“Ok, so let me get this straight. You and I will be crashing a plane into another plane, 30-some thousand feet in the air at around 275 knots?”

Looking at the technicalities of what we’re getting ready to do, my disbelief seems warranted.

“Well, ‘crashing’ is a bit extreme. It will be a controlled contact with another plane, yes. And yes, we’ll hit the tanker at 30,000 feet at 275 knots.” 

My C-5 instructor pilot speaks with the complacent tone that comes from repeated in-air plane crashing. Correction, repeated controlled contacts with another plane, although “hit” is a disconcerting word choice.

This high-altitude, controlled contact between 2 planes at 275 knots is called “in-flight refueling.” I stand by my description of “crashing into another plane 30-some thousand feet in the air at around 275 knots.”

In-flight refueling reduces the need for pit stops. 

Imagine your next road trip, a fuel truck pulls up alongside your car on the highway, extends a fuel line and fills up your tank while you both cruise at 70 MPH (we all know you’re really going 80, but whatevs). 

Convenience aside, refueling in-flight helps military aircraft avoid dangerous airfields, expedites their journey and eliminates one mechanical cycle of extending and retracting the landing gear.

I fully comprehend the strategic value of in-flight refueling. 

It does not change the fact that we will be crashing one plane into another 30-some thousand feet in the air at around 275 knots.

My role as an Air Force C-5 pilot requires mastering this skill.

Ground school taught me the theory, simulators provided practice and checklists drilled the procedures. Now, I’m minutes away from my first real refueling.

I manage my throttles so the tanker rolls out 1 mile ahead and 1,000 feet above us.

“Tanker in sight,” I radio to the boom operator in the back of the tanker.

“Cleared to pre contact,” he replies.

I ascend slowly, my right hand on the 4 throttle handles, my left on the yoke, fire-retardant gloves masking my white knuckles. 

The tanker grows larger until it fills my windshield. I train my eyes on the belly of the tanker where a wide yellow line and two indicator light strips provide alignment guidance.

I approach until I have eye contact with the boom operator, who is lying on his belly in the back of the tanker. His cloud-based office has a window with a view, which is currently obstructed by my beast of an aircraft.

“Stabilized pre-contact,” I announce.

“Copy. Cleared for contact.”

Here we go. 

My kung fu claw on the throttles allows them to creep forward just enough to bring the world’s 3rd largest aircraft, now under my control, those last few feet up and couple feet forward.

My left hand is sweating through glands I never knew existed on palms. The glove absorbs the slippery sweat so I can maintain my chokehold on the yoke (the yoke hold, if you will). 

My right hand’s request to sweat is denied by the firm grip I have on the throttles. The obstruction denies sweat any exit.

I watch peripherally as the boom nozzle moves over my head. I fight to maintain a steady platform as the boom operator flies the nozzle into our fuel receptacle. 

I hear the solid mechanical connection of nozzle seating into receptacle (look, there’s no way around this sounding sexual).

“Contact,” the boom operator confirms.

The reassuring whoosh of fuel confirms gas is flowing from his plane to mine.

Abruptly, the whoosh stops. A loud mechanical ruckus clunks overhead. The boom calls, “Disconnecting, go pre contact.”

I have either exceeded the mechanical limits of the boom nozzle or the comfort limits of the boom operator.

In compliance with the boom operator’s order, I slide back 50 feet and down 10.

“Stabilized pre-contact.”

“Cleared contact.”

I start my ascent once more, kung fu throttle claw and yoke-hold engaged.

The nozzle rises and connects. The fuel flow whoosh begins.

The whoosh stops.

“Disconnecting, go pre-contact.”

Dammit.

I slide back and down.

I don’t want to break my gaze with the aircraft 50 feet in front and 10 feet above me.

I do want to look over at my instructor in the hopes he’ll give me the secret to staying connected to the tanker.

Reading my mind, he imparts his instructor technique prowess, “Try it again.”

Great. Super helpful.

“Stabilized.”

“Cleared.”

Kung fu claw, yoke-hold, nozzle rise, contact, whoosh.

Whoosh stop.

“Disconnecting.”

[Expletive]

As I slide back and down I finally ask, “You got any advice for me?”

“Yea,” he starts casually, “Wiggle your fingers and your toes.”

