The unconventional way works too

“A guitar’s all right as a hobby, John, but you’ll never make a living at it!”

That was the warning John Lennon’s Aunt Mary (Mimi) admonished him with in his youth. When the Beatles hit the big time, John had that statement engraved on an aluminum plate, mounted to a wood backing, and presented it to the woman who raised him as a subtle jab for all her worry and lecturing.

Certainly, playing the guitar is not a conventional route to success. Although for a few of us, it can work out just fine.

There is nothing inherently wrong about taking an unconventional approach to anything, so long as we recognized that our unique strategy just might be as wrong as we believed it would be right.

There will be twists and turns in the road of life. Some can be anticipated, while others are a complete surprise. Be prepared for both eventualities as best you can. When a fork in the road shows up, take it. Yogi Berra taught us that. He wasn’t wrong either, even if the advice is comically incomplete.

When I was young, I was a musician. Not of the John Lennon caliber it turns out, but not bad. My band and I got much farther than I would have believed possible. We made a record, moved to New York City, rubbed elbows with the rich and famous, set our minds to climbing the ladder of success, and ultimately found the end of our own road there.

Financially it was a disaster. In every other conceivable way, it was an epic journey worth taking. I have no regrets of that time spent and those years dedicated to pursuing a dream that didn’t quite come to fruition.

Those were also the years when I began flying. Just as a hobby initially. I had no intention of turning it into a career. But it turned out that some of the twists and turns along my personal road put aviation into a much more prominent position than I’d have imagined possible.

This is a true story. The year was 1988 or maybe 1989, the waning days of my musical career. I was driving a borrowed Ford Mustang through the forests of central Connecticut, with my four-year-old son beside me. It was a beautiful spring day. The sun was shining, the windows were open, and the soft breeze wafting through the car was rich with the smell of pine from the thousands of trees surrounding us.

As we drove, my boy and I talked excitedly about the day, our plans, and the world around us. Somewhere in there I recall asking him playfully, “So when you grow up what do you think you will do for a living?”

“I wanna be a motorcycle guy,” he answered without hesitation. “A motorcycle guy?” I repeated, somewhat impressed with the imagination he was developing.

I’ve ridden motorcycles since I was very young. In some sense his comment was flattering. My boy saw me as a role model to emulate, at least to some degree. But the practical Dad side of my brain kicked in, too. Cynically, I remember thinking, “good for you if you can find somebody to pay you to ride a motorcycle around all day. What are the odds of that happening?”

But it wasn’t long before that conversation got me thinking about my own situation. I was flying a bit. I wasn’t certificated yet, but I was getting there. My band was floundering with members getting tired of the grind and wanting to move back home to live a more normal life. I had to find a new way to make a living and the idea of starting all over from square one with a new band didn’t work for me.

I could fly, though. That’s a job. At the time I had no idea how diverse the occupational options were. I thought I would end up as an airline pilot. That’s not such a bad way to go, I thought. In fact, that might be worth pursuing in earnest. So I did.

And now I’m here, well over 30 years into a career that was neither obvious or encouraged for a young man with long hair, pierced ears, and a long history of standing on a stage twanging a guitar while singing heartfelt lyrics to people who were deeply involved with an alcoholic beverage or some other chemical enhancement to their mood.

Today I work with teenagers who entered high school thinking they were going to play in the NFL, or commit to a career in fashion, and at least a couple who are on track to become engineers. None of them left the 8th grade thinking about aviation as an option.

Yet today they involve themselves with the wide assortment of activities that are common in a hangar where aircraft restoration and maintenance take place. Several of them are actively working toward their private pilot certificates. A handful have already earned that certificate and have begun their instrument training.

They come in various colors, both boys and girls. They come from diverse backgrounds. Some have supportive parents who encourage them, some don’t have that optimism working in their favor. Each of them has found a spark of curiosity about a topic they have little understanding of and a willing volunteer who will mentor them, challenge them, and cheer for them as they make their way.

All of this reminds me of something Tom Haines once said. Tom was the big dog at the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association publications when I came aboard nine years ago. He’s rightfully respected in the industry after spending years spreading the word about the wonders of aviation. What he has to say matters, which includes the following: “I don’t get paid to fly. I get paid because I fly.”

That thought never occurred to me throughout the first couple decades of my career. But he’s exactly right. Not all of us will fly left seat in a widebody airliner. Not all of us will become charter pilots at the controls of the newest, sleekest corporate jet on the market. But there is room for all of us somewhere. Even if we’re on our second or third career when we slide into the pilot’s seat for our first lesson.

There is hope for us all, whether we follow the well-beaten path from Day 1 or come through a side door years later.