Once upon a time, I lusted after owning a jet. I played the lottery in the hopes of winning enough money to own and support one. One time, I even put a down payment on a Cessna Citation Mustang. This was before I checked my net worth or calculated any realistic hopes for my net worth in the future. Ultimately, the fever subsided, and I started, more appropriately, to find satisfaction in owning an elderly turboprop. After all, if I won the money and had the jet, where would I go? Mostly back and forth from Tampa, Florida, where I live, and New Hampshire, where I have a cottage that is close to two of my children who live in Boston. I would also go to Georgetown, Delaware, where my oldest child lives with her husband and two sons.
All this I can do in the Piper Cheyenne that my wife, Cathy, and I own. Sure, we go to New Orleans occasionally and sometimes travel around Florida and to the Bahamas in the wintertime, but our track is mostly a predictable one. I never really needed a jet to get around; I just needed a jet because I wanted to fly one. When you’re in your mid to late 60s, there aren’t many ways to fly a jet without having the money to own one. Too old for the airlines and too distracted by life’s other pleasures for the hectic life of a Part 135 pilot, I could think of few alternatives.
