It’s an odd name, “Silent Birdpersons” or “Flying Burritos” or “Kwiet Kestrels.” Not just right, but close. It’s possible you’ve heard of, maybe even belong to, this quasi-venerable and intergalactic order of aviators — male aviators. If not, it’s something like the Flying Knights of Columbus or the Order of Masonic Boom(ers). Except that the “Birds” (the name still won’t come) are even more covert and exclusive. This sacrosanct fraternity would be the Opus Dei of flying except for an avowed disassociation with any noble, charitable or socially redeeming cause. Bird gatherings are about drinking, topless bartenders, big steaks, male bonding, raunchy jokes and hugely exaggerated tales of flying and sexual prowess. At least that’s the way it was in the old days.
How would I know all this? I’m a little embarrassed, but it’s been a lifelong fascination. Odd in this era of women’s rights, but by now you know I’m anything but a feminist and my panties don’t get wadded up about guys clinging to their male-only traditions. Same thing goes for the ladies. I still think single-sex classrooms, locker rooms, bathrooms and dorms are a good idea, but maybe I’m not cut from the same dress pattern as most women in this still (thank God) predominately male business of flying. Whatever. From way back as a young gal hanging around the aerodrome, I’ve been hugely curious about and a little envious of the Birds.
