By nature and nurture, I am not a risk-taker, nor am I innately prone to impulsive action, which are two reasons I survived my misbegotten teen years and early 20s as a fledgling professional pilot. And yet, in the years since, friendships and happenstance and wanderlust aligned to turn me into a dirt-biking, skydiving thrillseeker who made a literal overnight decision to sell everything, buy a sailboat, and run away to sea (enabled, by my wife’s rare and timely foray into shocking irresponsibility). Over time, I’ve found that my impulsive, risk-taking side has given me many of the best experiences—and friends—of my life.
I’ve lusted after the Cessna 195 ever since I first saw one at the tender age of 17, at Oshkosh in 1998. As my flying career developed, I assumed that I would eventually be able to afford one, and sensibly figured that owning one or two less-intimidating airplanes would prepare me to take on the care and feeding of 3,300 pounds of cabin-class vintage taildragger and a 300 hp Jacobs radial engine. The squirrely Piper Pacer that we owned from 2014 to 2016 gave me confidence that I could keep a 195’s shiny end pointed forward. Dawn and I talked about it over the last couple years, joined the type club, befriended some owners, and emerged from Oshkosh this year deciding that a Cessna 195 purchase within the next year was doable. All very sensible, very responsible.
