by S. L. Menear
When I signed up for the course, I had to show my airline transport pilot certificate.
“If you can fly airliners, you can get your glider rating in no time,” the young instructor said.
Right, I thought, because light little gliders are so similar to big heavy jets.
Bright and early the next morning, a Cessna 180 pulled us into the sky. At three thousand feet, I released the towline, and we sailed through the calm morning air in silence. It was too early for thermals to lend lift, so we circled the runway during our gradual descent and remained aloft longer than I expected. The silence relaxed me.
Flying a glider was nothing like flying a jet. It was simple and easy. Planning ahead was important because there was no engine to keep us aloft. I soon learned to estimate the glide distance from various altitudes, always have more altitude than needed for final approach, and use the spoilers on the wings to kill the lift to descend to the runway. The landings were always fun.
Right before my solo flight, my instructor said, “If you have to land somewhere off-field, remember those big cactus trees are as hard as concrete. Steer clear.”
I glanced around during my glider solo and noticed “those big cactus trees” were everywhere. No way would I land off-field unless the tow plane exploded at low altitude on takeoff. No concrete trees for this girl. Besides, I knew every man on the field was judging me. That never changed.
Nothing unusual happened during my solo flights, a welcome change from some of my other adventures. Later that day, my instructor took me up in their sleek, high-performance, aerobatic glider, which was way more fun than flying the sluggish glider trainer.
When we caught a thermal, we kept a tight bank to remain inside the narrow column of warm, rising air and shot up to six thousand feet—plenty of altitude for loops and rolls. We transited from one thermal to another, air hissing across our canopy the only sound as we put the sailplane through its paces. I loved everything we did except our last climbing spiral inside a late-day thermal. Pilots who had finished their work day joined the fray. Gliders were everywhere—above us, below us, beside us.
Clear canopies and panels in the floor allow glider pilots to see above and below them. I saw way too many sailplanes. One or two would’ve been okay, but not ten or twenty. It reminded me of a World War I dogfight with airplanes diving, climbing, looping, and rolling all over the place.
I’m not one for showing off or senseless competition. The only female in a gaggle of competitive male pilots, I decided to land while we still had both our wings, so I called an audible and told the instructor I needed a pit stop. Problem solved.
HORSEBACK RIDING
Dottie:
I lived with my son for a while after my husband died in December of 1988. His home was about an hour drive east of Pensacola, Florida. When Sharon flew in to visit for a few days, we decided it’d be fun to ride from a nearby stable that featured a scenic, four-mile shaded trail. My children and grandchildren enjoyed speed, so I made sure I got a gentle old mare that wouldn’t run if her tail was on fire.
Sharon
My mother, brother, and way too many people, had the ridiculous notion that I could do anything because I flew jet airliners. That was why I never told anyone what I did for a living unless it was absolutely necessary.
The airline pilot mystique had been a recurring theme, often adding terror to my adventures, like the time I went horseback riding with my mother, brother, and his teenage daughters. I wasn’t an experienced rider and hadn’t been on a horse in ten years.
After watching my family mount their assigned horses, the stable boy realized all their good horses were taken. He called his boss over to where I waited and said, “We’re short one horse. The stallion is the only one left.”
My brother looked down at him. “No problem. Sharon’s an airline pilot.”
“Well, little missy, if you can fly airliners, you can ride Satan,” the stable master said. “Saddle him up, Billy.” He waved the kid toward the stables.
I didn’t want my brother and nieces to think I was a wuss. How bad could Satan be? After all, rental horses usually had to be threatened with a stick to get them moving faster than a slow walk.
“We’re going to get started, Sis,” Larry said. “You can catch up on the trail.”
“Okay, I’ll find you in a few minutes, but keep your pace slow until I get there.”
As they disappeared into the tree line, Billy led a large black stallion toward me. His neck was arched, his ears were perked to full alert, and his eyes were wild with eagerness.
