CEO Of The Cockpit: Master Of My Domain

Kermit found me morose. I was sitting in my lounge chair in my home office, staring dolefully at my “I love me” wall.

Most general aviation and military pilots have an “I love me” wall or shelf in their homes. It is a place to hang all those squadron pictures, awards, plaques, old epaulets, retirement photos signed by the pilots in your base, and, of course, your shirt tail from when you soloed.

My ILM wall is a small space beside some old boxes I’ve meant to clean out. The small size of the area, no doubt, is a true reflection of my not doing very much, which was notable during my flying career up to now. My most significant achievements were managing not to crash, kill anybody, land in a river, or fly my MD-88 upside down when I was drunk in a movie.

It turned out that I was wrong about my lack of achievement. The FAA has an award for pilots like me, The Wright Brother’s Master Pilot Award. It is given to fliers who have successfully flown for at least 50 years without dropping dead or having a revocation of their license.  

There is more to it, of course. Letters of recommendation must be written and sent, and the FAA does a deep dive into its records to ensure you aren’t an unworthy miscreant. Also, if you want a decorative plaque to hang in your I love me space, you must buy it for around 50 bucks.

Two other, better-qualified pilots than I recently received their awards on the same night as me at the same airport spring rubber chicken hangar dinner.

“That was pretty impressive,” Kermit said. “Imagine, more than one hundred and fifty years of flight experience, standing in front of the crowd, getting an award for not messing up, and surviving when other, less fortunate pilots, didn’t.”

Kermit was missing the point of my malaise. 

Here is the deal, I said. It was nice to eat chicken fingers and slurp half-melted ice cream with my airport friends. It was also nice to get my one and only career award (and from the FAA, no less), but getting it led me to the thought that I will not ever qualify for two of these 50-year awards.

I am not saying that my flying days are over, but the FAA kind of intimated that when they handed me a copy of all the airman records they had for me, along with my framed certificate and newly purchased plaque.

The records were unexpected and were a nice touch. Seeing the low grade on my private written exam and my original flight engineer certificate was great. On the other hand, it gave me the feeling that my career was over now, and I should take my award, my records, and my chicken leftovers and leave the airport for good.

“I thought your comments after you got your award were nice,” Kermit said. “A lot of people thought that 40 minutes was long for a speech, but at least they had ice cream to keep them busy.”

I only spoke for about five minutes, I said.

“Seemed like 40.”

Your snarky comment, Kermit, shows how time can be tricky. For example, 50 years seems like a very long time to you and most other people. I see that half-century of my flying life going by in a flash. 

One minute, I was trying to wrestle N22276 to the ground all by myself for the first time at age sixteen, and the next, I was an overweight, overaged, gray-haired guy being given an award for being around and, as far as their official records show, not crashing.

The award was very nice, and I appreciate the people who went out of their way to make sure I received it. Still, it feels like they gave me a certificate and my FAA records, placed me on an ice flow, and pushed me off to sea for a final goodbye.

“Well,” said Kermit, “Everybody but you has already noticed that you are older than you were back in those heady days between the seventies and the twenty-twenties. I don’t think anybody expects you to stop flying, although some people in that hangar might secretly wish you would.

"My advice to you, uncle, is to quietly take your award, plaque, and records and put them where you put your Eagle Scout badge, your Order of the Arrow sash, your marriage certificate, and your third-place tennis trophy. Close the door on them all and start your next 50 years of flying.

“Who knows?” he said. “With modern technology, it is possible, albeit unlikely, that you will get that second award. Just imagine what kind of record the FAA will have on you at the end of the next half-century.”

My nephew was right. Getting the award allows me to put the past 50 years behind me and get on with my next adventures. I closed my office door, got a fresh coffee, and headed out to the airport to give a taildragger checkout to an unsuspecting, less-than-ancient student pilot.