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.

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.

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!

This is a typical San Diego night complete with warm air and an unobstructed sky. The temperature did not fluctuate more than 2 degrees the entire day and settles at 70 for the remainder of the night. All day there was a slight on-shore breeze that has now switched to an off-shore direction. I hope it stays this way for a couple of hours into the sunrise tomorrow. Being so far north of the city, thus not washed-out by the illumination of the city lights, and teetering on the edge of the earth invites every star to pop right out of the sky and into our world. The porch light is turned off and we allow time for our eyes to adjust to the natural starlight. Within a couple of minutes we can see detail again.

I’m trying to balance on the Indo board, a small wood plank set on top of a cylinder lying on its side. The purpose is to gain balance. I get the impression that its victims mostly gain bruises, scratches, and in some cases broken bones. The gizmo is unbelievably difficult to handle, and I think you need to have better balance than an avid surfer to even attempt it. I cheat and use the wall as a crutch. Scott goes on about who’s sleeping with who at The Diner. Capt. lights up another cigarette.

From a distance we hear the telling whistle of a locomotive. The heaviness of the subdued thundering coming our way tells us it is not just a small, 6-car commuter train, but a long and weighty freight train. Scott yells at us to follow as he runs toward the gate. We run across the street and through the small grass park toward the tracks. We make it just in time to catch the second half of the train go by. Scott stands 2 feet back from the cars as they rush by at full speed and he encourages us to join him. I step up to within 3 feet, that is close enough for me. The cars go by so fast that everything is a blur — it’s impossible to focus. My world shakes and my whole body vibrates in sync with the mound of rocks I am standing on, the same rocks that the track ties are buried in. The sound is deafening. The wind lifts the hair from my neck. The thrill makes the hair on my body stand up. I can feel the wind wisp around each strand and it’s like the wind is under my skin. I look to my left and see Scott’s face smiling back at me. It is so strange have my vision split into two worlds: one world so fast it is impossible to grasp; the other still and reassuring. I look to my right and I see Capt. smiling. I look forward again, blured, and realize I am smiling.

As the last car rushes past, my world comes back. I can focus on the mini-mart across the street and I look to see the caboose swiftly disappear around a curve as its horn blows us a farewell toot. What remains is the adrenaline rush. I will my noodly legs to carry me back to the porch. Capt. picks up his still-burning cigarette and resumes puffing. The conversation picks up right where it fell off. The only noticeable difference is the wide smiles we all wear.

My very first flight lesson began with the walk-around.  I met my father at the general aviation airport.  We walked out to the smallest airplane on the field, a 2-seat, propeller driven kite called a Cessna 152.  Growing up my father had taken me on a number of flights in small airplanes, but never this tiny.  He always sat on the left side, so I went around to the right of the 152 to get in.

“You’ll be sitting on the left side,” he said.

“Oh, cool.”

“But before you get in, you have to do the walk around.”

He removed a clear tube from his flight case and invited me to join him under the left wing.  He instructed me how to check the fuel at various points.  Filling the clear tube with fuel at each point allows you to look for contaminants such as water or rust.  He showed me how to check the oil level and add oil if needed.  How to feel the leading edges of the propeller blade to ensure it is not damaged.  How to get a good look into the fuel tanks to verify there is, in fact, fuel in there.  Check the brakes, the body, the ailerons, flaps and rudder.  Untie the tie-downs.  You must do this if you value your image as a pilot.  There can’t be anything, outside of dangerous, more embarrassing than trying to taxi with the plane chained to the ground.  Remove any overnight gear like a pitot tube cover.  Wash the windshield.  Check that the tires are properly inflated and that there are no bald spots.  Etc.  Can we just go fly already!  When we finished, he emphasized the importance of developing a routine.

“It does not matter in what order you do it, as long as you do it the same every time!” he stressed.

In the beginning the walk-around takes up to 30 minutes.  After watching me a few times to make sure I didn’t miss anything, my father began scheduling his lessons to begin 30 minutes into my scheduled airplane rental time.  That way he didn’t have to watch me do the same thing over and over again.  It’s hard to maintain discipline when your instructor can’t even stand to do it anymore.  Nowadays, I’ve got it down to 3 minutes.  That’s pretty impressive considering the airplane I fly now is over thirty times the size of the first one.

Even though the plane is much bigger now, I still start from the front left side, moving to the nose and around clockwise.  Sometimes there will be equipment in my way, preventing me from starting in the same place.  I look to the right and consider starting around counter-clockwise.  Nope.  For some reason I have to wait or go around so that I can start at my standard launch point and do my routine walk.