“Right now?” Because that’s what you want 50 feet away and 10 feet below another vehicle.

“No. Once you get in contact.” Well, that’s even more insane.

First of all: we’re up at 30-some odd thousand feet, going more than 300 miles per hour and making contact with another plane, which I’m gonna guess is NOT with Orville and Wilbur had in mind at their Ohio bicycle shop or North Carolina sand dune.

Second of all: the last thing anyone should be doing while IN CONTACT with another vehicle in the air is release any points of contact and control.

Thirdly: This finger and toe wiggle maneuver was never taught in pilot training which tells me my instructor’s “advice” is a technique, not an Air Force procedure.

“Stabilized,” I tell the boom operator (again).

“Cleared,” he tells me (again).

Kung fu claw, yoke-hold, nozzle rise, contact, whoosh.

“Now wiggle your toes and fingers,” comes the instruction from the other side of our cockpit.

Oh, he was serious!

“Seriously?” Because again, technique, not procedure.

“Wiggle. Your. Toes. And fingers.” Oh, to him this is procedure and not just technique.

Might as well, I’m probably about 3 seconds from getting disconnected anyway.

I allow the fingers on my right hand to do one quick Rockette kick line move, giving the sweat glands a brief respite from my grip. 

I drum my toes individually, the best “wiggle” I can muster inside steel-toed combat boots.

I lift my left index finger every so slightly, the cockpit air working with the sweat trapped in my gloves cooling one fifth of my left hand.

The fuel whoosh is still audible, gas is flowing from the tanker’s tanks into ours.

“Keep wiggling your toes and fingers.” We’ve now crossed into the land of “tech-cedure” —  when an instructor demands application of a specific technique as if it were a procedure to comply with.

I give the yoke a respite from the clasp of my left hand, bravely wiggling my digits, just briefly.

I do my combat boot toe wiggle maneuver again.

I do more finger kick lines on the throttles and the yoke while the boom nozzle continues to shuttle fuel into our tanks.

Here we were, in physical controlled contact with another plane at 30,000 feet and 275 knots. Logic would dictate more control in such situations. What I learn instead is to relinquish a bit of control and loosen my grip … by wiggling my fingers and toes.

That little adjustment serves me well in the airplane.

That little adjustment serves me well in everyday life.

We get into situations we feel call for tighter control, not a loosened grip.

We think we can over-handle the scenario into a compliant position.

What really holds true is by relinquishing some control (not all of it, I wasn’t flying behind the tanker with roller-coaster hands) we actually work in harmony with the vehicle and the environment.

Like when I go visit my Mom who struggles with dementia in an assisted-living facility. 

No-wiggle Mo goes in with the mentality that my visit will not be complete or successful unless I get her showered. 

My firm grip is figurative as I hold hard to my task of what a successful visit looks like. 

Most times, Mom is not in the mood for a shower. Her lack of willingness makes me dig in harder because, hey, who doesn’t love a challenge?

I hold on firmly to my agenda.

Mom’s stubbornness disconnects me.

I slide back and down.

I wait for the dementia to reset the memory meter.

With white knuckles, I push again for the shower, the only thing that will “count” as a good visit.

I’m thrown back in the cockpit, trying my first air-refueling all over again: kung fu claw, yoke-hold, nozzle rise, contact, whoosh, disconnect.

I slide back and down.

Then — I remember to wiggle my fingers and toes. 

In the assisted-living facility, wiggling my fingers and toes is as easy as taking a deep breath.

When I relinquish control and loosen my grip, I see that a successful visit is about spending time with Mom and not about accomplishing a specific task during that time.

Kung fu claws and yoke-holds only frustrate us both, fueling the visit with negative energy.

When I wiggle my fingers and toes before and during my visits (sometimes multiple times per visit), I enjoy the time together with Mom, whether or not it involves a shower.

When I find myself frustrated (at a car ahead of me, at a shopper blocking the aisle with their cart and indecision or dogs who think rough-housing while I’m trying to write is helpful), I reset with a finger-and-toe-wiggling deep breath (or 4).

It reminds me that success can look like many different things and instead of handling intense situations with an over-controlling kung fu grip and yoke-hold, a little wiggle saves me from having to disconnect and slide back and down.