OCTOBER 1, 2021 – If I could magically, instantly acquire 20,000 hours of flying time, I’d consider getting my pilot’s lesson. Otherwise, at my age I wouldn’t trust my faculties in the cockpit of an airplane any more than I’d trust them astride a Harley. Thus, I must be satisfied as a ground-bound spectator, straining my neck and waving at airplanes that pass overhead.
And I do wave. Sometimes I hit the jackpot and a pilot waves back. For several years I’ve been rewarded by the pilot of a sporty, single-engine, over-the-wing fuselage plane out of Holman Field in St. Paul.
I don’t remember the exact circumstances, but a few years ago I was in the backyard when the plane approached low. I hurried to the driveway, which afforded the best view of the sky, just as the plane entered that airspace above. The plane was at such an angle I could see the pilot through the canopy. I waved—“enthusiastically” with both arms—and to my delight, the pilot banked and circled our house several times, as I continued waving. He waggled his wings, then continued on his way.
Periodically that same pilot flies over our house, and when I see his plane, I wave like a crazy person. By gosh, every time the pilot acknowledges my greetings and circles the house. Just last week, I was working at my laptop on the back porch when I heard . . . The Plane. It’d been a while. I tossed the laptop onto the table and flew—so to speak—out the door. My timing was impeccable. I looked skyward the instant The Plane, The Pilot came into view. The same routine ensued—I waved my arms, this time, with my cap in hand, and the pilot circled the house.
How cool is that?
Up at the Red Cabin we’re treated occasionally to a float plane taking off or landing on Grindstone Lake. When this occurs while I’m anywhere near the dock, out I dash—to wave my arms. Last year while installing the dock, a Cessna circled low. Though all five of my hands (at the time) were fully deployed, one instinctively let a pipe drop, grabbed my cap and . . . waved at the plane. The pilot waggled his wings, circled another couple of times and flew off over the woods. Seconds later, Beth and I each received a text from our friend Glen Martig, a retired Delta mechanic who, with his wife Molly, live north of St. Paul in a development that includes a grass airstrip for the convenience of all the neighborhood pilots. Their individual airplane hangars face the strip.
How cool is that?
When I’m not waving at aircraft, I sit in the cockpit of all sorts of planes taking off, landing, flying on . . . YouTube. Aboard all kinds of aircraft I’ve flown in and out of some of the most harrowing airports in the world. From the jump seat I wave at people on the ground.
And that’s as cool as it gets.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
