I learned to fly “the old-fashioned way,” in a Cessna 152 with its roots firmly in the Eisenhower administration. It had seemingly endured approximately one million hours. I had various flight instructors—none of them were any good, of course, in my eyes, because I had 14 hours of flight time and I was in my early 20s. Of course, they were good instructors; I just didn’t know it because I was young, rebellious and, let me just say it, stupid. “Stoopid,” even.
Old Yeller
One fine day after hours and hours of training, I was ready for my “initial solo.” See, the U.S. Air Force, which was paying for my civilian flight training, would only pay for so many hours, so suddenly, I was “ready.”
