Will Fly For Food

I like to cook. Unusual hobby, sure, but it's healthier than constantly eating greasy burritos from Taco Bell 24/7, and it saves money. Unfortunately, the flight school diet has consisted of far too many sandwiches and oatmeal over the past few months, but on occasion I splurge and head for the bulk meats section of the nearest Wal-Mart supercenter, all in hopes of stockpiling the ground beef for making Hamburger Helper. If you have the discipline to ration the portions refugee-style, one can usually get 2-3 meals out of this. Even though I'm now very proficient in making this meal, it always baffles me how it's able to come together. At first it's just a lump of red, raw meat. Fifteen minutes later it's an unrecognizable scramble. Douse it with a few cups of water. Maybe add in some milk, throw a few noodles in it. By now it's all I can do to keep my creation from overflowing the pan and causing a big mess. There's nothing about it that resembles a meal, not even close. It's at this point I mix in the seasoning sauce, and that only furthers the perception that I'm cooking vomit. The discolored blob of ingredients hardly looks edible. But soon, after a few stirs, and enough time over the hot stove, the liquids settle in, the noodles begin to cook, and the pan starts to become one. An aroma flows through the air. Soon, with a little care and effort, my dinner's ready. Now, no one here would argue that Hamburger Helper is a gourmet meal. Point conceded. But there is something special about taking something ordinary and seeing it come to its full potential. Maybe it tastes better because I went through the effort of making it. Or maybe I've gone senile over the past few months and somehow decided that writing a paragraph on Hamburger Helper was a good idea.

No matter, I can't help but draw parallels from one of my favorite low-budget meals and my experiences here. One of my first recollections about this crazy journey comes from back in early May, when the first crate of aviation textbooks and supplies arrived at my house. As I sifted through the boxes, feelings of being overwhelmed consumed me. The materials were things I'd never seen before, never knew they existed. I flipped through a few pages of a training manual and thought, "What did I get myself into this time?" It was a disaster.

Over the next few weeks, little by little, I threw myself into the books. My free time was spent learning things that, even just a few months prior, never envisioned myself caring to learn. And as summer approached, and my flight school date grew ever closer, I realized there was no going back. The beef was now brown.

My arrival here in Texas was met with more books, more uncertainty, and an even greater overwhelming feeling. I remember my first night here: exhausted from the fourteen-hour drive, hungry and in dire need of a shower, I met a few of my training partners and collapsed onto my bed, wondering if I'd made the right decision. The life I'd left behind suddenly seemed remarkably appealing. Was it too late to change my mind? As I stared at the heaping pile of books and aeronautical charts on the table, I wondered how I would ever make it.

The next morning, while eating the first of the PB&J sandwiches for breakfast, I pored over the syllabus, which outlined the next 150 days of my life, almost down to the hour. I'm the type of person who likes to take things one day at a time. I thought I'd accidently stepped into a military prison camp. I felt more out of place than Captain Crunch at a quilting convention. That night my classmates and I studied until midnight. If the first day didn't kill me, I thought, maybe there's a chance I can do this.


Eventually, my classmates and I fell into a routine: wake up, study, go flying, study, sleep. And that's how it went for me for the first month. Before I could blink, I'd been here a month. The reality that I was chasing a dream sprung me out of bed each morning. Soon, after about six weeks, I'd earned my private pilot's license. A few weeks later, I'd added a multi-engine rating. Who knew I had it in me?


Slowly, but steadily, I progressed though the grueling instrument stage. If there were ever a time to quit, this would have been it. These were long days, often starting before 6 and ending well after midnight. I wanted to kill my instructor. He probably wanted to kill me. If Vegas had been taking bets on survival, odds would have been pretty much even.


Time has been on fast forward ever since. I spent two weeks flying around the country, building my hours. I took three written exams in seven days. Just last week, I conquered two commercial checkrides in one weekend, making me qualified to fly for hire. Somehow, someway, the ingredients all came together. I am now a real-live pilot. The end is near. In a few short hours, I'll board a U.S. Airways flight for Jacksonville to begin certified flight instructor school. Two weeks of grueling study and preparation for a checkride that determines my immediate flying future. After being separated for most of the past three months, my classmates from our private pilot days are joining me for this final push. If all goes well, I'll be back to Dallas and done with the program in three weeks. The end is near.


In one of my very first posts, I broke down my ambitions as plainly as possible: I just want to fly airplanes. While I've attained that goal, I'm ready for the next challenge: I want to teach people how to fly airplanes. I'm still not quite sure how this happened, but I never want to go back.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 143