Release the Brakes: What My Flight Instructor Taught Me About Life

“Mine was born with feathers,” I said, settling the debate between my two pilot buddies who joined me for their maiden pilgrimage to Oshkosh.

That evening, after logging more than 15,000 steps wandering AirVenture, we tossed logs on the fire and sank into our camping chairs. As the wood crackled and popped, we traded stories from our student pilot days—each of us convinced we had the best flight instructor.

“He was born with feathers,” an air traffic controller had told me back in 1999 when I toured the tower in Lafayette, Louisiana, my freshman year of college. “He’s the only instructor I’d recommend. Name’s Farrell.”

“As in a feral cat?” I asked.

The controller laughed. “No, no. He’s a true gentleman. Former Air Force. You can find him at the FBO. He’s practically a fixture over there.”

I walked into the flight school and followed the sound of laughter to a breakroom filled with pilots and mechanics. Along the hallway, shirttails were tacked to the wall—each one covered in permanent marker sketches of runways, airplanes, and congratulatory messages celebrating first solo flights.

Then I saw him. A larger-than-life gentleman in gray slacks and a worn, coffee-stained button-down shirt. He looked every bit of his 51 years, but men in their 60s and 70s leaned in like schoolboys as he spun stories. A ceramic mug in one hand, a cigarette in the other—coffee and tobacco had stained brown what I imagined was once his trademark white mustache. It crossed my mind that his nickname might more appropriately be “Marlboro.” It seemed a cigarette was one of his appendages, and I later discovered he could smoke a pack with one match.

Instructor Farrell Skelton (left) with the author, Tucker Axum.

He excused himself from his adoring fans and gave me his full attention—kind, curious, and completely present. At 18, I had no idea how much this man would shape not only how I flew, but how I lived. After his service in the Vietnam War, he returned to Louisiana. When he wasn’t working as a local news cameraman or a ring announcer for wrestling matches, he poured himself into aviation—Civil Air Patrol, Gold Seal flight instructor, FAA Safety Counselor, check pilot for single- and multi-engine aircraft, and a pioneer in bringing computerized testing to South Louisiana.

But what I remember most is how he treated me. I was a broke college kid—taking classes during the day, working nights and weekends, squeezing in one or two flight lessons a month. I had completed an accelerated ground school through the Sea Cadet Corps at NAS JRB in New Orleans, but it felt like drinking from a firehose. I had the endorsement for the written exam, but I didn’t want to just pass—I wanted to excel.

Farrell taught a night class. He must have sensed where I was in life because he handed me a Jeppesen textbook and invited me to sit in for free. I didn’t miss a single session.

Class ended around eight, but that didn’t mean we were done. We’d lean against his battered station wagon—maps and approach plates spilling out from every corner—and talk for hours. And when the conversation ran dry, we’d tilt our heads back and stare at the stars, both of us silently wishing we were up there instead of down here. Looking back, he had to have been exhausted—but he never showed it. Jet fuel and kindness ran through his veins.

I’m still not sure how two husky men like us did it, but we crammed shoulder-to-shoulder into that snug “Sky Puppy”—his nickname for a Cessna 152, where the musty smell of sun-baked plastic, oil, and 100 low-lead avgas always greeted us.

“You better not spill my coffee,” he warned as he placed his chipped mug on the glare shield—filled to the brim.

I looked nervously at him. Then he formed an ear-to-ear grin. That grin told me everything would be fine. Still, I taxied slowly. Very slowly.

After the run-up, I finished the checklist and looked over. “Only one thing left to do,” he said.

I waited.

“Release the brakes.”

His words were simple. Routine, even. But the way he said them—it felt like something more. And over time, I realized it was. Get out of your comfort zone. Commit. Move forward. There’s no growth with the brakes still set.

The lesson that stayed with me most came one afternoon over the rice and sugarcane fields near Abbeville. He instructed me to perform a short-field landing at Chris Crusta Airport (KIYA), named after one of the area’s celebrated crop dusters. He told me to use the runway’s 1,000-foot marker to simulate the end of the runway.