There are some days I intentionally arrive early.  Maybe it’s a clear morning just before sunrise, quiet with no wind.  The mist has just lifted and it’s tell-tale dew is evident on the airplane.  Or, possibly it’s a warm afternoon with a picturesque sunset about to make show.  I stow my bags and flight case in the airplane and hurry outside for a walk.  I duck under the jet-bridge to get to the front left side.  I look up to make sure the windshield is not cracked and notice the blue sky reflected in the glass.  If it’s dirty there is somebody else to wash it now.  I grip the nose-gear doors to see if they will wiggle and check the wheel assembly and lights.  No longer is the engine and propeller up here.  The jets are at the back of the plane now, out of reach.  Someone else checks and fills the oil.  The nose cone is nice and round, no dents nor debris or the radar might show erroneous echoes.  I look at the blue sky, still there.  Look at the way the colors reflect off of the airport terminal windows.  I wave to the toddler with his hands and nose pressed up to the glass.  Look down the side of the airplane to see a straight body, no buckles, perfectly cylindrical.  Under the belly is grease free, nice, this one must have just been washed.  All of the lower antennas intact.  Standing at the place where the wing meets the fuselage I look all the way to the wingtip, tapered and sleek.  Check the main gear, which supports most of the weight and endures landing after landing.  Lights are on.  Control surfaces are in line.  All static wicks are accounted for and associated ground straps are not frayed.  Another look into the infinite blue while enjoying the fresh air, maybe a lingering hint of jet fuel fumes.  And on around clockwise until I have regretfully finished my task and must return to the cockpit and go fly.

“Are you allergic to any drugs?”

“Not that I know of”

“Are you taking any medication right now?”

“No”

“When was your last period?”

I guess she recognizes my gender. “October 20.”

“So, you are not pregnant?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Are you on birth control?”

What the heck does this have to do with a head cold? “No”

“So, you are a flight attendant?”

I am used to this assumption, and in front of flight attendants I am polite enough to pretend that it doesn’t bother me.

“No, I am a pilot.”  And, if you bothered checking my identification, you would not have made that mistake.  As it is, you have no idea if I am who I say I am.

“The doctor will be right with you.”

All I want is the diagnosis that I know I will get.  I have suffered a seasonal cold every year since, well probably birth, not that I can remember that far back.  I know the symptoms.  I don’t have a fever, so I know it’s not swine flu.  But, I have called in sick too many times this year and I fear a meeting with the chief pilot is in my near future.  I need a doctor’s written diagnosis to prove that I am, in fact, sick and not just playing hooky from work (which is why I called in sick the last 4 times).  I dragged myself out of bed, showered, put on descent close for an outing, and I am hoping this won’t take long.  I really want to get back home, back into my pj’s and finish watching “Lost: Season 4″ on instant Netflix.

The doctor walks in and introduces himself.  Nice guy.  He is of Indian descent, and though he is trying to mask his accent, it pops into his speech here and there.  I am so easily amused.  I laugh at almost everything.  I laugh myself into tears when I watch AFV (my all-time favorite TV show!)  Oddly, accents are particularly amusing to me.  His veiled speech puts a smile on my face.  He must think I am on some good cold medicine.

He looks at my file that was just created 15 minutes ago.  He looks in my mouth, back to my throat, and in my ears.

“I can see yoo haf a cold.  Do yoor ears bother yoo?”

“The left is a bit congested.  It’s mostly just in my nose.”

“How about yoo throat?  Is there pain?”

“No, not really.  I’ve been sipping on ginger and honey tea that my boyfriend makes.”

“Wheen I look at yoor throat, I can see the mucus steeking to the back.  Yes, I can see the steeky stuff.  This is technical doctors talk.”

He has a sense of humor, too.  That’s good.

“Yoo doo not have the floo, jus a seemple cold.  It is very common.  Especially for flight attendants.  You are always around so many people, all of the time.”

Here we go again.  I don’t bother correcting him.  He goes on and on about getting enough rest; the effects of different over-the-counter drugs and how they will not cure my cold, but alleviate the symptoms; about proper hygiene.  He not only assumes I am a flight attendant, but a clueless human being to boot.  Just give me my get-out-of-jail-free card and I’ll get back home to get that oh so important rest you keep insisting on.

In my 20s I was like most young adults, full of grit and gusto, ready to take on any person willing to question my competence.  I don’t have that kind of energy anymore.  I’ve given up on proving myself to strangers.  And, I have found there are advantages to letting men continue to believe that women are intellectually inferior, lack common sense, and are all too often at the mercy of our emotions, therefore we are always in need of a man’s profound insight and heroic assistance.

Without saying another word to this quirky doctor I take my written diagnosis, free lozenges and free sample of high-dosage ibuprofen (a bonus I hadn’t counted on), and I go back to the curb where my boyfriend is waiting patiently to drive me home.  During the drive he offers to wash my car and change the oil.  He thinks it will make me feel better, and it does.

