Unusual attitude

During my time in the aviation game, I credit the Cessna 150 for showing leniency, the 170 for sweetness, the 172 for forgiveness, and the 180/185 for demanding a firm hand—sometimes two hands—on the tiller. Stearman and Waco biplanes tangibly connect us to our shared U.S. aviation heritage, and they insist we take leaps of faith by taking off and landing without seeing directly ahead. The Van’s Aircraft RV series embodies versatility, economy, and honesty. The Pitts teaches finesse, rudder acuity, and relying on your instincts when reacting to surprises (and there are always surprises). Warbirds like the SBD Dauntless demonstrate the courage of those who flew them in combat, and details like the slide-out navigation table give silent testament to the skill, bravery, and unimaginable loneliness their crews must have felt while finding their way across featureless oceans, often at night, on a single engine. Corporate jets are intoxicating in the rare view of the world they provide from the high flight levels. They teach consistency, the beauty of close crew coordination, and the wisdom of striving to perform the same actions, in the same order, in the same way, on every flight.

As much as all this fancy hardware reveals, however, the people we fly with show far more. My original flight instructor, Steve Pirani, was full of curiosity, a love of flight, common sense, and self-effacing humor. He didn’t know every aviation fact, and he didn’t pretend to—but his voice remains in my head decades later.

David Peeler talked me out of quitting flying when I got discouraged and was ready to walk away. His cocky self-assurance lifted me up when I needed it most.

The late Gary Austin, a consummate aviation mechanic, was seldom satisfied. He went about his work with ingenuity, flair, and artistry—and he had near total recall of the minute details of some of the most mechanically complex aircraft ever built. He was a hell of a stick.

Steve Collins, a biplane ride operator, showed that a pugnacious, indominable spirit trumped soft hands and subtle technique when the chips are down.

My mom, Wilma Melville, the first pilot in our family, earned an instrument rating at age 77 in busy, complex Southern California airspace, she accomplished a goal that I thought was far beyond her grasp. Then she used her rating to fly across the continent multiple times, day and night, in all sorts of weather.

Chris Smisson was a force of nature. From gliders to afterburning jets, just about everything that flew delighted him. He radiated that joy, and he saw talent in others that they themselves overlooked.

Clint Williams was an extraordinary pilot who came from the humblest circumstances yet went on to fly supersonic fighters. As a CFI, however, he valued teaching over stick-and-rudder skills—and he had a master teacher’s ability to adjust his delivery to connect with students.

Morris Ray exemplifies both determination and generosity. He struggled with formation flying when he first began learning it. But he mastered that art in detail through sheer tenacity, and then he helped many others pursue it themselves.

Mike Filucci models supreme patience. A former military pilot, airline pilot, and cancer survivor, he doesn’t let aviation’s many annoyances ruffle him. Those issues are trivial compared to aviation’s grandeur.

Aviation photographer Mike Fizer is not a pilot, but he showed me the value of hard work and preparation. Working thoughtfully and relentlessly, when unexpected opportunities crop up, he pounces.

Everyone has a story, and something to contribute. For pilots, listing the airplanes we fly is the CliffsNotes version. The richness of our experience, however, comes from the people who shape us and make aviation possible, worthwhile, and memorable. My goal, for as long as I’m lucky enough to be involved in this pursuit, is to support and encourage others as I’ve been supported and encouraged. It’s the best way to strengthen our community and honor those who have guided us.