WindOnHisNose
BENEFACTOR
Lino Lakes MN (MY18)
Thirty years ago today, on March 11, 1983, I went to the Newton Kansas City Airport (KEWK) for a flying lesson, having been asked by my flight instructor, one George Hofsommer, to bring along an old tee shirt. It was spring time in the Land of Oz, the wind blowing (as always), a bright, sunny day. I showed up at the airport a little early, checked the weather again (for the umpteenth time) and the wind was out of the south at 10 knots, severe clear, and the runway at KEWK at that time was 17-35.
The farm I grew up on was only 8 miles to the southeast of Newton, and I was amazed at how lost I could be when I climbed to 2000 feet agl. For crying out loud, I had driven by this stretch of Kansas hundreds of times. Yet once up in the air everything looked foreign. A very flat place, that part of Kansas. The airport was pretty active, as Jim Bede had headquartered there, Amelia Earhart had landed there before her big trip, and the airport was a large stretch of asphalt placed pretty much North and South in the middle of good, old Kansas hard winter wheat.
George was waiting for me. A tall, lanky flight instructor at Hesston College Aviation, he was planning to be a missionary pilot. Hesston College was a two year private school that was Mennonite, in religious terms, but they had a good flight school known for training missionary pilots. I had dropped in out of the blue...not a Mennonite...not a religious person, so to speak, and had asked if they would teach an outsider how to fly. The answer had been an enthusiastic "yes"...well, as enthusiastic as a Mennonite could be. George briefed me on what we were planning to do that day, basically practicing some takeoff and landings, so out to the Cessna 150, N70453, we went. Not much to preflight a Cessna 150, in hindsight, but I approached it very seriously, doing a thorough walk-around, sumping the fuel, checking the oil, wiggling the prop, checking the leading edge of the right wing, then the trailing edge, the flaps, then to the tail...I had the routine down, but carried a trusty checklist with me to make sure I didn't forget anything. The preflight complete, George wormed his 6'4" thin frame into the passenger seat, took off his cowboy hat, tossing it into the back, keeping the door open as it was beginning to get warm. As usual, I was warmer than warm, still a bit nervous about making sure I didn't screw up the flight, that I wouldn't get lost (how embarassing would THAT be, to get lost in my own backyard?!) I finally crawled in, fastened my seatbelt, put my flight bag with the sectional chart, the checklist right where I could reach it.
I looked over at George, and asked him if he was ready, he looked over at me and gave a knowing nod, I primed the engine, turned the ignition key and the engine sprang into life. The windows were cracked open and the prop blast felt pretty good as I pressed the toe brakes so hard that it is amazing that there were not big indentations on the floorboard. I sure didn't want that 150 to get away from me! A non-tower field, the Unicom frequency was 123.00, I grabbed the mike and keyed it once, forgot what I was supposed to say, keyed it again, became totally tongue-tied, before George reached over, tapped me on the leg and said "Relax, this is going to be no big deal." I took a deep breath, keyed the mike again and announced "N70453 is at Hesston College Aviation, will be taxiing to Runway 17, Newton", gave the throttle a gentle push and off we went, moving to the taxiway which led to 17.