I was watching Wanda Sykes the other day. She mentioned something about getting older and the new meaning of having to pee being HAVING TO PEE NOW!, and it occurred to me that I might be getting older as well, because I could relate. But, why is it never when you are 2 steps from a toilet? Why is it when I am wearing something like button-up coveralls over full tights, carrying groceries bags on both arms, and having to unlock 3 or more deadbolts enroute to my bathroom? And then here comes my disabled neighbor boy wanting to chat.

I’m sitting at home, alone (boyfriend is working), getting crazy bored when I recall that a fellow pilot is throwing a party. He lives only a short 20 minute drive from me. He is in his mid-twenties, a bit young, but has a descent sense of humor, and he doesn’t seem like a creepy guy that will to try to convince me to drink his punch and then tell me I am too drunk to go home. Maybe there will be good music, descent wine and a nice cheese spread. This delusion gets me motivated. I text to get the directions and make the drive.

I park and walk up the porch steps. The plastic deck chair with a leg missing should have been my cue to get back in my car and drive home. But I knock anyway. Loud noises from inside confirm that I am, in fact, at the right address, yet nobody comes to answer the door. Instead, I let myself in. There, in the mostly empty living room, sits a beige, leather sofa on its last leg, held together with duct tape. The only flat surface, aside from the dirty floor, is a tv-tray entirely hidden with stacked beer cans. The floor around the tray is used for the over-spill. The walls are void of decoration. The only embellishments are the food and Kool-aid stains and the randomly spaced holes of differing sizes. I’m positive one hole was made with a human head. I get an overwhelming sense of de ja vu. Then it occurs to me that I had seen a place like this when I was 18 and curious about frat parties. Many beers delivered to me and a blow job delivered to a complete stranger cured me of that curiosity instantly, yet here I am again.

All of the party-goers are in the dining room playing beer pong. If you haven’t played, here’s the short: you toss a ping-pong ball across the table toward arranged cups full of beer. If it lands in a cup, the opponent has to drink the beer in that cup and remove it from the table. The ball mostly lands on the ground and rolls under the couch with the cob-webs and dried spaghetti sauce. Whichever team drinks all their beers first loses, in more than 1 way. This game should be played outside due to the high occurrences of spills and splashes. However, I don’t think the occupants cared, and I’m sure that any spills would have a marginal effect on the overall sanitary condition of this place, not to mention the smell.

Aside from PBR, the drink being served is home-made jungle-juice. The food is cocktail wieners in bread blankets. I live by the glass half full theory, so at least there is food. I sign myself up for a game of beer pong and grab a cup of juice while I wait. I am surrounded by a small sample of the 18-25 year-olds that work for the airlines. The host, and the only person at the party who I know, is busy sucking face with a not-so-cute flight attendant from another airline. Later I will lie to him on a number of accounts, “yeah, I had a great time, yeah she was really cute, no I can’t come over this weekend, because I’m wallpapering.” My teammate is a 23 year old pilot for Colgan, eager to make a play on the only “older woman” in the room. Our opponents are two young and attractive flight attendants. Instantly, a small part of me begins to detest these girls just for being young and having their 20′s ahead of them. Between each toss the girls grope one another as if to imply there is a heated attraction between them. Of course, this was only show for the boys in the room. This also makes me stop hating them and start to pity them. I wonder what is wrong with these two girls that they feel the need to make over-the-top sexually suggestive outbursts in order to snag a guy. I think their mother’s should have been more careful to nurture their self esteems. And for the men reading this, I know you think this is “so hot,” but it will almost always end with you being disappointed. If they are straight, then the show never progresses past groping (except maybe in your head). Alternatively, if they are in fact lesbians, then you will not be going to bed with either of them. Finally, your theory that bi-sexual women are into threesomes is a misconception. I want to tell the girls to realize the power they have over these boys already. The attraction was there as soon as they arrived, no need to play grab-ass with your crash-pad mate for attention. Just tell the one you want what it is that you want, and wa-la! done. Having no back-up, I decide to bite my tongue.

Tired of the display, I up my effort and score the last four cups, winning the game. Wanting to salvage what remains of my evening, I grab my jacket and head out the door and back to my car, and back to my apartment. After 18 minutes of driving, and only 8 blocks to go, I’m sitting at a red light when an overwhelming sensation passes over my bladder. I realize that I hadn’t peed since before I left my apartment earlier. I was afraid of catching something if I used the bathroom back at the house. Now, I NEED TO PEE! I had to make a decision: 1- I could get out of the car and pee in the street or a nearby bush; 2- I could pee right there in the driver’s seat to avoid being caught peeing in public; or 3- I could run this red light and increase my chances of making it home to pee. This is never a dilemma for men. They always choose to publicly urinate, emergency or not. I run the red light. Speeding down the street, I make it to my driveway in a minute flat, rush out of the car, run up the steps. I do the peepee dance holding my hoo-hoo as I juggle to unlock the front entrance door, followed by the 2 locks on my front door. Pee is seeping out as I am running and undoing my jeans simultaneously. Touchdown! I make it to the toilet with only minimal soiling.

