If you haven't read the first two parts of this trilogy, here are the links.
Part I
Part II
Part III- finale
“In every man's life there are obstacles. The measure of a man is not whether or not he can overcome them, but whether he can find new ones to beat him to a bloody pulp.”-Graham Wilson, pilot
The purple lava-lamp in my wood-paneled basement apartment churned its waxy goo as I planned my make-believe IFR cross country to Wawa. I calculated the usual garbage -winds, pressure altitude, estimated weight of the flight examiner- all the while thinking, “Will he pick this apart, and kick me out of Sault College because of a misplaced decimal point?” Impossible. I was the greatest aviator who had ever lived!
My fingers flew across my calculator, and I found myself saying each number aloud.
“Two thousand point one two five eight, plus four-hundred forty...”
The well-worn POH of the Piper Seminole was marked with my trusty Zebra M402 that morning. As I heard a cardinal awaken, I knew it was now official daylight- because birds only fly day VFR. After today, I'd no longer have to dodge them on final. I'd be jamming twin engined planes at two hundred foot minimums in crap vis. I'd have my Multi-IFR rating, and finally graduate from Sault College.
I packed all of my essentials into my well worn thirteen dollar, black flight bag which I purchased at the Cambrian Mall nearly three years hence. I remembered my headset this time. And I packed some green gum because green gum is chlorophylly fresh.
I fired up the Paseo, and proceeded down Second Line. Down The Hill, past the No Frills, all the while deeply inhaling the acrid rust from Algoma Steel, then the flakeboard mill's sulphur filled my nostrils just as the Canadian Shield emerged across the dairy farmers' fields where some students got in shit for buzzing cows with their Zlins in second year.
I think cows are really too stupid to realize they're being buzzed by a one-ton airplane, so I never did. Now those fur farms I've read about with the snazzy yellow, black and chrome roofs- I'd practically smash into one if I saw one, but I don't think they exist.
Down Airport Road to the... oh well, I won't even say it.
I drove past the New North Greenhouses and hung a right.
I was a little late, and the examiner- Ron Murray was waiting for me in the Ass Eating Couch in the pilot's lounge. It's broken springs had been the bane of students' existences for years, yet the College preferred to have the airplanes well maintained and the pilot lounge hazardous to your health, as this is apparently industry standard- which is what Ron was all about.
He acknowledged me, “ISTP, I'm assuming.”
“Yes Mr. Murray. Nice to meet you. I'll be your Captain today.”
“Is that supposed to be funny, mister? I'm not in the mood for joking around because I'm fucking pissed off. First, you're late. Second, some asshole yesterday did a twenty mile procedure turn for the ILS here, and I had to hold to wait for the dickhead. He was practically in Thunder Bay for Chrissakes! It was one of you bastard punks here at the College too! He was flying C-GLOP, and my @#$!, was Center giving him shit! He never even replied! I think he was doing fucking chandelles past the FAF! My Twin Comanche burns a shit load of fuel, and with the price of gas these days... Ah Jesus, let's just go. Gimme two hundred bucks first, then we'll talk. Otherwise, I've got money to make at my potato farm.” He obviously didn't mess around. That's OK. Neither did I.
“OK, sir.” From my flight bag, I produced the jar of quarters I had been saving since first year for this special occasion.
“What the @#$! is that, son?”
“Two hundred dollars on the nose.” I shrugged.
“Aw shit, money is money, but listen son, if you worked for me and had to take that to a customer in Chapleau, you'd be costing me another gallon of gas just to get it there! Gimme the money, your licence and medical, then you do the pre-flight inspection, and get your ass back to the briefing room. If you take more than thirty seconds to do that, you fucking fail!”
This test was looking hard. What the heck was a pre-flight inspection?
“Well, don't just stand there, ISTP. Walk around the plane!”
So I went outside, and took a little twenty second stroll around the plane and into the briefing room.
“Is the plane walked around?” Ron Murray asked.
“Yes, I walked around the plane. There were other people out on the apron walking around too. In fact, the other day, I heard there was a ground-hog walking around. I saw a rabbit walking, well more like hopping around last week.”
He wasn't listening, he just kept staring at his watch, and asked, “OK ISTP, how's the weather for our trip?”
What a stupid question. Didn't he have to go outside at some point to get to the airport? The weather was fine. Who was this chump to ask the star aviation student of Sault College about the weather? This was no time for idle chit-chat. I had some flight-test ass to kick!
“It's OK.”
“Is the plane good to go?”
“Yes.”
“Did you already file?”
“Um.”
“C'mon, c'mon! TIME IS MONEY!”
“Yes, I've filed many times.” The ladies like a well pedicured man, you see.
“Uh,” he said still staring at his watch, “Right, OK, let's go. You guys know all of this stuff by third year anyhow.”
We boarded the plane, did the test, and landed. He used up all three air-sickness bags, and his left shoe.
Shaking, he said to me, “Son, that was the longest, shittiest flight test I've ever done. And for some reason, you kept it all within tolerances. You passed. I don't know how the @#$! you did it, but you passed! But I can tell you this. You'll never be a fucking airline pilot if you fly like that!”
I asked for clarification. “But I passed, right?”
“Yes, yes you fucking passed! I already told you!”
Of course I passed! I'm Maverick! How could I have ever doubted this fact? Third year jitters I suppose.
He glanced at his watch again, and signed a piece of paper that said Instrument Rating Group I. He threw it in my face and ran out of the plane, hopped the barbed wire high-tech anti-terrorist security fence in a single bound, and roared off in his Bentley.
That's it? I thought. If I passed this test, then there's nothing left. Nothing. I was a little sad. I had passed, and now that I had graduated, I had nothing to do. No classes. No more flying lessons, no flying job. But I was free from Sault College. Free as a bird.
My mom had told me my favourite Star Wars comforter was still on my bed for the last three years. Could I move back in with my parents and live in their Southern Ontario split-level basement again? Was this what a 35 year old graduate of Sault College should do? I lived in that basement for almost my whole life, except for when I was in the Soo. Being a changed man, could I go back?
As I motored east on Second Line, I noticed the edge of the Canadian Shield showing the onset of a transformation. The lush green maples were taking on hues of amber and gold. Canada Geese bridged its crest heading south with the Labour Day traffic. A new season was arriving.
It was time for change.
ISTP does the Multi-IFR ride- finale
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