power?”
“I’d ... I’d use the doors, and the mixture control to shut the engine on and off...”
“Show me.”
It was hard work for his students, these chapters of their training, but instead of scared they flew away confident, after his lessons, came back for more.
At two thousand feet, he pulled the throttle back to idle. “Miss Cavett, that engine has quit yet again! Where will you land?”
The student relaxed for the fifth forced-landing practice of the flight. All routine: instructor pulls the power, student finds a field, glides into a landing pattern as though it were a runway. When her instructor sees that she’d make a safe landing, he advances power, airplane climbs back up to altitude.
But this time was different.
“That’s where you’re going to land?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “The brown field, next to the dirt road.”
“You’ll land crosswind, across the rows?”
“No. Into the wind, with the rows.”
“You’re sure you can make it?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make it, easy.”
Jamie Forbes pulled the mixture control to CUTOFF. The engine dropped from idle RPM to zero, the propeller shuddered to a stop, soft hushing silence of the wind, airplane become glider.
“Excuse me, sir, did you just...”
“Yes. Give me your best full stop landing, Miss Cavett, into your field.”
Jamie Forbes had thought that he specialized in flight instruction that pilots can’t find, this side of their first emergency in the air. Now he knew it was something different.
I don’t teach, he realized. I suggest, and the students teach themselves.
I offer ideas. Why not try opening the doors? Why not try flying by feel instead of instruments? Why not try landing in that hayfield full stop, then get out of the airplane and jump up and down in the hay, prove to yourself that bare ground’s as good as any runway when you have to land?
Who said it? “You’re not an instructor, you’re a hypnotist!”
Maria! Flicker of a second, he was in the air over Wyoming.
I'm going to die and he's asking me about cake? Of all rescuers I get a crazy-man?
It was Maria Ochoa, she who took coincidence to save her life and touch mine, showed me how the world of spacetime works. Hypnotizing Maria was not some twenty-minute help I gave her, it was a gift she gave, to change me forever.
Dear Maria, he thought, wherever you may be right now, I shall pass your gift along.
Once in a while he’d get a letter, a call, an e-mail from a student, “So when the engine stopped—well, while the engine was blowing up—I got the fuel off, the mixture off, prop full decrease, I heard your voice right beside me: Give me your best full-stop landing to your cow-pasture, Mister Blaine. There was oil all over the windshield, Mr. Forbes, but I stood on the rudder, slipped the turn to final so I could see out the quarter-window all the way to flare. Not a scratch! Smoothest landing I ever made! Thank you!”
He kept the letters.
I am deeply grateful, on my journey, for the parenting and guidance of my highest self.
It was a grey morning, ceiling zero visibility zero in fog. He was sitting at his computer, writing a check for the hangar rent (I shall not lack for whatever I need to become the person I choose to be) when the telephone rang. “Hi,” he said.
A womans voice, a little nervous, on the phone. “I... I’m calling for Jamie Forbes.”
“And you have found him.”
“Are you the flight instructor?”
“I’m a flight instructor. I don't advertise, though. You called an unlisted number.”
“I want to learn to fly. Can you teach me?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, “I’m not that kind of teacher. How’d you find this number?”
“On the back of a flying magazine. Somebody with a marker pen wrote your name and the number and ‘Good instructor.’”
“That’s nice to hear. I teach the sort of things you want to know after you’ve got your license, though. Seaplanes, tailwheel aircraft,
“I’d ... I’d use the doors, and the mixture control to shut the engine on and off...”
“Show me.”
It was hard work for his students, these chapters of their training, but instead of scared they flew away confident, after his lessons, came back for more.
At two thousand feet, he pulled the throttle back to idle. “Miss Cavett, that engine has quit yet again! Where will you land?”
The student relaxed for the fifth forced-landing practice of the flight. All routine: instructor pulls the power, student finds a field, glides into a landing pattern as though it were a runway. When her instructor sees that she’d make a safe landing, he advances power, airplane climbs back up to altitude.
But this time was different.
“That’s where you’re going to land?”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “The brown field, next to the dirt road.”
“You’ll land crosswind, across the rows?”
“No. Into the wind, with the rows.”
“You’re sure you can make it?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make it, easy.”
Jamie Forbes pulled the mixture control to CUTOFF. The engine dropped from idle RPM to zero, the propeller shuddered to a stop, soft hushing silence of the wind, airplane become glider.
“Excuse me, sir, did you just...”
“Yes. Give me your best full stop landing, Miss Cavett, into your field.”
Jamie Forbes had thought that he specialized in flight instruction that pilots can’t find, this side of their first emergency in the air. Now he knew it was something different.
I don’t teach, he realized. I suggest, and the students teach themselves.
I offer ideas. Why not try opening the doors? Why not try flying by feel instead of instruments? Why not try landing in that hayfield full stop, then get out of the airplane and jump up and down in the hay, prove to yourself that bare ground’s as good as any runway when you have to land?
Who said it? “You’re not an instructor, you’re a hypnotist!”
Maria! Flicker of a second, he was in the air over Wyoming.
I'm going to die and he's asking me about cake? Of all rescuers I get a crazy-man?
It was Maria Ochoa, she who took coincidence to save her life and touch mine, showed me how the world of spacetime works. Hypnotizing Maria was not some twenty-minute help I gave her, it was a gift she gave, to change me forever.
Dear Maria, he thought, wherever you may be right now, I shall pass your gift along.
Once in a while he’d get a letter, a call, an e-mail from a student, “So when the engine stopped—well, while the engine was blowing up—I got the fuel off, the mixture off, prop full decrease, I heard your voice right beside me: Give me your best full-stop landing to your cow-pasture, Mister Blaine. There was oil all over the windshield, Mr. Forbes, but I stood on the rudder, slipped the turn to final so I could see out the quarter-window all the way to flare. Not a scratch! Smoothest landing I ever made! Thank you!”
He kept the letters.
I am deeply grateful, on my journey, for the parenting and guidance of my highest self.
It was a grey morning, ceiling zero visibility zero in fog. He was sitting at his computer, writing a check for the hangar rent (I shall not lack for whatever I need to become the person I choose to be) when the telephone rang. “Hi,” he said.
A womans voice, a little nervous, on the phone. “I... I’m calling for Jamie Forbes.”
“And you have found him.”
“Are you the flight instructor?”
“I’m a flight instructor. I don't advertise, though. You called an unlisted number.”
“I want to learn to fly. Can you teach me?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, “I’m not that kind of teacher. How’d you find this number?”
“On the back of a flying magazine. Somebody with a marker pen wrote your name and the number and ‘Good instructor.’”
“That’s nice to hear. I teach the sort of things you want to know after you’ve got your license, though. Seaplanes, tailwheel aircraft,
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