Flying as Therapy

It was the day from Hell. From the moment I arrived at the Inn on our
"Monday morning" (in real life, Friday), literally everything that could go
wrong, did.

Everything from an overnight guest, on the lam from the law (and who needed
to be arrested *here*, of course, for all to see), to a major plumbing
problem, to a cantankerous employee, to high heat and humidity, to a new
(and unknown) strain of algae attacking the pool -- it was happening all at
once.

And there was no respite. Throughout the day, as one fire was extinguished,
another would blow up in my face, often two or three at a time. By
mid-afternoon I was somewhere between rage, disbelief, and unstoppable
laughter, as Mary and I tried to predict what could POSSIBLY go wrong next.

Just as I said this, our "guest from hell" walked through the lobby door,
looking for a fight. This guy -- a retired professor emeritus who has
decided that he's going to live at the inn till he dies -- has complained
about every guest that has ever bunked above him, below him, or next to him.
Worse, he may be in the early stages of Alzheimer's, as he repeats himself
ad nauseum. Daily.

With nothing else to do, no where else to go, and no relatives nearby, we
have become this poor mans sounding board and chew toy. As I listened to
him go on about the kids upstairs, the dog that barked once at 6 AM (he,
too, has a dog, but that doesn't matter) the full parking lots, and the
unbearable humidity near the laundry room, I felt the heat rising in my
face.

By now, at age 46, I should know to leave the room when I feel this occur,
but, unfortunately, I was the only one in the lobby. (From experience Mary
had smartly vamoosed at the first sight of this guy). There was to be no
escape.

As I pondered this sanctimonious, arrogant man, sitting comfortably in my
lobby, ranting on about things beyond my control, needlessly taking my time
away from other things that desperately needed to get done, I was suddenly
floating. It was as if I was outside my body, and observing the situation
from above, and I realized how stupid my predicament was, and how unsolvable
his issues were, and how dumb I was to ever leave the newspaper business.

He was demanding to know what I was going to do about the sound of
children's feet pitter-pattering from the suite above, and demanding to know
why he couldn't park closer to the door, when something inside me cracked.

The next 60 seconds are a blur, but suffice it to say that I ended my tirade
by stating, unequivocally, that I would be physically placing all of his
belongings -- and him -- out at the curb if he didn't leave the lobby. At
once. It was not pretty.

After he left, I stood there, shaking. The day did not improve.

Flash forward a few hours. Mary and I have finally escaped the madness, and
are sitting at the hangar. I've just finished downing a grilled Boca
burger, my butt is planted in a comfy chair, and we're discussing what has
easily been the worst day of our 3-year hotel experience.

And there sat Atlas. Fully fueled. Ready to go, anywhere we pointed him.

We both looked at each other, and knew it was time to get some air beneath
us.

With the sun already down, we were soon rolling down Runway 25, right next
to the Inn. Climbing out into the silky smooth darkening sky, Mary expertly
carved the pattern behind a primary student who was on his first night
flight, his instructor beside him, patiently waiting for "legal darkness" to
arrive.

After one circuit, and a perfect landing, we switched positions (always fun,
without opening the doors or shutting down the engine!), and I was soon
smoothly applying power on the takeoff roll. Feeling the wheels rumble down
the familiar pavement, my heart soared as the ground fell away from us, that
big ol' O-540 rumbling happily just inches in front of me. .

With the lights of the city twinkling below, and the hint of fog moving into
the valley through the still, heavy air, it was magical as we arced
effortlessly around the pattern. With almost no sense of motion, outside
of the turns, it was easy to imagine a place and a time far removed from the
trials of the day. It was easy, and beautiful, and my troubles all seemed
to fall away beneath me....

Turning to final, watching the VASIs, keeping the approach speed nailed, I
landed and called it a night. It was a beautiful evening, still in the 80s,
and it was hard to believe that anything in this world could be anything
less than perfect.

The whole flight took just 0.3 hours. The day was wonderful.
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"

0.3 can take you far, far away. Been there often.
--
Gene Seibel
Gene & Sue's Flying Machine - http://pad39a.com/gene/
Because we fly, we envy no one.

