Learning To Fly

Dear Rachel,

You (and Amy, too) learned to fly at an early age. That is, being shuttled among sets of parents fairly regularly (summer visits, etc.), you both soon became familiar with airports, with finding the correct terminal and gate, whom to ask for help, and all the rest. By the time you were seven or eight, you were a seasoned traveler.

And every time Les and I took you to the airport for that trip back to San Diego (and later, Virginia), I got another few gray hairs. It wasn’t so much saying goodbye to you, knowing that I might not see you again for months, although that in itself was painful. I just hated seeing that plane take off with you on it. Some 75 tons of complicated airplane (with about a million rivets, each one supplied by the lowest bidder) would roar into the sky carrying you away from us and toward . . . well, toward home, we always hoped.

I almost couldn’t watch. I’d beam my thoughts to the pilot: “Look, you’ve got my little girl in there. You watch your ass. I don’t care if you were out late last night, whether you’re having trouble with your wife or kids, or anything else. That’s my baby sitting behind you. She’s just a kid, and I love her more than anything. For God’s sake, please be careful!”

And he—or sometimes, as the years went on, she—was careful. You flew a million miles, never got stranded, never had a problem. You were as comfortable in an airport as most kids would be at the local skating rink. For you it was a chance to read a book or magazine, get some sleep, do your nails, and listen to some music. (And in years to come you flew to Europe, South America, and Russia, all without a problem.)

For me, it was agonizing. I worried about you from the time you left your mom’s until we met you at the gate. Then, on the return trip, I’d worry about you from the moment you boarded the plane until we heard from you or Debbie that you were home safely.

All those hours of worry for nothing. How terribly, tragically ironic.

Or maybe it’s not really irony after all. Maybe it’s just plain old fear, the same fear that every parent battles when sending a child out into the world, into the unknown. Of course, as it turns out, it’s all unknown, even the parts you think you know well.

Love,

Dad