Walking up to my airplane on a warm Saturday in October on Catalina Island off the California coast, and after devouring one of the airport’s famous buffalo burgers, I noticed a beat-up Cessna that I recognized as belonging to one of the flight schools in Santa Monica. The pilot was young, mid-20s, and he had three people with him—two of which looked like they might be his parents. He stopped his preflight and approached me.
“Are you a CFI?”
