In the summer of 1967 I was a 16-year-old student pilot flying out of Cornelia Fort Airpark in Nashville, Tennessee. This historic airport had been around since 1944 and was still surrounded by farmland. I had been flying since I was 14 with the local Civil Air Patrol unit. By the time I decided to pursue flying in earnest I had logged time in the L-4, L-5 and L-19. I had since moved to the Cessna 150 and 152 and even had several hours in a 172. My favorite was an older 150, N22075, that had seen better days. With worn paint and missing the spinner and wheel fairings, it was a little slower and looser but, oh, so forgiving. The grass field had 6 inches of cushioning fescue at all times, and I would flare so as to get the wheels rolling before touchdown, which resulted in landings that would make any seasoned pilot proud.
Having completed all my cross-country requirements, I was just flying off hours in preparation for my check ride. Hour after hour of touch-and-goes, I could do them in my sleep. Flare … touchdown … carb heat in … full throttle … flaps up … rotate and circle for another. Over and over and over. Redundant and boring, just the right amount of ingredients to cause problems if you didn’t pay attention. Life was good for this young aviator!
