Yesterday I had the great experience of going to my Local Airport and giving them all the information they need so that I can start renting their plane. It’s this arduous process because they not only want to make sure you’re not some crazy terrorist hiding out in Southern Oregon who is planning on taking over the world via small plane domination, but also that you can actually fly. Who knew they would care. So after providing the very nice secretary with a passport and my logbook endorsements and my pilot’s license and proof of insurance and every other piece of paper I had with me, they finally scheduled me to get checked out in their Cessna 172.
The insurance thing was a bear too because being a post-college graduate and having spent my hard earned monies on learning how to fly again, I’m running low on funds as you might imagine. My mother however, the nicest woman in the entire world, who has far more money in the bank than I do for once, paid for my Renter’s Insurance. The airport I was flying in while in Michigan did not require it, but my Local Airport does- so I am now the proud owner of the cheapest insurance I could manage which covers me, my passengers, any property I hopefully don’t damage and up to not much of the plane. So the plan is not to crash and it won’t matter that I have the cheap insurance.
The exciting news however is not just my newly acquired insurance and plans to fly again in my little valley, but that while I was at the airport I ran into my old flight instructor! She is the woman who had to struggle through my 16 year old self learning how to fly and then had to watch me drag it out for 6 years. So needless to say, it was pretty fantabulous. Since I hadn’t seen nor heard from her in about three years, and when I had stopped flying originally she had cut back drastically on her hours, I was afraid that she had moved or some other such nonsense. But to my amazement, she was alive and well and hanging out at my own lovely airport getting ready to fly a new student. I was extremely proud to tell her I’d finally managed to push through to the very end (not one of my stronger abilities) and the best part is that she’s going to be the pilot who checks me out in the 172!
Have I explained the idea of being checked out? Because I don’t know if I have. Basically it’s an airport’s way of making sure they’re not renting their plane to some insane weasel who has either never flown a plane or learned through some hack school in Imarriedmycousin, Kentucky: population 3. So they stick you in the plane with somebody who as far as they know isn’t an insane weasel and let you go at it. In this case, Kammi. And also Kammi’s mom. Apparently she also is a pilot and though Kammi told me the details as to why she wants to fly along during my check-out, I’m ashamed to say that I occasionally think only of myself and at the moment of her telling me, that’s what I was doing so I missed it entirely. I did agree to it however, so as long as she isn’t planning on holding me hostage or jumping naked from the plane, I think we’re okay.
In any case, all that happens tomorrow. Once that is done (and hopefully done well, I realized earlier that I can’t remember anything) I will be able to take passengers up through the valley. Mom and I have plans to fly up to Albany which has this small airport right next to a pretty decent Chinese Food Restuarant. Basically you park your plane and hop the fence. It’s pretty spectacular. I’ve mentioned it before, but in the biz (yes, the biz) it’s called the $100 Hamburger. I guess Chinese food makes it more like the $100 Eggroll, but it’s the same basic principle. We all know it’s just way cooler to fly to your restaurant than to drive. Besides the Chinese food isn’t good enough to drive all the way to Albany for, Albany is like a billion miles away.
Aside from all that, I just wanted to wish everybody a wonderful 2009. Drink some champagne, eat lots of cake, watch the sparkly ball drop and enjoy it with friends. You might see me tonight- I’ll be the one stealing all the babies from your new year.
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