Life as a pilot begins with a relationship between the student and the instructor.   The first and perhaps biggest milestone in the training relationship comes when the instructor, in his or her wisdom, decides that the student is capable of flying solo.  It is such an important milestone that there is even a ritual attached to it, although sadly for some reason my curmudgeonly instructor did not bother to put me through it.   Following a student pilot’s first solo flight, the pilot is initiated into the club by the instructor tearing or cutting off a piece of the student pilot’s shirt.

I had no idea where the tradition emanated from, and when I asked around no one else seemed to know.   According to Wikipedia, “In the days of tandem trainers, the student sat in the front seat, with the instructor behind.  As there were often no radios in these early days of aviation, the instructor would tug on the student pilot’s shirttail to get his attention, and then yell in his ear.  A successful first solo flight is an indication that the student can fly without the instructor…Hence, there is no longer a need for the shirt tail, and it is cut off by the (often) proud instructor, and sometimes displayed as a trophy.”

I remember my first solo well, although it is now about a dozen years ago.  At the time, I felt as though it was long overdue, which I suppose is a much better feeling than if I felt it was premature.   It seemed a bit like a non-event; possibly because I didn’t know in advance it was coming and had no time to worry about it.  I had my usual lesson, but on that particular day, my instructor told me to taxi to a particular area and drop him off.   He then told me to do 3 circuits around the pattern, landing each time, and that he would be watching from the field.   I performed fine, but there was no celebration, barely an indication that I had accomplished anything, other than that the flight school secretary grabbed her camera and had me pose in front of the airplane with my instructor.

The legal ability to fly solo before even being granted a pilot’s license is, in fact, a profound triumph.   It is symbolic of leaving home, leaving the safety net of having someone beside you who can support you when times get rough.

Since that day, well over a decade ago, I must admit that I prefer flying with a co-pilot.   Even if the co-pilot isn’t a certified pilot, it feels safer to know that there is someone in the right seat who could offer me an additional set of eyes and ears, and even take control of the airplane should I have my first epileptic seizure.

But I also simply love the company, love to share the joy of flight, love to offer someone else the thrill of lifting off in a small aircraft, enjoying the scenery at 10,000 feet, and returning safely to earth.   Sharing the experience of flying with another makes it more of an adventure, the way sharing any experience with another human being does.

I think about marriage in many of the same ways I think about flying.    The mythologist Joseph Campbell said it best:

 “I think one of the problems in marriage is that people don’t realize what it is.   They think it’s a long love affair, and it isn’t.  Marriage has nothing to do with being happy.  It has to do with being transformed, and when the transformation is realized it is a magnificent experience.  You have to submit.  You have to yield.  You have to give.  You can’t just dictate.”

And so it is for me with flying.   It is not about being happy.   It is too trite and inaccurate to say that I am happy when I fly.   But to yield to it, to give to it, to not dictate but to manage the occasional tumultuous skies, and to engage in the sensations that only flying can bring, can be truly transformative.