Photo by Nomi Morris

The other day I took the short drive from my house to my hangar, just 15 minutes away.   There I visited my lonely airplane, which has not flown now for about six months, since I received the cancer diagnosis.   I found myself again admiring its smooth lines, and I actually found myself tenderly stroking the side of the plane and gently tapping on the cowling as if I were petting a peacefully snoozing dog.

How girls and boys can fall in love with their toys!    I guess by falling in love with our inanimate beasts we are more likely to give them the care and attention they need to perform their functions safely.   And in the case of big toys such as boats and airplanes, their ability to function safely equates to the safety of their drivers and passengers.

Many of us who are fortunate enough to own big toys give them names just to further our anthropomorphic tendencies.  I have toyed with various names for my airplane, but none of them have stuck.  Of course all airplanes have to be registered, and therefore they all carry a number, a “call sign” used by controllers and pilots to identify themselves.   As with car license plates, airplane owners have the ability to customize their numbers, and in my vanity I wanted the big letters on the side of my airplane to spell my name.   The letter “I” is forbidden, however, given its potential confusion with the number 1.   “1RA” and various prefixes and suffixes were all taken, so I appended the numbers “44” in front of “1RA” simply because it wasn’t already spoken for, and thus my airplane officially became known as “Four Four One Romeo Alpha”.   Now, as long as there isn’t another One Romeo Alpha flying nearby (there actually has been on a few occasions) it is permissible to abbreviate one’s registration number (as long as the full number has already been acknowledged), so when speaking to controllers on the radio it is common for me to refer to my airplane simply as “one romeo alpha.”   The problem of course with this is that those listening in can think that I am being a bit more narcissistic than I really am.   I may consider myself an alpha male, but I certainly am no romeo.

Given that I am often referring to my airplane as One Romeo Alpha, and in that sense it already has a name, I am less inclined to name it Sharon, Rosie, or Enola Gay.  If, however, you happen to be on familiar terms with Diamond’s handsomely sculpted DA-40, I am open to suggestions.

Now, the FAA requires a medical evaluation for all pilots over 40 every two years, and my medical became due just as I was in the middle of my cancer treatment.   It doesn’t matter, because I am too fatigued to fly anyway, and would have grounded myself even if the FAA rules didn’t force it.   But on good days I can make it safely to my local airport, where I can admire the sexy lines of my Diamond DA-40, and then sit on a bench and watch the healthier pilots gracefully turn final and plant their wheels on terra firma.   I can envy their finesse, and wistfully dare to hope, if only for a brief moment, to join them in the sky some day.  I guess we all will, one way or another.