Somewhere in our mid-twenties, we each decided we’d had enough of life on the ground, so we came to flight school. We left behind our old lives and our good friends and our familiar towns. We abandoned jobs and careers that, for reasons we didn’t understand, had become empty. We packed our cars and headed south, to Vero Beach.

We spent most of our time over the next several years at a large and intimidating place called FlightSafety Academy, with its carefully manicured lawns, perfectly polished airplanes and military-like discipline. Following a time-tested curriculum, its Air Corps roots still palpable, we learned to fly airplanes, and, perhaps more importantly, we began to understand the lore of what it meant to be an aviator.

Training was relentless and challenging. There were endless classes, sweat-drenching hours in low-level flight, and many failures. We began to bond in the off-hours, drinking Coronas in seaside cafes or grilling burgers in the warm, breezy evenings. Always the talk was of flying.

When finally we believed ourselves masters, we learned to teach it. Everything we thought we knew was painstakingly revisited, and thus we discovered the depths of our own ignorance. Slowly, the secrets became clear. The science of aerodynamics was no longer just a topic to be endured and shoved aside, but a state of mind, and the wing not just an appendage on the fuselage, but a part of one’s soul.

Then someone flew a jetliner into the World Trade Center, and everything stopped. We were officially grounded for a while, but even when those restrictions were lifted, there was very little flying to be had. The great engine of the entire industry had ceased to operate. Airline pilots were furloughed, hiring froze, and we felt the backlash all the way at the bottom of the ladder. We were told to wait.

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