The bed sways violently and I am rocked awake from fitful sleep, as if an earthquake just hit.  Keenly aware that a stranger has just crawled into the lower bunk, I quietly feel for my phone that I have tucked under the pillow.  It lights up at the tap of a button, and I can see that it is 1:42 am.  Because I have a paranoia about forgetting to set an alarm, I scroll to the alarm page on my phone to check.  Yep, it’s set to 6:00 am and it is “ON”.

Now fully awake, with the help of the noisy AC buzzing near my head, I begin to wonder who is underneath me.  I try to push the noise and my curiosity to the side so that I can return to my shallow rest, when a third factor develops: I need to relieve my bladder.  “Great!” I am thinking.  I crawl to the foot end of the bunk, firmly grasp the foot board, and swing one leg over.  My toes reach down in search of a foothold on the side of the bunk, and contact.  Once in place, I swing my other leg over and my foot begins a wild hunt for something sturdy to step onto.  Another step, the nearby bunk, how far down is the floor?  I can’t see a thing.  I feel a stool conveniently placed next to the beds and I make it to the floor safely.  Wow, 34 and I’m sleeping in a bunk-bed.  This was fun when I was a kid.  Now, it’s just scary.  I mean, I could break my ankle and have to take time off of work just from getting out of bed.  Next time I’ll have to remember not to drink too much water too late.

Returning from the bathroom, I see the strangers face illuminated by the light emitted from her cell phone.  “Hey, I’m Tonia.”  “Hi, Kimberly.”  “Okay, goodnight.”  “Night.”  And I clamor back up to the top bunk.  Twelve beds in this apartment and my bunkmate is the only one that shows up tonight.  What gives?

5:47 am and I’m awake again.  Not shaken awake this time, just anxious to get home.  I pluck up my phone from under the pillow to turn off the alarm.  As I get out from under the covers, I pull them up and straighten them out, shaking the whole bunk vigorously to Kimberly’s agitation, I’m sure.  I carefully climb down.  At least there is a sliver of dim light coming through the window to show me the way.  In and out of the shower and I dress back in my uniform that reeks from 5 straight days of wearing it in the cockpit.  But, I have to wear it so that I can get through security and onto the plane with ease.  How is a stinky uniform better than clean jeans and a clean tee-shirt?  Beats me.

I walk out of the Crash Pad leaving it completely void of any evidence that I was ever there even though it’ll be only three days until my return.

As a flight instructor, you never know who you might get paired up with for a lesson. You could get the lackadaisical, rich guy whose only motive for taking flight lessons is that he may get a chance to answer his cell phone whilst doing the walk-around so that he can say to the caller ” I can’t talk right at this moment, for I am about to engage in flight,” and won’t that be impressive. Then there is the youthful, eager student who is raring to learn. This is my favorite. It is so easy to teach a pupil who is willing to be taught. It’s as if the top of their head is held in place with a hinge, and you only need to open it up and pour the information in for learning to take place. Then there is the airline pilot who wants to maintain currency in the “little ones.” This is the student voted most likely to risk your life. Coming in for landing, the airline pilot will always flare 20 feet high, let the airspeed bleed off, and slam it into the pavement with an enormous thud. As long as they are not going to destroy me or the airplane in the process, I let the scenario play out. Afterwards, I feel better knowing that, as he is flying overhead at FL400, zooming across the sky at m.8, maybe he is thinking of that female flight instructor who had a better handle on the little Cessna down here.

One of the coolest pilots I was privileged to fly with was John, a lieutenant colonel in the US Air Force. Not long before we met, John was flying F15s out of Nellis AFB. He had recently been promoted to a desk job, the downfall of all aging military jet pilots. His new assignment put him in charge of a fleet of unmanned ac (aircraft) and the battalion of remote pilots at the controls. I found it interesting that, as these pilots sat in a dark room in Las Vegas, the ac they flew were half way around the world, taking pictures and relaying images back to base. According to John, it is somewhat difficult to pilot an unmanned ac. Even though it is equipped with cameras so that the pilot can see what is happening, there is a split-second delay that makes flaring for landing a bit tricky. Not to mention, the longer a pilot goes without experiencing actual flight, the more rusty he/she becomes at maneuvering. They get detached from the characteristics of flight. To keep up his skills, John would fly with me at least twice a month.

I loved flying with John. His company was not particularly stimulating, nor his stories amusing. Mostly, he was a quiet man. But, it made me feel important that this experienced military pilot would choose to have me for his instructor. Don’t let me fool you, it could hardly be considered instruction. Sure, he had to know what buttons to push and what he might expect to happen when he pushed them, but as far as the flying went, John was as smooth as they come. He didn’t need to pay the extra $40 per hour for an instructor. After so many years in a single-seat fighter, I think he liked having the company.

One night, after a long, lesson-filled day, John stopped in for an unscheduled visit. He was hoping to log some nighttime takeoffs and landings in an effort to maintain night currency. I hated to say no to flying. Even more, I hated to say no to money. Ultimately, I couldn’t say no to John. I scanned over the computer screen with my sleep-craving eyes and found an open spot. One of the DA40s was available. I clicked a few keys and a purple box popped up on the screen showing that neither I nor 181DF would be available for the next 2 hours. I handed the ac book to John and out the door he skipped with me dragging behind.

