The Need For Speed

I boost myself into the shotgun seat of a Piper Cherokee, stepping up and over the right wing flap, and it’s a picture perfect day for flying. It’s 50 degrees outside, darts of sunshine piercing straight through the tree tops, with minimal wind gusts, and this is the very first time my husband is taking me up into the sky. Jeremy is officially a pilot. 70 hours of flight training, 5 hours of night flying, a myriad of hours of ground school studying, a written exam, an oral exam, an official check ride, and he did it.

He’s cool, collected, and confident while reviewing his pre-flight checklist with sharp specificity and accurate ease, demonstrating every step to me... Wings. Check. Gas. Check. Oil, tires, lights, engine, propellor, stall indicator, and so on. Check, check, check, check, check, check, check.

We buckle up, headsets secure, he starts the engine, and the sound of it swallows everything else in its flurry. He’s acutely focused, confirming with the air traffic controller the precise winds, visibility, weather, temperature, and altimeter settings before he’s given the official go-ahead to make his way towards the runway. We receive clearance to proceed on our taxi route and to initiate take-off, and Jeremy flashes a grin my way, hollering, “You ready?!”

Here we go. The plane accelerates, quickly gaining ground speed, finally reaching a rotation speed of 60 knots, then we lift, smooth like butter. Magic. Seconds, and we’re already up and over the naked trees, the runway trailing behind us in the distance. We are sailing adrift, like a pint-sized ship cutting anchor from the sky. We bank right, heading southeast towards Rhode Island, with the shoreline snaking beneath us.

Soft, transparent clouds pepper the horizon, wispy and slowly burning off, as the sea shines, reflecting the sleepy daylight. Turbulence rocks us like a loving lullaby, the Piper feeling as light as a feather, fragile and delicate. I can already spot the jagged outline of Block Island, and its runway appears no bigger than a dead-end road with patches of hugging grass. I wonder to myself silently, “How are we going to land on that?!”

Jeremy broadcasts his position and approach over the radio, nimbly descending over watery coastlines, darkened depths gradually brightening to lightened shallows. I can make out the black outlines of reefs and the striations of sand along the stretches of empty beaches. He is flying parallel to the runway, making a sharp U-turn for our approach. Creeping closer and closer, the bare strip of cement is ours for the taking, as the roofs of colonial-style houses brush by the underbelly of the plane.

Wind gusts are more robust than average, with a stubborn crosswind, and our plane is subtly nudged sideways as the tires strike ground. Jeremy drops the flaps immediately, slowing to a near stop, veering left, and parking at the Block Island airport. I unlock my passenger door and hop out, and the brisk air brushes my face, chilled and refreshing.

We sit down for breakfast at the counter of the airport diner, mugs brimming with black coffee and warming our hands, caffeine and exhilaration steady through the bloodstream. Eggs with a side of pancakes, clattering sounds from the back kitchen, and moments of reminiscence, triumphantly recalling exactly what just happened.

Our appetites quenched, and our spirits ready for a second round, we strap ourselves back into our hunk of metal with 4 seats and 2 wings. Off we go, ascending back into the boundless atmosphere, soaring over ocean. We’re cruising at 2500 feet, making our return to the Groton-New London airport. Jeremy and I are more easy-going on this run, and he glances over to me and asks, “Wanna steer for a bit?” I wrap my hands around the yoke, fingers gripping and eyes focusing, as I take charge for a few seconds.

Jeremy readies for our final approach, and with the runway clear, we gracefully touch ground. I can feel the friction of tires to cement, and the brisk deceleration of 70 knots to 10 knots. We taxi back, park, and Jeremy completes his final checklist before securing the Piper.

I like to see the world from up above. It almost feels strange to be back on ground, moving inside a car rather than an airplane, and there’s something in me that thinks I could get used to this.

Cheers,

Tera