Check Ride Jitters

I examined the topped fuel tanks one more time and untied the ropes on the Cessna 152. I noticed that the wind was picking up. I looked toward the west, where the skies were darkening. I felt knots forming in my stomach. Would the weather hold or not? 

I took a deep breath and looked westward again. Am I imagining it? I had an odd feeling of foreboding. I hadn’t slept the night before—I had a full case of the check ride jitters.

Bill, the FAA examiner, came out of the flight office. “Are we all set?” He stepped up on the wing struts and looked in the fuel tanks on both wings. 

“I checked them.” 

“You never know. I always make sure.”

I felt my stomach tighten more and my throat go dry as we buckled in. Hope I can talk, I thought.

“Let’s head west,” said Bill.

“OK.”

“What? I can’t hear you! Speak up!” shouted Bill.

“OK!” I croaked. 

I’d lost my voice. How would I talk on the radio? 

I was beginning to feel sick to my stomach. The Cessna was loud, and this was before intercoms made cockpits a quieter place to be.

I felt some relief wash over me as I realized we’d be going to the training area and not into Palm Beach, Florida, airspace.

Bill sat rigid in the right seat, looking straight out. I struggled to swallow my fear.

“Climb to 2,500.”

“Climb to 2,500,” I repeated.

“Demonstrate a power-off stall.”

I was comfortable with the exercise because I’d practiced it so many times. As the stall horn went off, I put the nose down and added power. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw dark sky moving toward us. A few large raindrops hit the windshield. A typical South Florida thunderstorm. They were unpredictable and dangerous.

“Let’s do a 60-degree turn,” said Bill.

“Bill, look over there.” I pointed to the advancing vertical mass moving toward us from the north. “It doesn’t look good.”

“Do you want to go back to the airport?” He said it as if I was chickening out, as if I wasn’t strong enough to continue the testing. 

“I think we should,” I replied.

“OK, your choice. Go.” He was unreadable. 

I turned the Cessna around and headed back to the airport, but it was too late. The winds and rain caught up with the little craft as if a hand was reaching out grabbing control of the airplane. I expected Bill to take over at any moment, but he was unmoving in the passenger seat. 

Bill finally spoke. “Do a straight in. We need to get on the ground fast. Don’t use flaps.” 

The 152 rocked and bounced in the air currents as we approached the runway. It was all I could do to keep the airplane straight. I’d never been in a situation where it was this rough. 

The visibility had dropped to almost zero as we crossed the threshold. Hard rain streaked the windshield, and thunder reverberated through the air with bright flashes of light. The clot of fear in my stomach gave way to survival instinct as I did everything I could to control the airplane and not crash. I couldn’t believe the examiner was still hands off the controls.

The airplane was pushed up and down in tight, quick movements as we came in over the pavement, and then the tires squealed as we hit the runway hard. The nosewheel came down with a bump as I wrestled with the controls. 

“Jesus, you’re trying to kill me!” yelled Bill.

I felt like an arrow had gone through my gut. 

I’ve failed.

The wind and rain were now in full force, the nearby windsock straight out. The little plane rocked and vibrated as we taxied to the flight school ramp. 

“Tie the plane down tight!” shouted Bill, exiting the plane and running into the flight office.

I sat there in shock and embarrassment. The rain was beating on the windshield, and lightning flashed across the field, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. I took a gulp of air and then exhaled.

What if I’d followed Bill’s instructions and continued the test? We could have crashed.

I shut down the engine and opened the door. The wind nearly tore it out of my grasp. I spent time with the tie-down ropes and kept getting blown into the airplane as I worked to make sure they were tight. By the time I  got to the flight office, I looked like I’d jumped into a pool with my clothes on.

“Here she is. Here she is. She tried to kill me!” Bill said, looking at the office manager.

“Come on Bill, I saw that landing. Any pilot would have trouble with those gusts. It was a great landing given the conditions,” said Sarah, my flight instructor.

“Reschedule,” Bill said as he walked out the office door.

I slumped down in the seat next to the door, dripping.

“You’re a mess,” said Sarah, as she handed me a towel. “Hey, listen. This isn’t a failure. He didn’t pink slip you. It’s just a reschedule.”

“What? I thought I’d failed! That was awful. I’m quitting. This is too much.”

 “No,” said Sarah, gently. “Don’t quit. That’s Bill. He’s not that personable. Get past that. I think he does it on purpose to unnerve students. Don’t let it get to you. He did admit to me that you handled the airplane admirably, given the conditions.”

“He did? Really? Sarah, are you making this up? He told me I was trying to kill him.”

“He has a strange sense of humor.”

“I guess so.”

“I’ll reschedule your check ride. Let’s spend some dual time next week to make sure you’re totally comfortable.”

As I looked out the window, the vicious wind and rain stopped, and the sun came out as if someone had flipped a switch. 

Lesson learned? Your own worst fears can booby-trap your success. Before your next exam, performance, or high-stress event, plan how you can get some additional experience to build your comfort level. For flight reviews and check rides, practice. Your instructor will be happy to take you through scenarios you may encounter with an examiner. 

All’s well that ended well. A week later I took my check ride in bright, sunny weather—and passed.