Pilots are different. Think about it: They get into man-made heavier-than-air machines with wings and steer them all around the big skies, up where only birds used to go. Some say it's unnatural, but it's glorious if you're wired that way.
The ones who are really hard wired are like human Jonathan Seagulls; they do all kinds of marvelous things with their flying machines. They loop and roll and dive and climb and whatever else they can imagine to do. They are aerobatic pilots and their inventory of maneuvers has names like Immelmann, Chandelle, Cuban Eight, Hammerhead, Snap Roll, and Pugachev's Cobra. They push their bodies and minds and spirits to the edge of reason and often they do it with great big-ass grins on their faces. You might even hear a few loud joyous whoops if you are bold enough and lucky enough to be up there with them. These Jonathan Seagulls are risk takers for sure but they are not foolish daredevils. It's not a death wish that compels them on but rather a “Full-Life” wish.
All good pilots are never masters but are always students. They respect the sky like sailors and surfers respect the sea. They study the sky—the air— and their machines like a surgeon studies the human body and his implements. They are committed to learning and to honing their skills. Words and concepts like lift and drag and thrust and ground effect are as familiar to them as sitting down and standing up are to others.
They study the weather. Along with so many other things, they read clouds like some read labels on a can. Clouds tell them things—important things they must know if they want to fly like a bird. Pilots look up more than other people do.
Some, like Mozart to music, are born to it. They are naturals. They can feel the subtle messages of the airplane and the sky—the winds and the currents—in their fingertips and the pressures on their bodies. They know what is happening and why and they know what they can do, cannot do, or must do. They know these things all at once. They are as close to Jonathan as a human can get.
In some special way, they are at home up there.
Dedication: This little piece about pilots is dedicated to Bruce Watson, the man who taught me how to fly when I was a nineteen year old cadet in the U.S. Air Force. He was an exceptional flight instructor and he is good man. He is also the epitome of what I described above and an Aviator in the truest sense. I should add that he is now 88 years young and still flying.
Copyright 2010 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved
Great varieties of strange and wondrous musings germinate, grow, and mutate midst the hackneyed weed-thoughts in the gardens of my mind.
The Green Eye-talian Hills
He was just standin there,
didn't know enough to hide.
I'm just like him, I'm thinkin;
just on the other side.
Saw him as clear as I see you.
That's how damn close I was!
I thought, what happens now
depends on what he does.
Damn, he's as young as me!
... can't be one day more,
and here we are both stuck
in this stinkin hellish war!
Hey kraut, I just kept thinkin,
“There's still time to get away.
You could have a good long life
… unless you turn my way.”
He coulda been my friend
in a different place and time.
But now the awful truth is;
it's his life ... or mine.
He was just gazin at the sunset,
drinkin all God's beauty in,
all lifted up and glowin
like a pretty church-book hymn.
Dear Jesus, what's he doin'
standin there like that so calm?
Can't he hear them big tanks movin
and the blasts of them big bombs?
You ain't on no vacation
in these green eye-talian hills.
You're an enemy German soldier
who I damn well swore to kill.
Man, can't you feel me here
just a stone throw to your right?
I'm lyin in this soft green grass
and I have you in my sites!
I've just had too much of killin
and don't wanta do one more.
So show your back and go
or I must add you to my score.
Do somethin and do it now.
Turn left and walk them feet away
cause I'll sure as hell shoot you
if you choose to look my way!
No! Stop! Turn left, not right
or you're gonna find me here!
Man, don't point that thing at me
... our lives are much too dear.
Copyright 2007 Robert D. McKinley
All rights reserved
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