On 10 Sep 2005 06:51:08 -0700, "Gene Seibel" wrote:

0.3 can take you far, far away. Been there often.

Now if only I did not have to drive 80 miles to the airport it would
be wonderful :-)

David

I talked to my doctor brother about how I always feel good after flying,
even if I did a lousy job. He agreed that flying might release endophins for
some people. A natural high. Kevin Dunlevy


"Jay Honeck" wrote in message
news:a5BUe.322045$_o.199192@attbi_s71...
It was the day from Hell. From the moment I arrived at the Inn on our
"Monday morning" (in real life, Friday), literally everything that could
go
wrong, did.

Everything from an overnight guest, on the lam from the law (and who
needed
to be arrested *here*, of course, for all to see), to a major plumbing
problem, to a cantankerous employee, to high heat and humidity, to a new
(and unknown) strain of algae attacking the pool -- it was happening all
at
once.

And there was no respite. Throughout the day, as one fire was
extinguished,
another would blow up in my face, often two or three at a time. By
mid-afternoon I was somewhere between rage, disbelief, and unstoppable
laughter, as Mary and I tried to predict what could POSSIBLY go wrong
next.

Just as I said this, our "guest from hell" walked through the lobby door,
looking for a fight. This guy -- a retired professor emeritus who has
decided that he's going to live at the inn till he dies -- has complained
about every guest that has ever bunked above him, below him, or next to
him.
Worse, he may be in the early stages of Alzheimer's, as he repeats himself
ad nauseum. Daily.

With nothing else to do, no where else to go, and no relatives nearby, we
have become this poor mans sounding board and chew toy. As I listened to
him go on about the kids upstairs, the dog that barked once at 6 AM (he,
too, has a dog, but that doesn't matter) the full parking lots, and the
unbearable humidity near the laundry room, I felt the heat rising in my
face.

By now, at age 46, I should know to leave the room when I feel this
occur,
but, unfortunately, I was the only one in the lobby. (From experience
Mary
had smartly vamoosed at the first sight of this guy). There was to be no
escape.

As I pondered this sanctimonious, arrogant man, sitting comfortably in my
lobby, ranting on about things beyond my control, needlessly taking my
time
away from other things that desperately needed to get done, I was suddenly
floating. It was as if I was outside my body, and observing the situation
from above, and I realized how stupid my predicament was, and how
unsolvable
his issues were, and how dumb I was to ever leave the newspaper business.

He was demanding to know what I was going to do about the sound of
children's feet pitter-pattering from the suite above, and demanding to
know
why he couldn't park closer to the door, when something inside me
cracked.

The next 60 seconds are a blur, but suffice it to say that I ended my
tirade
by stating, unequivocally, that I would be physically placing all of his
belongings -- and him -- out at the curb if he didn't leave the lobby.
At
once. It was not pretty.

After he left, I stood there, shaking. The day did not improve.

Flash forward a few hours. Mary and I have finally escaped the madness,
and
are sitting at the hangar. I've just finished downing a grilled Boca
burger, my butt is planted in a comfy chair, and we're discussing what has
easily been the worst day of our 3-year hotel experience.

And there sat Atlas. Fully fueled. Ready to go, anywhere we pointed him.

We both looked at each other, and knew it was time to get some air beneath
us.

With the sun already down, we were soon rolling down Runway 25, right next
to the Inn. Climbing out into the silky smooth darkening sky, Mary
expertly
carved the pattern behind a primary student who was on his first night
flight, his instructor beside him, patiently waiting for "legal darkness"
to
arrive.

After one circuit, and a perfect landing, we switched positions (always
fun,
without opening the doors or shutting down the engine!), and I was soon
smoothly applying power on the takeoff roll. Feeling the wheels rumble
down
the familiar pavement, my heart soared as the ground fell away from us,
that
big ol' O-540 rumbling happily just inches in front of me. .

With the lights of the city twinkling below, and the hint of fog moving
into
the valley through the still, heavy air, it was magical as we arced
effortlessly around the pattern. With almost no sense of motion, outside
of the turns, it was easy to imagine a place and a time far removed from
the
trials of the day. It was easy, and beautiful, and my troubles all
seemed
to fall away beneath me....

