fly in the craziest weather.

A couple of years ago during a windstorm the winds were gusting 41-48 kts (up to 90 km/hr).  I was shocked to see West Coast Air still flying, and being a bit of a freak, I took my children down to rocks on the shore so we could watch the planes in that wind.  I spotted this rock star turning base and the drift was incredible.  I have never seen a plane pushed like that before – on final it appeared as if the plane was suspended motionless.

I held my breath watching the attempted landing and with the eventual overshoot I let out a huge sigh of relief but couldn’t help but think: “What are they going to do?”  I ran through all of the other possibilities in my mind but watched incredulously as they came around again.  My daughter chanted: “You can do it.  You can do it”, as she held tightly to my leg so she wouldn’t blow away.  One phenomenal landing later and it was like our team had just won the Superbowl!

Another time I was walking on the walkway and was showered by water off the floats as a pilot performed an incredible short run take off directly over me with a steep climb over the condos at the water’s edge.  Again the wind was fierce and I felt as if the only thing keeping them up was the sheer force of my will.  Couldn’t believe my eyes!  I walked away praying to the God of the Float Plane Pilot feeling as if I had just witnessed a miracle.

Even when it’s really nasty out there, these pilots fly with such grace under pressure.  What’s interesting is when you’re sitting in the cockpit next to them; ask any of these cowboys if they love it and they will all tell you how monotonous it is.  Same-flight-a-whole-bunch-of-times-every-day.  And I always answer: “You’re living the dream.  You know that right?”

That’s when they smile and get that twinkle in their eye.

There was a float plane involved.

I knew it!

Crazy Mixed Up Holiday Lessons

Our New Tradition: Lighting the menorah in the fireplace
so we don't burn down the house.

On the third day of Hanukkah my six-year old daughter came home and proclaimed: “I hate Hanukkah!”

I was stunned.  To be quite honest I was a little bit offended and kinda surprised that she was my kid.

She had been learning about different holiday traditions in school.  One of the parents of a classmate was scheduled the next day to come in and tell stories, make latkes and share how their family celebrates Hanukkah.  My daughter was adamant that she was absolutely not going to attend.

What I discovered after a full interrogation was that the reason for her intense hatred of this sacred tradition was because she didn’t want to eat latkes.  Because she hates tomatoes.  That’s right – tomatoes.  After my uncontrollable laughter subsided I explained that latkes are potato pancakes.  That’s right – potatoes.  There were no tomatoes in them at all.  And also, she didn’t have to eat them.  Novel concept – she had the right to choose.  I could see the wheels turning.  Now was the perfect time to teach.

So out came the Jewish Traditions book.  Out came the recipes and music.  Out came the menorah and candles.

As we lit and blessed the candles we talked about the Festival of Light.  We talked about the story in the Talmud and how the Temple was purified and the wicks of the menorah miraculously burned for eight days, even though there was only enough sacred oil for one day's lighting.

We sang Ma’oz Tzur and I was thrilled to relax with my family while the candles burned.  As we reveled in our new tradition the questions began.

“Mom, are you Jewish?”

“No, but I should be.”  That’s another story for another day.  Nobody gets it.

“Mom, does Santa come to all kids?  Even kids who don’t celebrate Christmas?”

“Santa respects all cultures and traditions.”  And they knowingly agreed: “Yah.”

At school my daughter celebrated with her classmate and his parents.  She didn’t eat the latkes but she did play dreidel and was truly thankful for her gelt (chocolate money).  She then announced to her class that our family doesn’t celebrate Christmas and we don’t celebrate Hanukkah either.  We only celebrate the fun stuff!

Last night my son was teaching me that Santa was 800 years old when he chose the night that Baby Jesus would be born.  He had been out in his sleigh and spotted the bright star in the sky that signified the birth of the new born King.  As I listened, I knew I had more teaching to do but I’ve decided to save that for the day I dispel the myth that only married people have babies.

For now we're just going to enjoy the fun stuff!

Merry Christmas from our house to yours!

