"FLY OR DIE, DAD."
I said this when I was 8 years old, as we waited for our first flight to take off. I thought it sounded cool, like something Tom Cruise would say in Top Gun.
Twenty years later and with a greater appreciation for mortality's downside, I hesitated when my editor relayed Skyline Aeronautics' invitation to play pilot on an "adventure flight." In an effort to behave less like myself, I accepted.
My flight was delayed twice by weather, and my inner wuss rejoiced each time. We eventually rescheduled for a weekday graced with clear skies and minimal wind. Around noon I left my cubicle and had the morbid thought that I might not have to attend my 2:30 meeting after all.
I arrived at Skyline's Spirit of St. Louis Airport HQ with the expected nerves, but I told myself Hunter S. Thompson— admittedly, a suspect gauge for decision-making—wouldn't respect me if I bailed. I filled out surprisingly little paperwork before Karen, my flight instructor, took me to our plane.
Upon seeing that single-engine Cessna, I wondered how I—let alone both of us—would fit inside. With internal alarms ringing, I listened while Karen taught me about yaw, pitch and roll (steering). As an FYI, Karen mentioned that "hand-propping," or starting the propeller manually, was "a good way to get your head chopped off." Duly noted.
We pushed the plane out of its parking spot, powered up the prop and taxied to the runway. On the ground you steer with pedals. You'd think the pedals in a car would prepare you for this, but you'd be wrong. I was horrible.
After Karen exchanged some "Rogers" and "Tangos" with Ground Control, we were cleared for takeoff. I managed to keep my eyes open the whole time and didn't even request any divine intervention. During our ascent I became increasingly aware that the only thing keeping gravity from winning was a vehicle that had been easier to push than a broken-down pickup.
We soon leveled off … and it was my time to take control. Repeating what she had said earlier, Karen talked me through the seven most nerve-racking minutes of my life. My sweaty palms clung to the yoke, and my legs were permanently flexed as my feet directed the rudder. I was flying.
"Nothing to it," Karen said.
She guided me through some turns, which I pulled off with surprising skill. The horizon dipped and dove, but I figured I was OK as long as she wasn't screaming.
Don't get me wrong; I was completely terrified. But functionally so. When she offered to take over, I was only slightly disappointed. In many ways, I'm a control freak—but not at 2,500 feet.
Our landing was smoother than expected, and I drove us back to the parking lot. We stepped back onto solid ground, and just like that, in a mere 45 minutes, I had learned the basics of flying. All things considered, I was pretty impressed with myself.
Of course, driving back to work, I wound up heading the wrong way on Highway 40.
