Twenty Minutes at the Controls

My grandfather flew small planes his whole life. He took me up when I was a kid, and I remember looking down at our farm and thinking it looked like a toy. This July, for my sixtieth birthday, my kids bought me a discovery flight at the local airport: twenty minutes at the controls of a little single-engine plane.

The instructor was a cheerful young woman named Dani. We did the preflight checks together, walking around the plane, checking the flaps and the fuel. Then I climbed into the left seat. My hands were sweating.

She handled the takeoff. Then, at three thousand feet, she said, "Your airplane." I took the yoke. I felt the plane respond to my hands, a gentle push forward, a slow turn to the left. Below us, the green fields and the river stretched out in every direction. I could see our town, our church steeple, the water tower.

I could also see the farm where I grew up. It still looks like a toy.

When we landed, my kids were waiting at the fence. I climbed out grinning like a teenager. I've already booked my first real lesson.