81 And Determined To Land That Plane Herself

The local legend of Jet Mama, and why I still believe I can be a writer

“Just let go.”

Admittedly, not what a struggling, anxious flight student expects to hear on the final approach.

“But…but…”

“You’ve set the power perfectly; flaps and trim are exactly where they should be, and look at your rate of descent; she’s ready.”

At the time, I wanted Joan to relax her white-knuckle death grip on the yoke. But I’ve since reflected that there was probably more I needed her to let go of.

Passion

There’s plenty of science involved in getting an airplane safely on the runway. Those four forces of flight — lift, weight, thrust, and drag — need to be balanced in just the right way to execute the controlled crash that is every landing with that soft touch and gentle roll we crave.

But it would be a mistake to discount the artistry of the perfect landing. Or even a good one.

Art and passion. Passion and art. No need to delve into the symbiosis there.

It’s what drives us to the keyboard. We feel it. Perhaps the perseverance of Jet Mama was born of this stuff.

And maybe that’s why we keep hitting that little green button in the top right corner.

Personality

At just over 5 feet tall, Joan was our very own RBG, only with an even more noble professional history. For the better part of 30 years, Joan was a teacher — of children. Your awe and appreciation are well deserved.

Cloud-white hair in an Anne Hathaway pixie cut with a smile even Ms. Hathaway would envy. Flight bag over one shoulder, extra seat cushion in her other hand, this grande dame took over the reception area every time she beamed in through the door.

I would come to believe that our Joan, who created the Jet Mama persona herself, could do anything she wanted to do. Maybe becoming Jet Mama was her way, wise beyond even her 81 years, of placing herself mentally, emotionally, and linguistically in the position she was determined to occupy.

When it happened didn’t matter. Only that it did.

When Bonnie, our pint-sized pitbull of a training manager, led me by the hand, literally, to the pilot’s lounge to meet Joan, it’s because there was a problem.

Perseverance

I was nearing the end of my tenure as a full-time flight instructor at the local flight school located right in the geographical middle of Long Island, NY. I mention that because I was, at the time, one of the senior instructors at the school and, by then, I’d seen it all — or so I thought.

Our school was a relatively small-scale operation. Many, though by no means all, of our students were of the less professionally ambitious variety, meaning they weren’t there chasing that siren-song of enormous jet engines and the glamour of first-class lounges in all the exotic corners of the planet.

They were the dreamers — who just somehow knew they needed to fly. These are my people! I can guarantee you that they, like me still today, look skyward whenever they hear the roar of an engine overhead.

Joan was one of these. So what’s the problem?

Most flight trainees are told to expect to solo — the first and perhaps most dramatic milestone for every pilot — at between 10 and 20 hours. The entire syllabus for a Private Pilot License is expected to be completed in about 40 hours.

The Total Time column in Joan’s Student Pilot Logbook was showing nearly 100 hours. I also glimpsed the signatures of five of my CFI predecessors in her logbook.

And she was still waiting to solo.

She’d been at this for a minute. Neither Joan nor Bonnie articulated anything about an end to this adventure being on the horizon.

But their faces revealed — concern.

Preparation

I was a pretty good flight instructor.

Another story will appear here shortly about my other seminal moment in teaching, the one in fact that launched my flying career beyond instructing. That student and the result we reached together had earned me a bit of a rep.

This was to be my chance to prove myself worthy.

I took 29 hours to solo, those many years ago when I had also struggled to believe I would ever do this. There are some studs on Facebook posting pics captioned with the accomplishment of having soloed in 6 hours.

There are also experienced airline pilots (remember there are two of them up there) who take off from the taxiway instead of the intended runway. That’s like driving through town on the sidewalk and not knowing it until you hear the sirens.

Being an aviator is like that. And for me, that’s some of what makes it so incredibly special. One evening the ethereal beauty of a moonrise seen from the front window at 41,000 feet takes your breath away.

But the next day can be brutal in equal measure, reminding you that only respect for the sky, and skillful preparation, will get you home.

Patience

I flew with Joan a few times over the next couple of weeks. Practicing at 3000 feet, she was fine, better than many, always ahead of the airplane, with the situational awareness of an aeronautical sage.

It was when we came back in, the nose pointing at terra firma, that some primal fear crept in. Doubt — this is what she needed to overcome, but how would I help her — let it go?

There wasn’t much I needed to do with Joan inside the airplane. However, it took these few lessons to see that Jet Mama would earn her solo moment on the ground.

She just needed what we all do now — to believe she belonged, another voice to listen to that knew of what it spoke, some careful practice, and the right day to let it fly.

Payoff

That day came a few weeks later. It went something like this:

“Ok, Joan that’s 4 out of 5 touch-and-goes you’ve rolled on like an ace!” “Yea, that first one kinda sucked, but…do ya think you got this landing thing down now or what?”

“I don’t know! You tell me you’re the darn instructor.”

“ I will!” “Do me a favor and pull onto Taxiway Echo, set the parking brake, and reach back there and find me your logbook.”

That’s when she knew.

She knew what was about to happen. I would put my signature in her logbook, certifying her ability to take off and land an airplane, three circuits, full stops, no touch-and-goes.

She also knew I’d be reaching into my own bag for the two-way handheld radio. And that I’d be sitting somewhere on the grass watching and listening if she needed — anything.

She didn’t.

“ OK, I’m gonna jump out here, you go do your thing three times, and do not forget to come back and pick me up when you’re done.”

Quiet. One of us flinched.

“So, umm, it all looks good to me. Do you feel ready to…”

“Are you still here? I thought you said this is my airplane!”

“Looks like you owe me that beer, Jet Mama. See you on the other side.”

Postscript

That wasn’t the last time I had the honor of signing Joan’s logbook.

After a couple of months of airwork practice and some memorable cross-country flights, I also wrote:

I certify that I have given Ms. Joan the ground and flight training required by FAR Part 61.107(b)(6) and find her prepared for the Private Pilot Practical Test.

Our Jet Mama made short work of the exam, and then there she stood, a pilot. With me on one side and Bonnie on the other, she unleashed that smile for the camera.

An instructor-Yoda from my own struggling student days, once drawled “the Six P’s” of aviation to me and made me memorize them. I still use them today, even with my Aviation English students working on their own pilot dreams.

Proper Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance.

It’s not, of course specific to aviation. In fact, I think it may have come from Vince Lombardi or someone from that space in history. But I don’t know for sure and don’t think it matters.

What does matter is that the concept applies to me every time I sit down to write.

I’ve played with them a bit here because as I remembered Joan, I thought how her passion and personality yielded in her the patience and perseverance to plan to succeed, to reach her payoff.

As I sit here daring to dream of being a writer, Jet Mama sits here with me, never letting me forget what it takes.