The benefits of leaping in with both feet

You may find this hard to believe, but I believe my career in aviation is due, at least in part, to the influence of a freight pilot I’ve never met. More on that in a minute.

Maybe it’s because of my ever-advancing age, or the residual effects of the festive holiday spirit, but as this new year gets underway, I find myself looking into the past. Not as an evaluation of my life or career, but as almost a curious observer who is fascinated by what has come to pass. 

The desire to fly came to me in the late 1980s. I was a professional musician then, living in the Greenwich Village section of Manhattan. Both rents and crime rates were high, while personal privacy and inner peace was nowhere to be found. Perhaps the quest for some sense of freedom is what appealed to me. I’m honestly not sure, but looking up into the blue from my postition at the bottom of the seemingly never-ending steel and concrete high-rise canyons of midtown, the idea of becoming a pilot became increasingly appealing. 

The career was an accident. It was never my intention to quit music, and I haven’t. Thank goodness for that.

In the musical world, I found a level of success my teenage self would have never believed possible. It was my good fortune to play with some exceptionally talented musicians who were great friends, and to become friends with some gifted players from places far removed from my childhood home. 

The pinnacle for me is divided into two separate, but equally memorable, moments. One was standing on the stage of Radio City Music Hall before the doors were opened to the public. My friends the Smithereens were playing that night, backing up the Pretenders. To stand on that historic stage, alone, facing an empty room of such magnificence, affected me profoundly.

The second event occurred on Sept. 13, 1988, at the Acme Bar, just off Broadway. I was fortunate enough to be invited to the record release party for an album called “Talk is Cheap.” Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones often said he’d never make a solo album, yet he did, and somehow I managed to play a small, peripheral role in the process. This led me to be standing in a dark New York City watering hole with one of the Glimmer Twins, and his compatriots Iggy Pop, Steve Jordan, Waddy Wachtel, and all four members of NRBQ (the New Rhythm and Blues Quartet). 

That’s the world I left to pursue aviation. No regrets. I still maintain some wonderful friendships with folks from those days. My home is still filled with guitars, drums, a piano, and various other musical instruments. Other than the fact that I no longer seek payment for playing, not much has changed. 

Aviation made my life richer. It took nothing from me, yet it added a whole new dimension to my world.

I’m sure it’s gone now, but there was a magazine shop, I believe on Eighth Avenue, where I first found a copy of Flying magazine. Within its pages were magical words of encouragement from a guy named Michael Maya Charles. He certainly had no idea his columns were inspirational to me. He didn’t know I existed. Yet, I became a regular reader because of Michael’s work, and as a result I committed myself to getting involved in aviation in a meaningful way.

Yay me!

Over the decades since my first flight lesson, I’ve done reasonably well in this industry. And by reasonably well I mean I’ve managed to feed and clothe myself, pay off a couple mortgages, raise a family, and pursue pretty much whatever aeronautical experiences interested me. 

As I read “The Right Stuff” in my Bleecker Street apartment, it never occurred to me that one day I would step out of a hangar to find myself shoulder to shoulder with Chuck Yeager. When I engaged a young woman in conversation on the subway because she was reading “Illusions,” I had no idea I would eventually stumble onto its author, Richard Bach, at my local seaplane base.

How could I have known Bob Hoover and I would walk along a wooded path chatting casually like old friends? Or that I would literally bump into Apollo 8 commander Frank Borman while prowling the hangars of a local airport?

Perhaps, least likely of all, that I would answer the phone one day to find one of my original great motivators, Michael Maya Charles, on the other end of the line.

I’ve never met Michael. He’s happily hunkered down in Colorado where he loves his life, while I am a couple thousand miles away in central Florida where I intend to stay forever, more or less. Yet somehow we managed to connect. Full credit to Michael for the gift of friendship. 

Recently, I discovered the audiobook version of Michael’s 2005 release “Artful Flying.” It’s my current go-to leisure experience. Narrated by Michael himself, the emotion of his commitment to aviation, safety, and the absolute unrestrained joy of being airborne becomes apparent in a whole new way.

If you choose to indulge in the book or the audio version yourself, and I highly recommend you do, you’ll notice Michael uses the words “artful” and “artfully” quite often. Maybe that’s because Michael is a fellow musician. He recognizes the artistic aspect of life, where art is a term that involves far more than paint on canvas.

The art of life and performance involves pride, dedication, integrity, and a sense of mirth. It’s the joy of being good at something, yet still striving to be better. To execute with precision and care, while still enjoying an almost impossibly visceral connection to the otherwise intangible aspects of your task. 

At least that’s my read on the topic. Your mileage may vary.

The beneficial events and happy accidents of my life have happened specifically because I chose to be a participant, as well as an observer. I’ve actively played both roles. Actively. That’s all. There’s nothing more mysterious to it than that. In return, I’ve had a remarkable ride. As will you, if you jump in with both feet and embrace this life with all you’ve got.

Maybe that’s artful, too. What are your thoughts on the subject?