Flying a plane had always been a childhood dream of mine. When I was about ten years old, I borrowed every book on aviation I could find at my local library. One of them, a “pilot’s dictionary” written by a retired jumbo jet captain, vividly captured my imagination. The author proudly recounted his professional adventures during the 60s and 70s, a time when aviation seemed both glamorous and daring. One term that stuck with me was “exhaust pussycat,” used to describe the (presumably female) flight attendant stationed at the rear of the plane. Times were different then.
The idea of taking flying lessons had been simmering in the back of my mind for years, but it finally took off when I stumbled upon an Instagram post: “Learn to fly with us!” It featured a grinning man in a crisp pilot uniform, standing confidently in front of a gleaming white Cessna. He exuded a mix of audacity and recklessness that I found oddly irresistible. By the next day, I had signed up for the theory portion of the course, delivered online through a series of pre-recorded videos.
About halfway through the lessons, I could no longer contain my excitement and decided to dive into the practical training. My first day at the flight school began with an introduction to my instructor: a skinny, young man who appeared to be half my age. He greeted me with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, as though he wasn’t sure whether I was Top Gun material or a full-blown midlife crisis. In the briefing room, he walked me through the basics of operating a plane and laid out the plan for our first mission: take off, head north for about 25 miles at 2,500 feet, and return to the airport. My role, he explained, was mostly to observe and get a feel for the aircraft.
Before heading to the plane, I was tasked with filling out a “weight and balance” sheet to ensure that the combined weight of the passengers didn’t exceed the manufacturer’s safety limits. Dutifully, I completed the form and handed it over to my instructor. He glanced at it, then at me, then back at the sheet. Something was clearly amiss.
“I need to call the flight school owner,” he said after a pause. “You’re too heavy for our plane.”
I froze. Sure, I was aware that I’d gained a few pounds over the years, but I hadn’t realized the situation had escalated to the point where it might disqualify me from flying altogether. What would be next? Would they suggest the cargo plane training instead?
My instructor returned from his office with good news – I was approved for flying by the school director who had never seen me but apparently analyzed my biodata. We headed to the plane, conducted the pre-flight checks, took our seats, and taxied to runway 17.
The flight went about without a glitch, and I loved every moment of it. It was oddly exhilarating to glide through the sky, and it left me eager to learn everything I could about piloting a plane. Over the next lessons I took over more and more controls, handled the communication with air traffic control, and was even allowed to fly the approach.
A notorious and often feared exercise by student pilots is the so-called “stall training,” in which the plane is deliberately brought into a position where it loses lift and begins to fall toward the ground. Though it may sound terrifying, the procedure to recover is straightforward: the pilot pitches the nose down to regain airspeed, keeps the wings level, stabilizes the flight path, and simultaneously increases the throttle. My first attempts went smoothly, and I was preparing for the last stall maneuver of the day. We were heading out towards the sea, pitching the nose upwards while reducing the throttle. A siren begins to wail alerting you that a stall is imminent, and I was getting ready to execute the recovery procedure.
What happened next felt like the longest ten seconds of my life. The plane plummeted suddenly, spinning sharply to the left. In an instant, we were spiraling toward the Earth, and I could make out more and more details on the ground below. The only thought that ran through my mind was, ‘This isn’t real.’ I suppose that’s what most people think right before they die.
I glanced at my flight instructor, whose calm demeanor had shifted to one of intense concentration. Without hesitation, he executed a spin recovery maneuver—a skill he’d luckily memorized, despite never having to use it in his entire career. Slowly, the Cessna stopped its dizzying descent, its nose began to rise again, and we regained stable flight. My flight instructor and I exchanged a silent glance, both processing what had just happened. After a moment, he asked if I was okay and whether I felt comfortable continuing with the lesson. I nodded but quickly added that I didn’t need any more stall maneuvers for the day.
When I came home that night everything felt different. Until that day, I had never had a brush with death. Everything around me felt somewhat surreal, as if the texture of reality had been altered. Sounds and sights were more intense, and I wondered if everyone around me also sensed this shift. The simple fact that I was walking down this road seemed extraordinary to me as though I was moving through a heightened state of awareness, alive in a way I had never been before.
Over the next days I scoured the internet for information on stall exercises. Apparently, stalls can develop into spins under certain circumstances, like a sudden wind gust at critical stall speed. A spin per se is not dangerous as long as the correct recovery procedure is executed (set flaps to zero, reduce throttle, and give rudder opposite to the spin direction) and the aircraft has been approved for the maneuver. I was lucky to have had a well-trained instructor combined with an aircraft that is known for easy spin recovery. I even recreated the situation countless times on a flight simulator, occasionally crashing the plane in the process. I wasn’t quite sure if this event had been a sign to end my flying career right here or if it was some kind of test to see how much I really wanted it. I kept pondering the issue for a couple of days and finally called the flight school. “Didn’t think we’d hear from you again,” my instructor quipped. I wasn’t done flying yet.
Inner View 