When You Fall in Love with a Pilot
The first time I climbed into a small plane was the first day I met my soon-to-be husband, Martin. My mom told me not to do it. So of course I did not listen, and I climbed right into that little Cessna 172.
Martin was a commercial pilot and airplane mechanic at the time. I didn’t think a first flight could get any safer than that. Really, how could I resist?
Fast forward about 10 hours and not only had we gone on a little scenic flight. Martin and I had also flown to another town for dinner. I got my first kiss up in that airplane.
Martin’s world revolved around airplanes. If he wasn’t flying, he was reaching into engines on the ground or looking at planes flying by. He loved to talk with other pilots, and I quickly learned to bring a book with us everywhere we went so I’d have something to do. It’s amazing how often you run into people who love to fly or dream of getting their wings one day.
I was neither of those. That’s why I brought a book.
I quickly learned that pilots hate driving. Martin’s old flight instructor once told me, “Driving is okay until I reach a certain point. That point is when I know I would already be where I was going if I had flown. Then I cannot stand driving a second longer.”
Martin picked me up from college in an airplane. We even flew to a forest service runway in the mountains to go camping. I loved it. The world was completely different in a small plane.
I was low enough in the sky to see the details of the world and skip around the mountains, and I was high enough to witness the world in a way no summit or tourist view stand could ever provide. I started to think that people might be right. Maybe this was heaven.
Except when I got sick. And I can get motion sickness pretty dang easily. Talk about embarrassing – I’m the one who got sick on a waterbed!
“It’s easier when you’re the pilot,” everyone kept telling me. “You won’t get sick then.”
“Sure,” I told them. “Sure.”