As a child, somewhere between when girls had cooties and The Dukes of Hazzard were “makin’ their way the only way they knew how”, I tinkered with toy airplanes. I was most adept with the paper kind and would test my designs at the most inappropriate times.
I’ve always had a certain awe, much like a metal head might have at a Metallica concert, of people who could get things airborne and keep them there, safely. Pilots, if you will, are an icy bunch. The better ones, the ones I prefer to ride along with, are stone cold serious at their craft. If you’ve ever listened to aviators talk to one another, while in flight, they ooze gravitas. Their speech is measured, direct and, if you listen long enough, has a hypnotic effect. I truly believe, if the “Calm” app could record just a few minutes of air traffic control comms, ocean waves and rain drops would no longer be the favorites to soothe our restless minds.
I received a text from one such pilot last evening. My good friend, Tal Holloway, wrote “Are you interested in bbq for lunch tomorrow?” We’ve been friends long enough, he already knew the answer to his inquisition. Twisting my arm, not only hurts but, is unnecessary when I’m invited to eat the other white meat. Although eating bbq with a buddy could be considered, by some, benign, it’s never just a run down the street to the local hog joint when your buddy has his own airplane, which, by the way, he built himself.
So, there we were, airborne from Sanford, North Carolina at 12:43 and not more than 25 minutes later, we’re landing in a soybean field somewhere in outback South Carolina. And there, like a beacon of light, a Mountain Dew sign seemed to rise along the two lane road littered with honeysuckle vines and road kill with the words “Stanton’s Bar-B-Q Fish Camp”. I’m not sure anyone, except the locals, knew exactly the name of the crossroads of which we had dropped into, but that’s ok. The sweet tea was sweet, the pork was delicious and the flounder was breaded and fried just right.
Needless to say, it was a great day. My inaugural flight in a fixed wing aircraft, which can accommodate not more than four passengers, was smooth and Xanax free. I trusted Tal implicitly. My life and my stomach were in his hands. He did not fail me.
Thank you, Tal, for the ride along. I say next time we hop, skip and jump over to Lexington for some succulent red sauce and Brunswick stew. I’m clear for take-off!
Facing Southward 