15 July 2019 – Remembering Flight – Part 2 of 2

If you haven’t read Part 1 of “Remembering Flight, I advise you to do so prior to reading Part 2 below. Likewise, the introduction and background surrounding Part 1, will greatly inform your reading of this second part. Actually, both parts are meant to be one poem; however, so as not to burden readers with too much length in one post, I broke it into two parts. Permit me to add just a bit more concerning this second part. You will find more stories within the main story about the first flight lesson. Those might be of interest to you. Also, the history after the first lesson is presented in broad strokes. Unlike many poems, this one has an ending – closure. 

(By the way, going forward, other poems by yours truly will be interspersed between one or two segments of The One. as will appearances of “guest” poets, as you have seen in the past, the most recent being W.S. Merwin.) 

So, I wish you worthy reading, and pleasant memories of your own.

Remembering Flight – Part 2

(And so, it happened, on a clear cool night, cruising smoothly, relaxed and calm

we heard a low groan from behind us – we looked at each other – Dad raised an eyebrow

“Check that out,” he said unruffled, directing me to determine the sound’s source

If I turned rearward, I did not want to see the corpse, angel, or soul in flight

no excretion, eyeballs bulging, or hands with grasping claws

But worse than any of these, when I took my courage and stepped out the cockpit

another groan long and deep and asudden the corpse sat up straight and I lost composure

“It’s the body!” I said swaying, almost leaking

“Oh good,” my father said evenly. “Sometimes they’ll do that – nerves and muscle twitches.

Don’t worry, it will lay back down. Bet it scared you,” and he chuckled)

. . . Beyond that day of my first lesson, many flights, line by line, filled my logbook

takeoffs, landings – check and check and check – never done by memory or trusting thought – 

many charters, a few more corpses and homebound air ambulances, trips to 

Chicago’s Meigs Field on Lake Michigan, mostly flying the D18 right seat 

For lessons, the Cessna – turn and banks, play with crosswinds, precise compass points

aeronautic maps spread on my lap and plotter used to lay in a course, flight plans filed when required 

– all in the passing of two years wherein the cushion disappeared

Always, always my father gently teaching, praising when I performed well

speaking of better ways when I did not, and not so often – I like to think – he took control

when some danger rose up from my lack of skill, but not so often – I like to think

“Feel the airplane; don’t trust the instruments,” he would say. “Manmade measures can be wrong

but air, wings, and prop are always true – feel the slowing with nose rising – feel it, feel it

before the stall –and just as strong, feel the speed increase when the nose goes down.

Watch for icing on the wings’ leading edges. Be aware of other planes in all 360 degrees

Always, always, safety first, and check, and check, and check.” 

Remembering one particular flight lesson, my armpits still get wet, and my forehead starts to drip

I heard the words I knew were coming. Every pilot experienced them well along into lessons

                                                “Turn the engine off.”

We were 2500 feet above the ground. I tried to hold a semblance of composure

This was the dreaded “dead stick” landing

I powered back the throttle and turned the ignition key to off

The engine slipped abruptly into silence, one propeller blade straight up and stopped

                                    The beginning of a forced landing

                                    when the engine will not restart

After I made sure that the plane was straight and level, I began to look for a place to set down

clear of wires and tall structures, somewhere with a thousand feet to land and roll out

or rip off the wings or tail. Farm field furrows trip up a pilot but grassland hummocks can do the same

Gently, gently, my father kept on instructing, reminding me of the checklist – only thirteen tasks

for the most serious challenge a pilot faces because this was all about the bird and me – only fire

could make the situation worse for those broad raptor wings and spread-out, rudder of a tail

Wind rushed past the fuselage – the sound a bird might hear but without the metal fuselage vibration

The airstream a natural sound straight out of evolution – gliding, gliding always downward, level attitude

with the Cessna’s 1700 pounds falling slowly like a steadily deflating balloon 

“Make it light; relax your grip – the plane is made to know how to fly without you fighting it

If you are gentle, it won’t fail you. Try to muscle and she’ll fight back

Feel the natural stable falling and find your safest landing spot

Remember what you’ve learned about making friends with the glide slope

Find the air’s natural lift under the wings – easy, easy – straight and level as you can . . .” 