As I sit here relieving myself, having regained my wits, I review the options once again and realize I probably didn’t make the best decision. I replay the last 3 minutes in my head, but differently this time. I imagine running the red light, getting a cops attention, and speeding toward home as the cop is in hot pursuit. But I don’t pull over, I can’t. I drive all the way to my apartment where I jump out and run toward the entrance.  The cop gets out and points his gun at me, commanding me to halt. That’s when I stop, hold my hands in the air, and proceed to pee in my pants right as the 36-year-old neighbor comes out to see what’s going on.

During the takeoff roll and through the takeoff, my routine, when I am the monitoring pilot, is to watch the gauges and airspeed.  I scan over the engine indications to ensure everything stays within the desired range, and then glance at the airspeed indicator to call out airspeeds to the CA, the flying pilot.  The sunset is so marvelous, that I am powerless in an attempt to put it out of my thoughts and focus solely on my pilot duties.  Instead I resolve to include it in my scan.  So, I check the gauges, the airspeed, the sunset, and back to the gauges.  Just as I am calling V1 and Rotate, I look over and only a pencil-line of the glowing sun remains on the horizon.  It is that split second right before it disappears completely.  But instead of the sun disappearing, the CA pulls back on the control yoke, rotating the airplane and as we take flight, the sun starts to grow larger.  It begins to rise.

I know how geometry works, but to actually see the effect of a change in perspective on the view of the sun is quite astounding.  It is almost unbelievable that I am watching the sun rise in the western sky.  All the while, we are executing a slightly complicated departure procedure.  At 400 feet off the ground, about 5 seconds, we must turn 30 degrees to the left, then when we reach a distance of 2.3 nautical miles from the airports VOR (basically a 360 degree radio beacon that allows us to navigate using VHF frequencies), which typically occurs right when we finish the first turn, we must turn back to the right, 30 degrees.  We’ll have to level off at the assigned altitude, and I need to communicate with the controller who will give us new clearances, usually containing another altitude, a different heading, or a new frequency, or a combination of the three.  Add to this the flying pilot commanding a number of things be switched on/off, stowed, turned, flipped or shutdown, and then I’ll need to confirm it all with another checklist.  All considered, it’s really the monitoring pilot that has the hardest job.  The fortunate thing, for all of the people aboard the airplane, is that we have done this same exact routine twice already today, right after we did it thousands of times prior to today.  Some think that flying must be exciting and adventurous, but it is actually repetitive and mundane.  It is not the flying, but the view that makes my job spectacular.

I make a comment here and there, but apparently my experience is very different from the CA’s whom is sharing the exact same view.  He is too wrapped up in thoughts of his 7 month-old going to sleep without him, yet again.  I want to sympathize with him, but I can’t waste this rare opportunity for transcendence.  I choose to stay in my own world and let him dwell in his.

So, back to the sunset, I mean sunrise.  The sun is full again and brighter now.  We level off at cruising altitude, and the confusing contradiction comes to a halt, almost.  The sun is no longer rising and it will begin to set once again.  However, due to our westward course, we will in effect slow the suns second departure from this day.  This makes for a long lasting colorful display of ever changing hues and cloud formations.  The sun puts a bright gold ring around each cloud as it passes underneath them, not only from the sun’s descent, but also from our planes movement across the ground.  The sky is saturated in a range of colors from orange, to crimson, to purple to yellow.  This time, when the sun sets, it does not rise again.  Well, not until the next morning and in its expected place.  The memory is burned into my retinas.

I hate to try to be so poetic about something you must witness yourself to appreciate.  But, I can’t help myself.  It truly was a magical sunset/rise/set that I may never get to witness ever again.

Since I can remember, and still today, I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.  Yet, I must have had some direction, because here I am flying airplanes for a living.  It’s not a job that you just fall into.  This is the story of how I became a pilot.

