I recently reconnected with an old friend, someone whose interest in flying I can legitimately claim to have sparked back in the days when we were just-out-of-college roommates. I took him for his first flight in a personal airplane, and he signed up for lessons later that same day. Today, he’s a gazillion-hour captain for a major airline, sitting on more type ratings than there are beers in a 12-pack. But we both remember when things were different.
It was the end of a forgotten calendar, and we had grand plans for ringing in the New Year: a hotel reservation in Key West, Fla., and a Piper Archer waiting for us at an airport in nearby Northern Virginia. There were two things we didn’t have, though: flyable weather and instrument ratings. We needed one or the other.
