I was in this position because a few months earlier I had attended my first Women in Aviation International (WAI) conference in Denver, Colo. It was full of young women, like bees on a flower bush, buzzing around from booth to booth looking for commercial flying jobs. I was merely working toward becoming a flight instructor, a goal already attained by most of the women (who were far younger than my 50 years).

Not looking for a job, I had plenty of time to hang around the fund-raising silent auction table where I found one item I was willing to bid on: two hours of aerobatic flight lessons with Sean D. Tucker. His home base is Salinas, Calif., a four-hour drive from my home in Truckee, Calif., so it wasn’t an impossible wish. I had no idea what it was worth, but I thought I could afford $400 for a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

About an hour before the bidding closed, I noticed that I was competing with one other woman who was raising the bid $20 every time. The price was up to $500, but I caught a glimpse of her across the room—twenty-ish, tall, blond, attractive, with a whole flying life ahead of her—and was inspired.

In the final moments, my competitor and I were standing shoulder to shoulder at the auction table with pens in hand. As she wrote in $600, she said, “I can’t really afford this.” Quickly scribbling $620 on the next line, I responded, “I can’t either, but I’m older than you, and this may be my last chance.” Perhaps she was relieved. I’ll never know, but she put down the pen and walked away.

When I realized what I had done, I felt sick. Not that I had outbid my youthful rival, but that I had just unwittingly spent $620. With Sean D. Tucker’s photo and prize receipt in hand, I entered the elevator to return to my room and lament what I had done. A small dark-haired young woman who had watched the battle at the auction table was there, too. “That’s so cool,” she said. “I’d give anything to fly with Sean Tucker, but I’d settle for a photo.” I handed her the picture and thought maybe I was taking home something after all.

When I met Sean at the Salinas airport for my first lesson in February 1999, he made me feel relaxed. My entire aerobatic experience had been a few spins in a tired Cessna 172. By that time, I was a new flight instructor and had demonstrated spins in my CFI training, but I had no idea what one would feel like in a new biplane made for aerobatic maneuvers. Sean illustrated what we would be doing using a toy airplane to demonstrate the airplane’s attitude. He said we would fly four different times, a half-hour each time.

I put on the parachute he provided and climbed into the backseat after he instructed me on how to get into the cockpit using the handholds and stepping only on the white crossbars on the see-through floor. Before climbing into the front seat, Sean identified the instruments and gauges, pointing out that there was no turn coordinator. I would have to “feel” the airplane with my bottom side. Then, he showed me the red knob near the window that unlocks the clear canopy in case of emergency. “When will I know it’s time to jump?” I asked. “When you see me gone, it’s time,” Sean joked.

He showed me how to start the engine and adjust the trim slightly “south,” or nose-down. We performed the run-up, and were off. The nearby practice area was a farm owned by a friend of Sean’s. My husband Tom had driven over to watch us from below as we did loops, rolls, spins, and hammerheads. Sean demonstrated the maneuvers, then instructed me to follow through and do some on my own. The half-hour passed quickly, and when Sean asked how I was feeling, I said, “Great!”

With that, he took the controls and put the Pitts into a flat spin. It was like one of those spinning carnival rides, which make me sick just thinking about them. It didn’t last long, but it was long enough. Sean asked again how I was doing. I think I said, “Okay,” but I’m not sure. He headed toward the airport, and in ten minutes, we were on the ground. Tom was waiting for us, but I couldn’t move. After a minute, however, I knew I’d better move, and fast.

A few steps out of the airplane, and I was losing my lunch on the grass. I didn’t gauge the wind direction and was soon covered with it. Sean and Tom were laughing and gave me a demonstration on how to face downwind, something every man learns at a young age. I didn’t care; I was simply relieved that my lunch was on me and not in the new Pitts.

Although it took me all afternoon to recover, the next day I felt fine, eager to do anything but flat spins. Two weeks later, I returned to Salinas for my final two lessons. Tom and I brought along Wanda, his 85-year-old mother, and Helen, our 84-year-old friend who lives in Carmel, to watch. They were in on the preflight briefing, even asking questions about what we would be doing up there. As Sean and I taxied out to takeoff, Tom drove the twosome to the practice area for the show.

Sean and I flew a variety of maneuvers over the open field; I was becoming more comfortable with the controls and their effect. We did a hammerhead over the base of a small hill, which Wanda identified immediately, I learned later. Then, Sean said, “I’ll take the controls.” He pulled the nose up, turned the airplane toward our three spectators standing next to the car at the other end of the field, and pointed it toward the ground for speed. We were getting set up for a high-speed pass—or so I thought. At the last moment, Sean inverted the airplane overhead, thrilling them and me. For the one and only time in my life, I was an aerobatic pilot with an audience.

