From our early childhood through our teenage years most of us are engaged in some sort of formalized educational process. That developmental phase of our lives is supposed to prepare us for life in the adult world. It’s where we are supposed to refine our career choices, relationships, and economic potential — in theory at least.
We might find a hobby along the way, too.
It’s in those school years we find out important things. Like, mixing blue and yellow creates green. Or red and yellow mixed together makes orange. Or, that Johnny from down the street can’t tell the difference because he’s color-blind.
Who knew that was even possible? We don’t all see colors the same way. That was new information. We took note of it, locked it away, and tried to keep that insight fresh and available should we ever need it again.
Being color-blind couldn’t be much of a problem in the adult world, could it?
We learned about geography and social studies. But somehow nobody ever mentioned that Coney Island isn’t an island at all. It’s on an island. Long Island, New York to be specific. But Coney Island is a beachfront section of Brooklyn, one of the five boroughs of New York City.
Who knew?
We learned that the wheels on the bus go round and round, but we never got very heavily into what the nuclear reaction in a nuclear power plant does. You might think the latter is somewhat more vital information than the former, but in most school systems you’d be wrong. Who would ever need to know how to make electricity after all? That’s already taken care of, isn’t it?
Few of us learned the difference between a two-cycle and four-cycle engine in school, either. Other than the obvious that one requires two strokes of the piston and the other needs twice as many.
For that matter, we didn’t learn much about pistons, or cylinders, or timing, or spark plugs, or what a coil does.
These things couldn’t possibly matter in later life, could they?
Asking questions is a critical component of any educational process. Learning involves a never-ending series of questions, misunderstandings, refinements of theories, more questions and more refinements.
Being wrong is a normal and natural part of that process. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
Then one day we may find ourselves sitting in an airplane with a stick and a throttle and a couple pedals on the floor. Somehow, we’re supposed to figure out how to control this machine in three axes while moving through the air.
To that point in our life, we’ve been limited to two axes. Forward and backward. Left and right. Now our instructor has thrown up and down into the mix.
Whoa! That’s a lot of new variables to consider.
That first flight can be a bit disorienting, to be honest. And it should be. We don’t know what we don’t know and this flying thing is entirely foreign territory.
Throughout the process of learning to fly we learn skills and sock away knowledge all designed to keep us safe. To make good decisions. To take direct responsibility for our safety and the safety of anyone who is willing to go flying with us.
I’ve always wondered about the passengers we take up when we’re brand spanking new pilots. My wife was my first passenger. I suppose she felt some responsibility to be supportive and trusting as I acquired these new skills.
But I remember clearly rolling out onto final to land in Melbourne, Florida, on our first flight. It was night. The ocean on the other side of the airport was absolutely black. No lights at all. It was then I experienced an unsettling moment of disorientation as I stopped the roll to level the wings, but my head felt like we just kept rolling.
We don’t know what we don’t know, but that sensation told me I had a whole lot more to learn. I was a pilot. I had good training, an airworthy airplane, a clear night, and an official certificate in my pocket. But for just that moment I wasn’t sure why I was feeling so unsteady.
I made it a point to keep learning. Every decent pilot I’ve ever flown with has openly committed to that same goal. I’ve encouraged my students to be better than they have to be. More precise. More aware. And always vigilant in the knowledge that the weakest part in the entire airplane, the one most likely to fail, is the pilot.
For example, being a Floridian who lives at sea level, I had no idea what it would be like to fly in a true high density altitude environment. In theory I knew my ground speed would be higher even though my airspeed would be the same. So, I made it a point to land with a slight downwind when it was safe to do so.
Having seen firsthand what that scenario looks like made it so much easier to handle when I faced the real deal.
When I find myself unsure of a procedure, or a rule, or anything having to do with life in the air, I’ve made it a point to look it up. Seek out verifiable information. Adopt a mentor and use them to fill the gaps in my understanding.
Perhaps the most important thing I’ve learned in life, I learned in aviation. When you’re unsure, speak up. If you don’t know, raise your hand and say so.
If we can’t or won’t acknowledge our own ignorance, we can’t learn. And since we can all be sure we truly don’t know what we don’t know, we can proudly stand up and say, “I know a lot, but I’m still learning.”
Nobody of worth would ever disparage us for saying something so undeniably true.
Learn on, my friends, learn on.
