Special Passengers

As an airline pilot, I can't tell you how many thousands of passengers I've carried over the years. I can't even begin to guess. But there are two who stand out, both of them kids, and I remember them as if it were yesterday.

The first, a little boy, showed up at the flight school that I was working for. I had just earned my CFI ticket in the summer of 1994, and that fall we were a school of three employees, working to build our business on the airport. My boss was a man whose name was well-known and respected in the local flying community, and he had bent over backward to get me on the road to where I wanted to be in aviation. Because of the limited space on the field, we were actually based in a small trailer, and needless to say, that made it just a little bit tougher to attract new business.

When the first cold front of fall came through, the temperatures dropped into the 50s, the sky was a bright blue, almost painfully so, and the wind was steady but not uncomfortable. It was the first sure sign that winter was coming, and even though summer was definitely over, it was one of those brisk autumn days that puts everyone in a good mood. It was also my birthday.

A boy we'll call Robby and his parents showed up in the morning. He was only about 7 years old, and it was hard not to notice as they were walking across the parking lot that this was a very close-knit family. Mom and Dad explained that their son had always wanted to fly, but they didn't have a lot of money. Their son was officially deaf, even though he wore hearing aids to enhance what little hearing he had. It was clear that he also had some other health problems that were left unexplained, but he had the unconditional love of his parents, two hard-working people who just wanted to give their son what they could. Robby wanted to ride in an airplane.

My boss and his partner both looked at me. I've worn hearing aids since I was 3 years old. I've been through speech therapy, teased by kids, and, for flying, the FAA required a waiver for my first class medical. I've never treated my hearing loss as a disability. Instead, my parents made sure I knew how to cope with it, and they made sure I knew how lucky I was that it wasn't any worse — that it wasn't as bad as Robby's. When my boss explained to Robby's mother that I wore hearing aids, her eyes misted over. His dad smiled. Not only was their son going to get a ride, but he was going to get it from someone who could actually relate in some way to his problem.

I took Robby to the plane, and we spent a good half-hour doing the preflight together. It was my intent to show him what everything did, but he already knew. He was a big fan of the Microsoft Flight Simulator program, and there was little he didn't know. He got a wild look in his eyes when I showed him what happened when you mix water and fuel. He immediately understood the need to check the fuel caps and the fuel strainers before every flight. He watched me check the oil, and then he checked it himself.

Our standard policy on sightseeing rides was to fly for 30 minutes, and if the customer wanted more, they could have it and pay the difference. Robby needed a boat cushion to see over the panel in the old Cessna 150, N17214. To him, it was a flying Cadillac. During the runup, he held the checklist and pointed to each item, then watched me perform it. He would nod his head to indicate that he understood.

When we took off, he was absolutely mesmerized. Below us, the Chesapeake Bay sparkled like a drawer full of diamonds. Yellow and red leaves decorated the shorelines. On a smooth day, it's one of the prettiest sights in the world, especially with boats out sailing. We flew to the southern end of Kent Island, then over the City of Annapolis, Maryland. Back over the bay, Robby finally look-
ed back into the cockpit. Never have you seen a kid with a bigger grin. This was every Christmas morning, every birthday he would ever have, all wrapped up in one day. Behind my sunglasses, tears started to run. I put his hand on his yoke, and put mine in my lap. He never thought he would actually get to control the plane.

He did climbs. He did descents. He did turns. He flew straight. Robby flew like a grizzled veteran. He looked for traffic. He added power. He reduced power. He was my kind of pilot. Our half-hour was up. We ignored the clock. We entered the pattern, and he pointed to the items on the before-landing checklist. I let him put the flaps down. When we landed, he gave me that look that kids have, the "just one more time" look. Who was I to say no? We did another circuit in the pattern. He followed me on the controls for this one. Did a fine job of it, too.

When Robby got back to his parents, they were engaged in a flurry of sign language. He was ecstatic. I was too. His parents, who just wanted him to be as normal as he could, were elated. Finally, Robby had achieved some bragging rights over his friends. His dream, his 7-year-old fantasy, had come true. I was truly fortunate to be a part of it. We didn't charge his folks. How could we?

