Project Pilot

This is Your Captain Speaking.

On the way to SFO, the car sputters and whines, decelerating for a moment as we're merging on to the freeway. The driver gives me a nervous look, says a few nice words to the car, and we make it out of second gear.

Thus, when Harry Dalsey kindly sums up the workings of our plane's engine with the words "it's a four cylinder—just like your car," understanding does not result in a wave of calm.

There are two sides to the Kaiser Air hanger. Our side is filled with single engine Piper Warriors, Cherokees and Cessnas. The men and women getting out from these planes are older couples wearing polos, Levi's jeans and New Balance tennis shoes. Early retirees, living out their golden years in style, flying in from Monterey to enjoy a day in Frisco. These are the people who would use the word Frisco, and native San Franciscans would give them a pass.

Then there is the other side of the terminal. They're not fliers. They're not drivers—they're getting dropped off in droves by black Lincoln Towncars. They're all in suits, involved in separate cell phone conversations. They're not getting out of single engines, they're getting into company jets. A jet engine is nothing like my car engine.

With a simple comparison, Harry has managed to make my heart valves shudder.

Luckily, my heart has no trouble restarting—unlike our plane, which shudders and dies as he fires it up. Harry explains that this is common. "First ride of the day. Engine's cold." I believe him.

Harry has the kind of straight-arrow, Boy Scout quality that is frustrating when trying to get out of a speeding ticket, but soothing when you're trying to fly a plane. If someone is fixing a gas leak in my house or operating on my spleen, this quality is essential. I do not want to hear the phrase "dude, the operation was a success." I want to hear Harry's dulcet tones.

Harry had explained the plane's inner workings in great detail before his unfortunate choice of summation. Every question asked was answered with brevity and precision. If he didn't know what the parts did, and was bullshitting me, he did a fantastic job of covering it up.

So when the plane finally started, I wasn't worried, I was excited. I was going to fly.

Harry taxies us to the runway. There are Charlies, Rogers, and a series of numbers-it turns out pilots really do that. Harry lets me taxi for a while on the runway. When you're on the ground, you have to use the foot pedals to maneuver the plane, which turns out to be quite awkward when there is a steering wheel right there in front of you. Just as I start to get the hang of it, it's Harry's plane again. We're on the main runway. We pick up speed. The nose pulls up. We're in the air.

The world below us becomes Sim City. Harry hands me the stick.

I am Lindbergh. I am Earhart.

I buzz past the Bay Bridge, over Treasure Island. As we move past the cityscape, I tip the plane left, just for a moment, moving the wing so my photographer can get a lens full of the city. Alcatraz is a shoe box. The coliseum is a teacup.

The sky is clear and the sun creates points of light along the ripples in the bay. Harry tests me a little from time to time, getting me to level the plane out, move the nose down. Unlike learning to drive, a first flight doesn't turn out to be a harrying experience. Learning the rules doesn't limit the immense sense of space, openness. There are no stop lights. There is no traffic.

Harry instructs me to turn back towards the airport. I want more time. I look among the instruments for a coin slot to insert more tokens. I turn in. Harry guides me in towards the runway, and at the last moment, it's his plane again.

We're back on the ground. As we taxi in, I notice a Chevron logo near a fuel pump, accompanied by a sign that says self-serve. Did it used to be full service? I imagine pushing my plane up to the station and ringing the bell. A young man in overalls with a rag tucked in to his back pocket would show up. "Ran out of gas?" "Yeah." "No problem. He'd check the check the oil, wash the windows, then smile and wave as I flew off into the distance.

After the flight, I can't shake Harry loose from his starched brown shirt and merit badges. I ask him if being a flight instructor helps out at the bar scene. He chuckles, but gives me nothing salacious. I get a little more when I ask him about Top Gun. If he were a jet pilot, what would his call sign be? Maverick or Goose? Harry stops for a moment. He's not sure. I tell him to pick his favorite cartoon character. I tell him that if he can't make a decision, I'm going with "Smurfette."

He chooses his words carefully. "Speed Racer." I ask him why. "I like speed."

Loud and clear, Speed Racer.

If you're interested in taking a flight lesson (and you should be), it won't set you back as much as you'd think. First time flights can be steeply discounted, as little as 50 bucks. The first one's always cheap—then they've got you hooked. If you're interested, check out Project Pilot. They've got a national list of flight schools, and a wealth of information for potential first time fliers.

Plus, if you're in the Bay area, you can find Harry through Oakland Flyers, or you can email him at steepturns@gmail.com. Or just head down to SFO general aviation and shout out "Speed Racer."

— Colin Alexander (colin_alexander [at] hotmail [dot] com)