Cowboys

Another night flight. The first in a few weeks. A niggly feeling said: you should fly with an instructor... just in case you find a way to rip of the wing in mid-flight. And die. The idea of such asymmetrical flight was deterring, so I flew with Jason.

There we were, priming IOI's beast of an engine when another plane came screaming in our direction. It didn't help that I hadn't yet turned on the master switch, and that hanger was entirely dark, save for one bright light. You should always aim to be going in the same direction as a moving propeller - not in the opposite direction and facing it. As I stared at the approaching bulk of furious metal, I saw the light. Not an 'ooh-ahh-epiphany' kind of light, but a landing light. It was a little too close.

Why don't panes have hooters? Because cowboy pilots shouldn't be recklessly taxiing through hangers at night anyway? Because most pilots manage to watch what's going on around them?

At the critical moment, about a meter or two in front of poor IOI, Cowboy-pilot noticed us. Fortunately, some kind of innate reflex resulted in efficient breaking. There was a cheeky smile through his windshield. Another close call, another good story, another inexperienced pilot on the other end - scared out of her mind. After he got out the plane (and skillfully pushed down the tail to spin it out the way), I realised he was my first instructor - infamous for his...er... liberal flying. That may explain some of my curiously bad habits. Like almost-stall speed on Final Approach.

confederations cup requires all pilots to file a flight plan for every flight. Relieved we were only doing circuits, I was happy to put in the squawk code. There is something about flight plans. Perhaps it was the movie that put people off. You would think that the idea of search and rescue would be incentive.