CHAPTER 26 / CROSSWIND TAKEOFF -OR- How to Look Confident While Being Blown into Vegetables

Welcome to the part of flight training where optimism dies screaming. But also—Welcome to the second most exhilarating manoeuvre in a taildragger. (Second only to its twisted cousin: the crosswind landing—also known as The Wheel Alignment Lottery.) Let’s not sugarcoat it: Crosswind takeoffs are dangerous. But like most dangerous things—they’re also thrilling as hell. There’s nothing quite like wrestling your Super Cub into the sky while nature tries to slam you sideways like an unpaid stuntman in a B-movie about regret.

Flying with no wind?
Congratulations.
You’re a glorified chimpanzee in a headset.
Even a moderately caffeinated goat could manage that.

But a gusty 15-knot crosswind, 40° off the nose?
That’s where the real pilot emerges.
Or dies trying.

When the wind’s on your nose, all you need is rudder discipline and a half-decent prayer to the god of tailwheels.
But when it’s slapping you sideways like a disgruntled Tinder date with an aromatherapy addiction and boundary issues—
Oh, Rookie—this is where the rubber meets the runway…
…and the runway politely declines your application for continued existence.

You thought this was going to be about technique?
No.
This is about spite, torque, and the primal scream that erupts when your wing starts flying before your wheels leave the ground.

It’s about trying to look composed while your tail dances, your struts groan, and your ailerons scream:

“Please let go of me, Chad!”

And if you get it right—if you actually lift off clean, flat, and aligned—you feel it:
That violent joy.
The kind only taildragger degenerates understand.
The kind that makes everything else—
torn fabric, judgmental goats, your therapist’s silence—worth it.

Someone once said:

“There’s no shortcut to any place worth going.”

That’s adorable.
Because crosswind takeoffs are shortcuts—to fibreglass confetti, divorce proceedings, and a priest who’s not even sure what’s left to bless.

If you can’t master this, you have no business flying taildraggers.
Or lecturing anyone about “stick and rudder feel” while secretly checking METARs for calm winds like a coward in compression socks.

This isn’t advanced technique.
This is basic survival.
Crosswind ops aren’t badges.
They’re battle scars.

And if you flinch here, you’ll be immortalised…
…in a GoPro compilation called:

“10 Hilarious Ways to Exit the Pattern Without Permission.”

For the Nosewheel Trauma Survivors:

“Ailerons into the wind. Accelerate. Rotate with confidence.”

That’s precious.
Truly.

Here’s what actually happens in a Super Cub:

You line up. Or try.
The wind yanks your wing like a drunk uncle in a three-legged race.
The tail tries to lift.
Your rudder input? Half-hearted.
Your correction? Delayed.
The plane weathervanes 30° left.
You’re now aimed directly at your uncle’s cabbage patch,
where you’ll make first contact ass-first, spinning like a failed ballet audition choreographed by Satan.

If, by some miracle, you stay straight and apply “confident rotation”—just like the PowerPoint said—
the wind doesn’t care.
It lifts one wing, tosses the other like a pub bouncer removing you from controlled airspace.

You are now airborne and sideways.
You are flying.
Technically.
Emotionally?
You’ve already quit aviation and enrolled in goat herding school.

Taking Off Without Smashing into the Windsock

AKA: One-Wheel Rodeo and the Unofficial Taildragger Exorcism

Before you even think about taking off in a crosswind over 2 knots, you need to get good at something that looks like a war crime against symmetry: rolling straight down the runway on one wheel  only.
Yes.
One wheel.
Not because it’s silly. Not because it’s academic. And definitely not because your instructor enjoys watching you mentally disintegrate at 30 knots.

But because if you can’t do this, you’ve got no business flying taildraggers—and no future that doesn’t involve a helicopter medevac and paperwork.

And yes—
Let’s be honest here:
It does look cool.
Dead cool.
Like a rodeo stunt choreographed by Werner Herzog.
Like you’re rampaging down a dirt strip with one tire, one nerve cell, and one shot at glory.

Your instructor might try to play it down—mine did.
He told me it was “just for circus tricks.”
Which is cute.
Wrong, but cute.

Because here’s the dark truth:
This is not a party trick.
This is the only skill that actually matters. A one-wheel litmus test. The one that separates survivors from people who end up as ironic safety posters.

Here you learn if you’re a pilot…
…or just an emotionally unstable passenger sitting in the front.

My first lesson in this black magic?
Super Cub.
Hillsboro, Oregon.
Instructor: Mad-Eyed Bill.
(Or just Bill, but his eyes said otherwise.)

No briefing.
No gentle intro.
Just this:

“Drive it. Left wheel. Now right. Now both. Don't lift off. Don’t think. Just survive.”

And so we did.
The full runway.
One wheel. Then the other.
Then both. Then back to one.
Like a dance choreographed by demons and poor life choices.

At the time, I didn’t understand a damn thing.
I was vibrating from adrenaline, my headset soaked in fear sweat, and my heartbeat louder than the engine.
I thought we were just screwing around.
Bill wasn’t laughing.

He was preparing me for war.

Because in equatorial Africa, where I was headed just months later, wind isn’t a forecast.
It’s a permanent condition.
And airstrips?
They don’t care about “aligned with prevailing winds.”
They’re carved into slopes, termite mounds, or the faint memory of a clearing someone once flew out of in 1974.

If you can’t ride a Super Cub like a rodeo clown with directional trauma, you’re not flying bush.

You’re just prepping to be extracted from it.

How are you going to practise that move?

We deal with this tomorrow.

Filed under: Top Gun: Agricultural Edition.