Beckoning Blue

Beckoning Blue
The confined cockpit space of the Cessna 172 SP glass panel single engine turbo prop aircraft was cramped into two front facing undersized leather seats; one being occupied by me, the other, the flight instructor. Even through the mint green David Clarke noise cancelling aviation headset, the din of the single Cessna Standard propeller beating 1750 RPM was deafening. As I reached over the controls to activate the fuel pump, the pungent aroma of high octane aviation fuel flooded my nostrils; the distant hum of the fuel being pumped directly to the engine barely audible above the propeller din. There was a bright glow of gauges reflecting onto my face; the Garmin G1000 Cessna Nav III Package and the Bendix and King KAP 140 Autopilot with Altitude Pre-Select were alive with rapidly adjusting numbers and indicator lights. With my feet, I pressed the two rudder pedals and let the brake go as I taxied out towards the runway. After doing last minute checks of the fuel supply, landing gear, oil pressure, and auxiliary power supply, I punched in the throttle, pushing the Textron-Lycoming 180 horsepower fuel injected engine to beat 2350 RPM, pushing us down the runway in excess of 110 knots, towards the inviting blue sky.
Climbing through the open air at a breathtakingly rapid pace of 900 feet per minute, the great big evergreen trees that flanked the Petaluma Muni Airport were steadily turning into a diminutive kaleidoscope of blurring colors. Ascending through 5,000 feet, the landscape spread below me was like looking through Google Earth on satellite view: the bright sun was reflecting off of a shimmering pond that looked to be the size of a dime; the sprawling vineyards of Sonoma looking no more than small fields; the cars on the highway nothing more than little dots of dissimilar colors, slowly inching their way down the street. Passing through the thin layer of clouds and the minor turbulence that accompanied them, there was nothing but a wide-open vastness of pure, unadulterated cerulean sky. The feeling was so natural and balanced and breathtakingly astonishing that I felt completely in control. Testing the power of the aircraft, I twisted the yoke ninety degrees to the left; compensating with the left rudder for increased mobility, while at the same time pressing in the yoke at a forty-five degree down angle, passing back through the white puffy clouds and being greeted by a stunning view of the Sonoma vineyards.
After a few ground proximity alert warnings, I leveled the plane off at 1,000 feet above sea level and adjusted the fuel mixture so as not to burn up such a large amount of fuel per minute. From behind my polarized Ray Bans, I could see little red tractors milling about the vineyards, their gas guzzling engines leaving dark plumes of black smoke twisting out behind. Gazing out upon the widespread vegetation below me like a three dimensional map, I could see all of Sonoma County and parts of Marin: Rohnert Park, Santa Rosa, Novato, Sonoma, Petaluma—the chocolate brown sprawling stream of water better known as the Petaluma River. Past the right wing, there was a gorgeous view of the Petaluma suburbs, with its elegant and attractive homes seemingly huge on the ground, appeared as nothing more than blobs of color, like little Monopoly houses.
Peering down at the vast array of gauges, dials, and computer read outs, after comparing the GPS with the primary fuel level, I decided it would be prudent to turn the plane around and return to sea level; seeing as there was about 200 pounds of fuel (twenty-five percent) remaining, and I was close to seven miles away from the landing strip. Travelling back in the direction from which I came, through the blur of the propeller, and several hundred feet below me, there was a giant flock of white birds flying in a perfect twenty by five formation; their constantly flapping wings usually observed from below looked so different from up above, possibly because when a large school of birds travels overhead you cover your body and pray they don’t feel the need to defecate upon you. As I doubled back behind the runway, watching its array of flashing blue lights grow brighter and brighter as they illuminated the landing strip with the flashing arrows indicating its direction, I lined the plane up at exactly thirty degrees north, pulled back on the throttle and pushed the nose down. Descending to 500 feet, the runway could be viewed in its entirety, complete with numerous black skid marks from plane wheels transferring their rubber to the pavement in a fast friction acting manner. The wind was gusting at both sides of the plane: it forced me to compensate heavily for its deterrence. There was a great vibration all throughout the cockpit and a loud screeching noise as all three Cessna Standard Cleveland wheels hit the ground with full brake, and the world spinning by at seventy miles per hour slowly came to a halt as I brought the plane back towards hangar three right, and back towards life at sea level.
Taxiing down the bleak off section of the runway lined with dying green ferns and other weeds and off into the hangar, I switched off the engine and powered down the auxiliary power supply, ending with the four fluorescent red and blue flashing tail and wing lights located on the metal struts of the plane. Climbing out and removing the noise cancelling aviation headset, I walked across the wide hangar; each step feeling longer than the last—being in an airplane had dulled my senses to a minimum with its breathtakingly gorgeous awe. There was a wooden sign swaying in the mid-afternoon breeze hanging above the metal coat hanger like pegs upon which I was meant to hang the headset. The sign—a blend of mahogany and birch, courage and resolve, legends and reminiscences—was beautiful. Looking up at as if for the first time, it read: “You haven’t seen a tree until you’ve seen its shadow from the sky,” Amelia Earhart. Now, walking past the reception desk and out towards my car, there was a giant evergreen looming over me, casting its silhouette across the dark asphalt parking lot, over the cracks and potholes riddled throughout the parking lot, and over to me; casting its shadow across my face, the tip of it just in front of the double doors to the hangar, beckoning me almost like an arrow.

--Eric B