I like to fly.
Somehow, through the distance of the years and the dissonance of picking up the pieces of a broken life, I forgot.
Fear brought me to flying. Curiously, it turned out that flying was one of the few pursuits perfectly suited to my limited skill set.
A discovery that was a long time coming.
Flying wasn’t something I considered then discarded as not possible for someone like me. No, I’m the possibilities girl—I never see limitations until they jerk me up short… which, in an airplane could be rather dramatic.
Quite simply, flying never hit my radar of possibilities. At least not, until, after a long stint as a single parent, I married a former Navy pilot. I spent the first summer of our marriage in the front seat of an open-cockpit bi-plane breathing exhaust and being scared and exhilarated at the same time. But, in a brief moment of clarity, as we floated up and down the east coast, it dawned on me somewhere over New Jersey that, if my husband had a major medical emergency, odds were I would, too—since I hadn’t a clue how anything in the airplane worked.