Just The Beginning

I’m flying the glider behind the tow plane climbing to 2500 feet and now, pull the release handle, bank away from the tow – soaring free. It’s a magnificent day – blue sky all around with party cloudy skies in between. Being December, the clouds are somewhat far apart and I was told back on the ground it’s maybe a little too cool to ride the thermal lifts to a higher altitude. The other pilots told me climbing or just staying aloft would be tough. But after the release, I see another glider about a ½ mile away circling in a thermal. Once there I found the lift with my instruments and I begin to circle under him. He is in the Grob – a higher preforming glider than the trainer I’m flying.

But as we circled, slowly… and slowly I gained altitude and soon we’re circling in tandem at the same altitude. Then higher and higher above the other glider. I climb almost effortlessly, higher still – all the way to 4000 feet.

Soon, I'm at cloud base. I bailed out of the thermal and headed west out over the green swamp. Flying straight ahead now, in glassy smooth air. After I lose a thousand or so feet, I turned back to where we had started and began my climb again.

Once I hit the lift I began circling again and try to find the center of lift in the thermal… Just like a bird – I bank harder into the lift when it subsides and flatten out when the lift is the best. Over and over, bank in, level out. Then after a 360 degree turn it is finally all lift – I have found the center and up I go again. Now I focus on the slip string attached to the windshield. It helps keep the glider pointing straight through its flight path – "coordinated" so the sides of the glider don’t present themselves to the wind and degrade the performance. It’s a lot harder in a glider than a power plane.

I slow to minimum sink speed. I push the peddles right and left to center the slip string again and coordinate my turn, bank and easy to re-center on the lift. Now it is quiet… to quiet. Opps, air speed is low. The glider feels sluggish. I point the nose down. Use opposite rudder and aileron to level my turn. Ugh… this is work. I’m starting to sweat. And Then I realize… it’s just not coming back to me naturally. My movements are mechanical, rehearsed from my flights with the instructor a few weeks ago. Where is the fluidity? Why doesn’t this feel second nature after all the time I have in the air from years ago? OK, so it has been a few years. I guess I’m rusty. Or am I just older… losing my edge? Will it ever become second nature again?

In combination with focusing on coordinating my turns, keeping my airspeed good and finding the lift, I scan the horizon for other traffic. Ugh… it’s multitasking to the limit! Turn, level, climb, traffic, air speed, slip string... Turn, level, climb, traffic, air speed, slip string. Ugh! And it doesn’t feel second nature at all. I feel like a robot, a mechanical auto pilot. Where is the, “joy of flying”?

I try to focus on the flying. Take a deep breath. But I can’t help wondering if the uneasy, unnatural feeling will go away after a few more flights. Is this enjoyable? I’m not really sure. Is it exhilarating?  Yes. Do I want to keep pushing myself to get better - and try to get back to a time when flying was a joyous, exciting thrill? I don’t know if I can.

I fly up to cloud base again and soar with three other gliders. It’s incredible competing to see who can climb the highest. But soon I felt like keeping an eye on all the traffic around me is just too much when trying to focus on my flying skills and attempting to chill all at the same time.

I bail out again, fly back to the southwest. I head towards a nearby cloud. I aim just under the darkest part of the bottom where the lift should be. Shortly, the glider shutters, bounces a little in the turbulence under the cloud. I feel the pressure in my seat. Then I look at the variometer and see that I am climbing again. And again I circle. But this time all alone in the beautiful blue sky. Just me, the glider and the wind. I can hear the wind. But I also hear the silence. And I see the beauty for a second. OK, I’m feeling a little more relaxed. But I’m still feeling that I have to pay attention to every detail of what’s going on around me.

After an hour and a half. I decide to return back to the air field. I leave cloud base and fly into the clear sky between where I am and the airport. I start to review in my mind the landing approach and the ground school info I was studying earlier. I see the pattern entry point... a bend in the highway below me, just a mile from the runway.

I enter the pattern at 1000 feet and turn on downwind. The vario shows I’m in major sinking air, indicating I shouldn’t use the spoilers to help increase my decent to the runway. I see the trailer on the ground ahead of me that marks the normal turn to base leg. And I’m supposed to be at 600 feet when I get there. But I’m at 600 feet now. So I bank towards the runway and cut it short to final approach. Now spoilers, over the trees, slowing, slowing… and the smooth grassy runway reaches up to me to help cushion a smooth landing and roll out off the runway back to the staging area. Perfect.

Now, days later as I write this, I have been wondering if I made the right decision to go back to flying. Will it ever be the natural high I sought as a boy? Will the romance of flying capture me and make me feel young again? Will I one day soon be able to look out of the cockpit towards the setting sun to the West and feel like it is just sheer fun? May be. But I have to figure out how to address my lack of comfort.

Then I remembered something a friend posted a few weeks ago: "Life begins at the end of your comfort zone." This is my new beginning. And yes, I will feel the natural, second-nature flow of flying come back. I am sure. And in the meantime, I remember now – life is just beginning.