Just One Too Many Uh,Oh’s

Once upon a time, we had decided to become glider pilots.   We would buy a two seater glider, spend our Sundays blissfully aloft, guided only by soft clouds and thermals. Far above the madding crowd. No cars, no people, no noise. Just the two of us. Swaying and swinging in the gentle breezes. Sun warming our shoulders. Alone, together. What could be better? Have I lulled you to sleep yet? Well, wake up because it didn’t exactly turn out like that.

Apparently, one doesn’t just become a glider pilot. One must have training. So we signed up. What you see in that picture is me, smiling, getting ready for my first lesson. What you don’t see is this:

The day before that first glider lesson, I had had some measure of irregular heartbeats. Doctor said “Go to the hospital tomorrow, early, they’ll outfit you with a Holter monitor and I’ll look at it in a day or so. In the meantime, don’t worry.”

Did that. Now had wires snaking out from my shirt, a clunky little box attached to my waist and a note pad to write down any “interesting” events that might cause heart rate to change. Does going up in a glider for the first time count? I thought so.

Upon climbing into the glider, with my wires and my notepad, the pilot expressed concern. Said “Uh,Oh.” Now, I have to calm him down. Assure him I’m in no danger. Isn’t this the wrong direction? I’m the one who’s nervous. Note to notebook.

Okay, now I’m strapped in. Pilot says “Uh, Oh.” Now what? “You don’t weigh enough.” Well, it’s a little late to do something about that, isn’t it? No, he says, we’ll just pile a bunch of bricks around you and that will give us the ballast we need. More scribbles in notebook.

We secure our rope to the tow plane and take off. Several seconds later, pilot says “Uh, Oh.”   Seems the tow plane just lost altitude. Apparently this matters because if it doesn’t attain altitude, neither do we. We release the tether and pray. Nervous scribbles in notebook. Happily we’d gained enough lift.

So off we go into the wild blue, thermal-laden, sick-making sky. Around and around we go. Up, down, again and again. Bricks scrunching my feet. Hot sun beating down. Tummy churning. Madly writing in notebook.

At last it’s time to land. We turn and glide toward the runway. Pilot says “Uh Oh.” Really? Again? Yep. Now there’s a one engine Cessna (hey, one is one more than we’ve got!) sitting on the (only) runway. Gliders have “right of way” because they only have one shot at landing. Then call them, I say. Can’t, says pilot. Then for pity sake’s, honk. No answer. No writing in notebook either. Too scared.

Is this the way it ends? Not with a whimper but a bang? Strapped in a glider, surrounded by bricks, notebook in hand, wires hanging out, green-ish from thermals, longing for land?

Obviously not. But, pilots (and hairdressers) should never say “Uh, Oh.”   Thought that was in their training manuals. Which, quite frankly, I never got to. I’m sure you understand why.