Flying Solo :: Flying Planes Personal Narratives Essays

Flying Solo Today is the day of my first wing lesson. For the last month I have been putt together a model of the Spirit of St. Louis, the plane Charles Lindbergh used to fly from to New York to genus Paris in May of 1927, the first transatlantic flight. I love putting together models I love the intense concentration it requires, the knot of tautness that forms at the back of my neck, the dizzying smell of glue. Charles Lindbergh was not the first pilot to take in charge this flight, but he was the first to attempt it alone. All those who went before him had asleep(p) with flight crews and enormous quantities of equipment, and every last(predicate) of them had failed or died trying. Lindbergh had no crew, no radio, no parachute, no life raft, no food, one quart of water. He told reporters, If I make it to Paris I wont need anything more, and if I dont make it I wont need anything more either. He even cut the borders off of his occasion with a razor blade. It was this comfort that enabled him to succeed. I want to find that simplicity in my own life, to pare everything down to the bare essentials. But I cant. Small pieces, spare parts, keep turning up in corners and under furniture. I think flying will lift me up and away from all the things that clutter up a life. When I pull round at Pulliam airport and look out over the rows of airplanes I touch sensation so light that I might float away. I profits for the lesson with my Visa and shove the receipt into the pocket of my jeans. The wait room is alter with orange plastic chairs. Waiting always takes on the same quality, no matter where I am or what I am waiting for. Its the feeling of being trapped in time, removed from the catch ones breath of life. No matter what I do, like a reading a book or magazine, I can never forget that Im waiting. I used to wait for my father every sunshine afternoon, sitting and staring out the window while time froze all around me.