So there I was...
...sitting there in the 172, on a Christmas eve (I would have waited a day but that would have been such a Jesus complex) and it was starting to get dark. Well, no, it was dark. I was literally my CFI's first solo, and would become his first certificated pilot. He said later after I did receive my pilot certificate, it was as if he had one, huge, massive bowel movement. I'm not convinced that statement was complimentary to my flight skills, however; he was camped out in the lobby, with a handheld, as was the chief flight instructor, who was also camped out in the lobby, also with a handheld.
Now a little bit on the dynamics here. My CFI was a new CFI, but he was not a new dude. He was older than me, and I wasn't the youngest dude as it was. The chief flight instructor was a lady, also no spring chicken, with a complex about male CFI's ('you can't train em!') so stuff was basically flowing down hill. He was riding me, and she was riding him. Wait, that didn't sound right. But never mind that.
"Nav lights!" a squeaky voice came over ground freq. Nevermind the first solo was supposed to be during the daytime by school policy and probably some sort of 91 part thing or not I'm not sure, but anyway I wanted to solo, that was my Christmas present, and there is that Jesus complex thing. So the plan was, do three laps in the pattern - touch and goes.
The low voltage indicator of the 172 SP came on intermittently as the engine slowed to idle, as the alternator struggled to power the massive bank of radio, navigation lights, landing lights, strobe lights, parking lights, hazard lights, fog lights, neon lights and various and sundry miscellaneous electrical loads as if perhaps the aircraft would be better served with a diesel generator powering the propeller as an after thought. But, miraculously, as the first official "cleared for takeoff" was received, the engine sprung back to life as the power thrust levers and afterburner switches were engaged.
"Squeaky squeaky!" Okay, I'll admit. I'm not saying my CFI was a lardo, he wasn't, but he wasn't a small guy either. I think I told you he was an old guy. Not a real old guy, but an old guy in reference to young guys. If that makes any sense. But here's where I'm going with all of that, the removal of 50+ years may not have made a difference on flight dynamics, but the removal of 200+ pounds did, and it uh, well, that first landing, um, yeah. So....
Tower knew what was going on. I was that guy. No, I mean 'That Guy" (it was a proper name.) The third time around, they actually cleared me for a landing (as opposed to the option) probably because they wanted me to get out of their hair so they could turn their radar off, hop in their cars and go drinking. I'm not sure it actually works that way, but it seemed so a the time.
"So how did I do?"
"We can reuse the plane."
"So can I log some n..."
"Don't you dare!"
So anyway, yeah, that was my first solo. Not to be confused with Hans Solo. Although, if you think about it, Hans Solo probably had to have had a first solo too. Imagine the puns that must have been thrown around that day.
. Sad to say, a couple of months later another student on his first solo flight totaled the Tomahawk. He hyperventilated and passed out at pattern altitude, descending turn into the ground with the controllers yelling on the radio, trying wake him up. Amazingly he lived. The Tomahawk had a built-in tubular roll cage structure which I credit with saving his life.
