I don’t remember sitting on my mother’s lap in my uncle’s Cessna the time I threw up all over everything as we were making a quick VFR descent through clouds, but everyone else in the family does. So began my entrance into a family whose patriarchs have flown their own planes or lent these skills to the government to fly bigger, faster planes. Once, after listening to Radio Lab interviewing pilots on out-of-body experiences, I called my father and asked him if he ever felt such a thing.
He said, “Oh, God, no. I’ve never pulled more than four Gs”.
Cram Field in Burwell, Nebraska, doesn’t get much traffic. This is perhaps a problem of location. I stopped at the field today because for the first time in a long time, I saw a plane sitting on the tarmac. Also because I not-so-occasionally have dreamed of getting my pilot’s license.
The terminal was empty.
I checked the board, the flight was not yet listed.
Perhaps there’s a deal to be cut with my loving compadre: he can have a motorcycle if I can have a pilot’s license. That deal would make me the first female in my family to have her pilot’s license. It would also make us one of the more dangerous marriages in existence. This is the first he’s hearing of this idea, so I’ll let you know how that goes.