How did I get here?

When I was 15 years old I had a plan for where my life would take me. It was a very specific plan, one that I followed for many years with great diligence. Then, I took a turn in an unexpected direction. That new road led me here. To where I am now. To a whole new place where I feel comfortable and content.

Thank goodness I took that new path when it presented itself.

This thought runs through my head oh so briefly as I help my client into the back seat of a Piper J-3 Cub on straight floats. It’s not easy to get into a Cub. In fact, it could be argued that moving from outside to inside is the hardest thing about flying these little buggers. She needs help, but then many people do. Perhaps one day I’ll need help, too.

Built in 1945, before television was common, when the only person with a cell phone on earth was Dick Tracy, before satellites circled the planet, this machine made of steel tubing covered with Dacron fabric was flying over the American landscape and establishing itself as an icon of the skies. It is as simple as simple can be.

Sunrise happened less than half an hour ago. I did my preflight inspection on the ramp, before the Cub went into the water, in the half-light that separates night from the day. Now, I find myself standing on the float of an aircraft bobbing on the surface of the lake, priming the system, turning on the mags, and flipping the prop from behind with a steady pull. The engine comes to life, making that satisfying pockata, pockata, pockata sound that tells me it’s turning at 1,000 rpms just as reliably as the tach can read it out.

The Cub begins to move immediately. My client drops the water rudders to achieve better purchase on this slippery liquid we slide through.

The water presents a certain amount of drag to the floats, but not nearly as much as rubber on pavement. There are no brakes for us on the water. There is only forethought, planning, an awareness of the wind direction and speed, and definitive execution. The simplicity of it all belies the reality that 1,000 control inputs are being made throughout every phase of the flight — even before the flight truly begins.

We idle taxi across the lake. I brief my client about why we’re in no rush to get airborne. The oil needs to warm up from the chill of the morning’s ambient temperature. We can also use this time to position ourselves for the start of our takeoff run. During these few quiet moments I make it a point to learn a bit about my client’s reason for being with me in the Cub, on the water, headed for the sky.

Everyone flies for a slightly different reason. Some come out for the experience. Their intent is to satisfy a one-time flirtation with an aspect of aviation that sits firmly on the outskirts of the mainstream. They want to see it and feel it for themselves.

Some simply want to improve their skills. It is virtually impossible to come away from a flight in the Cub without having learned something about energy management and the coordinated use of controls. With limited power and a massive amount of parasite drag combined in a little yellow 2-seat package, the Cub is a classroom like no other. You will learn something of value for sure. I believe that to be true because I continue to learn something every time I take one out and up.

Some see a career in the distance. When I fly with one of those folks my mind takes me back to the 23rd Street Seaport on Manhattan Island, a little known but much appreciated sliver of the city that allows for quick and easy arrivals and departures from the bustle of mid-town to the outlying areas.

I recall hailing a cab at Pennsylvania Station once, jumping in and telling the driver my destination. He assured me, “There’s nothing there.” I persisted. It was there. Still is, too. If you’re ever in New York City, take that little side trip. Even if only to reassure yourself that general aviation is alive and well even in some of the busiest, least hospitable places on earth.

My client has the controls as I haul my substantial bulk up from the float into the front seat of the Cub. At 6 foot, 1 inch tall and 200 or so pounds, that short journey is my best approximation of wrestling with weights at the gym. Once in the seat, however, I can spread out.

The Cub doesn’t offer an enormous amount of leg room, but I’m comfortable in the space. Slipping my headset on, I power up the intercom and ask my client, “Do you have me?” She responds in the affirmative, and we’re on our way.

I didn’t foresee this as part of my future when I was a kid. I didn’t even know seaplanes existed. I certainly never imagined myself climbing into airplanes and seaplanes with total strangers, only to find through that process that we have an affinity for each other and the machine that holds us aloft.

If I had continued on my original path, I might have found greater success in the long run. But I am convinced that had I not followed my desire to fly recreationally my life would be a less satisfying experience overall.

I fly for my own reasons. As is true of everyone who flies.

I hope your journey is as enjoyable as mine has been. I hope you overcome the frustrations and challenges inherent to any bold adventure. But most of all, I hope you keep your eyes open, your mind alert, and your heart available to the new, unexpected, life-affirming opportunities that will come your way. Because they will come. It is up to us to decide whether we should walk down that new path or stay on the road we’re on already.

Thank goodness I took that turn so long ago. I am forever grateful for being exposed to an activity that seemed so straightforward when I started, but has turned out to be more multifaceted than I could have imagined.

Onward I go.