Attitudes

Attitude: a key concept in aviation, which is the position of an aircraft relative to the wind, but also discussed frequently in addressing a pilot's judgment and the resultant probable level of safety. But there's a deeper version of "attitude" at work in those of us who yearned---and then learned---to fly. It's an attitude born in the joy of the moment and delivered through time.

Congratulating me on getting married, a senior co-worker said in passing that he never missed mindfully kissing his wife goodbye and saying "I love you" every time they parted. I asked, "Why so adamant?" (I was young and immortal), and he said, "Because I never know if it's the last we will see each other."

My aviation career took off and then began to climb, marked by a series of "goodbyes" to one thing/place or environment followed by fresh "hellos" to another. The goodbyes I remember are the ones deeply rooted in feeling---those turned out to be fundamental stepping stones on my life's trail---stepping stones that left a mark on my soul while suggesting the next course line.

The Stones: the J-3 I soloed in; my first airplane, a 1947 Taylorcraft BC12D-4-85; crop dusting in a Stearman; meeting and falling in love with the Radial sisters---Pratt & Whitney's R985 and R1340 engines; my rugged and Ã¼ber-cool Navion; both Steen Skybolts; an amazing Pilatus Porter; and my Piper PA-16 Clipper.

The Marks: Remembering every detail of spraying a challenging field in Alabama, a field so strung up with powerlines it felt like flying under a weaver's loom; as a private pilot, my first VFR on top over the Delmarva Peninsula in a 1948 Stinson Voyager with my father (a World War II P-47 pilot) in the right seat and my sister in the back; my first Beta approach in a Pilatus PC-6 Porter; each of my four forced landings; a near head-on with a yellow school bus while taking off to spray from a county road in rural Florida; and the home-brewed approach on primary instruments in a VFR Thrush on a dark and stormy night.

I remember my one perfect landing at Philly International in a King Air, so soft that for an instant I thought I had forgotten the gear as we settled on the struts without so much as a squish.

I remember, in vivid detail, the birth of my son.

In each case, the deeper the mark, the more mindful I became that the most recent notable event might be the last in the series. Like the last time I shut down the R1340 on my Thrush ag plane. "This might be the last time I fly a radial," I thought. "Remember this."

Some events are once-in-a-lifetime occurrences, the profound impact unrecognized in the moment, only surfacing in awareness years later cloaked in meaning, when the cataracts of our "rat race" lives wear away to reveal---in retrospect---the vector they have given one's life.

Such was my first solo at 16 in a J-3. At that moment, my pathetic relationship with high-school algebra, my lack of athletic interest or prowess, and my shyness around girls meant naught. For the first time in my life, I felt totally responsible for my life. I felt in charge of events, accountable in the most meaningful way. When the tail came up and the plane broke ground, I was instantly and unequivocally thrust into self-reliance. It was my rite of passage. Flying has been the keel beam of my life ever since, imposing boundaries during the turmoil years of young adulthood, providing structure, direction, purpose and marketable experience in the struggle for gainful employment, and bestowing on my life a meaning bought and paid for with effort and perseverance and dedication.

Somewhere along the line this all gave birth to a new attitude, the attitude of gratitude, a species of attitude that has many layers, like faith, for one.

Like when I shut down that big Thrush ag plane all those years ago for what I thought was the last time, and it wasn't.

Lou Churchville is a commercial pilot, writer and marketing communications professional. He holds single and multi-engine land, instrument, glider and Certified Flight Instructor ratings.