You can see the extremely detailed artist’s rendition of a chicken ranch on the treasure map. I drew it perfectly in the preflight brief, but I didn’t have the slightest clue what a chicken ranch was. Even if I did, there was no chance I could point one out from 4,500 feet between some clouds. We play this game for the next 30 minutes. He points at something, I can’t correlate it to the convoluted hieroglyphics, and he gets more upset. He ensures I know that I have failed my Area 1 familiarization.

Once I am completely disoriented and panicking, he says, “Take me to NOLF Barin.”

All I know is that I am on the west side of Area 1, and I desperately scan, hoping for a miracle. There it is, just to the right of the nose. I can see a clearing with an airport. I act like I knew it was there the entire time and make an easy turn toward it. I start slowing back and configuring the aircraft for landing.

“What are you doing wrong right now?”

This is a tough question. I am sure I am doing plenty of things wrong, but I can’t pinpoint what he is referring to. I recheck all of the landing configuration items and find nothing wrong. Then it hits me. I need to switch frequencies to the airport and make the radio call to enter the airport. We seem far away, but I tell the instructor, “I’ll just make the call to enter the pattern.”

He immediately screams, “If you transmit on that radio, I will break your f**king hand!”

I think the punishment doesn’t match the crime for an early radio call, but I keep driving toward the airport.

“Do you notice anything wrong?”

We are probably six miles out, and I just keep thinking about how I need to make a radio call.

“Negative, sir.”

“You don’t see a problem here? Are you f**king kidding me?”

He is the angriest I have seen him. I keep looking at the airport, rechecking the procedures, and then I see it.

I messed up.

Instead of the bright orange T-34s I expect to see in the pattern, there are white civilian planes. I am moments away from barging into Jack Edwards, a civilian airport’s airspace. I confess, “I see it now. It’s the wrong airport.”

“I have the flight controls. Gs coming on now, now, now.”

I remove my hands from the flight controls as my on-wing takes over and immediately banks through an 80-degree turn away from the airport.

At a 70-degree angle of bank, I experience a rapid onset of three Gs, or three times the force of gravity. When the Gs increase, the blood is pulled out of the head until pilots go unconscious. We were trained to combat this with an anti-G straining maneuver, where you squeeze all the muscles in your lower body and breathe a certain way to keep blood flowing to your noggin. We practiced it in a chair in an air-conditioned room.

Currently, the anti-G straining maneuver is the last thing on my mind. I freeze and do nothing. I feel overwhelming pressure on my body, and I flail as my peripheral vision starts to go dark. Moments later, he rolls out, pointing at the correct airport, and all my blood goes back to where it is supposed to be. I feel awful, physically and mentally exhausted, and I still haven’t made it to the pattern.

Surprisingly, things don’t improve when I get over the runway. I continue to fall apart and wave off nearly every approach. The few landings I manage to touch down are abominations.

Another complete failure.

After that flight in the pattern, I start to lose hope.

I remember the guidance counselor who told me I probably wouldn’t make it to the Coast Guard Academy.

I remember the English teacher who told me about much better students who weren’t accepted into service academies.

I remember the moment I got rejected from the Coast Guard Academy.

I remember quitting in my first week.

I remember struggling through every moment of the Coast Guard Academy.

I remember my friends all laughing at me when I told them I was applying for flight school.

I remember those same friends joking about how long I would last before I failed out of flight school.

I remember nearly failing out of IFS when everyone else was having fun.

It isn’t that I never thought about those moments before. I thought about them all the time. The difference is that before this moment, I could usually ignore the doubt and believe I might be able to prove everyone wrong. Now, the doubt consumes me, and I know I will fail and prove everyone right. I should have never made it this far, and I know it.

The next few months are among the most challenging and darkest times of my life. Failing seems inevitable, and I hope for any way out of flying. I hope someone will back their car into me, or I will fall down the stairs, or a hurricane will come. I feel lonely, and I am afraid to admit to anyone how badly I am struggling.

The only thing I have going for me is that after quitting the Academy, I made up my mind that I wouldn’t quit again. Any whisper of quitting is immediately shut down, and luckily, the quitting triangle doesn’t stand a chance. But I am still hoping for any other way out.

I begin to self-destruct. I self-medicate with alcohol on the weekends, eat whatever terrible food I want, stop working out, and don’t prioritize sleep. My body responds to the stress, and I begin to suffer from headaches and repeated sinus infections. I welcome the sickness because the flight surgeon takes me off flight status, and I get a break from training. The lack of consistent training, illness, and my terrible attitude result in poor performance and consistent failed flights.

