TWINKLE TOES

To be a man is to take pride in a victory by one's comrades.

It is to feel, when setting one's stone,

that one is contributing to the building of the world.

quote from  Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

We were trudging home after a sweaty struggle, still fifty miles out when the sky went flat. Cloudless haze ahead offered little hope for even one more thermal from there on, but climbing under the last teensy cumulus we began to suspect this was the near end of a familiar shearline that could carry us closer.

It seems Pedro, like scads of people, has more than one natural gift. Though still a student pilot, he was already better at sniffing shearlines than me, so when our last climb topped out I told him this was his first big test. Could he get us home? I doubted I could, but had no reason to tell him that.

He was happy to try, proud in fact. So I sat back to watch – and learn.

Pedro tightroped half the distance along that invisible line of lift, maintaining 11,000 feet like an acrobat high beneath the big top. More than once, as lift weakened he'd turn abruptly to one side or the other, relocating a stronger line almost immediately. How did he know where? According to him they were only guesses. On and on we ran … mysterious!

Then twenty-five miles out the shear finally ended, or curved away from where we needed to go, but Pedro had brought us within sight of home and by being soooper conservative could glide slowly down to the finish.

We learned a lot from each other that day on trusting intuition, a huge topic. He also demonstrated why we preach ‘NEVER GIVE UP’.  More to the point he tasted the finest of nectars, due reward.  

Weeks later, buoyed by the Temporary Airman Certificate folded in his wallet, Pedro prepared for his first solo cross-country flight. It was an exceptional day locally and he hoped to repeat that 500-K out-and-return we'd flown earlier.

"Nothing will be the same," I warned, "and don't forget how sketchy that last flight was, with twice as many eyes and brains." That seemed to only up the challenge and arouse Pedro's competitive nature. There were diamonds in his eyes, it was plain to see. I was Dad letting him drive after dark for the first time, fearing not what he'd do, but what might happen to him – and to the vehicle. And he couldn't wait. My last advice before he closed the canopy: reaching a declared turnpoint was not as important as turning back IN TIME to work his way home. (I was to be his crew if he didn't get back, and a long evening retrieve was not my fondest wish.)  

He had a video camera mounted on the instrument panel and its audio track tells early parts of his story with genuine drama. Hero conditions prevailed through the outbound leg, but then it got ‘interesting’ and his tone changed. Clouds thickened and lift thinned. In making his chosen turnpoint he got low and dug around over shaded hills for energy that was available only in bright sunlight. By the time he clawed his way back to altitude the return leg was obscured by lower ceilings and periodic showers. Diminished visibility made for gray but compelling video until he wisely turned the camera off.

If he did so to eliminate distraction that was smart, but imagine how much more educational if the camera had continued running, no matter the outcome! (Knowing Pedro, he didn't dare record what had begun to look like impending failure. Or knowing Pedro in some ways better than he knows himself, he believed he could do it without the camera, but with it on he'd fail for sure.  Sheer superstition root and vine, but you gotta go with what you know works.) So the movie ends here. From then on he was too busy to think of the camera until long after dark.  

Back home, early that evening a pilot of far greater experience with a hotter sailplane flew in from Minden, hundreds of miles north. Emerging exhausted from his cockpit, the veteran reported passing over Pedro low near the turnpoint, and with conditions deteriorating he saw no way for him to complete the task.

Knowing better than to argue, privately I clutched a frail optimism. ‘Don’t be so sure’ I thought, but asked, “Where do you ‘spose he’ll land?”

“You might not hear till late tonight.”

The sun was low when Pedro crept within radio range, and he was struggling as much against frustration as gravity. In a flat world he might have been already on final glide, but now one last mountain stood in the way upwind of his position. I offered some meager encouragement and he acknowledged a reminder to keep his previous alternate always in reach behind him. Then the radio went quiet as he dropped below line-of-sight.

Like a nervous mom I stood out by the runway within earshot of the telephone, portable radio in hand. He could come from only one direction, so that's where I stared.

When sailplanes are thermaling in the sun their wings flash at least once every circle, and if the light is right it’s possible to spot them from miles away. There would be no such flashes, however. A sailplane coming head on may be invisible inside half a mile – and of course they’re silent as death.

Taught to be reticent on radio, Pedro was one of the few who took that to heart. Should I call him? No, let him concentrate.

Hearing what might be the faint breathy khaalunk of Pedro testing his spoilers, I focused my gaze below the horizon. Still nothing. After coming so far, had he stretched his luck to the snapping point? Falling short now might be not just disappointing, but tragic. Time goes glacial at moments like this and I began to doubt what I’d heard before finally seeing the dot of his nose cone low against the hills he'd crawled over. I’d been looking too high. When his long glide intercepted final approach of a normal pattern my toes began to curl. I was keying the mike to shout, “Gear DOWN!” just as the wheel fell into place.

The breeze had died away, birds gone to roost and the sun was winking out when Pedro rolled to a victorious stop.

This is a man with unusually large feet – that are numb from a kneck injury playing pro football. I had teased him more than he liked about the dainty way he tip-toed along those shearlines, so when he opened the canopy on that fine autumn evening, I presented him with a glittery pair of baby-sized ballet slippers as a graduation gift. Diamonds in his eyes indeed, and on his figurative feet as well!

You have only to endure to conquer.

You have only to persevere to save yourselves.

Winston Churchill