Flying Solo
Atlanta, GA
August 16, 2020
Raising a child is filled with anxious moments. Many relate to mobility, motion, and movement.
When he pulls himself from his crib. When he crawls to the top of the stairs. When he rises on two feet. When he starts putting one of them in front of the other. When he first does so unattended into a street, or to the bus stop. When he jumps to conclusions, or pitches a fit. When he stretches a wily arm, in a clumsy attempt to casually drape it around a wary girl. When he heads to first base…then tries to steal second.
Youthful motion has caused parental angst since Adam delved and Eve span. Our kinetic concerns are nothing new.
Among the more nerve-racking is the first time a child drives on his own. Even knowing he is going only a short distance on local roads…and that he is passably competent maneuvering a two ton hunk of metal…the relief is palpable upon hearing the garage door when he returns.
Statistically, flying a plane is safer than driving a car. We all know we are more likely to die on the way to the airport than on our way thru the air.
But that is on large aircraft, held aloft by a couple engines, and with plenty of booze aboard to pacify passengers, calm nerves, and soothe souls. And they are flown by seasoned pilots, with more than one in the cockpit…neither of whom is our son.
Watching your kid all alone, controlling a small Cessna, is different. At that moment, we think less of Chuck Yeager than of Newton’s apple. And we pray to Pascal’s God.
Wednesday afternoon at the Walton County Airport in Monroe, GA (incidentally, a very nice little town), our soul was soothed only by cold coffee, and the realization that Alexander has flown planes numerous times, with experienced pilots.
I still recall the first time. I drove him to Jasper, GA, and watched him climb into a South African Light Sport craft so rickety-looking that Kroger might not have permitted it to carry groceries. Apparently, Kroger has higher standards than I do, because Alexander got in.
This was partly our attempt to get flying “out of his system.” He would ride for an hour, take the controls for a few minutes, and then be ready for his next fad. That was almost two and a half years ago.
I recall the aphorism, adapted from soldiers describing daily life during the War Between the States, that flying a plane is hours of boredom…punctuated by moments of sheer terror.
Seeing your son alone in a small plane, watching it leave the ground, awaiting its return, and exhaling as it lands, is like hours of anxiety punctuated by a moment of sheer relief. All packed into about eight minutes.
Alexander was to have flown solo a week ago Friday, but weather intervened. The flight was re-scheduled for Wednesday, but we weren’t sure where. Wind and clouds would decide. Departure time moved from morning to afternoon. I adjusted my schedule to be there, wherever it was.
Alexander went first to Peachtree-DeKalb Airport in north Atlanta, where he has taken all his lessons. He and his instructor expected to try a few test runs, then fly to Fulton County Airport just west of town. Alexander would solo from there.
It was perfect. He could text me when they left Peachtree-DeKalb, and I would be there in 30 minutes. But storms were approaching from Alabama, so they decided to move east…to Monroe, with Covington as a back-up. I would need at least an hour to get to either airport. I left immediately, hoping they wouldn’t change airports as I made my way to Monroe.
Eighty minutes later, I arrived just in time. The tiny airfield was empty, aside from two Cessnas. One was covered by tarp. The other had just departed, a shrinking speck in a cloudy sky. My heart sank. I had missed the take-off by less than a minute. Then, the speck vanished against a patch of sun. I scoured the sky, hoping to find my son, and to see him land.
Then, unexpectedly, he came into view. But not where I had been looking.
I suddenly noticed, beside the runway, a man standing alone. He was aiming his camera at something an empty hangar obstructed from my view. I ran quickly to the far side of the structure. In the distance, I saw another plane, waiting for the path to clear, and preparing to depart. Alexander was at the controls. When the small speck had cleared, he was ready. His instructor was in position, filming his flight.
To me it was like watching both ends of Lindbergh’s crossing. I could not have been more proud to see my son leave New York, nor more relieved to see him land in Paris.
When Alexander touched down, I exhaled. I met the plane, and congratulated him as he emerged from the cockpit. But we didn’t chat long. Champagne, confetti, and the Canyon of Heroes would have to wait.
Clouds were building to the west, so he and his instructor flew back to Peachtree-DeKalb, trying to beat the incoming storm. I drove home, pleased to dodge the outgoing traffic.
On the way, I passed Northside Hospital. From there, 19-and-a-half years ago, I made another drive. I remember it like it was yesterday. It seems like it was. I recall handling the tiny cargo in our car as if it were a Fabergé Egg.
Beside me was my lovely wife. In the backseat, taking his first trip, was our newborn son…strapped in like Eddie Rickenbacker over the Western Front. As Alexander nestled snug behind his nervous father, I was sure Captain Eddie had had a better chance.
This weekend, our young pilot embarked on a new mission. As his first solo flight was postponed, so was his planned move to Auburn. And both due to airborne droplets.
Clouds postponed his flight. COVID postponed his move. He was supposed to go last week. Instead, he arrived yesterday. No matter. As at Kitty Hawk, or like a War Eagle, he eventually took flight.
But because this is 2020, everything is regularly cancelled, delayed, or re-routed. He arranged to move into an apartment just off campus. It is within walking distance of the stadium, restaurants, and classes…in that order of priority. And it is beautiful, brand new.
So new, in fact, that it’s not done. It’s like a steak so rare that a skilled vet could save it. And it had to send itself back. It did so several days ago, when we were informed the move-in date shifted to August 29. We won’t be surprised if he’ll need to circle a while longer before finally being allowed to land. Meanwhile, for however long things are up in the air, he will be in a hotel.
Last night we met Alexander’s new roommate and his family. They are from Bethesda, Maryland, and joined us for dinner. Also with us were a couple other incoming freshmen. One is girl from Alexander’s high school, and the other the daughter of a friend. We were glad to meet his roommate’s family, and that Alexander and his new acquaintances could begin the process of becoming fast friends.
Like all college freshmen, our son will hit air pockets, turbulence, and storm clouds. It’s already a bit bumpy. All his classes will be online. He is delayed a couple weeks moving into his permanent apartment. Official social activities are in flux. The football season, and his band program, are at risk of melting away…like a plastic bottle in an open flame.
But among Alexander’s many fine attributes are several that anyone reading this knows his father sometimes lacks, including my son’s uncanny ability to always find the rose in any bed of thorns.
When he learned his apartment wouldn’t be ready, his first reaction was that it was fine. At least for the next couple weeks, he said, wouldn’t need his own sheets or cleaning supplies, so “in a way, it’s OK.”
With his attitude, Alexander will be fine. Like all of us, he will endure rough weather and battle heavy headwinds. But he’ll figure it out. He’ll consult his instruments, contact air traffic control, and find the right altitude. This afternoon he climbed into his new cockpit, and started the engine. He is on the runway, the lights are on, and the sky’s the limit.
We settled him in his room, exchanged hugs, and swallowed a couple lumps in our throats. As we said goodbye, we choked back a few tears. Not for the chapter about to open in his life…about which we are elated…but for the one that is closing in ours.
Then we drove home. For two hours, we headed north, back to Atlanta. Beside me was my lovely wife. Several times, as Auburn fell further into the rear-view, I glanced to the backseat, unable to believe it was already empty.
JD