Successful Book Launch with Xeni Gwet'in First Nation

Red Boot Lady and Maryann Solomon

On November 21, 2012, in the beautiful snow covered Nemiah Valley, author Maryann Solomon, elders and members of the Xeni Gwet'in First Nation and Ramona Reynolds (the Red Boot Lady) celebrated the launch of Xeni Gwet'in Ancestral Laws and Customs (Xeni Gwet'in  ?Esggidam Dechen Ts'edilhtan).  This book was a labour of love for author, Maryann Solomon, who spent many years working with and interviewing elders and community members, scouring court transcripts, and writing this book.  This book was her gift to her elders and her community; and it is her hope that it will benefit all Tsilhqot'in people to still practice their ancestral laws, customs, and rituals.

Councillors Roger William and Lois William,
Chief Marilyn Baptiste, Gilbert Solomon, and Patrick Lulua

Ramona Reynolds was privileged to edit, design and produce the book; and Christie Hall of Midnight Designs designed and produced a beautiful cover in accordance with Maryann's vision.

Our deepest gratitude to everyone at the Xeni Gwet'in First Nation for being such gracious hosts and a special thank you to the Magnificent Solomon Family who saved the day for Ramona.

Sechanalyagh!

Red Boot Lady in Waiting

Red Boot Lady in Waiting... or Training.
I think she might know something I don't.

Meet Sophie.  I met Sophie and her Mom when I was on safari at the mall (remember - I'm not a shopper) looking for the perfect pair of red boots.  I was thrilled when they both kindly agreed to indulge me so I could take a photo of Little Miss Red Boots for my blog.

It was an absolute joy to listen to Sophie sing the praises of her lovely little red boots in her equally lovely British accent while her mother and I tried on the same boots - hers in black, mine in red.

You know what I love about little girls?  They know who they are.  I have vivid memories of being Sophie's age and knowing exactly who I was.  Ask anyone who knew me then - I was the Red Boot Lady before the Red Boot Lady had a name.

I could go on forever about all the things I did when I was little that are markers of how my core personality was always there.  About all of the office supplies I spent my allowance on.  But what I remember most about when I was Sophie's age is that I wanted to be Samantha from Bewitched.  She had everything I could see in my future: a great hairdo, magic, a husband named Darrin, and she could fly.  Samantha had unique presence.  Fast forward my life you know what I got: a great hairdo; and I was married to a man named Darren who my family called Derwood.  Also, I can be a witch from time to time.

Yesterday a friend of mine asked me if he had "unique presence"?  The answer was a resounding "Yes!"  You can imagine the discussion that followed.  I can see he is in that place where he would like to acknowledge his greatness but is still deciding whether or not it's okay to do that.  Just so you know - it is.

Over the years we mentally turn our assets into liabilities based on what other people may have said - or what we think they are saying.  Our independence and creativity is called defiance.  Our voices are too loud, we're too active, too weird, too fat, and too stupid.  Not good enough.  Some of us spend a great deal of energy trying to be thoughtful and quiet; trying to focus on living the way we are "supposed to".  We listen so others feel heard; perhaps making ourselves invisible or untouchable so we can navigate "their" world without realizing that it is, in fact, our own.

My friend is looking back to when he was small and remembering the gifts he already had that were set aside or forgotten so that he could survive in the world he lived in.

I am lucky enough to have people around me who believe in me no matter how crazy I am on any given day.  What I have learned from them is that it's okay to acknowledge our own greatness, and it's also very powerful to acknowledge the greatness in others.  I believe that when we remember that we all have unique presence - when we finally know it and own it - then everything changes.  Everything!

Wouldn't you know it?  My life is filled with magic and I can, indeed, fly!

Will Sophie learn to fly?  Will she own her own business, write books, have children, and dance in her kitchen?  Or will she twinkle her nose and pop off to Paris while her husband is at work?  Who knows.  My greatest wish for her - and all the little girls (and boys) in our world - is that she doesn't wait for the plus in the 40+ to remember that she already has what it takes to pull off a fine pair of reds or to find her voice again.  I hope she remembers that she has unique presence, that magic is everywhere, and that everything she will ever need is already tucked inside those little red boots.

Hmmmm... it would be kinda fun wouldn't it?

Flying, Frocks & Feeling Myself Up...

It’s Thanksgiving Weekend in Canada.  I have so much to be thankful for and wish to count my blessings with you.  We’ll get to the flying, frocks and football but let’s pink it up here for a minute.  I wanna start off with a good feel up!

Knowing I was going to write this important blog I asked a few of my guy friends about my boobs.  It went over real big.  “What do you think about my breasts?"