“Roger,” I said, confident I understood.

On final, I configured early—full flaps, stabilized airspeed, steady descent. I was a little high, but everything felt controlled. Smooth. I crossed the numbers, floated, and touched down what I thought was perfectly. As we rolled past the 1,000-foot marker, I felt a surge of pride.

Then he said it.

“You just killed us.”

The words landed harder than any botched landing ever could.

“What?” I turned, stunned. That had been my best one yet.

His tone was calm—but firm. “When you realized you weren’t going to be able to land and stop within a thousand feet, I would have rather seen you execute a go-around.”

The pit in my stomach came instantly. He wasn’t wrong. This wasn’t about a landing—it was about judgment. I also regretted that I had disappointed him.

“As pilot in command, you are responsible for everything and everyone onboard.”

That lesson stuck. Not just in flying—but everywhere. To this day, I’ve never hesitated to go around when something doesn’t feel right.

“Alright,” he said after a moment, the edge gone from his voice. “Let’s go try it again.” No drama. No lingering disappointment. Just the expectation that you persevere through setbacks, learn, and do better.

A week before my checkride, we flew over Opelousas (KOPL) so he could run me through a full evaluation. After I performed all the maneuvers to his satisfaction, he handed me a pair of foggles. I put them on and the world disappeared—replaced by needles, numbers, and the steady rhythm of scanning steam gauges. He keyed the mic and asked ATC for an ASR approach. I had no idea what that meant.

For the next ten minutes, a calm voice guided me—headings, altitudes, airspeeds. No outside references. Just trust. Then she said: “Cessna 96790, you’re cleared to land.”

“Okay, hand me the foggles,” Farrell said.

There it was—the runway, perfectly centered on final. It was remarkable. Two people, separated by miles, could work together so precisely. Communication. Trust. Teamwork.

“Nice job,” he said after touchdown. “After your checkride, start your instrument rating.” Then he smiled. “A good pilot is always learning.”

After I earned my private pilot certificate, I saw Farrell sitting on the bench that overlooked the general aviation ramp. The FBO owned it, but everyone called it Farrell’s bench. Coffee in hand. Cigarette between his fingers. Watching airplanes like it was a front-row seat to something sacred.

“The magic of flight is meant to be shared,” he said. “Take your friends. Take your family.” He then let out that deep, unmistakable laugh as if recalling an exhilarating memory. “Just don’t put ’em all in the back seat.”

It’s been twenty-five years since I first walked into that flight school. Farrell Skelton is gone now, but not really. Not when I’m in the cockpit. Not when I’m making a decision that matters. His lessons are still there—quiet, steady, and unwavering: service to others, kindness, release the brakes, take responsibility, persevere, teamwork, keep learning, and share your success. I guess you could say all I really need to know about life, I learned from my flight instructor.

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Tucker Axum

Tucker Axum is the New York Times bestselling co-author of the international thriller “Cajun Justice.” After an expedition to Omaha Beach, Tucker wrote his first historical fiction, “The Reawakening of Mage Axum,” which was inspired by the disappearance of his uncle, an American World War II soldier.

Tucker takes St. Augustine’s declaration to heart: "The world is a book and those who do not travel read only a page." Tucker has explored more than 75 countries on all seven continents. He discovered his love of flying in high school when his friend introduced him to Microsoft's Flight Simulator. After completing ground school with the Naval Sea Cadet Corps at Belle Chasse Naval Air Station in New Orleans, Tucker earned his pilot's license on America's Independence Day in 2001. A lifelong learner, he broadened his flying experience by getting his instrument rating; tailwheel and high-performance endorsements; multi-engine, seaplane and drone license. In December of 2013, he purchased a Cessna Cardinal and joyfully flew it around the country for five years. He sold it to a missionary in Alaska and is now on the hunt for his next plane. For more information, please visit www.tuckeraxum.com.

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