Page 67 - Never Fly Solo

40 | NEVER FLY SOLO
Turning downwind, I pushed up the throttles to full power
and reached 220 knots of airspeed (about 250 miles per hour).
I banked the jet ninety degrees to the right and pulled back on
the stick for several seconds, feeling the G force compress me
into my ejection seat. I looked down: 4.9 Gs—weak!
Disappointed in myself, I pushed up the throttles and
waited for the jet to accelerate once again. Bank and pull: 5.6
Gs. Still not satisfied, I knew I could get it closer to 6.67 than
that.
One more try, only this time I hit a little bit of low- altitude
turbulence, and it jostled my hand. I did what pilots call
“pulsing the stick” and overcorrected by yanking back on the
control stick a little too hard. I looked down at the G meter:
7 Gs.
For a split second, I felt a sense of victory. Yes! I had taken
the jet to its limits. I won!
But then I had what they refer to in psychoanalysis as “a
moment of clarity.” I knew I had over-G’d the jet and, techni-
cally, could have caused structural damage. According to fly-
ing regulations, I was supposed to declare an emergency and
land the jet immediately. But my first instinct was to reach
over and punch off the G meter (like setting an odometer back
to zero). After all, I had seen other, more experienced pilots do
it before. If they did it, why couldn’t I? And besides, the T-37
was tough as nails. What was .33 extra Gs going to do to it?
So here I was, flying around as a cocky young captain
with a difficult choice to make: zero out the G meter, land the
jet, and act as if nothing had happened, or admit my mistake
on the radio by declaring an emergency, land the potentially
damaged jet, and accept the consequences. My commander
would have my head, and my reputation in the squadron
would be tarnished.