As we taxied out for takeoff at Denver, we got the latest SFO weather from our dispatcher and found it had deteriorated even further to ceiling zero, visibility 1/16th of a mile in fog with an RVR of 800 feet. Incredibly, this was above our landing minimums, so we didn’t sweat it. And of course, RVR stands for Runway Visual Range, which is the horizontal visibility measured in feet by instruments located next to the runway.

During World War II, the skies over Europe were a brutal battleground where death and devastation were constant companions. Day after day, countless Allied airmen climbed into their bombers, fully aware they might never return from their missions. In total, more than 26,000 members of the U.S. 8th Air Force were killed in combat, and over 47,000 were wounded. The average life expectancy for a bomber crew was less than 15 missions.

I wriggled around my dad’s legs and tried to peer over the car hood as he wrote in his sailplane logbook. He picked me up and stood me on top of his sturdy brown shoes. With his ballpoint pen as a pointer, he helped me read: Thermals off second ridge, contacted weak wave over rock pile. Increased to 3–4 kts. Landed at sundown. But as a six-year-old, the meaning was as inscrutable as his organic chemistry quizzes.

Editor’s Note: Colonel Dale “Boots” Hill is not only a decorated Air Force veteran and longtime Air Facts contributor, he’s also the featured guest on a recent episode of the Air Facts Podcast. In the episode, Boots reflects on flying…

But this rainy afternoon, neither of us was contemplating our future with Skyway. We were scheduled to fly the afternoon shift in a Beech 18 over the eastern half of our route system, and it promised to be a long and difficult day. We would fly 11 legs—nearly eight hours of flying without the aid of an autopilot. What would really make it stressful was the weather.

No sooner had I revived my tea-making activities when I heard the Auster start. After some introductory coughing and spluttering, it settled down to a healthy roar. For God’s sake throttle back, I muttered into the teapot. They didn’t. The noise got louder and closer. There was a horrendous clatter and crash, a tinkling of broken glass—and then silence.

Over the last several months, I have committed several aviation sins. I once went on a flight without checking the weather. I recently departed without calculating my takeoff distance or obstacle clearance. On more than one occasion, I landed from a non–“stable approach,” being both below and above target approach speeds. I’ve flown non-standard traffic patterns. I’ve flown outside the glide range to the nearest airport. I’ve even flown without talking to ATC or filing a flight plan.