For years, I remembered that morning for what it meant to me. I had given almost no thought to what it demanded of Jordan.
I was learning to fly at Charles Prince Airport, just outside Harare in Zimbabwe. My first lessons were in a Cessna 152, but at 1.93 metres tall, I was simply too big for it. I spent almost as much time trying to fit into the cockpit as I did learning to fly. Eventually, we moved into a Cessna 172.
Jordan was my instructor. Younger than most of the others, with an infectious enthusiasm for flying and a knack for finding different ways to explain something until it made sense. He was patient, encouraging and never short of another way to help me understand what I was doing.
One morning, we went flying together.
It was a beautiful Zimbabwe morning. Blue sky, a light wind blowing almost directly down the runway. We flew several circuits, practising take-offs, landings and simulated engine failures after take-off.
Nothing particularly unusual.
Eventually, we taxied back to the flying school.
Jordan released his harness, opened the door and climbed out.
“One circuit. I’ll see you shortly.”
I looked across at the right-hand seat.
His headset was hanging over it. Until that moment, he had occupied that seat for every lesson. Every correction, every instruction, every moment of uncertainty had been shared.
Now he was standing outside the aircraft.
I was going to fly alone.
I remember working meticulously through the checklist. Fuel, flight controls, engine checks, instruments, trim, flaps and radio. Everything exactly as Jordan had taught me.
I taxied to the holding point, completed my final checks and lined up on the runway.
Full power. The aeroplane accelerated, I eased back on the controls and the runway fell away.
For the first time, there was nobody beside me.
The workload was immediate. Airspeed, attitude, altitude, radio, lookout. I had to fly the circuit, manage the aircraft and bring it safely back to the ground.
Then something unexpected happened.
Jordan was still talking.
Not through the headset. Inside my head.
Rotate. Hold the attitude. Watch your speed. Look further ahead. Keep flying the aeroplane.
I had left him standing on the ground, yet somehow he was still in the cockpit.
The circuit was uneventful. The wheels touched down, the nose settled and I slowed the aeroplane just as I had practised with Jordan beside me.
Only then did the emotion arrive.
Relief. Exhilaration. The extraordinary feeling of having done something entirely on my own.
Jordan was waiting when I taxied back. He shook my hand.
Only later did I discover something I hadn’t known when he climbed out.
I was his first student to fly solo.
Until then, I had assumed I was the only person doing something for the first time that morning.
I have often wondered what it felt like for him, standing on the ground watching his first student fly away.
He had spent hours teaching me, correcting mistakes, answering questions and gradually allowing me to do more for myself. That morning, he had to decide whether all that work had been enough.
He couldn’t accompany me halfway around the circuit. Once I was airborne, he could watch, but he couldn’t intervene.
I don’t know whether he was nervous. I had been so occupied with my own experience that I never thought to ask.
It took me years to appreciate the judgement involved in his decision.
I’ve since found myself on the other side of that relationship many times.
Working with people, particularly as responsibilities grow, I’ve noticed how easy it is to become the person everyone turns to for an answer.
A decision comes up. You’ve seen something similar before. You have a view and can probably resolve it more quickly than the person asking.
So you step in.
I’ve done it myself, often believing I was being helpful.
The immediate result is usually positive. The decision gets made, the problem goes away and everyone moves on.
What you don’t always notice is the opportunity someone else has lost to work through the problem themselves.
I’ve seen capable people become hesitant about decisions they should be comfortable making. They seek reassurance, wait for approval or defer to whoever has the most experience.
Sometimes we complain that people aren’t taking enough ownership without recognising how our own behaviour has encouraged them to wait.
It is rarely deliberate. Often it comes from caring deeply about the outcome.
I think about Jordan when I catch myself doing it.
He had been there when I needed him, correcting mistakes, answering questions and helping me develop the confidence to fly.
He hadn’t simply given me answers. Over time, his questions and corrections had helped me recognise what was happening and work out what to do.
By the morning of my first solo, he believed I was ready.
There is a judgement in knowing when to intervene, particularly when the consequences of a mistake can be serious. There is another in recognising when someone no longer needs you beside them.
Jordan had made his.
During that first circuit, I could still hear his voice.
But he wasn’t flying the aeroplane.
I was.
The seat was empty.
The judgement was mine.