"What?  What do you mean?"

"No, really.  Would you say they're magnificent?”  

Mostly I got shock and awe.  At least one: “Is my wife going to read this?”  After I explained why I was asking I got a unanimous “Okay, sure” from everybody in Starbucks.

When I asked my ex-husband he said: “Is this a trick question?”  I am pretty sure what he meant to say was: “Hell ya!  Super healthy!"

We all know that October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  My mother is a breast cancer survivor.  My grandmother (father’s mother) is a breast cancer survivor.  A number of my aunts and cousins are breast cancer survivors.  The science says that with breast cancer on both sides of my family I’m a shoe in.  Breast cancer can occur at any age, and in both genders, but it is more common in women older than 50.  I have a game plan to stay ahead of the genetics.

I feel myself up at least once a month (if not more).  A breast self-exam involves checking your breasts to help detect breast problems or changes.  There is some controversy about whether or not breast self-exams are helpful or harmful but women should at least be familiar with how their breasts look and feel so they can talk to their doctors about any changes.  And my friends, I know more than one woman whose partner detected a lump while they were making out.  Go ahead girls; let him touch your boobs!  I’m just saying.  This also could be excellent relationship advice.  (Men: If I hear one “Well, the Red Boot Lady said…” there will be Hell to pay.)

For some people this is going to be big time T.M.I. but I have been getting mammograms since I was 37.  Again, some debate about whether or not I am wasting tax dollars on unnecessary medical testing but my genetics say that if anyone should be cashing in on all those taxes I pay then it should be me.

I let my doctor feel me up too.  If my ta-tas aren’t getting squished by a machine then I give my doctor full permission to give me a really good work over.  Nothing beats a good clinical breast exam.  Here’s a link about maintaining breast health: http://www.smpbc.ca/faq/Maintaining+Breast+Health.htm.



CYYJ at sunrise.  Waking up the Tower Gods.

In other news... this morning was the first time that I have flown early in the morning.  It was beautiful and bright.  Blinding actually.  CYYJ was a sleepy airport - just me, Sean and the Big Boys.   By the time we came back in it was all a-buzz as usual.  Of course I walked away with another deeply profound life lesson courtesy of flight training with my instructor, Sean.  That will be another story for another day.

In the meantime, it’s time for family, friends and football!  My beloved BC Lions are playing today and I just can't wait!

I am beginning to think that the best things in life start with the letter “F”.  Certainly all of my favorite things do: Family, Friends, Flying, Football, Frocks, Food and Fun!  Frappacinos.  Fromage.  (I’m gonna figure out bacon and chocolate in a minute).
 


Proof : Yesterday's Friday Frock photo
taken at Ooh La-La Cupcakes.

Happy Thanksgiving!  I am thankful for all of you (and my magnificently healthy rack)!

Go Lions!

What I Learned From My Second-First Solo

“And sometimes I get nervous when I see an open door.”

 Human, The Killers

The past couple of weeks have been intense, interesting, and introspective.  I moved my home and office.  Sometimes even the very best roads can still be a bit bumpy.  Although I knew I was packing to transition my family and business to a new life, after long days of working and parenting, I tired easily and my confidence waned.  I began questioning what I was doing, if I could pull it off.  How was I going to make this work?  Was the timing right?  The “what-ifs” hit me.  It was exactly how I had felt about coming back to complete my flight training after being away for so long.

With moving there’s the packing and unpacking, reintroducing yourself to treasures you had forgotten, and purging those items that no longer fit.

One evening I was caught off-guard and lost my breath when I opened an unlabeled storage bin that contained the wedding dress that I packed away four years earlier when I had last moved.  I ran through everything that goes along with that as I tried it back on.  It still fits.  It’s a classic.  I think I’ll keep it for all my weddings.

In the thick of all the change, on my Wednesday morning pilgrimage to my downtown Starbucks I was witness to a moment in time that felt like a sharp jab in my solar plexus.  It only briefly knocked the wind out of me but I knew I had to break my own heart right then and there to save myself a greater heartache later.

Thursday in the exact same spot I had a similar experience.  I swear I was taking the same stride in the same place.  Since I am all about the signs I believe that The Big Guy is trying to tell me to get a new Starbucks!  I know – pretty deep.  I suspect that from now on every time I grace that step in the path I will hold my breath.

