CLEAR!
TV doctors bark this sharp-elbowed warning before they shock a restive heart back to a regular rhythm. It is also the warning pilots issue to bystanders before they energize an airplane’s air processer. Seemingly disassociated warnings, several days ago the Winnebago Flying Club united them by offering to resuscitate my flat-lined flying career and increase the active pilot population by one. (Hey, every one counts these days.)
Like uncounted thousands of pilots of my generation, I surrendered the left seat in the past decade because there just wasn’t enough money left at month’s end to pursue something I do for fun. Family obligations, like food and a warm, dry place to live, and two kids in college, with child support on top of tuition, books, and board, have first dibs on an unpredictable freelance income.
Counting the days to their graduation coincides with my 60th birthday and the financial preparations that will sustain me in my dotage. A realist, I was resigned to spend the rest of my life on the ground and looking up whenever an airplane flew overhead. When I learned that the flying club was accepting new members, looking at the numbers made my heart jump.
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