The Wrights and Me

It's been 11 years since I last strapped myself into a helicopter; but I can close my eyes and it all comes back to me.

The smell of jet fuel and of hydraulic fluid. The smell of the plastic and metal inside the cockpit. I can still feel the smooth leather of my flight gloves, worn so often that they fit more like my skin than a piece of clothing. With my eyes closed I can reach out and know just where certain instruments and radios would have been, switches and knobs and circuit breakers. My hands know where to go to start the engine, to lightly hold the controls.

If I sit very still, I can hear how the turbine engine used to spin up in a high-pitched whine before roaring to life when I opened the throttle. And I can remember the exact cadence the aircraft used to bounce while the blades spun up to idle.The smell of burned jet fuel brings a smile to my face.

Finally - and most heart wrenching of all, even after so many years - my limbs and my brain still remember the tiny, coordinated movements it took to make the small helicopter I used to fly lift gently from the ground. I remember what it felt like to hang there, suspended below the main rotor, totally in control of a machine trying desperately to go in a hundred different directions; held there in one piece seemingly by main force of will. My will.

With the merest thought (or so it seemed after 1,200 hours of flight time) I could make 3,500 lbs of metal and plastic dance.

When most people think of flying their impressions are born of trips on an airliner; lumbering up through the clouds into the blazing blue and white of the stratosphere. When I think of flying, I see everything in shades of green. My favorite time to fly was at night; little or no moon was best - with just the stars bouncing their feeble light off the landscape and into those incredible, almost magical, bits of technology we used to call merely "goggles."

These were, of course, Night Vision Goggles; NVGs we used to also call them. Fabulous little tubes stuffed with high-tech stuck to the front of our flight helmets that turned night into a green-tinted ghost of day. With them on, I could fly, not through the clouds, but through the trees. Rotors spinning only feet or inches away from branches and leaves, rock and earth. My adrenaline would be pumping, sharpening my reflexes and my sight; my head would turn from side to side while my eyes picked out the least dangerous way.

And I was completely and absolutely alive.

Unless you've flown - and despite all the various kinds of pilots out there, there aren't really that many of us - you will never know that feeling. It's a feeling that I think about every day. Many times a day. Nothing can take its place, nothing will make it go away. (I won't go into all the reason here that I haven't flown in so long - although I will say that within the next year or so I will start again.)

This feeling, this love, for it is that, is what connects me to the Wright Brothers. And to every person who has ever left the solid earth in controlled, powered flight since that day, 100 years ago. More than any other group of people (save astronauts, gods to us mere demi-gods), pilots feel a sense of brotherhood. These are bonds formed between even people who have never met; forged in rigorous training, in self-discipline in the pure joy of flight. And that brotherhood, that camaraderie extends, in an unbroken line, from Wilbur and Orville to me.

If you've ever taken the controls of an aircraft, you know what I mean. If you never have you are poorer for that.