I move the throttle from idle to 2200 rpm. My hammering heart valves are louder than the small plane’s. Turn right at 500 feet. Keep climbing. Keep breathing. Crosswind leg … turn right and the grey, patched tarmac runway is parallel, shimmering in the haze. I surf one wet palm at a time over my knees and complete the downwind checks, flipping pages with shaking hands, turning right onto the base leg. Sandpaper my top lip with a dry tongue. Landing leg … I pull back the yoke. Close the throttle. Stop breathing. The rear wheels lift skin from custard.
Frances Tate got her Private Pilot License at 21 and her first published drabble* decades later. She lives in the UK’s north west and is a technical writer by trade. [*A drabble is a 100-word story.]