I was a typical, hot-headed young adult.  At 21 years of age I knew that the world was mine for the taking.  I had read the philosophies of Nietzsche and Thoreau;  I was a certified SCUBA diver; I had traveled out of the country a number of times; I sailed to Catalina Island and back; I swam with the manatees in Crystal River, FL; I survived a 14-day survival course, including 3 days in the wilderness alone with no food; not to mention surviving six months of sleeping on couches, on floors, and on the beach only because I wanted to know what would happen if I stopped working.  I began to realize that this method of developing experience, even though it sounds “cool,” did not conform to the traditional method that, presumably, most of my peers were conceding to.  Most notably in their case, going to a university and earning a degree.  Whatever.  Onto more pressing issues like, what was my next big adventure going to be?  I asked my step-dad if he would teach me to fly.  He loves to tell this story, and it always ends with “and you could have knocked me over with a feather!”  His first suggestion to me was that I go to San Diego Mesa Community College and sign up for the aviation classes.  You see, there is always a knowledge test associated with every FAA (Federal Aviation Administration) check-ride.  If you can get the knowledge test out of the way, the flight training goes much faster.  Also, he thought this would spur my interest in school.

I asked my step-dad to teach me to fly because he was the only flight instructor I knew.  Being a flight instructor means he can take the average Joe off the street, Joe having no prior experience in airplanes, (save the time he flew to Orlando in a Boeing-737 to visit his grandmother) and my step-dad can provide him with the knowledge and experience required to take a checkride with the FAA to become a Private Pilot.  And, if Joe chooses to continue, he can stay with my step-dad (or any other instructor) all the way to the level of an Airline Transport Pilot with Instrument and Multi-engine privileges.  This does not allow Joe to fly a jumbo jet for a major airline, which is a common misconception.  This just qualifies Joe to apply for a job at an airline, wherein the airline will train and qualify Joe to fly a particular airplane.  If he does not meet the flight time requirment for the airline job, he will usually do one of two things before applying.  One option is continue training and get the required knowledge and experience needed to become a Certified Flight Instructor himself.  Then, Joe can earn money and build flight time working as a freelance flight instructor, or he can apply to one of the many flight schools in the area.  The second option is to find work doing various jobs such as banner towing or pipeline surveillance.  As for myself, I chose to do a combination of the two, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

So, continuing on with my story.  The only reason I returned to college was on the advice of my step-dad.  I signed up for the two pilot-oriented classes they offered, as well as a handful of beginner level dance classes.  After that first semester, I had my Private Pilot Knowledge Test out of the way and my new love for dance underfoot.  I chasséd into the next semester with intermediate level jazz classes, a dance performance focused class, modern dance and yoga, nothing academic.  This was not what my step-dad had in mind, but his complaints were stifled by the fact that I was still taking flight lessons.

Money was difficult to accrue, and renting an airplane for flight lessons is expensive, so the pace to earning my Private Pilot Certification was slow.  Yet, this was an ideal situation for me due to the amount of energy and concentration that I was devoting to becoming, technique-wise, an average dancer.  My enthusiasm for the sport always outweighed my talent.  Surprisingly, with one year of training (for dance) I was performing at the Lyceum Theatre in Downtown San Diego.  This sounds much grander than the reality of the situation.  Every semester the Mesa College Dance Department would put on a performance to showcase that semester’s choreographers and dancers.  The Mesa College Theatre was the obvious venue for the show, and had been for many years.  However, the director of the Mesa College Dance Department was able to book the Lyceum Theatre due to her connections with the theatres management.  For every semester that I auditioned and was cast in the show, we performed at the Lyceum.

To add to my dance experience at Mesa, I started to take classes off campus.  I was offered a scholarship at the Academy of Performing Arts, which I declined (due to the time conflicts with my flight training.)  I met many interesting people who made dance their lives, typically from a very early age.  Because of my ties with these individuals, I was able to expand my dance credentials to include performances at small venues around San Diego.  I also signed up for a number of different workshops from well known choreographers and dance companies that came through town.  Just for kicks, I auditioned for the new jazz dance company “Fusion.”  I was chosen to join the company, and I did rehearse and perform with the company for a short time.  But again, because of time conflicts with my other life, I had to quit.

When I finally finished flight training and passed the FAA check-ride, I had that shiny Private Pilot Certificate in my fingers.  Immediately my step-dad asked me, “when’s the next lesson?”  You could have knocked me over with a feather.  Here, I thought I was finished.  As a Private Pilot I was privileged to fly any airplane I was qualified in (the one I trained in was a Cessna-152, two-seat, single-engine airplane—not exceedingly impressive,) and take passengers with me, (in my case one passenger).  Only, I could not fly into clouds and I could not fly airplanes for income.  When he asked when the next lesson was going to take place, he meant for me to continue on to get my Instrument Rating, then a Commercial Pilot Certificate, then a Multi-engine Rating, and so forth and so on.  He also made it clear that if I were going to be serious about flying and make it a career, or pursue a career in any field for that matter, I would need a bachelor’s degree of some sort.  It didn’t matter what the title of the degree was, just the evidence that I set out to achieve a goal and reached that goal would be good enough to get me in the figurative door.  That’s when I altered my curriculum at the community college to incorporate general education classes and I set the goal to finish an associate’s degree.

