It
had to be about 35 years ago when my dad took me out to our local
airport for the first time. The airport was located in a suburb just to
the west of Syracuse, New York.
I had been bugging him
for weeks. I wanted to know where those little high-wing airplanes were
coming from that flew over our house.
As we trotted alongside
the ramp that led to the FBO office, absolutely nothing significant
seemed to be happening. A lone Cessna 150 was taxiing away from us, the
odd sound of the small propeller beating the air seemed strange to me at
the time. Surely, something more exciting had to occur at an airport?
My dad and I wandered
into the pastel blue corrugated aluminum building that housed the
operations office. We were alone except for the sounds of anonymous
voices coming through the speaker of the Unicom radio mounted in the
corner. The anonymous voices were making mundane announcements about
turning downwind or needing fuel or other such nonsense. Just as I was
about to drop the place from my re-visit list, something really exciting
happened.
The radio crackled with a
voice declaring, "Turtle on the runway! Turtle on the runway!"
My father and I looked at
each other with wide-eyed grins. Neither one of us knew what ‘turtle
on the runway’ really meant, but if the report was literal, we were in
for a treat. I did have my doubts, thinking that the report might be a
special pilot code. In any case, we bolted out the office door in search
of a giant turtle.
There was only one
problem. Neither my dad nor I knew what part of the pavement actually
defined the runway. We took our best guess and walked in the most likely
direction at a brisk pace. Much to our dismay, we never found a turtle.
Nor did we see an airplane for that matter. Our adventure was destined
to remain a mystery.
It wasn’t until a
handful of years later that I uncovered the truth. After being bitten
severely by the aviation bug, I had managed to get hired as a line boy
at the airport. I soon discovered that, yes indeed, turtles shared the
property with airplanes. The turtles made their home in the swampy areas
along the runway. It was a common occurrence for the creatures to take a
stroll, sometimes at inopportune moments.
So why is this little
misadventure significant to me? In a strange, dysfunctional way, a
turtle launched my passion for aviation. It wasn’t long after (please
forgive me) a turtle crossed the runway that I began to take flying
lessons.
With my multi-function
job as a 16-year-old line boy, the window to this new aviation world
began to open. And I liked almost every part of it…well…except for
having to wash the belly of airplanes with that Gunk stuff. I soloed
shortly thereafter in one of the same Cessna 150s I had first seen. And
a little over a year later, after digging deep into my piggy bank, I
earned a private pilot certificate. My parents awarded me a trophy for
personal achievement. The trophy is still with me today. It sits on top
of my office console as I write this article.
Almost 10 years to the
day that I earned that trophy, I found myself sitting around a table
surrounded by my classmates at our basic indoctrination with the airline
that I have flown for over the last 22 years.
It’s not uncommon for
us airline-types to reminisce when we reach a certain point in our
careers, so I won’t torture you with old stories while you enjoy
Oshkosh this year. But for me, this year will be different. I get to
reminisce with the man that was with me that first day at the airport—my
dad. Other than to have taken advantage of my airline travel privileges
over the years, Dad and I have never really shared a day at a small
airport except for that time almost 35 years ago.
Dad is 82 years old now. And you’d
never know it. Because if we heard, "Turtle on the runway!" he’d
be out there running with me again.
