by Bob McDaniel
The summer of 1967 passed like a whirlwind. And it would be a monumental year as it was the year of my 16th birthday, a milestone that leads to new responsibilities and newfound freedoms.
I woke up early that first Monday of summer break and road my bicycle to my high school to begin driver’s training…a six-week course that would lead to my driver’s license in August. After riding back home and having lunch, I thumbed through the latest edition of Flying magazine and noticed a full-page Cessna advertisement that included a coupon offering an introductory flight for only five dollars.
The next afternoon while Mom and Dad were at work, I stuffed the coupon and a crisp five-dollar bill into my pocket and rode my bike to the local airport. As I walked into the flight school, a man stood up from the corner table and said, “Hi, I’m Harry.”
He explained that I would need 40 hours of flight time to get my license and each hour would cost $10 for the airplane and $5 for the instructor. Next, he started telling me what to expect on the first flight and abruptly stood up and said, “If you’ve got the five dollars, we can go flying right now.”
I couldn’t believe what I had heard. I quickly pulled the five dollar bill out of my pocket, handed it to him, and we were headed outside with airplane keys in hand.
As we walked out to where the plane was parked, Harry looked like a movie star and a war hero all rolled into one. He was trim and fit with a head full of neatly combed dark hair. His face was tan and slightly wrinkled, befitting for a gentleman in his early-to mid-sixties. He walked with a definite limp and spoke with a soft, but firm, tone of voice. His demeanor exuded the knowledge and wisdom of the ages, which quickly set me at ease. He was patient, mild-mannered, and the perfect instructor to fuel what would become my lifelong passion. (I later learned Harry was a decorated B-17 pilot who had lost his left leg in the War. We always did spins to the left so he could recover with his “good” leg.)
Soon we were rolling down the runway and lifting into the air. He carefully explained everything we were doing during that 45-minute flight. After landing, he went over all we had done and said, “Congratulations, you’ve just had your first flight lesson. Now, bring your parents back at five o’clock tomorrow and we’ll talk about your next flight lesson.”
Ohhhhhh…those words quickly brought me back down to earth. My parents…. What was I going to tell them? How was I going to tell them? What were they going to say? That obviously was not the correct order to do that.
After carefully rehearsing my speech, I broke the news at the dinner table. Mom took a deep breath and calmly asked, “You did what?!” After going through it all over again, Mom just said, “Well, I guess you came back alright.”
Seeing that Mom wasn’t going to ask for his belt or ground me for life, Dad swallowed his food and calmly asked, “What time do we need to be there tomorrow?”
Throughout my life, my parents never held me back or told me that I couldn’t try something new for fear of failure. No one in our family had ever been a pilot or had any part in the aviation industry, but they weren’t going to discourage me. If I could pay for it, I could try it.
Flash forward to mid-August….
I was up early the morning of my birthday, rereading the Rules of the Road book for the 900th time to be sure I could answer anything the driving examiner could ask me. After breakfast, we were off to the driver’s testing station where I breezed through the driver’s test with ease. I even made it into the parallel parking spot on the first try.
I drove home with a crisp new driver’s license in my wallet and my Mom in the passenger seat of the beautiful ‘62 Chevy Impala that was our family car. After a quick sandwich for lunch, it was time for Mom to go to work. I must have beamed all over when she said, “Why don’t you drive me to work and keep the car so you can go to the airport by yourself this afternoon. We’ll meet you there.”
I was about to taste the great new freedom of driving solo! That would have been a major milestone achievement for most, but it would pale in comparison to what I was about to do that afternoon.
I drove to the airport early and slowly, hoping all of my friends would see me driving. The cloudless skies were deep blue and there was a gentle breeze, just enough to keep the normally hot August weather comfortable.
When Harry arrived, he tossed me the keys to the pretty red and white Cessna 150 and said, “Go on out and preflight the airplane. I have to make a phone call.”
By the time he came strolling out of the hangar, the plane was preflighted and I was ready to go. We took off and flew to the practice area for a few stalls and then came straight back to the traffic pattern. Harry was unusually quiet during the flight. He never corrected me or offered any suggestions or help with anything. While on final approach for our third landing, he said, “Let’s make this one a full stop.”
I thought it was much too early to quit. We’d been flying for less than a half-hour.
As we taxied back, I could see my Mom and Dad and Shela, a pretty little brunette who had been my steady girlfriend for a couple of years, standing at the edge of the runway. When we reached that area Harry said, “Stop here so I can get out. I want you to take off and fly around the pattern and make three landings. Make the third one a full stop. And don’t forget to come back here and pick me up. I don’t want to have to walk back.”
He stepped out of the plane and closed the door. Suddenly, it felt very quiet and lonely inside the cockpit. I taxied onto the runway, pushed the throttle forward, and in just a few seconds I was off the ground and flying solo! All by myself! No one to fly the airplane back safely to the ground but me!
Without that 170 pounds in the right seat, the little two-place airplane suddenly became a hot rod. It leapt into the air and climbed toward the traffic pattern altitude like a homesick angel. Abeam the numbers, I applied carburetor heat and pulled back on the throttle to begin the descent. My heart was in my throat and beating like a drum. Approaching the runway threshold, I smoothly reduced the throttle and the little Cessna settled to the ground with a slight squeak of the tires as they touched the pavement.
I added power and was soon flying again. Twice more around the pattern, and the second and final landings were just as textbook-perfect as the first. I taxied back to pick up Harry, but he said I should just take it on into parking and he’d walk back with my family.
By the time I had completed the checklist and had the airplane secured in the parking spot, they all walked up beside me. Harry stuck out his hand and gave me a big hearty handshake and proudly said, “Congratulations. Now you’re a pilot!”
Mom and Dad gave me a warm hug, and Shela gave me a big kiss that was as memorable as the flight had been. Back in the office to write in my logbook, Harry pulled a big foot-long pair of scissors from the desk drawer and cut about six inches off my shirt tail. He then wrote my name and date on it with a permanent marker and hung it over the doorway with a thumbtack.
That night, lying in bed, my mind bounced back and forth from the wondrous events of the day and the possibilities that might lie ahead in my future. It had been a life-changing day.
Almost exactly six years later to the very day, I made another first solo, only this time in a jet—a USAF T-37 “Tweet.” My flight instructor stepped out of the plane, gave a thumbs-up, and snapped a sharp salute as he said, “You’re on your own lieutenant. See you when you get back if you don’t kill yourself.” Then he pulled a bag of marshmallows out of the pocket of his flight suit and continued, “It’s gonna’ be a good day either way. If you don’t come back, I’ve got my marshmallows and I’ll roast ‘em over your smokin’ hole in the ground.”
That was that same dry, sarcastic humor I’d grown accustomed to throughout the first few weeks of my T-37 flight training. It was just irritating enough to be motivating. I always wanted to try just a little bit harder to please him.
After six more months, it was time for another first solo, this time in the supersonic T-38 Talon, affectionately known as the “white rocket.”
Over the next few decades, I had many more firsts—first flight as an instructor pilot, first flight in command of an aircrew and a transport plane, first flight in a biplane, first flight in a powered parachute, and other firsts—but none came close to the impact of that first solo flight on my 16th birthday.
Now, almost 60 years after that flight, the thrill of flying is still with me and that cute little brunette is still by my side as my trusty co-pilot and wife.
Editor’s Note: Share your story about your “First Solo” by emailing midwestflyer.com@gmail.com. This series was started January 1, 2026, you can view more articles like this by clicking here.