Juggling parallel lives of flying and dancing with work was manageable, but my life became more constricted when academics were thrown in.  Flight training became more difficult.  The knowledge required for the certificates and ratings became increasingly more technical, therefore more time was required for studying.  With dance I had reached a plateau.  I needed to step-it-up or be contented with the level of technique I had achieved.  Big decisions are difficult and time-consuming endeavors for me.  Faced with a tough decision, I tend to take a lot of time contemplating which path to take.  Imagine, for a moment, that you decide to go for a walk in the forest one spring morning.  You come to a fork in the path.  Which way do you go?  Well, if that is me standing there, I would have to sit down and watch summer, autumn, and winter pass before I could decide which path is better.  Sometimes, it’s a whole lot easier to move forward blindfolded.

After much consideration and lost sleep, I chose what I believed to be the more secure career, flying.  I reduced the amount of dance classes per week.  I took up running as the alternative exercise because it was less time consuming.  As a result, I was able to dedicate more time to academics.  By the time I finished my associate’s degree I was also a Certified Commercial Pilot with Instrument and Multi-engine privileges.  But, for money, I was working as a bartender.  It turns out that providing an addictive substance to the public is a very efficient way to earn money.  Still, I wanted to be more involved with the aviation world.  The FAA representative that had tested me for all of my certificates and ratings thus far was also a captain for a major airline.  In addition, he ran an LLC that provided the planes, sometimes a helicopter, and the pilots necessary to broadcast morning and evening traffic reports over radio stations in three separate cities, including San Diego.  He had an opening for an Operations Coordinator.  I jumped on this opportunity and made it my second job.  The idea, I’ll remind you, for a career-bound pilot is to log as many flight hours as possible.  It is preferred that you not pay for the flight time, rather that you be paid for flying.  As the Operations Coordinator, a job likened to an Administrative Assistant, I pushed my way into the airplanes and I was able to log some hours before I moved on.

In addition to accenting my employment with aviation related work, I decided to enroll in Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University where I could attain a bachelor’s degree.  One advantage to attending this particular school is the added edge of having a related degree when applying for an airline job.  Historically, most airline pilots came from a military flying background, which made them competitive in the field.  I have no military experience, so my tactic was to earn a degree from an accredited aeronautical university.  Second, aside from the two main campuses in Prescott, AZ and Daytona Beach, FL, Embry-Riddle has campuses all over the United States, including three locations in San Diego.  Therefore, I would not have to relocate whilst in the midst of training for my Flight Instructor Certificate.  Sold.

Needless to say, my parents were thrilled that I was pursuing flying seriously.  Aside from the obvious reasons, they now had an easy time picking out Birthday gifts for me.  This year was extra special.  My step-dad researched a Flight School just north of Los Angeles, at Santa Paula Airport.  They paid for me to take lessons in a tailwheel airplane and get a tailwheel endorsement in my logbook.  These were not just ordinary flight lessons, they were aerobatic flight lessons.  Loops, rolls, inverted flying, and my favorite, spins (which happens to be the most exciting maneuver that flight instructor candidates practice.)  Technically a spin is an aggravated stall where one wing is more stalled than the other, resulting in a descending corkscrew pattern.  Or, it’s just as it sounds, a spin.  Flight instructor candidates are required to demonstrate entry into and recovery from a spin during the check-ride owing to the likelihood of prospective students inadvertently entering a spin during standard maneuver training.

Ironically, I drove up the night prior to my first lesson and bunkered down in a hotel room excited for the next morning.  When I awoke and switched on the news, there on the television was a live broadcast of the World Trade Center towers up in flames.  The newscasters were saying that the Twin Towers had been bombed.  I didn’t understand what was happening, and I couldn’t be sure that this was not a prank of some sort.  Being so far removed from New York and the financial industry, I wasn’t aware of the significance of what had happened.  I went to the flight school-3000 miles from the WTC, at an airport so small that it does not have a control tower-and the instructor sent me home because every single airport, big and small, across the entire country had been immediately closed. It was during the three hour drive home when the gravity of the situation began to set in.

I have neither the eloquence, nor the poetic sense to adequately discuss this massive event.  However, knowing the statistics of lost lives and infrastructure due to the attacks of 9/11 is part of being an American.  Even though large airports opened within a week after September 11, 2001, there was a huge toll on commercial airlines, and thousands of pilots lost their jobs.  In tandem, all general aviation airports remained closed for months.  Just for a moment, consider the effect this had on the integral commerce tied to these thousands of airports.  Airplane rentals, fuel suppliers, maintenance facilities, flight schools, cargo carriers, touring operations, even the restaurants located at these airports were prevented from conducting business.  It’s no wonder that hundreds of thousands of Americans lost their jobs and thousands of companies went bankrupt.

