FLYING FEVER
Since I first began flying lessons back in 1989, every springtime now marks, along with all the other bounties of spring, the beginning of a new flying season. For those who have not seen their backyard from aloft, it is one of those things that you should put on your "Things to do before I die..." list.
My father took flying lessons when I was just a kid, at Silver Ranch Airport in Jaffrey, New Hampshire, and I remember going with him and his instructor, Harvey Sawyer, on a couple of flights. In 1989, after receiving an introductory flight as a gift, I began lessons and ground school and never looked back. Like so many before me, I fell in love with aviation, General Aviation in particular, which is small planes(for a brief explanation) and every spring I am reminded of how fortunate I am to have had flying be a part of my life.
The fabulous actor and true gentleman James Stewart was a private pilot before he flew bombers in World War II. He wrote how he loved flying all over the country in his Stinson and that flying offered him "the only time I was truly alone." Bill Lear, founder of the Lear Jet company, describes flying small airplanes as a "magic-carpet ride." Truer words have not been spoken and some of the most enduring memories I have, some of the most astoundingly beautiful sights I have seen, have been from the cockpit of a small airplane. Flying down the Maine Coast from Bangor under a full moon on a summer night. The air is like glass, the moon shines off of the ocean and the breaking waves burst into foam which is illuminated in the moonlight. The lights of the coastal houses and roads line the shore like a never ending string of Christmas lights and you can see Boston in the distance. A vision I will never forget. The Florida Coast at five hundred feet, clearly seeing Sea Turtles and Dolphins, the ocean turning a deeper and deeper aqua-green as we fly further south. The coral reefs of the Keys clearly seen under the shallow coastal waters and the friendly folks at Marathon Airport in Key West who offer us their pick-up truck to take into town. "We'll keep the plane to make sure you bring the truck back."
The people you meet at small airports all over New England, all over America, are one and the same and you are welcome as a brother almost instantly every where you go. Because it is unspoken, but we all know we share this same confused love. We have all seen these things. We have scared ourselves, been challenged, learned, forgotten, dusted ourselves off and taken off again. We share the fascination with this combination of mechanics, science, physics and skill that are what flying is all about. My greatest joy is bringing young people up for their first ride, let them fly the plane a little bit, and then waiting to see if they catch "the bug". Most of my sons friends haunt me constantly for plane rides, which is exactly what I wanted to happen. They, like me, are intrigued by all the things at work to make our sir system work. Air Traffic control, navigation systems, and the ever-increasingly high-tech systems in airplanes of all sizes. Like me, they may wander to the airport on summer evenings just to wait for a landing plane or to smell the airport. That's right. Airports have a scent all their own.
But mostly, it is the memories that keep me coming back. I want more. Circling Mt. Washington with my father, looking down at the mountain we had climbed together so many times, and the returning, down through Crawford Notch, over The Lakes Region. A beautiful flight. Flying to Provincetown on The Cape and walking to Race Point Beach. Still time to return home and catch the sun setting over the Monadnocks. I could spend my life visiting every little airport across the country and then do it all over again, and it would be different.
Then there are the flights that stand out. On October 27, 2006, I took what would be my last flight with my father. We flew out over Mt. Monadnock and onto the Green Bridge which leads into Brattleboro, Vermont. We circled the bridge and then came down low over the Connecticut River. My father recounted how he loved travelling in Vermont for his business and this brought about a slew of memories from his business associates in Vermont. A nice conversation for the ride home, with the sun at our backs and giving the sprawling New Hampshire landscape underneath us an almost unearthly hue. A beautiful flight I will always remember.
So in keeping with the unspoken code of private pilots and those of us who want to share the secret...if you're that kid hanging on the chain-link fence at the local airport, waiting for a glance from a departing pilot, don't be bashful, just ask. I'll make it easy for you. You want to come along for a quick hop around the patch? Just ask.