How on earth did it get to be mid-August? The wall-to-wall flight and duty schedule my husband’s been on might have something to do with it. At least he’s not hurting for flight hours this month. We would, no doubt, both be a little more sanguine about the whole thing if fewer of those hours ate up our weekends, but such is life when there are aircraft carriers at sea who demand their COD hits with the clamorous fervor of a infant seeking a pacifier. “Want it now! Want it RIGHT NOW!”
My current level of flight time leaves much to be desired, although attempts were made to rectify my sad ground-bound state last week. Alas, Mother Nature foiled my first bid for a Mission Observer proficiency hop with a grumbling sky and a worrisome number of lightning strikes in the vicinity. The weather at the airport was such that we probably could have taken off safely, but returning at the end of our flight would have been iffy. Our Mission Pilot decided that he didn’t fancy explaining to our superiors precisely why we thought it was a good idea to take off only to divert for weather and get ourselves stranded at another airport, so we stayed firmly planted on the ground.
No problem, we just rescheduled for a couple days hence… only to be stymied by another group signing the plane out from under us. Here’s hoping for better luck this week. I would dearly love to take advantage of the funding CAP always seems to have available for flying as the end of the fiscal year draws closer, especially consider how long it has been since I stretched my MO muscles. Those skills are perishable; I hope I haven’t completely forgotten my G1000 tricks.
I have not made much progress in transitioning from the right seat to the left (translation: I have not yet begun working towards my private pilot certificate). A while back, though, my husband and I visited a few local flight schools to get a feel for the various operations and instructors. At one of the schools, we were chatting with an older gentleman about the process, how many hours would be needed, the rates for aircraft rental and instruction, and so on and so forth. When he reached the part of the spiel about solo flight, though, he looked at me kind of funny.
“You know, you have to be at least sixteen years old to solo.”
I was a little taken aback — after all, I was there with my husband, wedding rings clearly visible. Boy, I thought, this guy must think my husband is one hell of a cradle robber! I assured the gentleman that I was, in fact, a full decade safely past that particular minimum.
I’ve often been told I look young for my age, but to have someone wonder if maybe — just maybe — I might be fifteen? Everyone says I’ll appreciate it later, but I’m not quite convinced that I have reached the point at which it is flattering to have one’s age underestimated by ten or more years.
To the Nth 