Lola Reid Allin: Face Your Fear

Two weeks after my instructor Murray demonstrated an incipient spin, I’m finally ready to conquer my fears, ready to learn if full-power stalls and spins are the spine-chilling ogres I’ve been warned about by other pilots.

Murray skips the preparatory ground lesson again, stating the plane is the best teacher. I ask several questions, hoping to squeeze answers and a few more minutes on the ground, but soon, we’re airborne under a vast dome of blue, headed toward the designated practice area.

Murray asks, “Do you remember the acronym to ensure the area is safe for aerobatics?”

I nod.

He waits.

I can’t speak.

He prods. “What does ‘H’ mean?”

I mumble, Help! —and if we weren’t airborne, I’d jump out. But if I don’t begin, now, this very second, I might never begin. I won’t become a pilot. I won’t achieve my dream.

I begin the mnemonic:

“H. Height. Three thousand. Check.

“A. Area. Away from cities so when we crash, we’ll be the only casualties. Check.

“S. Security. Loose objects stowed. Check.

“E. Engine systems and switches. Check.

“L. Look for other aircraft. Clear.”

Worms crawl inside my stomach. I say, “We forgot parachutes.”

He manages a limp smile. “Light aircraft don’t carry parachutes.”

The worms writhe like cobras. I ask, “Why not?”

He points at the altimeter. “Only trained parachutists can operate a parachute below three thousand feet. Each parachute weighs about fifty pounds, which would significantly decrease the amount of fuel we can carry.”

I inhale a deep yoga breath, then begin the first of several power-assisted stalls, gradually increasing power with each stall. With increased power, the aircraft doesn’t merely pitch nose-down at the point of stall—it rolls left twenty to thirty degrees. At first, the stall-roll combo frightens me, but after a few demonstrations, my fears disappear.

Murray resumes control. “Stalls with power are incipient spins. The left-rolling tendency is a reaction opposite to the clockwise spin of the propeller. Now, I’ll demonstrate an intentional spin. Ready?”

I’m not ready, and his rigid shoulders and tremulous voice increase my fear or —am I projecting? But if he can fake it, so can I. I nod with confidence.

At the point of stall, he presses full left rudder. The aircraft snaps left, rolls onto its back, and flings itself toward Earth.

I scream, release my light grip on the control column as if it were a hot poker, and whip toward him. Nausea roils in my stomach. I grip his hairy forearm with both hands. He may not have noticed my rapid release of the control column, but he reacts to ten, long, French-manicured nails embedded in his flesh.

He recovers from the stall-spin combo, and I ask, “H-h-how—how many turns did we do?”

“Less than half a rotation.”

“I thought if the aircraft points to the ground during a spin that means the aircraft has tightened into a full spin?”

He grins. “You’ve been studying! However, the aircraft wasn’t pointing at the ground.”

I don’t want to doubt him, but I do. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Murray guides the plane away from the designated practice area above farm fields and says, “Let’s head home.”

He allows me a few minutes to salvage some composure, then insists I take control, treating me as if I were a cowpoke bucked from a wild stallion. I take control, but the whirling image of the ground below replays in my memory.

My concept of a spin as a complex, tumbling, twisting movement of the aircraft seems to be accurate, yet I have a new understanding of Pope’s “a little learning is a dangerous thing.”