By Chuck Doyle, Jr.
January 11, 1974, began like any other winter school day — cold, quiet, and unsuspecting. I knew it was my 16th birthday. The calendar knew it. The law definitely knew it. My father, however, did not.
That morning, I casually asked, “Dad, after school can I go get my driver’s license?”
He stopped, looked at me, and said, “Wait… today? You’re 16 today?”
When I nodded, yes, his surprise quickly turned into a smile. “Well,” he said, “you don’t need a driver’s license… you need to solo the Super Cub.”
With that, my birthday plans changed completely — and perfectly.
Before anything involving aviation could happen, there was work to be done. Overnight snowfall had covered our farm landing strip, so dad spent the morning plowing it clear. In our family, flying was never just about airplanes… it was about preparation, responsibility, and doing things the right way.
He picked me up early from school, and we climbed into the Super Cub and headed for Southport Airport. When we arrived, the atmosphere felt unusually serious. Several flight instructors, including Willard Steichen, were gathered together, carefully reviewing the details.
Age, paperwork, weather, airplane — everything was checked and double-checked. It felt less like a routine solo and more like a small but important conference, making sure that this milestone was done properly and legally.
Willard and I flew a few landings together. Everything felt steady and familiar. After the last one, he looked over and said simply, “OK! You’re on your own, kid.”
No ceremony. No long speech. Just trust.
As I taxied out alone, I advanced the throttle on the 150-horsepower Lycoming. With the extra weight gone, the Super Cub lifted off eagerly, climbing as if it shared my excitement. As the runway dropped away beneath me, focus and exhilaration blended into something I had never felt before. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the words played over and over: Off we go, into the wild blue yonder…
The pattern was calm and deliberate. The landing came smoothly, and I taxied back toward the terminal, where my father and Willard waited. I shut down the engine, climbed out, and stood there — 16 years old, having just flown my first solo.
That day wasn’t marked by a driver’s license, a party, or presents. It was marked by responsibility, trust, and a Super Cub lifting into a winter sky. Like many pilots, I’ve had unforgettable moments in aviation. But January 11, 1974 — my 16th birthday — will always remain one of the most memorable.