A short time later the hamster died.

“Wave goodbye, wish me well.  You’ve gotta let me go.”

In 2009, I sat down with one of the top Sky-Gods at the Club after a check ride where he advised me that I would be soloing on my next flight.  Then he asked me if I was going to quit after I completed my first solo?  “No.  God, why would you think that?” I asked in disbelief and to be honest, a little bit of paranoia.

“Because a lot of women quit right after they solo – I don’t know why but they do,” he answered.

“No, I won’t do that.”  I waited until I started my cross-countries to walk away.

“Up to the platform of surrender I was brought but I was kind.”

Friday was the final moving day.  Saturday morning I knew if the weather was good and my performance was better I would solo again.  My second-first solo.  Almost three years from my first-first solo in October of 2009.  My confidence was shaky.  There had been so much time in between.  I was completely wrapped up in self-judgment.  Even though that state of mind no longer fits, sometimes I’m a bit of a hoarder.  No one knew what a really big deal it was to me – and I didn’t tell a soul.  From the moment I woke up I had to remind myself to breathe.

I have had these holding-my-breath experiences before.  Given enough life experience I’m sure we can all make a long list.  I have children so that’s called holding your breath for nine months – twice.

I will never forget the big breath in with no release as I watched my infant daughter being wheeled away for open heart surgery on what appeared to be a massive stretcher in comparison to her tiny 10-week old body; or the tight chest and quick breaths every single second from her birth trying to keep her alive so she would have an opportunity to be on that stretcher.

I’ve had some doozies right?  Why couldn’t I breathe on Saturday?

“Let me know, is your heart still beating?”

The plane I was scheduled to fly was late getting back and I had prepared all of my pre-flight work so I waited.  And I waited.  Barely breathing.  Waiting to exhale.

“So, today if everything goes all right, you are going solo!”  Sean smiled through his citrus gum.  I’m not sure if I smiled back.

“Do I get another certificate?” I asked.

“No.  But let’s see if we can switch planes.  We can take Yankee Romeo November.”

Then I did smile.  “I did my first-first solo in Yankee Romeo November!”

Eyebrow raised.  “Well then looks like you got your sign.”  Sean reads my blog.

My first plane-crush YRN still fits.

Used to be that every time I was flying YRN I would walk up, touch the door, and say: “Hello Beautiful.”  I had a soft spot for this little red on white number because I lost my pilot-in-command virginity to it.  When you fly your first solo in a particular plane you never forget it.  Did I mention I also did my Discovery Flight in YRN?  I’m well acquainted with that throttle – that’s all I’m saying.

YRN had been out of commission for quite some time while getting an overhaul.  Now it had become another rediscovered treasure.  My stiff smile softened as I slowly caressed the frame on my walk around.  YRN might need a little bit of body work but inside there’s a brand new engine.  I couldn’t help but notice the new tires and bells and whistles in the cockpit.

When Sean cut me loose and I did a couple of circuits on my own I wasn’t feeling the liberation or sense of achievement I had the first time.  But I also wasn't feeling the terror or the dread.  All I cared about was getting it exactly right: full power, gauges in the green, airspeed’s alive, rotate, ground effect, climb out, turn at 500, level off at 1000, power to cruise, call in the downwind, pre-landing checks, cleared for touch and go, carb heat hot, reduce power, turn base, pitch to maintain airspeed, safe altitude, turn on final, eyes on 1000 foot markers, co-ordinated flight all the way down to the flare, hold it... touch and go and do it all over again.  Don’t forget to breath.

In all of that I remembered that I can fly a plane by myself.  And I was fine.  What I had been waiting for was the big SHAZAM!  Skies open, lights shine-on with a hip soundtrack that would allow me to take a deep breath in and fully exhale.  What I got was the same old me riding with my first plane-crush and I was pretty okay in a not bad sort of way.

“And I’m on my knees looking for the answer.”

Then I met Howard Peng.

Howard had attained his Private Pilot License a few days previous and was at the Club with his partner for his first flight as a real-life private pilot.  We started chatting and I learned that it had taken Howard five years to attain his PPL.  He had wandered away more than once, trained at two different flying schools in two different cities.  He had a number of instructors – some fit, some not so much.  Howard came back to VFC because his girlfriend, Crystal, was taking ground school and he decided to sit in on a class with her as a refresher.  He was at a point where he just wanted to get it done.  Because he had more than enough solo hours he hadn’t flown without an instructor for quite some time.  They had concentrated on preparing him for his flight test.  And he lit up like Las Vegas as he related that even though he was now a licensed pilot, he still felt like today had been his first solo – again.

