You know, I never actually do NaNo. I just sign up and then feel guilty for a month.

Same here.

Oddly enough, I may use it to finish a long fanfic I've had in the planning stages for years (but then, given that it's a WWII-era prequel to a story set in 1999, it sort of counts as an original novel, I suppose).

I've been feeling nostalgic about flying and instructing lately, and remembered that I typed up one of my stories last year, got Typo Boy to beta it -- and then forgot to post it. So here it is.

FLIGHT REVIEW

Every two years, pilots are required to log a flight review with an instructor, to include a review of the Federal aviation regulations (with emphasis on any changes in the past two years), an evaluation of the pilot's planning skills, his flying skills, and his situational awareness. It's not meant to be a repeat of his flight test, more of a brush-up and safety review.

Leonard was one of our most experienced local sailplane pilots. He had logged thousands of hours more flying time and much more cross-country experience than I had -- or was likely to acquire in the next decade. So when he scheduled his flight review with me I tried to come up with a plan that would make the flight something that might be useful and different for him, and not just a perfunctory chore.

One of the mandatory parts of the review is emergency procedures, and the most common emergency in the sailplane instructor's bag of tricks is the low altitude simulated tow-rope break. It is so common that it is pretty much taken for granted that one will be pulled in every review, and the normal recovery is a quick 180° turn back to the runway. The seats in most two-seat sailplanes are tandem, and one of the things an instructor learns to watch for is the relaxation of the shoulders of the pilot in front of him as the towplane and sailplane climb away through 200 feet of altitude and the pilot says to himself, "Whew, not this flight, that means it'll be the next one." That, of course, is when the instructor pulls the tow release, announces "Rope break!" and chortles with evil glee while the pilot makes his landing. The lesson, of course, is "ALWAYS be prepared for the rope to break," and the instructor gets to see how the pilot handles a critical low-altitude turn and the tricky balancing act of a downwind landing.

I didn't think that would be a useful test for an old hand like Leonard, so I arranged something a little different with our tow pilot. We made our take-off, and the tow pilot managed the climb during our first circuit of the airport such that by the time we were back over the upwind end of the runway we were still fairly low -- about 400 feet, instead of the normal 1000. This meant that we had no runway in front of us to land on, just the neighboring pastures and wheat fields, and we were too high to simply turn around and land downwind. We had several options in the event of a rope break, just none that were quick or clear or straightforward.

I pulled the release. Leonard didn't flinch or swear the way some pilots do, and as he swiveled his head re-checking for traffic I could see a wry little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Leonard made an initial turn to the right while he quickly went through the emergency landing checklist, and told me his plan was to reverse his turn, going back to the left around three-quarters of a circle to get us lined up with the runway for a downwind landing, with lots of spoiler and a slip on final to bleed off our excess altitude, using most of the length of the runway to set us up for an easy turnaround to make our next takeoff.

That wasn't the plan I had in mind -- I would have continued the right turn all the way around to make a modified final approach for a mid-field landing into the wind -- but it would work and was safe enough given the conditions, so I said nothing.

As we turned to the left, Leonard had to modify his plan. "The other towplane is launching with a sailplane, we can't use the runway. We'll land in the grass next to it." We continued the turn, and I noticed that we were in lift. By the time we had come around in line with the grass parallel to the runway, there were further complications. "I see traffic landing on the east grass...Tow Two is safely past below us...there's ground traffic on the west grass...we've still (continued...)

( continues...) got extra altitude, instead of using spoilers I'm going to keep turning, do a three-sixty, that'll give 'em some time to clear the landing area." Okay, unexpected, but still safe. I said nothing. This was turning into a more challenging test than I had planned, but that was all to the good.

As we kept turning we were still in lift, still climbing despite maintaining the extra speed required when preparing to land a sailplane. I'm sure Leonard had noticed it earlier, just as I had, but now he commented on it, "Hah, we're two hundred feet above release. Continuing the turn, let's see how traffic is doing down there...still jammed up, traffic in the grass, glider turning final for the runway, let's do another turn." Thirty seconds later: "Still climbing...this is good lift...Tow One has landed...we're high enough to make the standard traffic pattern now...there's Tow Two, coming our way, still below. Let's do another turn...."

As we climbed above the traffic pattern Leonard retracted the landing gear and slowed to thermalling speed. We were going up at seven hundred feet per minute, and other sailplanes came cruising in to join us in the thermal we were marking.

The "simulated rope break" that should have been a five minute flight turned into an hour's excursion half-way to Pikes Peak and back, with three climbs to six thousand feet above the ground and a lesson for me in cross-country soaring techniques that money couldn't have bought.

As we did the post-flight discussion and paperwork, I ribbed him a bit. "Leonard, I dunno if I can sign off on you -- we never completed our emergency landing!"

