It was blowing hard enough to break things
The more time I spend in front of a computer, the more I’m convinced that computers are distraction machines. Rather than help me focus on what’s important, the computer pulls me in seven different directions simultaneously. I find myself forgetting how to spell simple words, because autocorrect has taken over the duty of correcting errant keystrokes. And now my brain, through disuse, is sometimes stumbling and hesitating as I write, in ways that it didn’t use to do before.
The feeling in the air today was grey like the sky. The wind was blowing hard enough to break big pine branches. I saw the aftermath next to the bike path, and it made me pause. I remembered going on a memorial ride in the Bay Area for a cyclist who’d gone biking with a friend during a Pacific storm. He was killed when a tree fell on him.
The end can come so unexpectedly. And at such a bad time.
Yesterday, I talked with an old friend from Maine. I found out he was sick with the kind of illness that makes you count the number of days you have left. I’m looking for a way to go visit him before it’s too late. There will always be goodbyes, either real or imagined, and I’d like to show up in person for a change. I suspect that there will always be regrets, as well, for paths not taken, phone calls not made, apologies not given, and transgressions not forgiven.
Yesterday, before learning about the dark news concerning my friend, I flew a Cessna 172 between two airports barely 20 miles apart and separated by a lake. There were rain showers and squalls with gusty winds. A was of rain was headed for the airport at the same time that I was inbound from the south. The rain was falling slanted. As I got closer, closing in at 1,500 feet and 105 knots, the air became rougher and more unpredictable.
There were other aircraft out flying, most of them training flights from the sound of them over the radio. I could hear them request full stop landings, one after the other. The tower asked me to join the downwind leg of the traffic pattern as number three for landing. I saw only one other aircraft cross in front of me on downwind. I hesitated a moment before asking Västerås tower to call my downwind turn.
They didn’t have to. They told me that the other aircraft was on final, about to land, and I spotted it for myself. I turned left onto the downwind leg. The Piper PA-28 in front of me came on the radio. He sounded stressed. The curtain of grey, slanted rain was closing in. The wind gusts were getting strong, knocking our aircraft from side to side.
I turned onto final approach fast, at just under 100 knots. I wanted to get back to the runway before the squall, and I knew the aircraft could slow down in a hurry if I wanted it to. I checked my spacing to the PA-28 and saw I’d have to slow down to give him room to land and clear the runway. I slowed to 75 knots, then 70, which was about 10 knots faster than normal.
The aircraft ahead of me touched down. I watched as he rolled down the runway. The wall of water was getting closer and I wanted to get down as well. But if the other aircraft didn’t vacate the runway, the tower would tell me to go around and I’d have to fly through the gusting wall of grayness barely a few miles ahead.
I slowed the aircraft. A gust caught the left wing and banked the aircraft 40 degrees to the right as if it were just a toy. I gave a fistful of opposite aileron and leveled the wings and continued my descent. Once I was over the threshold and about 20 feet off the ground, I reduced power to idle and allowed the aircraft to settle toward the runway. I only had 10 degrees of flaps and an extra 5–10 knots of speed , so the aircraft floated in ground effect. I held it there until it wanted to settle, and the main gear touched down with a reassuring thump. I held the nose wheel off and then lowered it gently to the centerline, keeping back pressure on the yoke to offload the nose wheel. I gave full aileron into the wind to help me keep directional control. Flying the approach under those conditions was as much about the flying instinct as it was about procedure. That’s something to think about. As much as we might sometimes want to reduce skills into algorithmic formulas, sometimes we need to let our instincts take over and just fly the plane.
Highs and lows. The high was a satisfying and safe flight. The low, learning that illness has such bad timing. Times like these, you appreciate the little things a little more.
Tomorrow is my son Lukas’ birthday. I’ll pick him and his brother Noah up at school in Gothenburg. Then we’ll ride the train for 3 hours and 45 minutes to get to Västerås for the weekend. It’s been over 3 weeks since I’ve seen them. My heart aches and opens with joy thinking of them. Sometimes, all of this feels like a struggle, and it feels hard. And those are the times when I tell myself that the way through is to look at small steps that move us closer together.
I smile now. It’s wild that Lukas will be 12. I remember being 12. I had a red bicycle. And Lukas is just growing and growing, like a wild raspberry bush. The same with Noah.
I’ll try to come back to where we started. Or at least somewhere close. Even though hard things often come without much warning (which is part of what makes them hard), good things can arrive the same way, too. We call that serendipity. I’ll chew on that and so can you, too. Just if you want.
Take care of yourself.
Best,
Jesse
