Just like old times, I thought as my son, Austin, and I settled into cruise flight. Although sheepish about inviting a fighter pilot into the Flying Carpet, I’d long awaited this opportunity. We’d enjoyed many happy hours together in light airplanes while Austin was growing up. In recent years he’s been stationed mostly overseas so we rarely get to fly together anymore.
“This must be boring, compared to flying an F–16,” I said to Austin. The day before he’d told me about flying 500 knots at 100 feet on a low-altitude training mission.
“Not at all, Dad. Don’t get me wrong, flying the jet is awesome, but it’s also great flying ‘low and slow’ enough to relax and admire the view—and not getting evaluated on every flight,” he said. “Another thing: You get to fly family and friends with you, while I don’t.” Just yesterday I’d retrieved Austin; his wife, Desi; their infant son; and their dog, Kito, from Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport.
“Austin, it’s fun seeing you in pro pilot mode!” Desi had exclaimed from the backseat, admiring Austin’s radio eloquence in handling complex instructions departing the international airport. I was reminded that Desi had experienced her husband’s piloting only a handful of times, on rare trips in the Flying Carpet.
And a baby on board! The last infants I flew were Austin and his brother, Hannis, decades ago. Memories flooded back of long-past aerial visits to the grandparents. Now Jean and I were the grandparents! Along with bringing baby’s bottle to clear his ears on descent, Desi taught me a new hearing protection trick; she’d purchased inexpensive shooter’s muffs that snugly fit his tiny head.
Today, Austin and I shared cockpit duties on an important canine mission. We were chauffeuring Kito via Glendale Airport to Luke Air Force Base, for a military veterinarian appointment to complete overseas paperwork for the family’s next posting. While our furry friend snoozed in the backseat, Austin and I reminisced about long-ago family flying adventures.
“My number one memory has to be flying to Oshkosh with you right after I earned my pilot’s license,” he said. “And all those things you learn in pilot training I first saw in action with you, like flying an ILS to minimums; you assigned me to watch out the windshield and call the runway in sight. Remember landing at Kingston, New York, when we visited Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome—on that short field with trees on one end and a big bridge on the other? And flying from Santa Monica to Phoenix when we dodged all those thunderstorms and overflew a haboob?”
He recalled other flights, “like when you brought Paul and me home from Colorado Springs. He’d soloed in gliders two days before and you let him fly all the way back. And picking up Richard and me for spring break after we hitched a ride to Grand Junction to avoid a blizzard.”
As the floodgates opened, I was thrilled to learn that Austin remembers our family flying as fondly as I do, even after advancing to the pinnacle of piloting. Of course, those adventures were great fun at the time, but who’d have guessed they’d lead him to such an exciting career—and sustain our shared passion for flight?
“Oh yeah, Dad, I just remembered when I heard you enter the Tucson traffic pattern on the day of my first solo. We recognized each other’s voices, but being a student pilot I was afraid to say anything until you radioed, ‘Hi Austin!’ and I replied, ‘Hi Dad!’”
After earning his certificate, Austin flew friends from Mesa to Payson in a Cessna 172 for lunch. “It was under 50 miles each way, but I remember being nervous about flying my first passengers,” he remembered. “I sprawled charts across the living-room floor, and you backed me up planning the flight. That built my confidence to fly my prom date to Payson a few weeks later. I only flew passengers a few times before transitioning to military flying. The other time was when you and I flew visiting relatives to Sedona in two airplanes, and everyone wanted to fly with me instead of you!”
I knew Austin was serious when he quizzed me on the economics of one day buying his own Cessna, which Desi plans to pilot, too. May they experience the joys of flying with their children, as Jean and I have with ours.
“What brings you to Glendale this hot afternoon?” the lineman asked after we landed in 105-degree temperatures. I gestured with a flourish to our distinguished corgi-Chihuahua passenger. With the pavement too hot for tender paws, Austin carried Kito from the airplane. An hour later, with our mission complete, I offered Austin the controls for the flight home to Flagstaff.
“No, thanks, Dad,” he said. “In the jet we rotate for takeoff at 155 to 170 knots, depending on temperature and aircraft weight; fly the radar pattern at 250; and cross the numbers at 150 to 175. But the Flying Carpet goes so slow it feels like we’re gonna drop from the sky on final approach. I need some serious practice before flying this thing!”