It was amazing to see how straight the airplane taxied when George was on the rudder and brakes, and it was frustrating to see how random my taxi path was. I was all over the taxi way, heading to the weeds on the left, then on the right and I am thinking that this ain't like driving any IH Farmall that I had ever driven! Finally arriving at the threshold of 17, I stopped the plane (like very abruptly) and our heads jerked back and forth like they did when my dad showed me how to drive the dark green 1955 Chevy standard transmission pickup in the pasture when I was 10. Very Not Smooth, you might say. I pulled out the extensive checklist for the C150, and went down the exhaustive list one item at a time until I had reached the last item, I looked at George and he was just sitting there watching me with kind of a smile on his face. I am sure he was thinking, Geez, this guy is about to graduate from medical school??? (I was 3 months from completing medical school). I set the trim, George had me do the standard 360 on the ground to make sure there was no traffic, I announced "Newton traffic, N70453 is taking Runway 17, left traffic, Newton" and onto the runway we went, gently and smoothly giving full throttle as the aircraft nosed into the wind, me giving some back pressure on the yoke, correcting and overcorrecting with my feet on the rudder (I really hadn't figured the rudder out all that much) and suddenly a gust of wind picked up that airplane and we were in the air! I glanced over at George to see if he had had his hands on the rudder and low and behold his hands were still placed right on his lap. Confidence oozed from the young student pilot. We went crosswind, then downwind, I throttled back, put in some flaps, added carb heat, slowed the aircraft down, called my base leg, then turned final. I was watching George out of the corner of my eye, and he was looking away from me, trying to see something on the horizon, it seemed. Pretty disinterested in the flight, I thought. Turning final I added full flaps, I lined the aircraft up with the centerline, thought my airspeed just right, then a bit too slow…added power, too much power…then pulled the throttle back, while George sat there just looking out the side window, seemingly unengaged in the events that, if they went badly, could end his life, for cryin’ out loud! I came in, pulled back on the yoke to flair, eased back the throttle until I could not hear the engine and I pulled back further and further…until the wheels touched down with a bounce…and I was all over the rudder pedals, keeping a tight rein on that beast! We came to a complete stop (the runway was really, really long), George told me to do another takeoff, so I reset the trim, pushed in the carb heat, announced my intentions, gave full throttle and off we went again, George’s input conspicuously absent.
As we came into the next landing I had it all set up but was concerned because the Kansas wind was starting to pick up and I knew that the C150 would float like a butterfly, but sting like a bee in the gusty winds of the Great Plains. I set things up a little better this time and again George was looking at the grain elevators in the distance and I am sitting there wondering what the heck he is doing! Geez, George! Pay a little attention here, would you?! The tires again reached for the runway and with a squeal and a thump we were down, so I slowed the aircraft to a stop and looked at George to see what was next.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” he stated and so off I taxied to Hesston College Aviation winding my way on the very straight taxiway until I was at the hangar. I reached down to pull the mixture when George said, “Randy, I am going to go inside, so why don’t you just taxi back out there, do your thing and go around the patch once, will you?” My heart raced. “Are you sure?”, I asked? “Really sure”, he replied, and with that he was out of the aircraft, gone, walking to the hangar.
That little cockpit suddenly seemed really large…and really empty. I was sitting there all by myself. By myself. My heart was racing, I could feel it beating and I felt a strange confidence as I pushed forward on the throttle, making that little plane with the big cockpit move forward down the taxiway. Strangely, I recall that the aircraft stayed on the centerline much better, which surprised me since George wasn’t there to save my ass. I taxied down to the threshold of 17 and grabbed my checklist, ran through this carefully, line-by-line and called out my intention to depart from Runway 17. I remember glancing over at the Hesston College Aviation hangar to see if George was outside watching me. He wasn’t. He was probably deep in prayer, down on those knobby knees, praying to God Almighty asking for Grace and Forgiveness for sending this Poorly Trained potential pilot out to what was likely to be his Early Demise.
The throttle was advanced, my eyes were focused intensely on the end of the runway as the runway started to move relative to the little 150, moving faster, then faster as I pulled back on the yoke, until finally the Good Earth fell away from me, from my trusty aircraft, as I FLEW. SOLO. I was FLYING BY MYSELF!
I subsequently came in, made a pretty bad landing, bounced it in, but George came in over the Unicom frequency, saying “Nice job, do another one” with all the enthusiasm that a German Mennonite might muster. And I did, feeling such a freedom, such a terrific feeling, such a joy.
I brought it in, taxied up to the hangar, shut down the engine and out strode George with a big smile on his face. “Nice job, Ace.” “Thank you, George, thank you very much!”, I replied. And with that he asked me for my old tee shirt, which I had in my flight bag, and we went into the hangar, found a benchtop and he carefully cut out the back of the shirt, signifying the sprouting of my wings, and we drew the sketch of N70453, the date, March 11, 1983, George’s name and identification number. He congratulated me, we shook hands and Randy Corfman walked out of that hangar, 30 years ago, a proud and happy lad.
I know this was a long post, but it is important to me. I know that each and everyone of you have a story of how your solo flight went, and I hope this post initiates a host of opportunities for you, my dearest friends, to put in words your first solo flight, if you can find words to describe this.
Thank you, in advance, for sharing.
Randy