(Years beyond, I owned a forty-four-foot Morgan sailboat with jib, genoa, and spinnaker

Sailing that boat, I discovered, as with most things, my father’s inner wisdom was reliable

Not often enough, but here and there, he sailed with me and I taught gently just as he had with me

He proved a stellar student for he already knew winds very like the waves, sails’ leading edges

wandering currents, and obstacles in the path. “The sail is just like a wing,” he said

We proved to be a crew with prowess and the capacity to work without words

All this brought up feelings of good fortune to be the daughter of such a man

in distant times and now, when aloft or on the water, my lifelong truest teacher

up in the Blue One, on the waves, or sitting silent side by side on the ground

Although the ship had an engine, we almost always sailed her “dead stick”

fearless of the sea beneath us, even here and there when a wind shear knocked us sideways

back tip of the mainsail knifing water – a few adjustments and the vessel righted)

. . . But we were in the midst of an unforgiving dead stick landing as I scanned the landing options

            if a road, I might not see phone or other wires until too late

            no farm fields or pastures appeared within our downward slope and speed

            a thousand feet required to land and roll out, hopefully with nose parallel to the ground

I chose, and my choice found the right seat captain’s nod and as he gave it, he dropped a large cloth over all the instruments, something no other pilot had told me to expect

Keep the glide steady – the wings against horizon – no instrument for that

How many feet to the ground? Eyeball it from all the landings in the past

Without an airspeed indicator, I had to listen to the relative volume of the wind

All this time the checklist on my lap- so few checks for this dire situation

The pilot is on her own with the aircraft, everything off, and melding with the plane

At seven hundred feet, I unlatched the door to facilitate a quick exit, but my father did not do the same

And suddenly with a senior captain’s voice, he said, “Hands off!” 

Gladly, I did as told, and with only five checks to accomplish, and without the list,

my father, with practiced moves, calmly reached for the ignition switch

At five hundred feet, the engine ignited without the checklist, but as soon as

the engine kindled, the list was on his lap, and one by one, he followed the procedures

Still, the welcome engine’s resonance could not match the awe of the passing wind, 

the rate of falling, the sail unfurling

That proved the first of several dead stick landings that never touched the ground

I went on flying – soloed on my sixteenth birthday – flew with Dad 

in the Beechcraft with its two Harley-throated engines

until I left for school and other things and only flew on holidays and part of summers

Later I moved two thousand miles away

I took some flight instruction from a very different pilot who made me read numbers from the panel

and never once asked me how the airplane felt

He died in a crash where he was captain, identified by the wallet in the back pants pocket - no trunk

. . . After my father died, I had a frequent dream

In it we flew the Beechcraft D18 – him in the left seat, me in the right

We talked of cloud types and sun patterns on the water of the grand Superior Lake beneath us

            to the East, red rising cliffs of northern Wisconsin

            to the West, the compass of the setting sun . . .

burning down the day to darkness against the everlasting Blue of One

Background

Please see “Background” contained in Part 1.

Exploration #1: You may wish to try your hand at your own “memory” poem. Title it, “Remembering . . .;” let your thoughts wonder over people, places, things, and ideas/beliefs that have been an important part of your life; make some quick notes about one or more of those points/people; using those notes, organize and rewrite. As you write, let the memories expand and take you back to the subject, using all your senses.

Note: If anyone is interested, I can provide a detailed exercise with greater detail on how to create your own “remembering” poem. Just comment here, and ask me for it.

Exploration #2: Regarding the “dead stick landing,” how do you imagine prior instruction in “feel the airplane – don’t trust the instruments.” prepared the student for performing this type of landing?

Exploration #3: Perhaps, if you are interested in aviation, you may want to study more about student pilots or some other aspect of flight.

Next: Back to The One – “Weighing Anchor”