First among Firsts
A hazy, back window view of San Diego’s Mission Bay and Point Loma.
There is a category of people for which I’m eternally grateful. They are the “Firsts.” I don’t mean the fanciful Guinness Book stuff like the first person to swim across the English Channel or ride a barrel over Niagara Falls. These risks generally don’t require placing life-or-death trust in other people. The “First” I mean is the first person who hands a teenager the keys and says “You’re driving,” and then gets in the car as a passenger, (Thanks mom!) or the patient who says to a new surgeon doing his/her first unsupervised procedure, “Sure, you can do my appendectomy.” These “Firsts” are everyday people demonstrating real world courage and confidence. One of the greatest examples of this courage is the person who straps in as a pilot’s first passenger. For all the aviators out there, do you remember your first passenger? I’m guessing you do.
I remember it like it was yesterday. The Captain and I had been married for just a of couple years. Stationed in San Diego, she was so busy with the Navy that keeping myself occupied by taking flying lessons was fine with her. In a turn of good fortune, I was paired up with a wonderful flight instructor. Bob and I hit it off right away and a little over three months later, on Friday, December 1, I became the holder of a brand new Private Pilot Certificate with thirty six and a half hours of experience. The very next day, I turned to my lovely bride and invited her to go for a ride. She agreed, and I booked an airplane from the flight school. I’m still grateful for the advice my dad gave me when I phoned him about passing my check-ride. He said, “Don’t scare your passengers on the first flight or they will never fly with you again.” (I learned later in my career that he was so right! Countless pilots have made flying a wedge issue by doing just one unnecessary maneuver.)
The airplane was a very “experienced” 1979 Cessna 152. Its exterior featured ugly brown stripes over a chalky white base. The interior was a combination of worn tan and second-hand pea-green upholstery that smelled like avgas and dust. The Lieutenant (she was just a junior officer back then) didn’t complain, but rather smiled and took in the airport’s gritty environs. After enduring my safety brief, we fired up the tiny four cylinder Lycoming O-235 and we taxied to Montgomery Field’s runway Two Eight Right. Climbing out to the west, we topped the Miramar Bravo airspace and banked to the north, following the beach from La Jolla towards Carlsbad. Once clear of the airspace around Fighter Town, U.S.A., (back then Miramar was still the home of Top Gun) we turned east over the mountains and then south again to complete the hour long circuit. The day was wrapped up with a celebratory lunch at the airport’s Mexican restaurant.
Soon after, I transitioned to bigger airplanes (like the mighty Cessna 172N with a 180 HP conversion) and we made regular flights to places like the Borrego Valley Airport (L08), “building time” on burger runs with family or friends. Discussing that first flight with The Captain recently, she confessed that she really didn’t remember it being a big deal. It wasn’t anymore intimidating than some of the other things we’d already done together. For her, the outcome of that first flight was never in doubt.
Never in doubt. There are no sweeter words. Thanks for being my First among Firsts.
After its stint with California Wings flight school, records indicate N4644B was exported to Poland and stricken from the FAA’s registry in 2004. For what it’s worth, it might still be out there, training new pilots in eastern Europe.