Last Thursday afternoon I finally rejoined my alien friends and left this planet. One of our vendors was in town and the engineer happened to bring his plane with him, a Piper Comanche 250. I get this call about 1pm asking if I’d like to go flying. Well, there’s no real choice there! (I’d like to apologize to all the people I cancelled my meetings on that afternoon, but I have my priorities.) Soon I’m in their rental car on the way to the airport.

Having flown out of SAT many times commercially and even a few times on a private jet, I thought I was familiar with the setup. I’m used to the terminals and the private hangar is directly across from them so I have seen different perspectives of the airport. We rolled into an old building south of the commercial terminals and walked into a smoky, dank miniature terminal with three men lounging in folding chairs looking out across the runways.

Our plane wasn’t back yet so I walked down a hallway following a sign that said “Passengers Lounge” in case they had a bar or smoking area. I must have missed the lounge but hit a secured door looking into a hangar with some small, shiny private jets. Before I could continue my search for a bar, the plane was landing.

Once the plane stopped and the engine shutdown, we walked out onto the tarmac which was ten feet from the door. The first thing you notice is that this plane is small with just enough room for the three of us. To get in, you step up the right wing, pop the hatch and squeeze down into the seats. Since I was with vendors, the put me in the co-pilot seat “so I’d get a better view”. Our pilot quickly sinks into a rhythm of procedures.

“Clear!”, shouted the pilot out the window but the guy who’d un-chalked the wheels was already back to his folding chair gazing at us through the large windows.

He turns over the engine but we keep the hatch open so the propeller becomes a nice fan. The pilot begins explaining all the gauges, knobs, buttons and tests the intercom in our headsets. He contacts ground control and scribbles down a burst numbers on a notepad that sound like they’re coming from an auctioneer. He explains that he’s notified them that we intend to take-off soon, has gotten the radio frequency, the transponder number, and that we would be heading for runway three. He’s was happy with runway three since it’s approach was very close, otherwise we’d have to taxi around to the other side of the airport for ten minutes. We start heading toward the runway with the hatch still open.

Sometimes I’m a little slow in new situations. I’m fascinated by how much is going on in the tiny cockpit and imagining the complexity that “Ground Control” and the “Tower” are dealing with, although they sound surprising calm on the radio even though they are spitting numbers like a Quick Pick lotto machine. While we’re creeping along, the pilot begins explaining he’ll be controlling the left/right movement of the plane with the rudder controls at his feet and how to ease the throttle all the way in and that once the ground speed gauge hits 75, you begin to pull back gently and the plane will take off. I thought he said “you” as in the non-specific person who in general would be flying a plane. He meant “you” as in me. In denial, I still thought he was kidding. He wasn’t and asked me to secure the hatch while we paused at a three-way intersection.

He liked to stay off the runway until everything was cleared by the tower so he could see to the left and right in case somebody crosses communication and happens to be trying to land on the runway we are attempting to use. Planes are not very agile on the ground and how can they be when you turn with your feet.

Tower gives us the green and we started rolling down the runway, he repeats the 75 and throttle instructions, and I finally admit to myself that he wants me to fly this plane! Don’t you have to take classes? Don’t you need a license? 40…50…60 This is getting very unnerving. 65…70…75…

“Pull back!” pulses in my headset.

So I do, not sure how hard or where the runway ends, guessing this thing doesn’t handle grass very well. We lift off the ground and I’d apparently pulled a little hard so we popped of the runway like a vert ramp skater popping off the coping. My backseat pilot later said it was like I flying an F-16. They later mentioned that the “Stall” light also came on. How would I know what to do? I don’t even play flight simulator games! I had flown a few times with my uncle in a little Cessna but he’d done all the work to get us in the air. I only flew around in big circles.

“Small corrections. The Tower only likes to see small corrections this close to the airport,” the pilot crackled in my ear.

Like I know what he means, the pilot says “Keep your vertical acceleration under 10 but head to 2400.”

Look at the picture above. See all those dials? So watch all three of those, the horizon, and how you handle the steering wheel which simultaneously controls your pitch left and right and you ascent and descent. My brain was full. I was hoping to snap some aerial pictures of our new headquarters but having no idea where I was and not really having time to look down, I quickly gave up on that plan.

Besides from watching the horizon and dials, there is no feedback from the plane. As the pilot gave headings and altitudes, it was difficult to judge how much to turn or push the wheel. After 10 minutes of barely controlled chaos, I needed a break. When he asked what I wanted to do, I asked him to fly and show me how smooth it could be. He went into a pattern you learn in pilot training. The idea is to turn hard left keeping the wings pitched at 45 degrees, do a complete 360, so you end up heading the direction you started in while maintaining the altitude. Damn! I didn’t expect him to turn it into a lesson!

“Now you try it. You’re heading is 22, altitude 3750. Bank right 45,” the pilot instructed.

Again, I struggle trying to keep the altitude level with the wings pitched with the ever present gusts of wind pushing us in every direction. I can see how magical this could be if it wasn’t so mentally tiring. I complete my try at the maneuver and ended up doing OK, even though I did tip the wings to almost 60 degrees which was a little steep for their comfort since they weren’t holding on to the stick.

“So where is the airport?” the pilot inquires knowing the answer and knowing I don’t.

“It’s directly behind you. Make your heading 800 and keep your altitude. When we get closer I’ll contact the tower to clear your landing.”