Uh oh.
He danced around when Billy tried to quiet him while I mounted.
Billy looked up at me. “Keep a tight rein on him or he’ll run away with you.”
“Tight rein” my ass! It took all my strength to restrain him to a fast trot. When my arms got tired, and I eased up a fraction of an inch, he bolted. We caught up to my family in seconds. Their horses blocked the trail, and Satan slid to a stop. I had one hand on the horn and one on the back of the saddle to save me from being launched over his head during the sudden stop.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Larry said, clueless. “We’ve been waiting for you so we can go fast. Yee hah!” He took off in a canter.
My stallion from Hell took that as his cue to lead the pack. Despite my iron grip, Satan pushed past the horses and left them in the dust. I held on and ducked under the branches. He covered the four-mile circuit with the same zeal as a race horse in the Kentucky Derby, his snorts and pounding hooves the only sounds.
I didn’t even have the energy to scream. Hanging on required all my strength. It was a miracle I was still aboard when the stables emerged beyond the trees.
Satan slid to a sudden stop at the water trough, launching me over him headfirst into the four-foot deep water. I climbed out as the devil horse guzzled. Every muscle in my body ached, my legs wobbled, and my hands looked like shaky claws.
When Larry returned with Mom and the girls, he said, “Geez, Sharon, you shouldn’t be such a showoff. You could’ve fallen and hurt yourself.” He cocked his head. “Wait a minute, how did you get soaking wet?”
HANG GLIDING
Dottie:
I was sixty-eight when I got a chance to hang-glide over Biscayne Bay in Miami. As we headed out into the bay in a large speedboat, the big kite-like contraption with pontoons rested on an aft platform. As usual, I asked Sharon to go first, and she survived. When it was my turn and the boat was about a mile from shore, I was secured face-down in a sling harness six inches above the glider pilot.
After the boat accelerated to 35 knots, the pilot yelled, “Clear!” We instantly shot up as the towline rapidly unspooled. At 1,500 feet, he released the towline. Gliding over the bay, I spotted huge manta rays and other large fish. The pilot maneuvered us to the shoreline to ride the air currents above the high-rise condominiums, and I waved to the sunbathers below. Afterward, we made a smooth water landing on the pontoons. I never even got wet.
Sharon
My brother, Larry, had several years of experience hang gliding off mountains when he invited us to try out the new company in Miami that launched hang gliders from a boat.
I’d never been hang-gliding, except for a pre-flight lesson on a small hill in New Jersey years before. That was supposed to have been a ground-handling lesson, but the kite was too big for me, and it lifted me into the air after a few running steps. I found myself looking down at my instructor from thirty feet above, my legs still in motion after the unexpected trip aloft. His panicked expression told me this had never happened before.
He shouted instructions, but it was too late. The big glider had rotated horizontally, and the wind was behind me. Instantly, the kite dove straight down, and the pointy end stuck in the ground. Harnessed in, I swung around harmlessly under the kite’s framework. My instructor pulled me out, and I walked away without a scratch, but I was filled with enough adrenaline to power a freight train.
Despite that debacle, I thought hang gliding over water would be fun, especially with no chance of diving into dirt. Larry had his hang-glider certification, naturally, so he would go solo. I expected a relaxing tandem flight with a professional glider pilot.
When it was my turn, Larry said to the pilot, “Sharon’s an airline captain. You should let her fly it.”
I glared at my brother. “Are you crazy? I’m not going up in that kite alone!”
The hang-glider pilot stepped in. “It’s okay. I’ll put you in the pilot position, and I’ll strap in above you in the passenger slot and talk you through it. This’ll be easy for someone with your experience.”
Right, because hanging under a kite in the sky is exactly like flying a jet.
I scrutinized the pilot—fit, muscular, and six feet. Big enough to control the hang glider and avoid a New Jersey repeat.
