“You’ll never fly without one if you’re with me,” he replied briskly.
“I’ve never flown with a headset,” I protested. The next checkride I had was with an ex-military pilot who handed me a headset as we were signing out the plane. Of course, I got used to picking out the sounds on the tinny Cessna speaker, and anticipating the responses to my calls helped to fill in whatever gaps a sudden wind gust or other noise might mask.
Pamela, you see, didnt wear a headset, and with almost 10,000 hours of single-engine time, she clearly believed it was the right way to fly.I ended up coming to the conclusion that she’d decided I should be able to fly without a headset in case I had to one day, but I don’t know if that was her real motive. Then, yelling above the din of prop and Lycoming up front, she somehow made it understood that we were taking off. My instructor, Pamela, was handling the radio work and I couldn’t understand a thing that was being said. I was 33 by the time I slid into the left seat of the 152 for my first lesson, and by the time we’d finished the run-up and were pointed down the runway, I’d had my first gnawing doubt about being able to do this.
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