I don't know whatever happened to Robby, but when he got to the car, I saw him stop, turn, and look at the airplane. That little red Cessna 150 rocked gently in the breeze. You could almost see it salute Robby. He seemed to stand a little taller for his experience.

Five years later, I was flying for an airline. My own dream of flying jets for a living had come true. I was based in Cincinnati. Most people don't know much about Cincinnati. They are familiar with the television show WKRP in Cincinnati, the lowly Cincinnati Bengals, and Pete Rose gambling on the Reds. Jimmy Buffett mentions the place in one of his songs, but as a city to get out of by train. That does little to enhance the reputation of the Queen City.

But Cincinnati isn't bad. And it has a children's burn center of national repute. Our company offers a certain number of seats to kids seeking treatment for serious burns. I've been able to carry several, but one stands out.

Early one summer morning, I was working a flight out of Columbia, South Carolina, the second leg of a seven-leg day that ended with a layover in Columbia. We preboarded a girl who was 10 years old and traveling with her mother. When they were walking across the ramp to the airplane, I could see that her face, part of her head, and one of her arms were covered in bandages. The injuries were typical of those suffered in either a grease burn or a car accident. Behind her, carrying their luggage, was her mother.

Mom was young, maybe 30, 32 years old, but the lines in her face were deeper than they should have been. She was tired, and it was hard for her to find much to laugh about. The flight attendant was the kind everybody likes, smiling, joking, easygoing. If you met her, she made you feel like you'd known her forever. Mom couldn't help but smile. She needed to.

But Mom and her daughter had the same eyes. Not just the same in color and shape, but in determination. These two were people who did not let anything stand in the way of what they wanted. Mom just wanted her little girl to stop hurting, to feel better. The physical scars were probably permanent, but she was going to teach her little girl to force people to look beyond the scars, to realize that it could have been worse, to see the inner person. This little girl was only 10 years old, but her mother was going to let her know that she would still one day be a full woman.

The little girl was tired, too. She was tired from the grueling physical therapy, from the nightmares, from the looks people gave her. Her dad was working, probably to pay the bills for her care. She understood, but she wanted him there. She was scheduled to be at the burn center all day, possibly overnight.

For me and the captain I was flying with, it was a quiet day. When we did talk, it was about that family. Their fortitude and strength were remarkable. The airplane, to them, was nothing more than a vehicle to get some medical care. Flying was not the hidden passion for any of them, but it was the method for them to get to their own dreams of a normal, healthy life. I shared my story of Robby.

That night, prior to our last flight out to Columbia, we saw the two of them in the terminal. This time they were laughing, joking, sharing ice cream. We talked to them, found out why they had been so somber that morning. Multiple trips to the hospital had led to disappointment in the recovery process, which meant daily bandages, excessively long baths, pain for all involved. Jennifer, as I found out her name was, was now without bandages except for a small Band-Aid on her arm. She had no hair, and she wore a loose hat to cover her head. But her spirit was much higher.

People still stared and wondered what happened to her. To those not used to such a sight, she could still look a bit grotesque. But we had seen her that morning, and we had seen the difference a day could make. She could not wait to get home and show her dad. The lines on her mother's face were just a little less deep. Her eyes showed a new sparkle, more play.

We touched down in Columbia as the sun was settling over the trees. The sky was still purple and clear. As Jennifer and her mother walked back across the ramp to the terminal, both walked taller. I saw them laugh, then point to and wave to Dad in the window. He was clearly taken aback at the changes in his little girl. She could be a 10-year-old again.

Our part in this process was small. It could have been any crew that carried them that day from home to the hospital, then back. But it wasn't any crew, it was us. We each changed a bit, for the better. Both flights had been full, so four total seats went representing revenue lost. It didn't matter. It was the right thing to do.

I was not a parent then, but I am now. A beautiful little girl named Piper. I can't understand what Robby and Jennifer and their parents went through, but I know what a child does to your heart.

I'm a pilot, and fortunate to be so. Occasionally I can make a difference. Sometimes it's more personal than others. It never feels like enough. But as Jimmy Doolittle once said, I could never be so lucky again.

Charles "Chip" Wright, AOPA 1086994, of Hebron, Kentucky, is a CRJ captain for Comair. He has accumulated 5,700 hours in 13 years of flying and is currently building a Van's Aircraft RV-8.