Is it always wrong to use strong language with a student? I think it depends. Some instructors, like my first, just seem to have a way with those words that worked, at least for me. Let’s set the Wayback Machine for 1977.
“You seem to fly okay up here. Let’s see how you do down closer to the ground.” That was my instructor talking. I’d come to learn to fly at this little airport carved out of the tall pines of southeastern Massachusetts. I had all of about five hours of dual instruction logged, when Frank wanted to test me for “ground-shyness.”
He had me fly a normal landing approach, and then I was supposed to add power and fly the length of the runway in ground effect. As I fought the urge to allow the little Cessna 150 just land already, Frank was on me from the right seat. “Hold it off. Hold it OFF! - HOLD IT OFF!!” […chirp, chirp from the tires…] “Aahhh, you [bleep]bird!”
But…he said it with a smile.
Even though the words were not exactly complimentary, I had no problem with Frank calling me names you usually find written on bathroom walls. I know it’s against all the principles of modern instruction technique, but for me, those curses were like music to my ears.
Frank was an ex-Navy instructor – definitely old school, World War II-vintage, as I recall. He was used to the military style of letting the student know when he was doing it right, but also when he was doing it wrong. For the latter situation, the corrective vocabulary could be…well…colorful. It was meant to save their lives, and if it scarred a few egos, that was a small price to pay.
But the important distinction between Frank’s style and that of a truly abusive instructor was this. I knew he respected me and my abilities, or he wouldn’t be there with me. And he knew that I knew it. The blue language was his way of letting me know that he trusted me to be safe, but was pushing me to get better with every flight. It let me know he thought of me as part of the fraternity, even if I was only starting out. In this case, he was grooming me for first solo, which came on my next lesson.
Midway through that flight, September 15, 1977, Frank lit up a cigarette and had me try the ground-effect exercise again. This time, after soaking up some sage advice, I was ready for that inner urge to get the airplane on the ground. Instead, I ignored the runway, focused straight ahead, pretended I was at altitude and just flew along about 10 feet up. Frank slapped m on the back, and told me to fly another pattern and land. Then he got out.
“Take it around three times,” he shouted through the open door. “Remember, it’ll feel lighter without my big ass in the right seat.”