A 30-mph wind from the east and hot sun caused a bumpy day aloft. When the launch boat accelerated to 35 knots, the operator released the winch, and we shot up into the sky. In seconds, our boat looked like a tiny water bug from the end of the 1500-foot towline.
“Pull the tow release,” my instructor said.
When I did, we seemed to pause. Then the kite banked sharply to the left, and my heart almost jumped out of my chest. My fear of heights/falling flooded me with adrenaline. I had a white-knuckled death grip on the control bar as air turbulence buffeted us up, down, and sideways.
Holy hell, what have I gotten myself into this time?
“Compensate by moving the control bar toward the turn,” the instructor yelled. “That will shift your weight away from the turn.”
When I moved the control bar to the left, we rolled into a right turn. After several banks back and forth, I finally managed to stabilize the hang glider for a few seconds. Then the turbulence upset the balance again. I’d never flown anything so sensitive to the pilot’s slightest movement. Even helicopters aren’t that crazy.
Experienced hang-glider pilots anticipated glider responses, made constant small adjustments, and kept the kite in a stable glide. A terror-stricken person with a falling phobia, who for the first time ever was hanging out in the open 1500 feet up, couldn’t be expected to do that.
“Relax your grip on the control bar,” the instructor yelled.
“That’s not going to happen,” I shouted in a squeaky voice.
I was harnessed to a tippy, squirrelly kite soaring over Biscayne Bay, and he expected me to be rational and relax my grip on the only thing I had to hold onto.
“Reach down with your big, strong arms and take control of this friggin’ kite!” I yelled. I could care less if I spoiled his high opinion of airline pilots. Survival trumped ego.
I had prepaid for three flights on the death kite, and sibling rivalry kept me from admitting my fear. By my third lesson, I had adjusted to hanging in space high above the water, so I was able to relax and enjoy it. The view was fabulous, and the kite gave me a bird-like sense of freedom I’d never experienced in any type of airplane. I was glad I’d pushed past my phobia and learned a new skill. And the hot instructor was another plus.
HELMET DIVES
Sharon
Snorkeling on the surface while looking down at the underwater world wasn’t the same as being in it. I’d been a scuba diver since 1999 and wanted Mom to experience the beauty and freedom of an ocean dive without having to contend with the hazards of breathing compressed air at depth. At eighty, she was too old for a scuba class, but an underwater park in a St. Croix cove offered glass-bubble helmets fed by surface air—the perfect solution.
Dottie
Our guide explained that our thick Plexiglas helmets on shoulder mounts would hold us down so we could walk on the ocean floor. Long hoses fed air from a surface pump into the helmets. The heavy weight on my shoulders became light underwater as I slowly descended the ladder into a silent world thirty feet below.
When I reached the bottom, I plodded along as if in slow motion, holding onto the rope lining our path. The colorful Caribbean dive park seemed to explode with schools of brilliant fish in color combinations of red and gold or electric blue and yellow. They hovered, encircling my head. Vibrant coral reefs teemed with exotic life. As the sea plants swayed in the current, I cherished my journey through that beautiful underwater world.
Sharon
The bubble-helmet dive with Mom was quite different from the antique hard-hat dive I experienced in Dutch Springs, Pennsylvania more than thirty years ago, which was long before I knew anything about scuba diving. A pilot friend was a member of the North American Chapter of the Historical Diving Society, and he invited me to their annual hard-hat dive. When I arrived, I was surprised I was the only woman included in their gathering.
The hundred-foot-deep lake had been transformed into a dive park with sunken airplanes, boats, buses, and other objects to view on the bottom. Years ago, the spring-fed crystal-clear lake had been a quarry with ledges at varying depths.
Putting on the diving apparatus known as a diving dress was quite a production and required the assistance of two crewmen. The one-piece dive suit was made of rubber between layers of tan twill. After they wrestled the suit onto me, I plopped down on a bench and slipped my feet into dive boots weighing a total of thirty-four pounds. Then the team joined a copper-and-brass breastplate to my weighted suit. The final piece was a copper helmet with brass fittings. The surface team bolted the heavy helmet onto the breastplate, imprisoning me in the suit.
