Letting Go
According to the logbook, it was the summer of 1976. My instructor and I were sitting at the end of runway 12L at Hobby airport in a Piper Cherokee, a training aircraft that doesn't weight too much more than the combined weights of its passengers. The plane was not air-conditioned, the sun was blazing, the airport was a sea of hot concrete, the humidity was astonishing: a summer in Houston. My hands were slipping off the control yolk from the sweat on my fingers, so I kept drying them on my shorts.
Finally, the radio gave the desired message: "Cherokee 242, cleared for takeoff, maintain runway heading." I pushed the throttle to its stop and we limped forward, finally lurching into the sky.
What happened next was entirely predictable, if I had thought about it. All the factors were there: a hot day, lots of concrete, and an aircraft better described as a heavy kite. Thermal convection from the hot runway makes the air behave exactly like water boiling on a stove, with columns of heated air rising from the surface and other columns of cool air descending from above to replace it. In a light aircraft, as you fly into a rising column, it feels like you are hitting a speed bump in a car at high speed. As you fly into a falling column of air, you become weightless for a fraction of a second, with only the seat belt keeping you from bouncing off the aircraft ceiling. Worse yet, one wing can be in a rising column while the other is in a falling column, making the plane suddenly snap from level to a 30-degree bank.
The color scheme I had always preferred in this situation was as follows: blue side up, brown side down. I was fighting with the control yolk to maintain this color sequence, without much luck: we were bouncing around the sky like the heavy kite that we were. At each moment, I was certain that we were seconds from disaster, and that my death grip on the yolk was the only thing keeping us alive. Sweat was flowing from every pore, but I no longer had the luxury of wiping off my palms. I'm certain that the ridges of my fingerprints are still embossed into the yolk.
My instructor finally showed mercy. "Bill, you look completely wrung out! Want to rest for a while?" Thank God for dual controls! "Yes, please, thank you" was my reply. I took my hands off the yolk, my feet off the rudder pedals, and waited to see how the pro would fly through this aerial nightmare.
But…he didn't touch his controls! His hands were in his lap, his feet were off the pedals. He was looking at me with a bemused grin. He said calmly, "Bill, just watch for a minute, O.K.?"
I seriously needed a Pamper, but I did as instructed. The plane, which before had been bumping around uncontrollably, was now…bumping around uncontrollably. Now this is the main point of my story: it is not that the plane was flying almost as well with no one at the controls, it is that the plane was flying exactly the same with no one at the controls. My rapid, jerking control movements had no effect whatsoever on keeping us upright: the impressive natural stability of the aircraft was entirely responsible for our health. A bump would come along and tilt us sideways for a few seconds, but another bump on the other side would come along shortly and return us to level flight. The law of averages was on our side.
My instructor summarized as follows: "This airplane knows how to fly. It just doesn't know where you want to go. That control yolk isn't a life preserver: hold it gently, with two fingers. Just use it to remind the plane where you are headed from time to time."
I couldn't believe it. This was a piece of cake! Finally, I could start doing what I had dreamed about when I signed up for flying lessons: looking out the window, enjoying the ride. But moments earlier I had been absolutely convinced that I was keeping us alive with my frantic actions and my attitude of impending doom. He could not have convinced me of this with words. I had to let go to be convinced that I was never in control in the first place, that it was safe to enjoy myself.
You may recall similar examples from your own experiences. The deadline is approaching, the project is critical, the stock values are declining, your annual appraisal is next month. You walk over to check on the team's progress (for the third time that day) and they are…listening to a joke at the coffeepot!
You remember that several of your peers have joked recently about your tendency to micromanage, but quickly decide that this is an exceptional situation. You think, "This isn't micromanaging, this is war!" You grab the control yolk and start sweating.
Don't.
One of the greatest psychologists of our generation, Martin Seligman, ran a series of studies decades ago that produced a surprising (and germane) conclusion. We human beings constantly fool ourselves into believing that we have more control over our environment than we do. No matter how many times he repeated the study, or how he changed the study design, the conclusion was the same. It is worth repeating: we constantly fool ourselves into believing that we have more control than we do.
You will never find this out for certain until you let go of the yolk. It is a safe experiment: you can always grab it again if you want to, if you need to return to the illusion of control.
Just don't. Keep your hands in your lap for long enough to become convinced that the team is a good team, that they also know how important the project is, that given enough freedom they will laugh at the joke, finish their coffee, and return to their desks to complete the project.
Yes, from time to time they may need a gentle nudge to keep on course. But in the mean time, enjoy the view, and enjoy the ride.
a short essay by Dr. Whitehead
