We watched a couple average Joe types saunter out to the tarmac, a 9- and 12-year old in tow, and just walk up to a single seat plane like they belonged there.
I thought, “Oh shit. The gate wasn’t secure. They’re about to have a real bad time.”
You know, because they didn’t look like airplane owners.
Until they all climbed into the small plane parked next to it, fired it up like it was a common car, and rolled on out with one arm out the pilot’s window.
It wasn’t a new machine, either. Faded blues and polished aluminum, weathered and loved, not the fastest or prettiest thing, but generally regarded as a decently styled, easily serviced workhorse.
It was the 1977 Dodge Monaco of airplanes.
And then it was like, those are regular guys and they belong there. Which means I could belong there too if I prioritized taking action on that dream.
And it’s been a dream of mine to fly since you knew someone who drove a 1977 Dodge Monaco. Way, way back before Top Gun and Iron Eagle.
And that’s when P says, “Look Daddy! Those boys are riding in that airplane!” And then, disappointed, “I wish YOU could drive an airplane.”