At dinner that night, Wanda and Helen couldn’t stop talking about the “airshow.” It was an experience that they and I would never forget. And all because I felt alone in Denver and grabbed a chance. Even though I haven’t been upside down in an airplane since then, I wouldn’t trade the experience of flying with Sean D. Tucker for any amount of money. He donated the gift of flight lessons to WAI, and I was beneficiary. Sean still greets Tom and me like old friends when we see him performing at Oshkosh every year. I’m not sure if it’s because I managed to get to the lawn in time, or whether he’s just a great guy.

Sharing the cockpit of a small airplane would be fun, right? Well, the truth is, like all joint efforts that require compromise and cooperation, flying together calls for “cockpit management” techniques (or “spousal management” might be better)…that is, plenty of ongoing discussion about what should or should not be said, or done, while the number-one pilot, or PIC (pilot in command), is at the controls.

My husband and I work hard at being good copilots, and we talk about it before every flight. And, as a result, we really do like to fly together. One of the best reasons we’ve found for both being pilots was demonstrated to us a few years ago on a cross-country flight from California to Vermont in our little two-seat 1946 Cessna 140.

We called it “The Love Flight”— our 25th silver anniversary gift to each other, a month-long trip to the site of our honeymoon. Tom and I were eager to take off into carefree skies with little to concern us except an occasional call to the home office. Wrapping up business and packing to be gone for at least a month is stressful, but I knew the moment we lifted off the ground, it would be worth it.

About one hour into the flight, as Tom steered a course across the Nevada Desert on a clear July morning, my throat felt scratchy. I attributed it to exhaustion, summer heat, and desert dryness, certain that it would all clear up after a good night’s sleep in Ogden, Ut., our first destination.

Well, it didn’t. In fact, by the time we arrived at EAA AirVenture in Oshkosh two days later, with Tom at the helm for every leg of the trip, it was a full-blown something. I was wheezing and sneezing and feeling miserable. Despite a prescription and diagnosis from a doctor at a medical clinic on the field, I was still sick a week later.

But we wanted to move on, so Tom continued as Pilot in Command (PIC), and we took off for Harbor Springs, Mich., to visit an old college friend and her family. Our spacious corner guest room had a big view of Lake Michigan, which was good, because I was in bed most of the time.

Four days later, Tom again took the “left seat” and flew us through the Upper Peninsula to Elliot Lake, Ontario, where we waited out weather for three days with new friends who invited us to stay with them. I began to feel the return of my old self. In the meantime, Tom was starting to show similar symptoms of the mystery ailment. The good news was that I was now healthy and could safely fly the 140 on to Stowe, Vt., our next destination. The bad news was that we needed to shorten all visits and keep our germs to ourselves.

Old friends met us at the Morrisville-Stowe airport and, soon after, Tom and I headed off to the medical clinic for yet another diagnosis. We learned that Tom had viral bronchitis and conjunctivitis, for which the doctor prescribed a powerful, cough syrup, with a warning that he shouldn’t fly while taking it. And for me, who had recovered from bronchitis, she prescribed a lighter cough syrup, just in case.

Our plans were changing dramatically. We cancelled the final leg of our trip to Maine and set our sights on home, Truckee, Calif., over 2,000 nautical miles away.

The next important decision was to choose a place where Tom could recover. We called my sister Cindy in Warren, Penn., to ask if we could hide out in her “camp,” a rustic cabin they use for deer hunting. Cindy laughed at the camp idea and insisted we let her nurse Tom back to health at her home.

The following morning, we rose early to a beautiful day. While Tom showered, I decided to take a slug of my cough syrup as a deterrent. The bedroom light was dim, and, as soon as it rolled down my throat, I knew I had mistakenly swallowed Tom’s cough syrup instead of mine. I couldn’t believe it.

In one fell swig, I had screwed up my plans to fly. (Lesson: always put on the reading glasses.) When Tom appeared, I told him what I’d done. He thought a minute, then said, “I won’t take any cough syrup, and I’ll be PIC.” He was contagious but able to think clearly and focus. I was healthy but uncertain of the effects of the cough syrup. It was out-of-the-box thinking, but demonstrated another episode of good cockpit/spousal management.

Lipperts use cockpit/spousal management to arrive safely at Brokenstraw airstrip

As we flew west across the dense forests of Pennsylvania, I felt tremendous relief and joy in being airborne. When we touched down at Brokenstraw, a 2,700-ft. grass strip, and my sister approached the airplane, I knew we were in good hands.

Tom spent most of the next few days in bed. However, one evening after midnight, he, Cindy and I lay on the front lawn, looking for meteor showers that were forecast for that night. Suddenly, the top of the house and surrounding oak trees lit up. Not with meteor showers, but a bright beam of light. “Someone’s spotlighting!” Cindy exclaimed in a loud whisper. “That’s illegal!”

“Spotlighting?” we asked. We learned that poachers use spotlights late at night to find and shoot deer.

The next morning looked to be a beautiful day to celebrate our 25th anniversary. While we sipped our first cup of coffee, Cindy’s husband Jim told us that on his way to the lumberyard he saw the game warden with two handcuffed poachers nearby and a deer carcass in the truck. When Jim stopped to ask him what he does with deer, the warden replied, “We keep the hide, head and horns for evidence, then throw the rest in the dump.” Jim casually suggested that perhaps he and a neighbor could help with the disposal.

