Featured Image: Cessna 150
(By redlegsfan21 from Vandalia, OH, United States – N1280Y, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=119196528)
You know that feeling when you realize your “easy” day just turned into a high-stakes, life-defining exam? That was me in 1977, a 16-year-old student pilot, convinced that flying was just slightly more complex than riding a bike (but way cooler).
My instructor was a great guy but let’s just say his side of the plane added a few hundred pounds to the flight plan. We landed at the tiny West Bend Municipal Airport (KETB), and he mumbled something about a restroom, hopped out of the Cessna 150, and waved. “Three touch-and-goes, kid. See ya.”
What? My jaw hit the floor, narrowly missing the rudder pedals. I didn’t get a motivational speech; I got an eviction notice!
Okay, let’s do this! My immediate challenge–takeoff. I did plenty in the past days, but now the little Cessna suddenly weighed 250 pounds less. When I pushed the throttle to the firewall, the Cessna didn’t take off—it launched. I nearly needed a neck brace. I shot up into the sky like a champagne cork popping, letting out a primal “WOO HOO!” that only a teenager flying alone for the first time could muster.
The freedom up there was instant. I didn’t have to worry about the guy tailgating me, the stoplight turning red, or forgetting my turn signal. The only traffic control was my own voice over the UNICOM radio, basically saying, “Hey, everyone, this 16-year-old is doing something extremely grown-up right now, so watch out!” Well, actually it was more like, “West Bend traffic, Cessna 6355S left downwind runway 31, touch-and-go, West Bend.”
Of course, the adrenaline wore off when I realized the “landing guy”, my instructor, was sitting on a bench, not in the co-pilot seat. So, I tightened up the pattern, checked my airspeed, altitude, and flaps, radioed my calls, and focused. I made three landings, all smooth as butter–I “greased” them! Yeah!
I’ll never forget the feeling of touching down for the third time and knowing that I had done it all on my own. It wasn’t just about a flight; it was about the freedom and the sheer joy of proving to myself that I was capable. At an age when most of my friends were still trying to figure out how to parallel park, I had learned how to command my own small corner of the sky. That day gave me the confidence to take on any new challenge, and it all started with one man, a small Cessna, and a much-needed “restroom break.”
