Chasing Amelia

The wine: Pinot. Unless you brought something better.
The women: Me and Amelia, Beryl, Cappy...
The song: Magic Carpet Ride, by Steppenwolf.

The thing that surprised me the most was how little speed you actually need at the end of the runway to get airborne. Ninety miles an hour in a Piper Cherokee 180, full throttle, slight pull back to get the nose in the air, and you are airborne. Years of loving every moment of every plane ride, closing my eyes to feel the hum of the wheels on the runway in the center of my chest, feeling gravity push me down. Years of reading books by and about my idols: Amelia Earhart, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, Beryl Markham. Years of meeting other women pilots who haven't yet written their books, looking at their sepia-toned photographs, "first licensed woman in the state of...", hearing their stories, sharing the look, knowing yourself in the eyes of elderly women who, like me, love defying gravity at every available opportunity, love slipping the surly bonds of earth to reach out and touch the face of God, to paraphrase the oft-quoted poem "High Flight" by John Gillespie Magee.

But before I could touch the face of God, I touched every inch of that plane in pre-flight. I personally checked every bolt, aileron, wheel, rudder, gauge, oil levels, electrical and communication, brakes, gas tanks in both wings. A good, thorough pre-flight is prerequisite to a safe flight. My life, and the lives of anyone else on my plane, depend on me, and that is a responsibility I take extremely seriously. Pre-flight to me is like a good chemistry experiment or history and physical of a patient. Head to toe, same order, every time, to be sure you haven't missed anything. My chemistry experiments always worked because I knew exactly what I was doing, and I approach flying an airplane the same way. The thrill is more than devil-may-care excitement, the thrill of flying for me is similar to my other great loves: physical therapy, writing and fencing. It is about mastering a craft that is detailed, rich in history, mentally and physically demanding. In mastery there is freedom.

And before mastery will come many hours of practice, with the basics. After years of dreaming, and with a little speed and a little chutzpah, suddenly I am in the air, trying not to roll, trying to control the angle of my ascent, trying to relax. I use all four limbs together, working the rudders and wings, achieving altitude, leveling off, listening to communications flying, sorting out which ones are relevant to my altitude, destination, flight plan. The air really is like a freeway, divided into levels, directions, rules. I am confident of memorizing lists of rules and diagrams, studying for the licensure exam. This I have done before. I am confident in my flight instructor, he is comfortable, and gives the the right amount of freedom and support, direction in a way that I absorb readily.

I asked him why he started flying, thirty years ago. "I met an old crop duster, in North Dakota," he said. "He took me up. I loved the smell of the air fuel. I always wanted to be around it. What about you?" He gives a little, I give a little, we eat our fish and chips at the Bremerton Airport. It is my first lesson, and other pilots come over to our table with shy but swaggering congratulations. It's a friendly little group. Should I mention the fact that I like the smell of exhaust? My lifelong dreams of flying? Daydreams of a summer spent smoke jumping? "Freedom," I finally say, after considering. "I like take-off. I like rising above the problems on the ground. I like being alone. The sky is good for that." He smiles. It seems like enough.

I never dreamed of being chased, as I hear other people describe. I always dreamed of flying. Of running, running, never having to stop, stretching out my arms and flying. Defying gravity. Chasing Amelia.