Yes. When you get your sailpane licence you get far more meteorology and very little navigation.
Enjoyed this last week.
The newer sailplanes you can't spin and can barely stall.
Loved flying that plane ....was whistling along a wonderful cloudstreet west of Pearson right at cloud base in perfect lift and had to duck as what looked like baseballs coming at me in dozens.
Monarch butterflies using the same lift to migrate ....bit of a shocker that was.
Enjoyed this last week.
It was fun sneaking up on unsuspecting powered singles lumbering along and zooming by at 200KPH with negative flaps....heavy 17 meter sailpane but a killer if you stalled a wing.Maybe one has to be a pilot but the language is wonderful.
Somehow I manage to wheel the DC-2 around and at least aim it at the field with reasonable accuracy. My feet are actually shuddering on the rudder pedals as I ease back on the throttles and begin the descent. McCabe frequently calls off the air speed, which is, maddeningly, always too fast or too slow. When he drops the flaps, I shove the nose down so violently that our attitude becomes nearly a straight dive. McCabe moans in protest. I haul back on the control wheel. We instantly balloon upward and hang ridiculously in a half stall. I shove the nose down again and repeat the entire sequence of ugly gyrations until we swoop over some telephone wires and wobble down toward the black cinder field.
This time I am determined there will be no more bouncing. I will astonish McCabe with the featherlike touch of our wheels.
As the edge of the field slides beneath the nose, I pull back on the throttles. The engines sputter and backfire. I wait, holding the glide nicely. I do not see McCabe’s hands creep forward along his legs until they are only a few inches from the control wheel. He must allow me actually to make the landing or the whole session is meaningless—but he too has a strong sense of self-preservation.
I have not reckoned with the powerful psychological aftereffect of the previous landings. Now, suddenly, fear of repeating the debacle dominates my reactions. Earth-shy, I level off a good thirty feet above the swiftly passing cinders. Even McCabe is robbed of time to avert the crisis. The DC-2 hesitates as if bewildered by this giddy height and, abandoning all hope, stops flying instantly. Luckily I have kept the wings level, for the descent is as direct as an elevator’s. There is no energy left for bouncing. We hit on all three points with a soul-shattering thump.
I am quite defeated. The sound of the landing is still echoing in my ears as I struggle at least to keep the ship rolling in a straight line. The sound was like a very bad accident in a large hotel kitchen.
“That,” says McCabe, massaging his back, “was not a landing. It was an arrival.”
The newer sailplanes you can't spin and can barely stall.
Loved flying that plane ....was whistling along a wonderful cloudstreet west of Pearson right at cloud base in perfect lift and had to duck as what looked like baseballs coming at me in dozens.
Monarch butterflies using the same lift to migrate ....bit of a shocker that was.
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