Turning to final, watching the VASIs, keeping the approach speed nailed, I
landed and called it a night. It was a beautiful evening, still in the
80s,
and it was hard to believe that anything in this world could be anything
less than perfect.

The whole flight took just 0.3 hours. The day was wonderful.
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"

"Jay Honeck" wrote in message
news:a5BUe.322045$_o.199192@attbi_s71...
It was the day from Hell. ......

The whole flight took just 0.3 hours. The day was wonderful.


Interesting.

Not recommended by the FAA and Transport Canada "behavioural-factors"
police, as in: (direct quote from the Canadian version

Fatigue slows reaction time....fatigue can be aggravated by other stresses
such as business pressures....

:unquote

But still, pleased that the day turned out fine.

The "inherited tenant" phenomena... gets to be one of the family, but often
ready to be throttled.... even ordinary families in 3-bedroom homes can have
those... you can only wait and hope :-)

The whole flight took just 0.3 hours. The day was wonderful.

Interesting.

Not recommended by the FAA and Transport Canada "behavioural-factors"
police, as in: (direct quote from the Canadian version

Fatigue slows reaction time....fatigue can be aggravated by other stresses
such as business pressures....

I've wondered about this. In fact, when I was a new pilot, I would
never have considered flying after such a day, simply because (a) I
would not have trusted myself, and (b) flying itself was stressful.

As the years have rolled by, and flying has become more or less "second
nature", I've discovered that I don't have to work so hard, and I enjoy
it even more. In other words, I pretty much do it without consciously
thinking about it, outside of the basic checklist items.

But, yes, I was very aware that my mood was not "right" and, as a
result, I was very careful to double-check my procedures.

And, don't forget, I've got my "aural warning system" sitting right
next to me. If I forget anything important, she goes right off,
instantly!

;-)
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"

Jay Honeck wrote:

It was the day from Hell. From the moment I arrived at the Inn on our
"Monday morning" (in real life, Friday), literally everything that could
go wrong, did.

Everything from an overnight guest, on the lam from the law (and who
needed to be arrested *here*, of course, for all to see), to a major
plumbing problem, to a cantankerous employee, to high heat and humidity,
to a new (and unknown) strain of algae attacking the pool -- it was
happening all at once.

And there was no respite. Throughout the day, as one fire was
extinguished,
another would blow up in my face, often two or three at a time. By
mid-afternoon I was somewhere between rage, disbelief, and unstoppable
laughter, as Mary and I tried to predict what could POSSIBLY go wrong
next.

Just as I said this, our "guest from hell" walked through the lobby door,
looking for a fight. This guy -- a retired professor emeritus who has
decided that he's going to live at the inn till he dies -- has complained
about every guest that has ever bunked above him, below him, or next to
him. Worse, he may be in the early stages of Alzheimer's, as he repeats
himself
ad nauseum. Daily.

With nothing else to do, no where else to go, and no relatives nearby, we
have become this poor mans sounding board and chew toy. As I listened to
him go on about the kids upstairs, the dog that barked once at 6 AM (he,
too, has a dog, but that doesn't matter) the full parking lots, and the
unbearable humidity near the laundry room, I felt the heat rising in my
face.

By now, at age 46, I should know to leave the room when I feel this
occur,
but, unfortunately, I was the only one in the lobby. (From experience
Mary
had smartly vamoosed at the first sight of this guy). There was to be no
escape.

As I pondered this sanctimonious, arrogant man, sitting comfortably in my
lobby, ranting on about things beyond my control, needlessly taking my
time away from other things that desperately needed to get done, I was
suddenly
floating. It was as if I was outside my body, and observing the situation
from above, and I realized how stupid my predicament was, and how
unsolvable his issues were, and how dumb I was to ever leave the newspaper
business.

He was demanding to know what I was going to do about the sound of
children's feet pitter-pattering from the suite above, and demanding to
know
why he couldn't park closer to the door, when something inside me
cracked.