Congratulations to Howard Peng!
Bright and shiny new PPL.

Howard was exactly the right person to meet at exactly the right time.  He is living proof that one does not have to walk in a straight line to get to a destination on a self-imposed time limit.  He knows about second chances.  He was a sign.

As I said good-bye to Howard and Crystal the moodiness of the past week had shifted and I was all warm butter on toast.  What I learned from my second-first solo, Yankee Romeo November, and Howard Peng is that it’s never too late for a second chance.  Get a new Starbucks, keep flying.  Breathe.

“Close your eyes, clear your heart.  Cut the cord.”

Please Don’t Kick Me Out Of the Club: Finding the Perfect Flying Instructor

“You will not succeed unless you have a good instructor. No person will be more influential and supportive during your training.” Aaron Krieger

The other day I read an excellent blog by Aaron Krieger (http://kriegeraviation1.blogspot.ca) outlining smart tips on how to choose a flight instructor.  In this blog Krieger articulated exactly what I meant to research when I was looking for a new instructor.  I just went about it a little bit differently.

Although I am a devout Aviatrix, it had been over a year since I had taken a lesson.  I know, I know!  I got busy with my business and my kids and my life.  While I was busy being busy, my flying instructor, Dave, got a hot-shot job in the Big City and moved on.  I didn’t know until the day I decided I was ready and I called the Flying Club eager to book the refresher that was going to make everything fall into place.  The Good News, I was told, was that I could absolutely resume my training right away.  The Bad News was that “my guy” was gone.

I’ve written about Dave before.  Flying with Dave was like flying with Cary Grant.  There was something about him, maybe it was his hair.  I suspect it was his poise and confidence in the cockpit (combined with the hair) that reminded me of the legend.  He is a straight arrow – very professional.  He was my first instructor and I held him in incredibly high regard.

When I started my pilot training I was surprised by my level of anxiety.  Dave rode it out in a very understanding, but let’s-get-on-with-it kind of way.  The fear factor threw me.  I always thought I had such a high degree of comfort in an airplane.  I hadn’t realized my level of comfort had been as a passenger who had always had blind faith in the pilot – who was usually my Dad.

With such fond memories of my eight-year-old self bush flying up North in the back seat of my Dad’s Cessna 172, I knew I needed a solid go-to guy I could really trust.  The Head Sky-God at the Club asked me if I wanted to book a flight with an excellent new instructor named Sean.  I said no. 

Then I laid out a couple of My Rules:

• If I end up speaking to him as if he were my kid, he’s probably not the guy for me.
• If he answers the phone at the Flying Club and says: “I dunno man, I’ve only been here a week”, chances are he’s not the guy for me (and also he should not be answering the phone.  Ever. Again.)

I may have been trying to make a point about professionalism but instead I just blurted it all over the unsuspecting ear at the other end of the telephone.

The Head Sky-God scheduled an appointment for me with his Second-In-Command.  I thought I was booking a flight with him but had misunderstood.  Instead we interviewed each other.  After listening to my concerns (read My Rules), he laid out a brilliant plan for getting my wings back on but then advised that he had a very tight schedule with commercial training and was selective in the private pilot students he trains.  Finding a new instructor is a little bit like dating.  I started getting that letting-you-down-easy feeling.  My heart turned cold, eyes narrowed and I said: “I’m not looking for the guy with the most experience.  I am looking for the guy who is OLD.”

What I meant to say was something about maturity and life experience.

I am fairly certain I’m no longer his favorite.  Lucky for me the Second-In-Command recommended another instructor who has a great attitude, track record and a mature outlook.

• If his schedule doesn’t coincide with mine - even though I am the one paying membership fees and for flying lessons (did I say that out loud?) - then he is probably not the guy for me.

Next interview with recommended instructor.  I liked him but after a month and a half of our schedules not working (I admit I cancelled our first flight because both of my children had a yucky virus) I realized he was not The One.  In the meantime I had friends try to fix me up with instructors they thought I would really like but sadly I already knew they weren’t for me.