"Sure we did -- it just took longer than you thought it would."

I had to laugh. "That really wasn't the result I was looking for. I've never seen anyone thermal out of a rope break before. But you didn't hesitate to execute your plan, you kept your options open, your situational awareness was good and you adapted to the changing conditions, you flew safe, and you stayed safe for others. I can't ask for more...it's just, well, tell me you won't make that your default plan for a rope break."

Leonard laughed with me. "I half expected you to pull the spoilers and announce 'simulated sink' and force us to land."

I tried to look stern. "I thought about it," I admitted. My grin came back. "For about two seconds. But I just couldn't bring myself to ditch a thermal that nice. Bad instructor. No cookie."

• *********

Okay, the "no cookie" line is fiction but the rest is really how it happened. I just felt the story needed a better finish. Maybe that line is too cute, but the memory of that flight still makes me smile, and I want the reader to do the same. I can't decide if a non-pilot would come away feeling the same without the little joke. Suggestions for further polishing are welcome.

I have a picture of "Leonard" in his single-seat sailplane "ZL" at [link]

That's a great story.

I think it could stand without the joke. I think it gives the right feeling.

It's already evocative, but if you wanted to take it a little further, you could add a bit of detail once you're in the thermal..how does it feel, how does it look, what does it make you think about?...before the solid punch of the resulting flight.

Research question x-posted with Natter: Anyone know how sturdy old VW buses were? Body-wise? If a vintage bus crashed into a modern police car, not hard enough to hurt anybody, but with definite impact, would the VW need a lot of bodywork? Or were they pretty sturdy?

Thinking aloud and seeking feedback....

One aspect of my alternate history WIP that AFAIC is a feature, not a bug, is that my protagonists aren't necessarily good nor my antagonists bad. It's a war series, and the protagonists' side looks better in terms of Just War Theory, but other than that which side a character is fighting on--or whether s/he chooses to avoid the fight altogether--isn't a reliable indicator of virtue or likability. I want my readers to root for the protagonists, but I wouldn't mind if they occasionally stop and ponder the gray areas, and I hope they like some of the antagonists as much as I do.

In particular, in the WIP, which is book one of what I expect to be a 4-5 book series...I think my principal antagonist is turning out a bit nicer than his protagonist. Antagonist is highly ambitious and a bit quixotic, but he's also a brave officer who loves his country and has a beloved daughter whom he's trying to provide for. He ends up opposed to Protagonist chiefly because by defeating and capturing him he expects to get further advancement. He gets a bit obsessed with it after Protagonist eludes him several times, but non insane-obsessed, just determined. Protagonist, OTOH, is an arrogant, entitled son-of-a-bitch--and since he's one of my real historical figures, I can't just alter his personality at a whim. Plus, he has to have room to grow over the course of the series--Antagonist doesn't, because he's just this book's antagonist and will die at its climax.

To me, this is good--there are enough reasons for the reader to root for the protagonists without having to make them a race of saints or the antagonists into actual bad guys (well, one or two of them are). There's the whole Just War thing, and the other major protagonist characters are pretty likable. (Except for Antagonist's daughter, who ends up a traitor to her father's side. She's kind of a piece of work.) But it seems to be bugging some of my CPs a bit. And I *was* originally planning to make Antagonist a bit more, well, evil. But he felt one-note and out of place in the story, and in his second scene he more or less insisted that he wasn't that bad and really did love his daughter and his country.

I think it should work just fine, Susan. It's one of the things I love about Le Miserables. You can have two polar opposites, yet feel sympathy for the antagonist and dislike for the protagonist. It makes the story more thematically complex. Perhaps your CPs are a tad simplistic in their outlook?

Perhaps your CPs are a tad simplistic in their outlook?

Possibly--and really, it's only two out of 8 people in my two critique groups. Now that I've switched genres, I think some of them aren't sure what to make of me. Really, I'm still figuring it out myself. This isn't the first time I've had a sympathetic antagonist, but in my romance manuscripts I didn't push the ambiguities quite so hard, and none of my heroes were quite so flawed as Protagonist.

Anyway, what I'm writing is still so new to me that I don't know whether it works or not. Scary, that, but at least I'm enjoying the ride.

You know, this makes me want to read "Great Expectations" again. Maybe I'd enjoy it if I read it on the assumption the reader is intended to dislike Pip. I like most of Dickens.

I think the ambiguous approach is worth exploring, Susan. It's hard to judge of your protagonist is too flawed or your antagonist too sympathetic without the whole picture. As you say, your protagonist will be growing, presumably he will do some of that in this book, and you've got Big Picture stuff that can add to the tragic downfall of the good guy on the wrong side aspect of your antagonist.