I'm Sorry Bernie

Back in ’93 when I was working toward my private pilot license, I had a particularly difficult stage check instructor named Bernie. The school where I was receiving instruction was what was called a Part 141 school. Basically this meant the school was operated under Part 141 of the Federal Aviation Regulations.

Under Part 141 a school is to maintain a 3-stage, FAA approved syllabus. At the end of each stage the student is given, what is in essence, a mini check ride by a stage check instructor other than his regular instructor. If you don’t pass a stage exam, it is back to the previous stage for remedial instruction. Stage II was the flying school equivalent of a midterm.

My first stage exam had been a breeze and I was completely confident in my abilities to ace stage II. When it came time to set up the stage II my assigned instructor at the time (I ended up going through about 3 of them—that’s another story) told me in a somewhat somber tone I’d be flying with Bernie. He said, “Bernie has a reputation for being pretty tough, but I think he’s fair.” I think he’s fair? Some instructors didn’t? Still I wasn’t too worried. I knew my stuff and could demonstrate it at the controls. I was sure I’d be fine.

I’d never met Bernie before. I’d seen him around the airport, but I had no idea he was one of the instructors, let alone one of the all-powerful stage check instructors. He was in his late 60’s early 70’s and was often seen buzzing around the airport in an old Stearman. I’d never met an old pilot I didn’t like. Old pilots were generally pretty mellow and full of aeronautical wisdom from thousands of hours of flying through every kind of sky imaginable. I would liken them to Tolkien’s ents. I expected Bernie would be the same way.

The day of the stage II exam arrived and the two hour ordeal started in the basement classroom of the school with an oral exam. Bernie sat silently across from me hunched over my folder looking for weaknesses. The first question out of his mouth was less spoken than barked. I can’t remember what it was, but I remember being so surprised by the delivery I totally blanked. Bernie glowered at me from behind his glasses, “Well?!? Don’t you know this stuff?” Eventually I coaxed a reply from my frozen larynx.

The rest of the oral went OK as far as I can recall but any confidence I’d had going in was gone, or at least critically wounded. Every answer I gave, whether right or wrong, was greeted with the same disdainful glare. The idea I was going to have to spend an hour in a cramped 152 cockpit with this guy filled me with dread. For the first time in my instruction, I was afraid I wasn’t going to pass.

The flight portion was a near disaster. The same hostility I’d faced during the oral just seemed to be magnified by the tight space of the cockpit. A couple of times when he asked me to demonstrate a maneuver he would yank the controls away from me, practically screaming at me that I didn’t know what I was doing. My anxiety slowly morphed into anger. I’d always been raised to respect my elders, but this guy was being a grade A ass and I didn’t care how old he was or how much experience he had. He was making me uncomfortable and I was certain he was getting a charge out of doing so. By the end of the flight I hated him.

Despite that flight with Bernie I went on to finish my training and obtain my private pilot license. And with the passing of the final check ride, so passed most of my animus toward Bernie. Once I had the ticket there was nothing he could do about it. I’d see him now and then around the airport, but I still resented him enough that I wouldn’t ever talk to him unless I had to.

That was 13 years ago. A couple of days ago, I saw Bernie again while eating lunch. His wife, every bit the saint I imagined she had to be, gently led his emaciated frame to the table right next to ours and helped him into his chair. She spoke softly to him, “We’re going to have some soup and some nice hot tea, OK?” Bernie simply stared straight ahead, his mouth agape, in the frozen grimace of dementia. His wife caught me staring and smiled sweetly. I weakly returned her smile and looked away. But when I went to pay my bill, I looked at Bernie again and the improbable happened. I started to get choked up.

I felt ashamed for the terrible thoughts I’d had and things I’d said right after that exam over a decade ago. I remember bitterly complaining to my instructor about the “demented old man”. I remember wanting to strike him when he suddenly yanked the controls away from me during an approach, yelling at me as if I was some kind of idiot. Most of all, I was heartbroken at the prospect that a lifetime of flying memories were lost forever. I sincerely pray that wherever Bernie is behind that vacant stare, it’s in the cockpit of his Stearman flying over Central Illinois through a crystal blue autumn sky.