The plan was to fly up to Mesquite, an uncontrolled airport about 30 minutes flight to the north. The airport is just outside of Mesquite’s city lights so that, on arrival, you are aiming down into a pitch-black pit. Even when you click the mic 5 times over the intercom frequency and the runway edges lights come on, you still have no concept of where the ground is. The lights just make two parallel lines in space so that you may get properly aligned as you descend past the lights and into the abyss. At the last seconds, the landing light reaches out to the runway, indicating the bleak existence of terra firm, and we are saved from descending into the underworld.

After 3 times around in the pattern, John was current and, being a gentleman, nudged me awake and offered up the controls. I accepted and took the yoke on downwind. A standard pattern and there we were on final-ish. I couldn’t quite get the centerline to stay put. Not enough wind correction, uh, then it’s too much. Regardless of my horizontal alignment, I clumsily let the airplane continue on a death-descent. Next, I’m too high. I hadn’t made the connection between fatigue and my poor performance, and I mistakenly assumed that I was capable of getting situated before we met the ground. I put it in a heavy slip to fix the altitude problem, but I couldn’t manage the centerline issue simultaneously and we wandered to the left again. Then, back on the glide path, I tried to focus on the centerline and, oops, she’s too slow. Two hundred feet of air remained below us and John just sat there, witnessing the whole awful approach, not saying a word; I hadn’t gotten close enough to gone-too-far for him to be bothered. I think he was just enjoying the show.

About 30 feet off the ground, I had the left wing low even though the crosswind was from the right; I hadn’t held my airspeed +/- 10 knots since we were parked back at the flight school; and I was lined up with the runway’s edge. I was delusional. Besides that, I would be so embarrassed if I had to go-around with my “student” there to see. At the last second, in a calm and quiet, yet commanding voice, John told me to go-around. I took a deep breath, hoping to suck back my pride that had just spilled out. I added full power and went around.

That was enough to wake me out of my stupor. I apologized for my bad performance and humbly ask for another chance. He allowed it. I made the touch-and-go with no added embarrassment, but it was too late to earn points for a greaser. We turned back toward the Vegas lights. I wallowed in the dark silence of my humiliation all the way home. It would take a miracle to convince him to fly with me again after that night. But, two weeks later, there on the computer screen, was his name in a purple, 2-hour block on my schedule. The flight was uneventful and there was no mention of my poor judgment during the night flight in Mesquite. I had learned my lesson and he understood. We have all been tired and we have all made bad judgment calls. I’m just thankful that I had a friend there to wake me up before I did something I would regret, or worse.

I sit gazing in the mirror as all of the half-naked dancers hurry around me, changing, doing makeup, going over steps, chit-chatting. The dressing tables are lined with flowers and gifts, standard for closing night. This will be my last performance, very last, and I marinate in the atmosphere. I take my time applying makeup, being sure to color my lips extra dark red so that I don’t look washed out on stage. You can never have too much eyeliner. Under the stage lights, even an excessive amount looks natural. I do my hair up in a twist, extra tight to make it through a hat piece and lots of pirouettes. I just used the entire sheet of bobby-pins and a half can of hairspray. Dancers stop by to give hugs and thanks for all the hard work during rehearsals. The noise comes in through my ears and ricochets inside my head as the colorful costumes make streaking patterns behind me through the mirror.

Knowing that the end is near, that this will be the last time I look out into an audience from the stage, the routine becomes a bit much for me. I can feel the tears welling up in my newly made-up eyes. I put on my tights, my dress and my dance shoes. I grab my hat and head down to the stage a little early. There are a few dancers on the stage, stretching before the show starts, and I join in on the silent meditation. I can hear the din of the theatre crowd making their way to their seats on the other side of the curtain. Countdown to the show’s start. I am performing in the first three numbers, a montage of oldies cleverly put together by my favorite choreographer, in which the middle number is a quirky duet, just Robert and yours truly.

The opening-number dancers are on stage now and the stage hands are motioning for us to take our places as they step off stage, into the wings. They look like Gap employees, dressed head-to-toe in black and sporting a headset. I step up and take my place front and center as the theatre lighting slowly dims to pitch black. I hear the announcements begin to play, “Welcome to the Lyceum Theatre…” I stand silent and fixed, waiting for the lights to come up, the music to play, and for the curtain to open. Then, I feel a draft.

Oh my god, I forgot to put on my panties. Beads of sweat start building on my face, even before the lights are up, even before I start moving. Maybe they won’t notice. Images of the dance steps pass through my memory, I do a hand stand right before I straddle Robert upside down and then he proceeds to swing me around like a ragdoll. Surely they will notice! I look toward one of the stagehands and give the signal to hold the curtain, assuming that waving your arms frantically and running off stage is the industry recognized signal. I run past the dancers waiting in the wings, back to the dressing room, turn my bag upside down, emptying its entire contents onto the floor. I dig through the pile for a sign of black spandex material, so small, so small, where are you? The other dancers are looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind. Ah ha! I jump up with the grace-saving undies, hop into them, I’m pretty sure with both feet simultaneously, (and you thought it couldn’t be done, I know you’ve tried), as I rush back onto stage and back on my mark. Not a moment passes before the curtain parts, the music starts and the lights come up. Show-time!