“Get Underway, Navy”*

When my dad was in the Navy, he spent most of his time with his feet on solid ground, making sure the planes were serviced properly between flights. His squadron, VR-6, was not carrier-based, but land-based. As a matter of fact, he was able to drive his car from Chicago to New Jersey, and that made him a lot of friends when it came time for R&R.

He got off the ground once. They were breaking in a newly assigned pilot, who had just come off a carrier squadron. Often, these reassignments came once the jet pilot could no longer qualify on carrier landings, but was still a capable pilot, with no problem landing on stationary objects (like, you know, the ground, a runway, etc.). Think JAG, but without the law degree to distract them.

One of the transport planes types. Quite a bit different than a fighter jet!

On this particular flight, Tony, who had been itching to get onto a flight—mainly to qualify for the extra pay—went along as support crew. Standing behind the flight mechanic/navigator as they headed out over the landscape and toward the Atlantic Ocean, he was fascinated by the smooth operation of this mighty plane. He could’ve stayed right there, relishing the sensation of flight, accompanied by the beauty of the view, getting paid to do nothing but enjoy himself.

They were flying maybe 3500 feet up over a gorgeous blue bay. The pilot was calm, shifting smoothly among the controls, manipulating the foot pedals, keeping a steady hand on the yoke while maintaining a watchful eye on the instruments. The picture of competence, inspiring confidence.

And then old-hand squadron pilot looked over at the new pilot, and with a mere, “You ready?” took his hands off the yoke, and handed over control of the plane.

Dad lost ten years of his life in that moment. All he saw ahead of the plane now, instead of clear sky and fluffy white clouds, was deep blue sea. Coming closer. And closer. The entire vast cockpit window seemed to be filled with it as they lost altitude—what felt like half the distance to the water. There was no escape, and nothing to cling to expect the back of a chair, and his Catholic upbringing. There must’ve been many a prayer said that day.

Finally, the pilot was able to ease up on what surely felt like an unyielding yoke, so different than the responsive jet plane stick he was used to. As they leveled off and continued their run, the old pilot, who had never turned a hair, put his feet up on the dash, for all the world as if it were just a Sunday drive in the country.

Dad never went on another training flight. They couldn’t pay him enough for that, he said. And this from the child who thought nothing about standing up on the seat of a used bike and cruising down a long gravel road. Maybe he’d finally attained some wisdom, or a sense of his own mortality? If so, the lesson didn’t linger. But he does have a healthy respect for pilots of all stripes, and the work and maintenance required to keep those planes in the air.

*Did you know these were some of the original lyrics to “Anchors Aweigh”? No, I didn’t either.