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The author with 11-year-old Brandon Arnold of San Dimas, CA. Brandon has just completed his first ride in an airplane as part of the Experimental Aircraft Association's Young Eagles Program. Stearns wants to pass on the same enthusiasm for aviation to young people as his father did for him.
It looked so small. And there was so much plastic. The outer skin of the little yellow and white Cessna 152 could be easily dented with my finger--not really what I expected. The panel (which now, after more than twenty years of flying increasingly more complex aircraft looks amazingly simple) impressed me as having way too many gauges and dials to read and digest at one time. It was June of 1984, and I was about to have my first flying lesson.
People learn to fly for a number of reasons. For some, it's the opportunity to learn something new; to expand one's horizons. For others, it's the realization of a childhood dream. And for still others, it's a career choice that touts travel to far-off places, eventual high salaries, a snappy uniform and command of an awesome piece of silver-clad aeronautical wizardry. I learned to fly because of my dad.
You see, my father was a fighter pilot. He left his boyhood hometown of Barry, Illinois for Santa Ana, California in 1943 for flight training, first in PT-22s and then in BT-13s and AT-6s at Williams Army Air Corps Base in Arizona. Eventually he was shipped off to Bodney, England to challenge the Luftwaffe in his
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One pilot's story of the inspiration behind his push to master the aeronautical
By Mike Stearns
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P-51D, "Delivery Boy." No, Dad wasn't a high-ranking ace; he was a first lieutenant with 1.5 kills to his credit by the time World War II ended. But I sat spellbound as a child, listening to tales of bomber escort missions and dogfights and victory parties. His footlocker smelled of mildew but contained gun camera footage, old photos, his scarf, helmet and goggles and many fond memories.
To me, my dad was a hero. And somewhere along the line, I picked up the love, respect and reverence he had for flying. His dreamy descriptions of deep blue skies, snow white clouds and loops and rolls with unbound freedom made a lasting impression on my young mind.
My two brothers and I got our first airplane rides back in 1962. I was thirteen. The tattered old J-3 Cub was owned by one of my father's employees. His name was Woody. The Cub was missing an inspection plate on the left side of the empennage, and the faded yellow fabric skin had more than one hole here andthere. My gosh, it was cloth! After the engine sputtered to life, Woody's son spit a wad of
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chewing gum through the whirling propeller and knocked the right lens out of my glasses...and then to add insult to injury, I had to share that tiny back seat with the brat...but I didn't care. I didn't know about one seat belt per passenger nor weight and balance. I was getting the ride of a lifetime.
We taxied out, broke a tailwheel spring in the rough sod, and taxied back. But once repaired, we were off. I remember staggering into the air under the telephone lines and thinking, "Gee, that was neat!" The left rear Plexiglas side window popped into my lap sometime shortly after takeoff, but that just improved the view and allowed in some fresh air: "Really neat!"
We did some tight turns and wingovers and buzzed over the southern Illinois countryside just east of St. Louis. It was over much too soon.
My dad came out to greet us as we rumbled in. I don't know if my grin was bigger than his, but I do know that I got this opportunity-and enjoyed the ride as much as I did, because of him.
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