A two-pilot family, Tom and Laurel toast their 25th anniversary

That evening, as the August light cast a golden glow on deck overlooking their spacious lawn, we sat down for supper. Cindy had bought flowers and wine for the occasion, and Jim had marinated and grilled a fresh tenderloin. We toasted 25 years together, our family, and the best venison we had ever tasted.

A few days later, we departed Brokenstraw, both healthy and revived. We had spent eight days at Cindy and Jim’s. We had walked in the woods and along the river where they hunt and fish. We visited with their kids and played with their grandchildren. It was truly an unexpected and memorable family reunion.

For nearly four weeks, Tom and I had been afraid to shake hands, much less kiss. But it didn’t matter, because we were lucky to be a two-pilot family and to have shared a “Love Flight” full of unexpected gifts and an anniversary to remember.

I’d love to hear from you. What memories do you hope to have when you learn to fly?

About Laurel

Laurel Lippert is coauthor of You Can Fly! with Greg Brown. It is an inspiring guidebook to understanding and appreciating the process of learning to fly. Laurel began flying at age 40. Over the next ten years, she earned her instrument and multi-engine ratings, as well as her commercial and flight instructor certificates. She has written about flying for Mountain Pilot, Pilot Getaways and Plane & Pilot magazines, as well as for ipilot.com.

Finding yourself stranded somewhere might seem like the worst fate if you’re a pilot, but, more often than not, it turns out to be a pleasant surprise.

With our first airplane, a 1946 Aeronca Champ, and other old slow planes that followed, we learned that since we couldn’t outrun any approaching bad weather, we could be stuck at unfamiliar airports on any cross-country flight.  As a result, we developed a motto that could apply to any adventure:

* Stay flexible
* Be open-minded
* Allow fate to redesign the trip
* And welcome opportunities to improve on the original plan.

One summer, on a long flight from Truckee, California, to Vermont in our 1946 Cessna 140, a shiny two-seater that cruised at a speed slightly faster than a covered wagon, we found ourselves stranded at Elliot Lake in Ontario, Canada. When my phone call to flight service for a weather briefing confirmed that we would be grounded for at least a day, we considered our options for getting to town—seven miles away with no public transportation.

Harold and Ivy Fisher hosted us when we were stranded due to weather

As we stared at the gray skies from the small airport terminal, the airport manager, a burly guy with grease-stained coveralls, chatted with a couple who had just come in. They introduced themselves as Harold and Ivy Fisher and asked us about our old Cessna and showed us a photo on the wall of their homebuilt airplane. Within a few minutes, the Fishers invited us to stay with them, even though we had just met and their home was 15 miles north—an obvious inconvenience for them when we needed to return to the airport the next day.

While we gathered our things, we learned that Ivy had phoned her friends to ask if we could be included in a dinner party planned for that evening. Soon we found ourselves sharing an elegant turkey dinner with the Regans, their longtime friends who have built and restored airplanes with the Fishers for 30 years.

Overlooking the lake the next morning from Harold and Ivy’s deck, we watched as white caps formed while Harold correctly forecast high winds that would keep the Cessna 140 on the ground. The next afternoon, as the wind softened, Harold took each of us up for a scenic flight over the surrounding lakes and forests in his 1947 Aeronca Chief floatplane.

We spent three nights with the Fishers. Ivy cooked and brewed pot after pot of coffee while we talked about flying experiences, the idiosyncrasies of floatplanes and tailwheel aircraft, and life in general. They graciously included us in their social plans and made us feel at home.

Siteseeing in the Fisher’s 1947 Aeronca Chief floatplane

When the weather finally cleared, we said a reluctant good-bye to our new friends and took off into clear blue skies toward the green mountains of Vermont.

The Fishers belong to a flying community well-known to pilots. It’s a special “club” that requires only a pilot’s license and the love of flying to join. The members make for a built-in rescue team of fellow pilots at thousands of small airports around the country who are eager to lend a hand, loan a car, offer a room, and save the day.

Our time with the Fishers reaffirmed our motto, and added another chance to experience the generosity and trust of people who share our love of flying and airplanes. Four years later, we still keep in touch with Harold and Ivy, and we eagerly await their arrival in Truckee one day, so that we can give back a little of what they gave to us. If not the Fishers, then we look forward to meeting other pilots who might be stuck in Truckee and need a ride, a bed, or a reason to improve on their original plan.

About Laurel

Laurel Lippert is coauthor of You Can Fly! with Greg Brown. It is an inspiring guidebook to understanding and appreciating the process of learning to fly. Laurel began flying at age 40. Over the next ten years, she earned her instrument and multi-engine ratings, as well as her commercial and flight instructor certificates. She has written about flying for Mountain Pilot, Pilot Getaways and Plane & Pilot magazines, as well as for ipilot.com.