The next 60 seconds are a blur, but suffice it to say that I ended my
tirade by stating, unequivocally, that I would be physically placing all
of his
belongings -- and him -- out at the curb if he didn't leave the lobby.
At
once. It was not pretty.

After he left, I stood there, shaking. The day did not improve.

Flash forward a few hours. Mary and I have finally escaped the madness,
and
are sitting at the hangar. I've just finished downing a grilled Boca
burger, my butt is planted in a comfy chair, and we're discussing what has
easily been the worst day of our 3-year hotel experience.

And there sat Atlas. Fully fueled. Ready to go, anywhere we pointed him.

We both looked at each other, and knew it was time to get some air beneath
us.

With the sun already down, we were soon rolling down Runway 25, right next
to the Inn. Climbing out into the silky smooth darkening sky, Mary
expertly carved the pattern behind a primary student who was on his first
night flight, his instructor beside him, patiently waiting for "legal
darkness" to arrive.

After one circuit, and a perfect landing, we switched positions (always
fun, without opening the doors or shutting down the engine!), and I was
soon
smoothly applying power on the takeoff roll. Feeling the wheels rumble
down the familiar pavement, my heart soared as the ground fell away from
us, that big ol' O-540 rumbling happily just inches in front of me. .

With the lights of the city twinkling below, and the hint of fog moving
into the valley through the still, heavy air, it was magical as we arced
effortlessly around the pattern. With almost no sense of motion, outside
of the turns, it was easy to imagine a place and a time far removed from
the
trials of the day. It was easy, and beautiful, and my troubles all
seemed to fall away beneath me....

Turning to final, watching the VASIs, keeping the approach speed nailed, I
landed and called it a night. It was a beautiful evening, still in the
80s, and it was hard to believe that anything in this world could be
anything less than perfect.

The whole flight took just 0.3 hours. The day was wonderful.


Everything prior to the stuff on flying puts a small crimp in that romantic
vision of running a nice B&B ;^)


--
Saville

Replicas of 15th-19th century nautical navigational instruments:

http://home.comcast.net/~saville/backstaffhome.html

Restoration of my 82 year old Herreshoff S-Boat sailboat:

http://home.comcast.net/~saville/SBOATrestore.htm

Steambending FAQ with photos:

http://home.comcast.net/~saville/Steambend.htm

Gregg --

Do you really believe quoting 150 lines for a line and a half response is
the appropriate method of reply?

Jim


The whole flight took just 0.3 hours. The day was wonderful.


Everything prior to the stuff on flying puts a small crimp in that
romantic
vision of running a nice B&B ;^)

Maybe that's why many of us call it 'shooting' an approach.

Some take pleasure from a little time on the range but I can't say I
know the pleasure.

'Shooting' is understood by some to be good way to get rid of problems
but haven't tried that one yet.

But setting one up in the calm of dusk, lining it up with the lights,
skid marks, and centerline, and then putting it right down the slot sure
can relieve a lot of what's not quite right with the day. Or just make
the day better.

Maybe I ought to take up shooting.

Nice Jay!

Hope today is even better.

Jay Honeck wrote:
Turning to final, watching the VASIs, keeping the approach speed nailed, I
landed and called it a night. It was a beautiful evening, still in the 80s,
and it was hard to believe that anything in this world could be anything
less than perfect.

The whole flight took just 0.3 hours. The day was wonderful.

RST Engineering wrote:

Gregg --

Do you really believe quoting 150 lines for a line and a half response is
the appropriate method of reply?

Jim

Yep.

Some people snip..others don't;. sometimes I do..sometimes not.

Some put their replies on top of 150 line quotes - others at the bottom.

It only takes me about 2 seconds to use the vertical scroll bar to get to
the relies at the bottom.

If it's too much work for you feel free to read elsewhere.


--
Saville

Replicas of 15th-19th century nautical navigational instruments:

http://home.comcast.net/~saville/backstaffhome.html

Restoration of my 82 year old Herreshoff S-Boat sailboat:

http://home.comcast.net/~saville/SBOATrestore.htm

Steambending FAQ with photos:

http://home.comcast.net/~saville/Steambend.htm