Take off and flying in circles is one thing, but now sensitive to his use of “you”, I’m beginning to think he is crazy if he thinks I’m going to land! He contacts the tower and gets more auctioneer gibberish. We are cleared but there is a plane in front of us. Looking around trying to solve this “negative contact” I have no luck. The pilot has no luck. The backseat pilot has growing concerns like that if there is another plane, we should probably figure out where the hell it is! But we don’t until the white of it is contrasted against the runway.

“Small corrections. The Tower likes small corrections”, my pilot repeats.

From the air, the runway looks tiny and I do get confused to which one we are actually going to land and I have never seen the airport from this perspective. I didn’t know there were two runways. As you drop altitude, its like a lens zooming in and soon enough I’m getting more concerned how hesitant the pilot is to take the controls as I bob and weave falling towards the runway. Too late now, here’s the landing!

“I’ve got the rudder and am throttling down. You just keep us on the runway and right before we touch down, pull back so the wings flare. Get ready!”

Maybe my writing style isn’t quite conveying the tension I’m under and maybe everyone else already knows how to land a plane and so no more instruction that I was given was needed, but I’m thinking to myself that this is exciting, way better than sitting in meeting, and that I have long been ready to accept death at any moment, but THIS IS FUCKING CRAZY! He may have throttled down but we’re still going to hit the runway at a hundred miles an hour perched on landing gear wheels that look more at home on a tricycle on the sidewalk.

We’re over the highway, over the grass, and now over the black skid mark scarred concrete of the runway and not it feels like we’re speeding up!

“OK, flare!”

Flare like office space? I have ten pieces on the lanyard for my security badge. Flare? Like red streak of fire ripping through the sky begging for help? It sure feels like that. Can you flare so much that the plane will do a back flip? Can you flare too little and plant the nose in the ground sliding along spitting sparks and bending each propeller blade as it comes around?

“Flare now before we touch down!”

Fine! I pull back but how the hell am I supposed to sense how close to the ground we are or how much flare is flare? Through silence of the tension, kuh-thoomp would be the sound that the plane hitting the ground too hard indicator makes. But the tires don’t pop and we continue to roll and swoosh down the runway with the pilot now driving with his feet and twiddling knobs and the trim crank. We taxi past the commercial jets loading and unloading passengers in air-conditioned causeways and the pilot asks me to pop the hatch so we can get some air.

Within a few minutes we roll to a stop in front of our ground level terminal being directed by one of the folding chair men with pieces of 2×4s, not the usual orange nose-coned flashlights and not wearing a reflective vest. But he smiles like he knew how amazing it is we made it back. Once I get unbuckled, out of the plane, on the ground, and a cigarette lit, I smile too with the exact same thought.

One of those Thursday nights, we, a clique of those thirty-something middle managers in various industries, sat at the oak bar, waiting for a table, at this for what most people would be a very nice restuarant, but would be slumming for real captains of industry. Very nice usually just means expensive and you feel more elite sipping a $15 martini even though most people don’t actually enjoy the bitter, throating burning swill of a top-shelf martini which only became popular by generations of those working harder, not smarter, who needed anything remotely palatable that would get their heads swimming as soon as possible to wash away the stress of a endlessly repeating work day. Handed down as tradition, young professionals idolize such cocktails as a sign of maturing, acquiring taste, or attaining some social level when the mixes are simply a testement of our ability as human to acclimate to swallowing bitter medicine, whether that turns out to represent a drink or a life. I often wonder if those who sip Dom or Krystal can tell the difference between it and anything else? How much is the flavor versus image?

Although they are older now, they act barely more mature than when they were in college, just have bigger bank accounts and tasted a little better life. They still struggle to find out what their real preferences are, picking up hobbies like hunting or pilates or mountain biking, for months at a time but never really making any of it part of their lives. Listening to them is of most interest, hearing the sales pitch in their stories where it is confusing whether they are appealing to you or themselves. Tom got married first, then Eric. Robert is engaged and I am stll single. I don’t think they see the waves they’ve gone through, thinking their situation is uniquely their own. Tom wanted to get together for some news which after a few Old Fashioneds, he warmed up to tell us now instead of waiting for us to be at the table. At first glance he is thrilled and proud, but between the tiny cracks in his voice as he forms the words you know he is terrified.

“I am going to be a father!”, Tom beams.

For those with wives and fiances, the hollow congradulations spring up as glasses are raised. But the fear hidden in his voice is contagious as the idea of them becoming fathers creeps in unlocking all those buried thoughts about whether it is a girl or boy, how do you raise a child, how do I prevent the mistakes my parents made with me, how will my life change, how will my wife change. Being single is great defense for such deep rooted issues.

Jen returned to take us to our table just in time to keep anyone from thinking too long.

“Please follow me,” Jen offered.

I can’t help but follow a beautiful woman at her request, the draft of her confident walk brought me the scent of her perfume, a blend of vanilla, cinammon and some unidentifiable sweet, tangy flower, which I can’t name but recognize as one that is a little more expensive than I’d expect on a hostess even at a nice place. Like the three little black dresses she bought for this job, the perfume cost more than she wanted to spend but knew they were critical to her being successful so she could move up. Back home in that small town in the dusty plains of Texas, she’d spent those hot summers during high school bagging burgers at the first fast food chain to come to town. That helped her get the courage to want to pack her bags and leave that place. That meant doing well in school after generally wasting her freshman and sophomore years but leaning life’s harsh lessons she’d thought her mother had gone through. Learning about boys and Marlboro Reds and Jack Daniel’s at once, all those weekend nights while her mom served drinks at the local honky tonk looking for her replacement cowboy, and a new daddy to help pays the bills. Scary, nervous, dirty, sweaty nights…