The Illusion of Control
Control is an interesting topic. I often quip that at best, on a good day with a tailwind, I might control myself.
(For those of you new to this Substack, I spent over a decade flying sailplanes cross country. It’s an esoteric sport with amazing upsides, counterbalanced with sometimes unavoidable risks. My plane’s contest letters were WO, Whiskey Oscar.)
Some years ago, there was an incident at Minden airport that shook me deeply. Two experienced and highly regarded pilots died when their plane spun into the desert floor. But it wasn’t their deaths, per se, that so troubled me. It was something deeper. It took me years to figure out what I actually felt, and to seek some meaning in the event. In the final analysis, it came down to the poignant choice of living in love vs. living in fear and of the illusion of control.
Here is an excerpt from my upcoming book, Bump In The Road about the illusion of control. I really struggled with the introduction to this chapter. I’d like to hear your thoughts.
An excerpt from the upcoming book:
The beautiful jewel that is Lake Tahoe, with its emerald and turquoise waters, sits nestled in the eastern flank of the Sierras. The alpine lake was the terrain of nomadic Indian tribes until it was discovered by John C. Fremont in 1844. That discovery, along with the discovery of silver in nearby Virginia City, put the region on the map.
Just east of the lake, in the valley several thousand feet below, lies Minden, NV. The airport at Minden was built in 1942 as a military training base. Today it is an international mecca for sailplane pilots. Celebrities, aviation enthusiasts, and even astronauts flock to this high desert airfield where strong thermals and mountain wave enable one to go far, go high, and go fast. Flying to thirty thousand feet or more on a good wave day is relatively easy. And long runs down the mountain ranges can take a very experienced (and daring) pilot from Tahoe to the Mojave and back. Minden is aviation hog heaven for the motorless crowd.
Among those pilots were Donald Engen, Director of the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum and his longtime friend, Bill Ivans. Bill was the Honorary Vice President of the Soaring Society of America and a very experienced pilot with world speed records and over seventy-five hundred hours of flying time.
This particular day in Minden was a good soaring day. Sunny in the morning, although thunderstorms would later roll through the valley. The power of a storm is both good and bad. It indicates highly unstable air (which is good for soaring). But there can be downsides too.
That day, Engen and Ivans were flying a two-seat Nimbus 4DM sailplane, a plane with almost 87 feet of wingspan. It can glide at high speed for hundreds of miles. All this makes it a plane of choice for long, cross country cruising and for setting distance records.
It was a typical morning in the high desert. The sky was clear, the air was warming, and thermals were starting to pop. Engen and Ivans were in the air, east of the airport. They banked the plane to catch some lift from one of the rising thermals when suddenly the plane entered a spin. The stress caused the wings to rip away from the aircraft and they slammed into the ground at 200 mph.
The aviation community was stunned.
The NTSB (National Transportation Safety Board) report cited a combination of eyewitness accounts and manufacturer data, concluding that the spinning plane had exceeded the Vne (Never Exceed Speed).
In less than 10 seconds, it was all over.
A heavy heart hung over the airfield. Tom Stowers from High Country Soaring noted that this accident would have international ramifications. The mood was somber. People were in a state of depressed shock. Everyone’s illusion of invincibility had been momentarily shattered.
To this day, I still don’t believe that this happened to two such seasoned pilots. I too have spun out of a thermal when I was just learning to fly. I was in a steep bank, flying as slowly as possible to maximize the rate of climb and I got too slow. One wing stalled, sending the plane into a spin with the nose pointed directly at the fields below. The plane rotated once, twice, then three times. I was mesmerized by the sight of the rotating earth. It was so beautiful.
I came to my senses and righted the aircraft. My World War II naval aviator-instructor, Silent Sam as I called him for his stunning lack of conversation, laughed in the back seat. We spent the rest of the day doing some spin training. It was actually great fun.
Different planes spin differently. Some are benign, some not. I remember the Navy test pilot telling me tales of spinning a plane like Whiskey Oscar.
“First it enters sorta slowly,” the Navy test pilot says in the drawl that all military pilots of a certain age seem to have, “and the first rotation’s not too bad. But then it really whips around. Ya gotta be careful to have your flaps full negative, or you’ll rip the wings off.”
He flings his arms back dramatically, to demonstrate the effect of wings stressed in the spin.
“Then ya go to recover, and it tucks. Ya dangle upside down in your straps and get a canopy full of earth.”
By now he is simulating dangling from the five-point harness, in an inverted plane, with his eyes large and his hands grasping an imaginary stick in total terror.
He looks up at me.
“Then it pulls out.” The Navy test pilot smiles somewhat maliciously.
“Best ride I ever had.”
***
A week or so after Engen and Ivans died, I was flying the same model sailplane over Minden, NV.
“I can show you what happened,” my co-pilot friend offered, as if I needed an aerial lesson on unrecoverable situations, particularly after this accident.
He took control of the stick and started a turn, to demonstrate the fatal error.
A sense of panic enveloped me. The instrument panel loomed large, and I felt as though I was disappearing in the vast cockpit. The plexiglass canopy over my head seemed ready to melt down, as if to cement me, helpless, in my seat. I was on the verge of panic. Panicking in an airplane is not a smart idea.
“Please, let’s not do this,” I begged.
My friend and co-pilot must have heard the upset in my voice. “Your stick,” he called.
And in that second, as pilot in command, my panic vanished. The cockpit seemed normal again. I was in control.
Which brings me to the question of what is control?
Control is something I’ve grappled with. It can give us a sense of self determination. It can drive us. It can even control us. It’s both an illusion and seemingly real. I think the reason this incident so disturbed me is that it highlighted that exquisite balance at the apex of risk and reward, and the illusion of control that goes with it. I had to ask myself where I stood in that continuum. It drove home to me my own desire for control and my fear of the consequences of losing it.
I have definitely danced on the dark side of the sky. I’ve flown (unintentionally) into a rapidly developing thunderstorm that nearly killed me, as I encountered violent up and down drafts that exceeded the Vne (Never Exceed Speed) of my plane, with lightning strikes searing through the sky off my right wing. I’ve skimmed the tops of mountain ranges, trading altitude for daring speed. I’ve also mourned too many aviation deaths. In one three-year period, twenty-five pilots died. All were excellent, experienced airmen.
On the other side of the equation, the rewards are substantial. The privilege of riding the energy of the earth to soar long distances is simply incredible. It is a humbling and spiritual experience. It’s an intense, alternate reality that imparts confidence, skill, and joy. It offers wisdom if we are wise enough to listen.
Perhaps the lesson isn’t about control at all. Perhaps it’s about recognizing risk and still choosing to live fully. Perhaps it’s about the choice of living in love or living in fear. I love to fly. Sometimes I’m fearful. I wrestle with the two contradictory emotions.
As a mere human, I have decided that control is an illusion. A powerful illusion, but one that ultimately gives way as life goes on. Perhaps the only reality is to be truly, intensely present, to have the courage to follow your heart, to find your bliss, to live in joy, and to attempt to soar, wherever that may take you.
And that brings me to the story of Chris Dahl-Bredine.
***
Beautiful, Pat. I feel the tragedy of the loss of these airmen and yet what is life if not for living beyond the boundaries of fear? If it means death, then so be it. Not to ask for it, but if it's going to happen, which is guaranteed at some point, then embrace it willingly with love. As you say, to live truly intensely present is the only reality - or at least the only reality worth living.
I asked my mother what it was like during wartime (WWII) and she said everyone felt so alive, love was stronger, people came together more, there was an intensity of being in the moment because tomorrow you may be dead, or your husband or lover may never come back.
Let me know when your book comes out.