Milestones in our lives, such as weddings, graduations, religious ceremonies, and significant birthdays usually involve a celebration. But I’d say nearly every pilot looks at their first solo flight as a major rite of passage they never forget. It marks the first time a person realizes they’re truly responsible for their own life.
Brush it off or not. It demands a sense of pride.
Considerable research (asking my lunch buddies and checking at Sporty’s) confirms the tradition of the flight instructor cutting off a piece from the back of their student’s shirt still happens, even in many of today’s mega-flight schools. The practice supposedly began when instructors sat behind their students in tandem trainers like J-3 Cubs with no intercom. When the student did something dumb, the instructor would tug on their shirt and yell or demonstrate what was wrong. When the student began to consistently demonstrate they could fly the traffic pattern and land with no tugs on their shirt, the CFI climbed out and sent the learner around for three solo takeoffs and landings. On landing, the shirt was cut off and inscribed—usually kept forever.
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These days, students typically know in advance that they’re scheduled to solo on a particular day—weather permitting and having passed all pre-solo requirements like licenses, medicals, and tests. They launch alone from the hangar or tie-down, announce (if it’s a controlled field) that this is a first solo, make three takeoffs and landings, and return to the hangar. Well, I’m sorry but I hate that.
Back in the day, I’d work with the student on all the flying basics until finally entering the traffic pattern for takeoff and landing practice. If things didn’t progress well, we’d head back out in the practice area and review airspeed and altitude control, stalls, ground reference maneuvers, or whatever. Then back to the airport where we’d concentrate on flying a precise pattern with appropriate airspeeds and a flare-out…but no touchdown. Flying down the runway with reduced power but in level slow flight a few feet off the ground—focusing on the far end—and then going around was an effective way of handling ground shyness. Finally, we’d ease off the throttle, gently raise the nose above the end of the runway, and the main gear would touch. Seeing the delight in the student’s eyes was marvelous.
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After a successful hour or so, I’d slide my seat back and (nearly) close my eyes, pretending I was majorly bored. Finally, I’d announce, “I’m tired of riding around this pattern with you. Let me out at the intersection and make three takeoffs and landings by yourself.” The tower was OK with our clearing the runway and letting me out in the grass in the middle of the field, where I would sit, making daisy chains or picking wildflowers, while my fledgling student made circuits and landings. More than once, afterward, they’d clear the student back to the hangar, stranding me in the grass. That involved my climbing up five flights in the tower, uttering a few choice words and calling somebody to pick me up.
And, yes, I’d cut part of my student’s shirt off in a celebratory ceremony at the hangar. Other past traditions I’ve heard of are dumping a pail of water over their head, cutting off the necktie (remember those?) or even mashing a cream pie in the face.
But fledgling pilots aren’t the only aviators who mark upgrades or being “kicked upstairs.” The best story I know involved my friend Kevin Uppstrom, a longtime Kalitta Air pilot who hauled freight in DC-3s for years (and taught me so much).
In—mostly—Kevin’s words:
“Upgrading to captain was a lengthy process involving the completion of ground school, 30-plus hours of confidence-destroying simulator training and a round-the-world ride with a check airman for Operational Experience (OE). You’d make all the calls, do all the planning, deal with any problems, and fly one segment from the right seat. Only then (when the check airman was satisfied or tired of riding with you) would an FAA inspector observe a line check within the United States—the final step in the upgrade procedure. Then you were on your own, a graduate from a three-striper to four.
“I deadheaded on one of our planes to Liege, Belgium, and then downrange to Bahrain, where, after a rest period, I would be flying as aviator in charge with a great crew—a low-key first officer and plumber (flight engineer). Rather than announcing my presence with an ‘I’m the captain and you will respect my authority’ attitude [definitely NOT a Kevin mentality], I wanted to start off on the right foot. So I planned to meet my crew in the hotel lobby next morning sporting both my three-stripe shoulder boards AND my four-stripe boards—a total of seven boards—on each shoulder of my uniform shirt. The sewing was tedious, somewhat of a challenge, but I got it done.
“Next morning, I left the room early to be the first to meet my crew downstairs but, striding across the hotel lobby, I met up with an Atlas [Air] crew who gave me some truly odd looks. I think they thought I was some kind of field marshal. Eventually, my guys showed up and, knowing my sense of humor, smiled as they took in my seven stripes.
“Since we were in the Middle East, where they place an inordinate amount of importance on things like gold braids and stripes, I didn’t want to create an international incident with customs. So I demoted myself to a mere four-striper once we boarded the van to the airport. But being the supreme leader was fun while it lasted.”
Maybe you can understand how much I value Kevin as a person and a pilot. I met him when he was chief pilot, accumulating 16,000-plus hours flying DC-3s, Beech 18s, and a Learjet for a Part 135 freight operation in Middletown, Ohio (KMWO). I was the FAA inspector doing check rides for the company. By the late 1990s that part of the airfreight business was dying, and he was left with a big decision. He made “starting over” with this large airfreight airline based in Detroit and flying worldwide the right one.
Whether it’s a first solo or a captain upgrade, these moments stand as hard-earned milestones that define a pilot’s journey.
This column first appeared in the June Ultimate Issue 971 of the FLYING print edition.
