My First Flight

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Republic Tower. This is Cessna three-niner, two-niner Echo holding short runway one with information Papa. Three-niner, two-niner Echo youre second in line for takeoff. Three-niner, two-niner Echo, Roger.

This is the conversation that takes place right before I take off for an experience of a lifetime. It is my trusty blue and white Cessna 17, the air traffic controller and I. The serious and professional tone of the air traffic controllers voice as it crackles through my sweaty headphones, sends me into a stark reality of the excitement in flying an airplane for the first time.

I begin to crawl my way around the twisted runaways as though I am a mouse stuck in some scientists' maze. I finally find my "cheese" prize, otherwise known as runway 11L, and take my place in line behind an executive Leer jet. While waiting for my turn, I feel beads of cold, sweat trickle down the side of my face in anxiety of what was about to come ahead of me. Suddenly the air traffic controller initiates conversation once again, and states in his repetitive and monotone voice, Three-niner, two-niner Echo youre cleared for takeoff.

As I thrust the throttle into full gear, the Cessna jerks back and then rapidly onward, hurling forward both myself, and the pointer of the speed indicator. The plane starts rattling and bouncing as it accelerates down the runway strip and I am reminded of the "Honey, I Shrunk the Kids" reality simulator ride in Disney World. As I gently pull back on the yoke to gain altitude, I feel the icy, cold metal penetrating the slick, black, leather gloves on my hands. Reaching a cruising speed of ninety five knots and an altitude of two thousand three hundred feet, I shield my eyes from the golden rays of sunlight streaming through the scratch infested windshield, which dance along the raw metal of the cockpit walls.

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Once at a comfortable cruising altitude, my nostrils are able to identify the distinct aroma of the brown cracked leather seats along with the unmistakable scent of the fuel and oil mixture. The pounding of my heart is kept in rhythm by the repetitive and constant hum of the engine. I spot a group of five, pearly, white seagulls as they race across the nose of the plane, and soon afterward dive into the blue ocean below in their frantic search for food. Keeping a keen eye on all of the flight instruments, I am able, with the help of my flight instructor, to push my plane into a rapid nosedive in pursuit of the fleeing gulls. As the earth rushes toward me, I can feel the blood whip through my veins as my heart pounds with adrenaline and excitement. I sense the beady perspiration on my arms as they tremble with fatigue to gain control of my downward spiraling plummet.

After regaining control, I calmly soar along the coastline one hundred feet above ground level. I easily spy sand dunes that seem to stretch for eternity. The rhythmic churning of the propeller drowns out the thumping of the white crestfallen waves as they slam endlessly against the rotted hulk of a once magnificent wooden pier. I am lucky enough to slide open a part of the cockpit window to inhale the freshness of the crisp ocean air and taste the ocean spray of salt water as it kisses my wind-chapped lips.

Upon returning to the proximity of the airport, I spot the familiar one hundred-foot Republic Air Tower. Once more, the indistinguishable static voice shoots through my headphones and announces, Cessna three-niner, two-niner Echo, state your position. This is Cessna three-niner, two-niner Echo reporting over Belmont Lake inbound for landing" I respond. As the black rubber tires screech to a halt along the tarmac, it brings me back to the reality of everyday life and all of its trials and tribulations that I had left behind for those exhilarating and unforgettable forty-five minutes in the sky.

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