Thanks, Wilbur and Orville

Ahh... flying. Many years ago that word meant freedom and adventure, excitement and mystery. Now it means long, long lines, surly security checkers, unhelpful ticket agents, and some fellow travellers who really need a shower. It means walking barefoot with your belt buckle dangling, and hoping you don't fit the profile or become the next random selectee.

Actually, that describes pre-flight. Flying means being jammed into a seat designed for no humans you know, with your knees tucked up fetal-position against your chin, screaming babies, obese seat-mates taking your armrest, and interminable delays. The food, if you get any, is either dry and over-salted, or soggy and flavorless. The air you breathe is circulated a few times an hour, and eventually you know you will be breathing the cold or flu molecules of any sick people who are on board.

Most people aren't afraid of flying; they're just afraid of airports and airlines.

But let me tell you about a flight I took recently that was very different. I live in San Diego and suddenly decided I needed to watch the final World Series game with my brother in San Jose, 500 miles away. So, on a beautiful Saturday morning, I drove my car ten minutes to a small airfield near my house.

On the way, I spoke to Flight Service who told me that my route would be blue skies and light winds. I parked (without having to get a ticket) right next to my small Piper Cherokee. It's a 2-seater (or 4 if your back-seat passengers are little) that when bought used, costs about the same as a nice SUV. I threw my bag into the back and after pre-flighting the airplane, I sat in the pilot's seat, as you can see in Figure A.

Before I continue my journal, I'd like to share with you a few other pictures. Figure B shows flying at the very tip of Africa around the Cape of Good Hope.

In Figure C, you can Coronado Island in San Diego, just out my wing.

Next up in Figure D is a picture of the Borrego Desert and Salton Sea, again through my own, private window seat.

And, finally, Figure E shows My dream airplane, the Stearman PT-17, a World War II training plane painted in Army Colors.

I had my small Swiss Army knife in my pocket, and my larger Leatherman tool on my still-buckled belt. All of my change and keys stayed in my pocket and I only opened my bag before boarding so I could make sure that I had packed my cigar cutter. My luggage was never more than three feet away from me the entire trip.

A half hour after I left my garage, I was flying over the blue coastal Pacific. I made my way past Catalina Island 8,500 feet below, where the familiar airport beckoned me with their wonderful buffalo burgers. To my right, I could see the suburbs of Los Angeles and the Queen Mary.

I reveled in my window seat where I could adjust the ventilation and temperature at will. Soon we were over Santa Barbara and heading inland over some low mountains, small lakes glistening in the sun as the plane continued steadily north. The joy of personal flying is similar to the thrill of playing an immensely complicated, but satisfying video game. Your senses are at their highest state of alert while at the same time your eyes flick from instrument to windshield to gauge to chart.

You listen through your headphones for the magical sound of your name, November Four Two Three Two Foxtrot. When the controller tells a descending airliner to watch out for a northbound Cherokee, I know to start scanning the skies for a plane much bigger than mine coming my way. Next, the controller calls me to look for that southbound Boeing and I instantly respond, "Got 'em in sight." You score extra bonus points for that.

The small airport I have chosen, south of town, soon comes into view and I announce my intentions to land. A little squeak from my landing gear, a gentle nudge of the brakes, and my flying machine gradually turns into what is essentially a tricycle with wings and taxis to a nice parking spot between a Learjet and a small Cessna.

My brother, waiting in the comfortable aviation office, walks the few yards onto the ramp and gives me an affectionate punch on the back. I have spent the past 3 1/2 hours completely by myself, except for the constant chatter with various air controllers. I have been entirely responsible for the safety and efficiency of my journey. I had eaten my in-flight sandwich that my wife had made for me while reminding me to be careful and not to smoke too many cigars with my brother.

Though a little weary, I felt invigorated with the accomplishment of flying precisely and accurately in getting to my destination. While there's no standing up during flying, I could push my seat all the way back for unlimited legroom, and nothing was jammed into my belly except the control yoke. Had I taken a flying cattle-car, the airliner might have gotten to the city a little sooner, but the stress and hassle and sheer unpleasantness would have diminished the whole trip.

Personal flying, 100 years after the Wright brothers, is for some of us the most intensely satisfying experience one can do away from home. While certainly not cheap, it probably isn't any more expensive than skiing or scuba diving or sailing. My particular airplane actually doesn't burn much more gas per mile than a Ford Expedition and it can go twice as fast without ever catching a red light or encountering a drunk driver.

When I fly, the airplane doesn't care about my mood or opinion. It demands to be treated in just the right way. It's like a close friend who doesn't put up with your nonsense. It tells you straight to your face if you're doing something wrong and rewards you when you handle things right. My airplane is my psychiatrist and Blue Cross never has to know about it.

I have never been scared in my plane the way I am constantly on edge when driving in LA. Sure. the airplane is just a machine that makes a lot of noise, costs too much, and is frequently burdened by crazy governmental rules. But who among us while sleeping have never dreamed of running though a field and taken flight? I've done it while awake.

Thanks, Wilbur and Orville.

James Aronovsky is a professional photographer who frequently flies to out-of-town assignments. He can be reached at jamesaronovsky@hotmail.com.