There was no way I could’ve taken off that helmet, or the rest of the suit, on my own. My fate was entirely in their hands. After a check to ensure the divemaster and I could hear each other via the communication line, the crew bolted the faceplate to the front of my helmet.
Now I was dependent on the air hose to feed compressed air into the helmet. Timing was critical. They couldn’t turn on the air until I was underwater because it wouldn’t be safe while surrounded by the lesser outside surface pressure. The small volume of air trapped in my helmet had to last during the trudge down the eight steps into the water.
But first I needed help to struggle up off the bench. My dive gear weighed 176 pounds, and I weighed 120 pounds. The math was not in my favor, especially on land. Thank God for the strong men who pulled me up and guided me to the stairs. I was instructed to back down the stairs so I wouldn’t get tangled in the air hose, communication line, and safety rope. Worried I’d run out of air, I hurried down the steps into the water.
What a relief to hear the hiss of compressed air entering my helmet. The dive- master told me to continue walking backwards into the lake so I could return without tangling the lines. As I worked my way down the underwater slope, I expected the water to be as clear as air. Instead, I was entombed in a claustrophobic nightmare. The divers before me had stirred up the bottom silt, and I couldn’t see my hand in front of my faceplate.
“How’s it going down there?” the divemaster asked.
“I’m in zero visibility,” I said, trying not to sound panicky.
“Oh, it’s stirred up from all the previous divers near the steps. Keep going until you reach clear water.”
I was disappointed I couldn’t see anything, and after the complicated ordeal of merely getting the suit on and entering the water, I didn’t want to forgo the underwater park. “All righty, I’ll keep going.”
Walking on the bottom was probably a lot like wearing a spacesuit on a planet with twice Earth’s gravity—cumbersome and exhausting. I was still blind in the silt cloud when my right foot slipped over a ledge.
In a desperate attempt to stop from tumbling backwards into the depths, I made breast-stroke motions and fell onto my knees. Almost falling terrified me. I crawled away from the ledge and focused on controlling my breathing. The dive- master must’ve heard me gasping for air through the voice-activated microphone.
“What’s happening? Are you okay, Sharon?”
“I almost fell off a ledge, and I still can’t see anything.” I
was frightened, but also bummed I missed viewing the submerged aircraft and other interesting things.
“That ledge is at a depth of fifty feet. You should’ve reached clear water. Walking blind near those ledges isn’t safe.”
“No kidding! This isn’t fun. I hope I can find the steps.”
“Relax and get your breathing back to normal. Then follow the safety rope forward to where you started. You’ll be okay.”
His voice was comforting in the midst of nothingness. I was walking blind. Except for his occasional comments, the only sound was my breathing—torture for a claustrophobic person. I pushed the fear from my mind and concentrated on reaching the steps.
After what seemed like an eternity, I bumped into the staircase. “I’m at the steps now.”
“Okay, this is the hard part. You’ll have to climb the steps under all that weight, and we’ll have to turn off your air before you reach the surface to avoid exploding the helmet (and my head!). If you don’t reach the platform before you run out of air, you’ll pass out and fall into the lake. Then we’ll have a bitch of a time getting you out and reviving you.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m not freakin’ Superwoman!”
“You’ll be fine. Your friend told me you’re an airline captain.”
Sonofabitch! That airline pilot nonsense is going to get me killed!
I steeled myself and started up the steps. Damn, those boots were heavy!
When I was halfway up to the platform, I heard him say, “Turning off air now. Keep going.”
Each laborious step felt heavier. When I was two steps from the top with most of my body out of the water, the diving dress felt like it weighed five hundred pounds. As I struggled to lift my right foot to the next step, my vision blurred, and I lost my balance.