Eventually the airports came alive again and, not only was I able to take the aerobatic flight lessons, I was able to resume my regular flight training on my way to becoming a flight instructor, and ultimately, an airline pilot.  Though, during the aerobatic training, and for just a minute, I considered becoming a full-time aerobatic pilot.  Traveling around the world to execute my precision flight maneuvers in air shows.  Giving instruction during the down times.  Then the nausea struck, and I was back on track.

Bartending, as I had mentioned, was very lucrative.  But, I came to another crossroads, and a decision had to be made.  I graduated from Embry-Riddle with a BS.  In addition, I became a Certified Flight Instructor.  Two big accomplishments.  If I wanted to make it to the airlines, I was going to have to make some sacrifices.  $300 was an average night’s earnings from the bar.  At my day job, working for the traffic watch company, I was only paid $10 per hour whether I was flying or doing desk work.  Against all financial reasoning, I resigned from bartending so that I might spend all of my spare time at the airport in search of aviator wannabes willing to pay me $35 per hour for my vast experience (I’ve only logged about 500 hours of flight time thus far.)  This proved much harder than I expected.  I applied to all of the local flight schools only to learn that the median wage paid to a flight instructor was $10 per hour, regardless of the $60 per hour that the school collects from the students for your service.  The combination of too many desperate and willing flight instructors with a lack of available jobs made it necessary for me to broaden my search.  That’s when I considered moving to Las Vegas.

Not only were the flight schools paying instructors $16 per hour in Vegas, but the housing market was peeking.  First, I bought a townhouse (with an investment partner that shall remain nameless,) and then I was hired at a nearby flight school.  That might sound backward to most, but I figured if I couldn’t succeed as a pilot in Vegas, at least I could make a small fortune in real estate.  I did make a minuscule profit on the first property, but the market slowed and I got out of the second property before the value plummeted.  As of right now, I’m strictly a renter.

Working as a flight instructor suited me, and though the pay was low, the experience was priceless.  Instructing others turned out exactly as my mentors promised me it would.  I learned more while teaching than I had while being a student myself.  The key is to always be honest with your students.  If you are unsure of an answer to a question, look it up.  I did more research in the 16 months I instructed than in all of my college years.  The most gratifying moments while teaching were not the times when I, myself, gained knowledge, but when I could see that I had successfully imparted that knowledge onto someone else, and, in turn, they were able to use that knowledge effectively.  I assisted many individuals in becoming pilots.  In a way, I feel that I was repaying the debt I owe my step-father for all of the time and knowledge he selflessly gave to me.   I’m just paying it forward.

As much as I enjoyed instructing, I had to keep climbing upward.  The next company I worked for was a touring outfit that flew planes over the Grand Canyon and to destinations such as Bryce Canyon and Monument Valley.  We called ourselves an airline even though we were very far from it considering the airplanes we used, the regulations we skirted, the security level, etc.  Two pilots, a captain and a first officer, were required, but the airplanes only carried 19 passengers and were not pressurized, limiting our max altitude to 14,000 feet.  Even that was high considering that our job was to take people sightseeing.  Still, the dual-turbine prop, fixed gear, dash 6 Twin-Otter was by far the most impressive airplane I had ever flown.  And, probably the most fun airplane I will ever fly.  Most of the pilots there had the same outlook of privileged circumstance in spite of the pitiful pay, which made for a fun work environment and unforgettable after hours festivities.

In a matter of six short months I was back in the classroom for upgrade training.  I was moving to the left seat, the captain’s seat.  I took on the responsibility with pleasure.  It was very much like being an instructor again.  All of the first officers (right seat) were new to the company and to the airplane.  I also relished in the respect I was now afforded.  Nevertheless, at least once a day I was asked one of the following questions: Do you want to be an airline pilot?; do you ever want to fly a big plane?; or, you’re the pilot?  After eighteen months of this, I developed a complex regarding the size of my airplane and the insignificance of the operation.  In turn, I applied to the regional airline I currently work for.

After a 3-stage interview and 6 weeks of ground and simulator training, I was poised in the right seat at the controls of a 50 passenger jet.  This is where I have sat for the past 2.5 years.  So, each work day, I put on my tidy, black and white accoutrement and fly to destinations all over the United States, Mexico, Canada and the Caribbean.  I love the job.  Looking out over the world from above is, for lack of a better description, awesome.  I take advantage of my freedom to move around the country, and even travel abroad, for free.  The feeling that I can be this spontaneous suits me.  For instance, my sister called yesterday on the request of her 2-year-old daughter.  They are planning a pumpkin patch outing and my niece wanted to know if I’d go with.  I’m 3000 miles away, but I told them I’d have the next few days off, and if they’d wait an extra day to go, I’d fly out and help pick out some pumpkins.  How many people can do that?

