Musings: Saved by Milt

I no longer qualified for an FAA first class medical. Little did I know that a short leg from San Jose, California, to Las Vegas would be my last as a professional pilot. I was grounded. Lost. I found myself at the local airport, watching airplanes take off and land, or wistfully looking up at a contrail being pulled across the sky. I was grieving for a career I had spent my whole life building.

And then Milt, my neighbor, saved me.

In his late 80s, Milt has owned several small airplanes, flying extensively with his wonderful wife, Mania. Ten years ago, Milt let his medical lapse after a battle with cancer. Thankfully, the Light Sport aircraft category and sport pilot certificate had been recently approved, and soon Milt was back in the air as the proud owner of a brand-new Evektor SportStar.

Milt knew what I was feeling and said, “I know you’re going crazy not being able to fly. Let’s get you qualified in my airplane, and you can fly it whenever you want. Sound good?”

My reaction took me by surprise. My eyes teared up, and I fought the impulse to throw my arms around him and profess my eternal love. Hailing from Illinois, Milt possesses midwestern stoicism in abundance, and if I had embraced him like I wanted to, I would have undoubtedly overloaded his emotional circuitry. I did give him the briefest of hugs, without inflicting any lingering psychological damage.

Going from a 737 to an LSA was going to be quite a transition, although Milt was content for me to just “take her up and get acquainted.” Still, I wanted to first sit in the right seat. After scribbling notes on rpm, airspeeds, and other “gotchas,” I confidently asked Milt if I could take a landing from the right seat. It was beautiful—until 20 feet above touchdown where I reverted to 737 muscle-memory, and made pilot-induced oscillations down the runway, smashing down with a healthy side-load on the landing gear. I then jumped on the brakes, just like a 737, instantly locking up both mains, skidding left, then right, with Milt involuntarily yelling “Whoa!” It wasn’t quite what he was expecting from a 17,000-hour pilot.

As we cleared the runway, I sheepishly looked over and said “So, Milt, how do you like me so far?”

“Derek, you just need to learn the airplane, that’s all.”

Still, I told him that I wanted this done right. I lined up an instructor, who schooled me on all things general aviation. I was learning to fly all over again. Soon my checkout was complete, and I was hungry for knowledge and experience. I’ll never forget that first flight with an empty right seat; it felt like the first solo. My preflight was painfully slow, and I was attuned to every noise and vibration on the taxi out. Finally, the throttle went forward, followed by a little back stick, and I was nervously airborne.

In a 737, all you can really see are the leading edges and winglets. With the Evektor’s bubble canopy, you see wings, tail, and the sky all around. I could feel every gust, could watch my ailerons deflect to control angle of bank, and could almost see the separation of airflow when practicing stalls. This was flying in its purest form, and I alone was responsible for how perfectly—or imperfectly—the aircraft flew. Gradually, the airplane taught me how it likes to be flown, my control movements became more refined, and the balance ball was my most-watched instrument. Flying to a field 30 nautical miles from home seemed, well, adventurous.

Once again I was a pilot. Poor Milt, when he had said that I could fly his airplane anytime, probably didn‘t realize that I would take him so literally. In return, I kept his airplane polished, his hangar tidy, and fought with him regularly to pay half the maintenance costs.

I have Milt to thank, who remembered his own brush with the same loss, and saw an opportunity to replenish me with the blessing that flying is to all aviators. One day I, too, will pass this on. It’s the only way to honor the gift that he gave me.

Derek Martin is a former U.S. Navy and airline pilot.