If there’s anything I’ve learned in my 31 years in aviation, it’s that just about every pilot claims their spiritual hometown as Lake Wobegon, where “all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.” Which is to say that if we weren’t all a bunch of raving egomaniacs before we started flying, the experience of soaring through the sky and looking down upon oblivious earthbound folks didn’t do us any favors.
I have yet to meet anyone who describes themselves as a below-average pilot, and the least competent people I’ve flown with were all supremely confident in their abilities. And yet, I too have always nursed the secret conceit that I’m an especially capable aviator—at least until recently, when I received incontrovertible proof that I am, in fact, thoroughly and merely average. I’ve been forced to look in the mirror, and it turns out I’m just a plain Jane after all.