With inspiration from Emerson, I came up with my own definition of “life: a soul’s chance to be stimulated by as many worldly things as one’s physical ability and mental inhibitions will allow.”  It is not living if I allow myself to become sedentary, comfortable, or complacent.  I do miss dancing.  A close friend of mine, (we met in my very first dance class 13 years ago,) inspires me to take class now and then.  It’s not the same anymore.  The steps are no longer in my head, ready for quick execution.  I have to think too much while attempting to be graceful.  Having a creative outlet is important to me, and flying airplanes does not tolerate creativity, in fact, creativity in the cockpit would lead to chaos.  Executing a visual approach to landing is the closest a pilot can get to original thought.  Instead of the controller dictating exactly when to turn, what altitude to fly, and how fast to go, a visual approach allows the pilot to paint their own path in the sky.  It’s a masterpiece when executed flawlessly.  Yet, this is only the last 5 minutes of flight and only granted on rare occasions.  Visual approaches and dodging thunderstorms are all the excitement my work affords.  This is the path I chose.  A little less colorful, I assume, than a shoddy and short lived career as a dancer.  Funny thing is, my work has led me to reside only 10 miles from the center of the nation’s dance community, New York City.  Once in a while, I’ll walk along Broadway and I’ll stop to see a show.  A pang of envy always hits me as I watch the beautiful dancers glide along the stage.  They look so happy, so royal in their chiffon and sequins under the luminescent theatre lights.  Could that have been me?  Ha, that’s life.

According to the FAA’s last published census, in 2007 there were 143,953 pilots who had obtained the level of certificate deemed “Airline Transport Pilot”  (ATP), only 5349 of which were female.  That is less than 4%. Legally, a pilot must have an ATP certificate to act as a captain for an airline whether it be mainline or regional.

So, why aren’t there more women pilots flying big steel?  My answer, and you may not agree, is simply because men can’t have babies, that we women bear this responsibility.  I realize that there are many women pilots that do not want children, or they never had children, but these are the exception.  Unlike other career choices, for those of us that do want children, a career of piloting forces us to consider the effect that our schedules will have on the proper rearing of our future little ones, foremost being away from home for a week at a time.  In addition, there is that period between 6 months pregnant to a year after the baby comes, that we mommies are indispensable in the home.

Due to this unbalanced womb distribution, there is an area of aviation where women seem to be more prevalent, and that is the regional airlines.  This is what I consider to be the self-imposed “Glass Ceiling” for female pilots.  Let me explain, but I must back up just a tad.  The old saying “a rolling stone gathers no moss” holds true for pilots if you substitute “student pilot” for “rolling stone.”  We were all too busy with school, flight training and trying to make a buck on the side that we never slowed down to develop a serious relationship or to think about reproducing.  And, if you were like me, I was working at least two jobs so that I could afford flight lessons.  The first flying job for most was flight instructing, and that usually consumed 12 hours of each day, and at least 6 days per week.  Still, too busy.  Our first breakthrough, typically, is landing a job with a regional airline.  Things settle down; you can finally start repaying your loans; you meet lots of cute captains on overnights; etc.  You also, for the first time understand what having a pilot’s schedule is like, meaning you are never home, if you even have a home.  Now you find yourself contemplating life-your future-outside of flying for the first time.

It will take a few years of flying at the regional level until you are qualified to apply to a major airline, aka “mainline.”  It will take at least that many more years to repay your debt, and then a few more to build up a savings.  By then you are almost a decade older and all of those perfect baby-making years are behind you, lost.  If you do take another job you will have to relocate again, unless you are willing to commute, but either way you lose.  You will take a pay cut at first.  But, these are not your biggest worries.  A few years into a regional and you can hold a descent schedule, possibly 18 days off and all day trips (if you stay in the right seat, anyway).  If you choose to go onto mainline flying, you will be back on reserve and have only 11 days off, and no day trips.  It will take another decade before you will have a schedule that allows you to raise a family, let alone maintain a healthy relationship with your partner.  Will you be too old by then?  Did you start too late?  This is why we get stuck, ahem, choose to stay at the regional level.

Please do not misunderstand me.  I enjoy my job and I have no shame flying a regional jet opposed to a heavy.  But, before you judge, before you assume that most women are incapable of handling a larger airplane, think again.  We have a bigger responsibility than getting 300 passengers from point A to point B.  We have the propagation of the human race weighing on our shoulders.