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We choose to fly. Just as we choose how to live our lives.
Across the immense vistas of this wondrous planet—and especially in the grandeur of the USA—flatlanders, ocean goers, mountain climbers, skiers, and those who prefer to admire it all from above make their choices. In the end, we all follow our own path. That’s where progress lives—where life becomes more than just performance. That’s life itself.
A long time ago, when the light and airy controls of the Cessna 152 were still fresh in my hands, my instructor—a bold, younger man with a clipped British accent—introduced me to a spin. Without warning.
He pitched the nose up about 15 degrees. My brain tugged at me: this is wrong. But no words came out. Soon, the wings gave up on lift—the right wing went AWOL, and the nose dropped sharply toward the ground. The 152 lurched. My instructor kept pulling the yoke aft as the airplane shrieked in protest, the stall warning screaming louder than any siren I’d heard before.
The earth swirled in the windshield, the tall pines below getting closer.
Now we were nose-down, spinning, and rapidly losing altitude. The earth swirled in the windshield, the tall pines below getting closer. I don’t remember how many turns we made, but somewhere between the second one and the top of those trees, he cut the power and stopped the rotation. We were still descending fast. Sweat poured down my face, driven by the sudden surge of fear, my novice brain gripped by self-preservation.
I glanced at him—he was sweating too. I remember looking at the struts supporting the wings and thinking, just for a split second, what if they let go? Then, as the G-forces eased and the airplane began to recover, I saw the tallest pine branch pass by the window, its needles seemingly watching us in alarm. We made it to the runway. His legs were as wobbly as mine, though he wore a brash smile that said, “I did it.”
On another occasion, after purchasing my first airplane—a Mooney M20J—an acquaintance asked if I could take him flying. I agreed.
It was a bright, calm day. We met at the airport, and he climbed into the right seat after me. Just as I closed the door and started the engine, he said he was feeling overwhelmed. I checked his racing pulse and opened the door. “Perhaps another day,” I said. I had learned earlier never to force someone into the air against their will or their constitution.
Just as I closed the door and started the engine, he said he was feeling overwhelmed.
Every person stepping into a car, an airplane, or even onto a bicycle makes a choice. As a flight instructor, I’m often faced with how far to push a student to sharpen their skills. Where is that tether that, once broken, will turn them away from flying forever? It’s a tenuous thread.
A pilot once asked if I could demonstrate the “falling leaf” maneuver. We were flying at 6,500 feet AGL over the Arizona desert, with hills rising in the distance. I demonstrated the technique. He seemed to grasp the concept but not the precision. I kept my feet close to the rudder pedals, just in case.
Soon he was dancing on the pedals, and we teetered our way gently toward the desert floor. Some students take to flight naturally; others remain tentative. It’s our job, as instructors, to understand both. To know where their limits lie—and ensure they stay within ours.
Choice is like a flicker of light against the featureless dark sky of possibilities. Each decision opens a new path to explore. We fly because we love to fly. And we accept the risks—of aerodynamics, fuel, mechanics, weather, and the rest—willingly, because we choose to.
As instructors, we must let each pilot decide how far they’re willing to go, and when something is too far. We must recognize those boundaries and never cross them. With time, understanding, and experience, those boundaries expand naturally.
We choose to fly because we love to fly.
- The Choice to Fly - July 18, 2025
- Anticipation - December 11, 2024
- Turbulence - October 14, 2024
One of the times I was in a stearman, the pilot yanked straight back on the stick. Without saying a word to me. We were now in an inside loop. Luckily i was on an empty stomach. Otherwise my lunch would have been in his face…
Thanks for this article. I came to my Discovery Flight because I had a fear of flying that I was working to “overcome”…I had been totally honest with the CFI and he was super patient. I empathize with your friend who became overwhelmed on startup; I felt the same way! I remember wanting to rip off the headphones and bolt. But luckily a breathing technique calmed my physical reaction down and we carried on.
I’m now in my solo phase of flight training and have completed a solo cross country and love it all. CFI’s can provide make-or-break experiences, certainly. But no one can take away the determination or hidden love of aviation that’s in our hearts.