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Editor’s note: This article was the runner-up entry in the 2025 Richard Collins Writing Prize for Young Pilots. After reading more than 60 entries, our distinguished panel of judges (including Richard’s son) selected Kathryn Breidenthal, a student pilot from North Texas, as the recipient of the $2,500 award. We hope you’ll agree that Kathryn’s account of the many lessons learned from her first solo flight is a fine tribute to a talented writer and pilot.
Tailstrikes and Tiedowns
by Kathryn Breidenthal
Silence. The silence was wonderful. I heard nothing but the hum of my engine and the occasional crackling of the radio over my headset. “Scrivener Traffic, Academy Three on final for one-seven, touch-and-go, Scrivener,” I calmly radioed, though I felt anything but calm. I rounded out, flared, and the main gear touched down smoothly on the pavement. All in complete silence. I glanced at my instructor, and he smiled. “I think I had a tear in my eye for that landing.” I grinned back, retracted my flaps and pushed the throttle in. Again, I flew the pattern in silence. Those familiar phrases – “more right rudder,” “watch your airspeed,” “flare, flare, flare!” – seemed but a distant memory. All I heard was that blessed silence.
As I took off on my first solo flight, the past few months flashed through my head.
As I radioed my downwind leg, I noticed my instructor scribbling something on his kneeboard. My grin widened. “Will this be a touch-and-go or full-stop, sir?” “Let’s make this a full-stop.” Back on the ramp, my instructor clambered out and asked for my logbook. “You know what to do: make three full-stops and head back to the ramp. I’m proud of you.” All I could do was smile in response and I taxied to the hold-short line. When I had finished my run-up, I looked down at that coveted signature in my logbook, an endorsement for my first solo.
As I took off, the past few months flashed through my head. The scholarship applications, the essays, the endless hours of ground school, the frustration and discouragement, the fear that I wouldn’t be good enough to solo at flight academy – it had all been worth it. Before I knew it, I was on the ground again and took off as usual. Then the silence was broken.
The radio began to crackle: “…Skyhawk…straight-in final…” I worriedly peered out of the windscreen, knowing that if an aircraft was on final, I needed to extend my downwind to maintain anti-collision requirements. Several seconds passed as I scanned the sky. Glancing back at my instruments, my heart came into my throat. The airspeed indicator registered 55 knots, close to the Cessna 172’s stall speed. I pushed the nose over and relaxed as my airspeed increased. But as I banked into my final approach, my heart sank. I had fully cut power and had flaps at twenty, but I was still far too high. Because I had let my airspeed get so low, I hadn’t lost enough altitude on downwind. I knew I should go-around, but panic gripped me. I did the worst thing possible and tried to lose altitude by steepening my approach.
Just before touching down, I checked my airspeed and the pit in my stomach deepened: 85 knots – far above the 172’s normal landing speed of 65 knots. Time seemed to freeze as I floated in ground effect. Then it was all over in a matter of seconds. The main gear struck the runway with surprising force, causing me to balloon far above the runway. Startled, I pushed the nose down, the airplane dropped like a rock, and I began to porpoise. Bouncing violently, I thought I would go off the runway, but I managed to come to a halt right before the last turn-off.
Arriving at the runway with too much energy will lead to a long flare.
Back at the dorms, I sat despondently on my bunk. I had failed my instructor. I had failed my parents. I had failed myself. How could I be a pilot if I made mistakes like this? Over the next few days, I reflected much on the episode. Plagued by nightmares of the incident, I spent my free time on long runs, attempting to escape the overwhelming feelings of guilt. In many ways, I had been lucky. The aircraft had sustained little damage – the tail tie-down was knocked off – and no one had been hurt. Yet I couldn’t reconcile my feelings of failure, so I spoke with my instructor, and he helped me examine the gaps in my understanding that had led to the botched landing. More importantly, however, he helped me to view my mistake as another step towards success, rather than a personal failure.
Throwing myself into fixing the gaps, I studied emergency procedures, aerodynamics, and ways to avoid hazardous decision-making as a pilot. One might think this was a flight I would try to forget, but it remains clear in my memory. I could wish that my solo had gone smoothly, but pilots learn more from a botched landing than a buttered one. I am grateful for that experience, because I can confidently say it has made me a safer, more thoughtful pilot.
The lessons I learned reached far beyond aviation, however. Now, I find it easier to bounce back from mistakes, viewing them as the catalyst of improvement rather than a discouragement. Now, instead of being ashamed of what I did, I use my story to help others, encouraging fellow student pilots to persevere and learn from their mistakes.
I smiled as I listened to the chatter around me. It was graduation day at flight academy, and all were in a festive mood. I turned as my instructor spoke, “Ever heard of FOD, Lydia?” “Yes Sir, why do you ask?” He pulled something out of his pocket. “You always said you liked my dad-jokes.” I began to laugh. There in his hand, hung elegantly from a necklace chain, was the tail tie-down.
You have a wise instructor. It’s a learning moment. If we were all perfect we wouldn’t need instructors. May this be the worse you experience in a aviation