I am scheduled for warmup flights whenever I return from being sick. I am also given extra flight time after failing events and being forced to repeat flights. With these extra reps, I become proficient at the “high work.” I can quickly recover from a stall, spin, approach turn stall, or simulated emergency. As I fly with instructors other than my on-wing, they assume I know what I am doing until I get into the landing pattern. Despite all the extra flight time, I still have no idea how to land. I am running out of time, and the instructors are running out of patience.

Before you can fly a T-34 by yourself, you must pass the safe-for-solo check ride. The safe-for-solo check ride is intentionally the most challenging flight in flight school. The preflight briefing items consist of any previously briefed item, and the flight is total mayhem. We are pressure tested on every maneuver and emergency possible.

I should have never made it to the safe-for-solo check ride.

I failed my last flight prior to the safe-for-solo check ride and had to redo it. I should have failed on my second attempt, but something interesting happened. I had already failed so many flights that failing this flight twice in a row would trigger a Training Review Board. During a Training Review Board, squadron leadership would meet and discuss whether I should be allowed to continue training or be attrited. If I failed the notorious safe-for-solo check ride, that would also trigger a Training Review Board. Either way, it seemed I was destined for a Training Review Board.

During the debrief for my second would-be failure, my on-wing tells me how atrocious my performance was, but then explains, “If I fail you on this flight, you go to a Training Review Board. If you fail your safe-for-solo check ride, you also go to a Training Review Board. But if I pass you and send you to your safe-for-solo check ride, you at least have a chance of passing and will be able to continue training.”

I do not have a chance of passing. My on-wing is probably just ready to be done flying with me and can’t take one more flight punctuated by terrifying landings. I am brimming with confidence when I leave the debrief.

When I get home, I compulsively check the schedule and anxiously wait for the details of my check ride. I hope for one of the few friendly instructors, or maybe that they will forget to schedule me entirely. Then I see it, and a wave of panic comes over me. I am scheduled with “The Hawk,” the meanest, most feared instructor in the squadron, with a reputation for taking pleasure in failing students. If that isn’t bad enough, I have the dreaded 0500 brief, meaning I will have to be at the squadron around 0430. I cram as much as possible, and my nerves keep me up all night.

The preflight brief is ruthless, but I do fine. “The Hawk” seems slightly impressed with my knowledge, and I begin to feel a small glimmer of hope that I can make it through this flight.

As I strap into the cockpit, I am very nervous, and the mood is tense. I try to lighten things up, and before starting the checklist, I blurt out, “Hey, sir, are you ready to get this party started?”

This is a mistake.

I look back at him in the cockpit mirror. He looks so mad that it is terrifying. His response to my question is so vulgar that I can’t repeat it, but it is clear there will be no party starting.

The flight starts with a barrage of questions about limits, maneuver parameters, and emergency procedures, but I am prepared. Once in the operating area, we begin the usual high work. My stall and spin recoveries are perfect, and he even compliments me, but I know the jig will be up as soon as we enter the pattern.

Immediately after we finish the high work, we see an abnormal engine indication. It’s strange to say that a malfunctioning engine in an aircraft is a miracle, but right now, it is the greatest miracle I can imagine. We terminate training and fly back. I try to contain my excitement on the way home. I have survived the brief and high work with “The Hawk,” and all I have left is the dreaded pattern work. The good news is that it will have to be scheduled for the next day, and any instructor will be an improvement over “The Hawk.” Things are looking up for me.

Back at home, I start anxiously rechecking the schedule. I am in pretty high spirits for the first time in a long time. All I have to do is get in the pattern and demonstrate a couple of safe landings. I estimate I can pull off a “safe” landing nearly half the time, so I figure I have a decent enough chance of passing this flight and making it to my solo.

Then, in a moment, all hope evaporates as I read the schedule.

0500 brief with “The Hawk.”

This can’t be happening.

7.14 WAVEOFF

The waveoff is a mandatory signal and will be executed immediately upon receipt, whether it is a red light from the tower, the runway wheels watch by interphone, or radio. Pilots should initiate their own waveoff anytime a safe landing is not possible. The decision should be made as soon as possible during the approach to provide a safe margin of airspeed and altitude. Complete the following procedure as applicable. Engine spool-up delays of as much as five seconds may be encountered after power addition.

1. PCL — FULL POWER.

2. Positive rate of climb — ESTABLISHED.

There is an adage in aviation that “waveoffs are free.” As student pilots, instructors caution us to never force a bad landing. They emphasize that there are no negative repercussions for waving off an approach. Given that all of my landings are on the edge of unsafe, I am a master at waveoffs. In fact, I’m sure I executed more waveoffs than any other maneuver.

As I enter the landing pattern with “The Hawk,” I know all I have to do is complete a successful full-flap landing, a no-flap landing, and a few emergency landings.

