by Paul Holte
The day clearly stands out in my mind as one of those days you never forget. The day you graduate from college, the day you get married, the day your first child is born…those are all memorable moments in life. Like all those life-changing events, the day I went for my first airplane ride was equally as memorable, and equally as life changing.
One warm, summer afternoon, when I was just 13 years old, my dad and I sat in the grass at the local airstrip. Not a big airport. Not even a small airport; just a grass strip with a couple hangars at one end. The kind of place most people wouldn’t even recognize as an airport until they had already driven past, wondering why an airplane was sitting out in a field. But this little airstrip was almost magical to some. It was the kind of place that could transport you back in time to the days of aviation’s past. Piper Cubs and Cessna 140s spat and sputtered to and from the gas pumps, where pilots stopping in for a soda pop would pump their own gas. Retired airline pilots roamed the airport grounds, teaching and telling stories to pilot wannabes. The kind of place Charles Lindbergh would have fit in, just as well as the 13-year-old kid from the next town. It was the kind of place where dreams came true, and it was that warm summer afternoon, that my dreams took off.
As my dad and I sat in the grass, watching various small airplanes take-off and land, a college-aged guy walked over to us. The three of us talked about the weather and the other various topics you talk about with strangers. As he was about to walk away, my dad asked, “So, are you a pilot?” “Yeah,” he casually responded. “I’m towing gliders.” My dad glowed with anticipation: “Do you think my son could ride along with you?” “Sure,” he said, looking at me. “Come on over…I’ll show you the airplane.” My dad gave him $10, and he gave me a ride that would change my life. Although it was a short flight, I still remember it to this day. After the glider was off the tow, he let me have my hands on the controls. Although, I probably only “flew” for about 30 seconds, it was the best 30 seconds of my life.
After we landed, I was a new person. As one who never had much passion for school or sports, I had finally found a passion for flying. After a few more rides that summer, I started lessons shortly thereafter. Some days were humbling and frustrating; others were enlightening and breathtaking. If there was one constant, however, it was that I had found a new love. Every time my feet hit the ground, my eyes turned skyward with anticipation of my next adventure in the air. As I progressed through the ratings, becoming an airline pilot never really interested me. When people would ask what kind of career in aviation I wanted, I’d usually say, “I just want to fly airplanes.”
As I acquired more and more flying jobs, it occurred to me that the easiest way to fly airplanes consistently, is to work for the airlines. Being that I started so young, I was marketable to regional airlines during my senior year of college. I interviewed and had my pick of four airlines before I donned my cap and gown. When a company based in my hometown offered me a position flying a regional jet, the choice was easy. After nearly six years flying regional jets, and through what could only be a mix-up in some paperwork, I was interviewed and hired by a legacy airline.
Now, as I travel overseas more often than I travel to the grocery store, I am constantly reminded that this small town kid, who learned how to fly at a grass strip in the Minnesota countryside, has a job that feels more like an IMAX movie than everyday life. As a matter of fact, just the other night, as I looked out the cockpit window of a Boeing 767, the lights of New York twinkling below, I couldn’t help but remember that summer afternoon with my dad. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be sitting where I am today, doing what I love the most, and though a lot has changed through the years, I’m still just a boy who loves flying airplanes.
So, if you find yourself sitting at the local airstrip, don’t be afraid to aim skyward, because like they say, if you shoot for the stars, you may just land on the moon. I did.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Paul Holte is an alumnus of St. Cloud State University in Minnesota, which is scheduled for closer because of a shift in administrative priorities.