I finally just said to the dispatcher: “Just book me a flight with anybody who has time that day.  I don’t care who it is.”

• You get that I’m a chick right?  Pretend you like me.  Women do business in a different way than men.  We form relationships and I wasn't connecting.

At a pre-flight-with-The-New-Guy coffee talk, a friend asked me why I was so nervous.  As I anxiously fingered my flashcards, I wanted to tell him how much I wanted to be prepared for The New Guy.  That I wanted to be able to perform for The New Guy, but instead I answered: “You know, I just want to have some fun.”  And I meant it.

Enter The New Guy.  Sean was open and friendly.  A few minutes into our first meeting he said: “When I was reading your PTR, I noticed…” and all I could think was: “He actually read my PTR.”  He had prepared for me too.

We went over his background and my expectations.  We outlined a plan, made sure our schedules worked, and he helped me with an important exercise I had forgotten how to complete.  Then he said it: “Let’s just go out there and have some fun.”  Bing-bing!

That very sentence might just be in the flight instructor handbook but it was all I needed.  I got my sign and we went flying.

It was so good to be back in the left seat.  Seriously, am I the only person whose heart melts at the smell of the cockpit of an old Cessna?  Some people love chocolate chip cookies, I love the cramp I get in my abdominal muscles as I scrunch myself into the seat of a 152.  No sticky notes on the dash but I won’t lie – my flashcards were in plain sight.  It was just like riding a bike, only flying an airplane.

As we continue to fly together I realize Sean is exactly the kind of instructor I had been looking for.  He has just the right amount of life experience.  He’s relatable and has the ability to teach in a way that speaks to me right now.  If I used to wonder about things, now I just ask and he answers.  He is friendly, professional, laughs at all my jokes, and can correct me with ease.  It’s as if he has the inside skinny.  Flying with Sean is like flying with a “regular guy” who knows way more about flying than I do.  The only gigantic ego in that plane is mine.

I look forward to my student-pilot adventures with Sean.  I’m sure my friends and family are praying for him but I can’t help but think: “Mamma’s got her wings back!  It’s so good to be back on the broom!”

The New Guy: Sean
What a good sport!

Is That A 737 In Your Pocket Or...

Have you ever had an experience that was so impressive, so mind-blowing, that you had the same feeling as if you were in love?  Where you just float home and don’t remember how you got there?  That’s how I felt after my very first night flight.  My only memory of driving home from the airport that night is the soulful song that was on the radio when I got in my car.  There was another time I felt that way leaving the airport - the day I had a 737 between my legs.

What did she say?

Is this the part where we find out why she wears red boots?

No.  Let me tell you about it…  It was the perfect day for flying.  Clear skies and light winds in exactly the right direction.  Beautiful days mean busy airports and this beautiful day was no exception.  The circuit was abuzz with aircraft of all kind: YAKS flying in formation, high wing, low wing, floats, small private jets, and big commercial carriers.  The Tower Gods were hustling.  We were stacked deep on approach.  There was no time for the slow and sensual perfect landing; it was all quick and dirty.

Dave and I had done six or seven touch-and-gos and I thought I was coming in for a full stop but on final, instead of clearing me to land, the Tower God directed: “India Mike Hotel, fly a normal circuit at 1000 feet.  Stay on runway heading, but slow it down.”

My student pilot mind kicked into overdrive: “Why would he want me to fly at 1000 feet straight over the runway?”  I looked at Dave and he knew exactly what was about to happen.  His eyes lit up and he said: “Oh, you're going to love this.”

Although I had seen it holding short, it was only when I heard the Tower God clear the West Jet 737 for take-off that I knew I was about to experience something I had never known before.  I braced myself knowing that it was on the roll directly under me.  I cannot describe the feeling of anticipation as that 737 took off right underneath me or my utter breathlessness as I watched the jet appear from under the nose of my little Cessna 152.  Right between my legs.  It was beautiful.  And I know beauty in interesting circumstances - I have children.

As our paths separated and I turned my cross-wind leg, I looked over to watch the 737 continue its elegant ascent against a backdrop of the deep blue ocean meeting the clear blue sky that was only briefly interrupted by lush green islands, and that warm heady feeling washed over me.  Somehow the sun shone brighter.  The air smoothed out as did the Tower God's velvet voice over the radio as he invited me to extend my downwind leg.

