"I want to be a pilot."
"You want to be a pilot?"
Aubrey sounded surprised, but not incredulous. I was thirty-one years old, a veteran of the bicycle industry, and owned a somewhat successful bike-shop-specific consulting firm. I had no logical reason to pursue aviation.
"Yes," I said, "I've always wanted to be a pilot."
"This is the first I'm hearing about it," Aubrey said.
"Well, I didn't think I could be a pilot."
This was true; I'd grown up in northeastern Tennessee which plays host to no aviation culture whatsoever. My dad was retired Air Force, and that, as far as I knew, was the only way in; the only way up.
But I had just learned otherwise; an acquaintance had taken me up in an airplane he'd built. Forty minutes aloft had changed how I looked at life. Before leaving the airport, I stopped at the local flight school for information.
"There's a program at the local community college and I could fly out of Asheville airport," I said.
"Let's think about it."
Aubrey and I don’t ask each other for permission to do things. Rather, as I mentioned before, we discuss (argue) about a topic until we agree. So, for the following week, we "discussed" aviation frequently. I was standing in the lobby of Discount Tire on a rainy afternoon when Aubrey called.
"Babe," Aubrey said, "I've been thinking: this flying thing seems like a good opportunity for you."
While I started flight school and college, Aubrey was facing her own challenges. Halfway through pursuing a Master's in Special Education, she realized that she no longer wanted to work for the state. Each morning, Aubrey woke up and clocked in for nine hours at a thankless job that rewarded her hard work and unusual competence with worse students and fewer resources. After arriving home, she spent the following three hours earning her next degree. After homework, a glass of boxed wine, and research on how to use a six-year education degree to make more than thirty-seven thousand dollars.
With three adults sharing a two-bedroom grotto, things were cozy. The porthole windows faced north and provided an unparalleled view of the underside of three cars. Water from the frequent summer rainstorms pooled in the undrained swamp that passed as a front yard. Our patio fit one and a half chairs or a grill and one grillmaster. The patio above ours was constructed of imitation plastic, ensuring even the mellowest grill work would end in a complete burn of the frail complex. With each of us pursuing degrees online simultaneously, our computer setups were constructed with care, headphones were ubiquitous, and fun was kept to a practical minimum.
Six months into flight school (with three unrequested pauses due to the "unprecedented" shenanigans of summer, 2020), I had a private pilot certificate. I'd been doing some research and found that it was cheaper to buy an airplane for flight training than it was to rent one for hundreds of hours. So, with a paper mâché mask of clinical indifference, I broached the subject.
"Babe, I've been doing some math, and it would be cheaper for us if I just bought an airplane."
Aubrey burst out laughing.
"WHAT? Buy an airplane? Maybe when you work at the airlines and are my sugar daddy."
"Hahaha," I said and dropped the subject. I would need to approach this from a different angle. Fortunately, I knew Aubrey's Achilles heel: Power Points.
I spent the following week on Canva building a presentation I hoped would be not only dazzling but clear and concise regarding the financial benefits of airplane ownership. I sprinkled in a few trip ideas I hoped would swing the balance. I presented on the living room television with our roommate overseeing the affair. Wine and light snacks were provided.
"I'll have to liquidate our entire retirement portfolio," I began. "If I fail to become a commercial pilot, buying an airplane will set us back eight years. But here's how the math works out..."
The presentation won Aubrey's support, but her enthusiasm took a bit longer to catch up.
A month later we owned a 1976 Cessna 150 (think 1995 Mazda Miata with wings). It took four months of work in the shop to get it airworthy, but in early 2021, Aubrey and I had a flyable airplane.
From the beginning, Aubrey knew that my path to making money as a pilot would be long, difficult, and uncertain. She knew she would have to help support us during the transition rather than moving directly towards stay-at-home motherhood. But she was there for it. She supported me in flight training and so many other adventures (and misadventures) not because she follows my every whim like a starstruck fangirl, but because she approaches new possibilities with thoughtfulness and intention. Her support is not given indiscriminately and for that reason, it is not easily withdrawn. Throughout our eleven years together, Aubrey has been the string to my kite: not a limiting factor, but the reason I fly in the first place.
So, for Aubrey's first mothers' day: here's to you.
PS: "Bob" is short for Aubrey. It saves a lot of time and ink compared to the multisyllabic version.
Love it