“Shooter Two Three Six, you’re cleared for takeoff, runway two-nine.”
“Roger, cleared for takeoff, two-nine,” I repeat to the guy in the tower.
St. Louis Regional Airport.
I’m on my first cross-country.
There’s an instructor in the back seat. Marine Corps Captain. C-130 pilot.
Things have been pretty chill since we left Pensacola three days ago.
Approaching St. Louis, the Captain asks me, “Think you can find your girlfriend’s house from here?”
I look down at my chart and find I-55. Looks like it’s ten miles east of us.
“Yes, sir,” I say. “No problem.”
“Then let’s go have a look,” he says.
We find her house and proceed to buzz it at low altitude, causing quite a stir in small-town Illinois.
And making me something of a legend.
Thanks, Captain.
That was yesterday.
Now, we’re heading to Chicago to do some approaches at O’Hare.
You know, one of the busiest airports in the world.
“We’re gonna mix it up with the big boys,” the Captain tells me.
Great.
I inch the throttle forward and maneuver us onto the runway.
As I do, the guy in the tower speaks up again.
“Hey, Two Three Six, you gonna impress me with this takeoff?”
Impress him?
He knows I’m a student. I’m flying a bright orange aircraft, for chrissakes. It practically has training wheels.
Is he calling me out?
Son of a bitch.
Sure, I’ll impress your ass . . .
“I have the controls,” the Captain says.
“Roger, you have the controls,” I reply.
“We’ll show this guy,” the Captain mutters.
He stands on the brakes and runs up the throttle.
Then, he lets go, and we go screaming down the runway.
After a couple hundred yards, he eases us up to about twenty feet and lifts the gear.
We continue down the runway, still in ground effect, building airspeed.
Then, approaching the departure end of the runway, the Captain says, “Gs coming on.”
Gs, as in G-force. Gravity.
Shit. He’s not going to do something stupid like flip us inverted, is he?
He pulls the stick back into his crotch and pops the nose towards the sun.
We start trading airspeed for altitude and climb – fast.
The T-34 is rated for 4.5 Gs. We must be pulling 4.49999999.
We continue our climb to five thousand feet.
The Captain pushes the nose over, and we level off.
“Looked great from down here, Two Three Six,” the guy in the tower says. “Have a good flight.”
Thanks. Jackass.
“You have the controls,” the Captain tells me.
I take the controls and make a turn north for Chicago.
“Do . . . not . . . ever . . . do that at home field,” the Captain says. “Understood?”
Yes, sir.
Cross-country rules in effect.
A few years later, I’m in an H-60, sitting on a taxiway at Naval Air Station North Island, waiting for my turn on the runway.
Even though I can take off from anywhere in a helicopter, I like to do running takeoffs like a plane.
Because they’re more fun, that’s why.
There’s an F/A-18 Hornet in front of me.
The pilot begins his takeoff roll and quickly goes full-throttle.
He picks the jet up a few feet, lifts the gear, and continues down the runway.
Approaching the numbers at the opposite end, still only a few feet off the ground, he pulls the nose vertical, standing the aircraft on its tail, flames shooting behind him.
In a matter of seconds, he’s nearly out of sight . . . thirty-thousand feet or higher.
“Easyrider 63, you’re cleared for takeoff,” the controller tells me. “Caution, wake turbulence.”
No shit.
You can practically feel the hot wind still blowing down the runway from the Hornet’s after-burner.
I taxi onto the runway and catch a final glimpse of the Hornet.
And as I’m about to pull power to start my takeoff roll,
I think to myself,
Big deal.
I can do that.
Totally.