I go through my landing procedures and set power for landing.

“Airspeed below 120, flaps coming down,” trim, turn, talk.

I transmit, “Red Knight 830, one-eighty, gear down and locked.”

As I turn toward the runway, I feel my heart race.

“Gear down, flaps down, landing checklist complete.”

I approach the landing threshold.

“Gear down and locked, negative lights.”

I am almost there. I see the ground rushing up at me as we fly down the runway at 80 knots, and I panic.

“I’m going to wave this one off.”

I jam in full power, I’m thrust back into my seat, and I begin to climb. I look back at “The Hawk,” and he seems confused.

“That one just didn’t feel right. I think I had some winds at the bottom.”

I can’t tell him I panicked and waved off because I was scared.

I come back around again.

I approach the landing threshold.

“Gear down and locked, negative lights.”

“I’m just going to wave this one off too. Didn’t feel right.”

I look back again, and “The Hawk” looks less confused and more angry.

“You know that you eventually need to land this thing.”

I come around again, determined to complete a landing.

“Gear down and locked, negative lights.”

I pull back the power and float just above the ground. My heart pounds, and I wince as the aircraft approaches the runway. We touch down, not on the centerline, crooked, and relatively hard, but it is “safe.” I take a couple of deep breaths as we lift back off. “The Hawk” approves of the landing, and I set up for a no-flap landing.

Without the use of flaps, the touchdown speed is slightly faster because there isn’t extra lift being produced by the flaps. It should be no surprise that adding speed to my already terrible landings does not improve anything. I am bad at full-flap landings. I am absolutely awful at no-flap landings.

Everything starts to fall apart.

“Waveoff. I thought I might have seen the waveoff lights.”

“Waveoff. Something didn’t feel right.”

“Waveoff. I think there was a gusty crosswind on that one.”

“Waveoff. I was getting a little slow on that one.”

I am unsure how many waveoffs I have done at this point, but I look back at “The Hawk” and know waveoffs are no longer free. He has had enough.

I come around for another landing. I know I need to land this one, or this flight will be over.

“Gear down and locked, negative lights.”

Over the threshold, I cut the power and set my landing attitude. I freeze, grip the controls as hard as I can, and hope the plane lands itself through some divine intervention. Moments later, we hit hard on one of the main landing gear tires with the nose crooked. The other main landing gear crashes down, and the plane ricochets violently from side to side, coming up on one tire as we swerve down the runway. I have had plenty of bad landings, but this is my worst.

“What the f**k was that?!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Let’s try that one again!”

I come around a few more times and continue to land poorly. “The Hawk” has plenty of negative feedback. I know I am not passing this flight.

Finally, “The Hawk” puts me out of my misery.

“That’s it. We’re done. I’m going to fly us home.”

We fly back in silence. I know my dream of being a pilot is over.

The next few days are miserable. After failing my check ride, a Training Review Board will decide my fate. Three senior instructor pilots will review my training record and make a recommendation to the Training Wing Commodore to retain or attrite me. I begin to hope they recommend attrition because it is the quickest and easiest way out. I have so many more events to get through, and I don’t see a way out of the hole I am in. I feel sorry for myself and blame everyone and everything for my failure.

After several long, stressful days, I report to the Squadron Commander in my dress uniform to hear the results of the Training Review Board. The Squadron Commander is a decorated F-16 fighter pilot. He is tall, good-looking, and has just the right amount of swag. I admire him. His office looks like an aviation museum filled with aircraft and squadron paraphernalia, aircraft parts, photos, and newspaper articles. I request permission to enter his office and stand at attention in front of his large desk.

“Please have a seat.”

I brace for what will surely be the worst news of my life, and my easy way out.

He looks at me with kind eyes and asks, “How are you doing, George?”

I am surprised. I was expecting to be lectured about wasting taxpayer dollars and sent home. I thought I was in trouble.

I tell him the truth.

“Not great, sir.”

“I can imagine this has been a very difficult time for you. I have reviewed the recommendation of the Training Review Board and spoken to your Senior Coast Guard instructor. We have decided to retain you.”

I am shocked.

“When we reviewed your record, we noticed that you weren’t able to get consistent training and had several large gaps between events that we think may have contributed to your poor check ride. We also noticed that in every single grade sheet, the instructors noted that you were overly prepared for the ground briefings and had above-average knowledge. It is evident that you are studying hard, and this saved you. We are going to give you a few days off. When you return, we will give you a warmup flight and several extra training flights to prepare you for another attempt at the check ride. I need you to keep studying, and we will be able to teach you how to fly.”

I am given a second chance, and this is my last chance. He makes it clear that failing any more flights after these extra training flights will guarantee the end of my aviation career.

I am still in the fight.