Someone landed the plane that day.  I am pretty sure it was me.

Lights, Camera, Action

I remember that day.  You know the day where you finally catch a glimpse of that person you always wanted to be when you grew up?  In Gloria Steinem’s book: “Revolution from Within” she describes an exercise where she had visualized her future self – her “optimal self”.   She asked the questions: “What does she look like?”  “How does she carry herself?” “How does she feel?”  As I read the passage I imagined an older version of myself walking down the street in front of the office I worked in at the time.  She felt wise, strong, and caring.  She held clarity that I couldn’t relate to at that time.  She was so completely present that it startled me.  More startling, however, was that she was wearing red boots.  I call her the “Red Boot Lady”.

I read that book when I was 20.  I have been waiting for her to show up ever since.

Flash forward 20 plus (I’m not going to commit here) years, now I see that the Red Boot Lady is fully empowered in her life.  When I tune into her these days she’s a little bit different than I had imagined when I was 20.  She can play with the boys and the girls.  Her family is content.  Her relationships are authentic.  She laughs a lot and has a nice quiet calm about her.  She is my “go-to” place.  When I settle into her body everything seems so clear.  There is such confidence behind that smile that I am always reassured.  I usually imagine her calm presence as she is walking to her plane or her confidence while flying it.

I don’t get to fly as much as I would like to.  My days are long and fast.  I’m always “on the fly”.  It has taken me forever to attain my private pilot’s license.  On that day, I had just started accumulating some of the required solo hours.  Until that day, my instructor, Dave, had been coming up with me to fly a couple of circuits, then we would come back into the Flying Club and I would go back up and do more circuits on my own.

But on that day Dave took my training wheels off all the way.

When he suggested that I go out entirely on my own I tried to bat the baby blues to get him to come out for a quick spin, just to make sure I was okay, but he would have none of it.  I was on my own - from start to finish.  A-LONE.   All by myself - except for God, the angels, guides, dead relatives, ancestors, forgotten fighter pilots, Amelia Earhart, and anyone else I could think of to call in.  I secretly sent a friend a text from the bathroom to pray for me.  “Please call in the big guns.”

I nervously got in the plane and pep-talked myself: “Okay, you’ve done this a hundred times… well, maybe twenty, twenty-five times.  You’ll be fine.  This is like driving a car.”

FYI, it’s nothing like driving a car.  When a car has engine failure it doesn’t fall from the sky.  Thank God there’s a checklist.  As I went through my checklist I prayed. I prayed for a sign – a Big One.

As I prayed, I looked at the Blackberry that I had seat belted in next to me (my “timepiece”) and whispered: “Okay Boys (that’s what I call my people on the Other Side), I need a sign here so if we are good-to-go when I look back down at my Blackberry, I’m looking for the little red light.”

I looked down and saw: nothing.  I waited for that little red light.  I genie-blinked and wiggled my nose like Samantha but still nothing.  I looked back up and instead Dave was standing at my window in his red jacket:  “Ramona, the aircraft is still tied down.”  Small detail.

“You should add that to your checklist”, I heard him say as he walked away.  At least I got my sign.

After ensuring the Cessna was no longer earthbound by tie-downs, I was bravely on my way.  Without Dave sitting next to me I had all of the privileges of a full-fledged pilot.  In aviation “privilege” really means: “responsibility and liability”.  If I completely screwed up I had no back up – someone swiped my security blanket.

But on that day, the Red Boot Lady was flying that plane.  She was all Lights, Camera, Action.  I love her ease in an airplane.  If she notices the turbulence it’s something she thinks about after she has already ridden it.  She calls her plane “Sugar” because she loves it and it does exactly what she wants it to.  She doesn’t swear every time she lands like I do.  If she over flares, she just adds a little power and glides onto the mains like she meant to do that.  She can park right on the line.  On that day, on her way back into the Club another member was heading out and asked what it was like out there. “Beautiful”, she answered.

I would write about the eagle and the rainbow but I am pretty sure no one would believe me, although there may have also been an eagle and a rainbow involved on that day, and it was still my real life.

The Red Boot Lady thanked Dave for the terrific day and as she unlocked her car door she caught a glimpse of herself in the window.  There we stood.  I looked at her and she looked back at me with a smile and a warm afterglow.  It was then that I realized that she’s been here all along.