Many people would have had me stop after that first lesson. When my grandma heard I was learning to fly, she remarked, "Mercy!!, you only have one good arm and the hills are already full of little Cessnas!" But I wasn’t listening to Grandma. I was listening to Judy, my wife and my dreammaker. She believed I could do it. Flying required adjustments for my "limitations." (Polio had left my right arm  almost useless, my left arm, 50% paralyzed and my legs, 80% gone. 

From the right-hand seat I was reading instruments from across the cockpit making mental adjustments for the angle in reading the airspeed, altitude and climb rate.

Most pilots keep one hand on the throttle at all times while taking off and landing. Several throttle adjustments are needed as varying wind conditions cause the plane to balloon or sink. This is especially critical during approach before landing. Adjusting the throttle helps maintain the desired altitude.

I had to learn to adjust the throttle to the exact setting I wanted, and get my left hand back quickly to the yoke for control of pitch and roll. I also had to quickly adjust the trim (to take pressure off the yoke) and the flaps (to slow the plane for landing). During the landing sequence, while busily trying to keep the plane level, slowing it down, putting down flaps, reducing throttle, and adjusting trim several times, I was asked to pick up the microphone and announce my position and intentions to other aircraft in the area. At first this was too much to handle.

I also had to learn a new language which I call Pilot Talk. In a calm, audible voice (while sweating profusely, sending hand and feet all over the cockpit to make adjustments, and acknowledging the instructor’s admonition that I had just lost 10 MPH) I was supposed to say, "Prosser Unicom and Prosser area traffic, this is Cherokee 4258 Juliet on a left downwind for landing on runway 25." I could also ask the Unicom for current wind direction and speed, but there’s no time when you are hurtling through the sky at more than 100 miles an hour!

Then there is another wrinkle in flying—something in the air. One time early in my flight training our pattern took us along the edge of southeast Washington’s Horse Heaven Hills. Suddenly we hit something that threw me so hard against my seat belt, that my head nearly hit the ceiling. We were bounced around pretty good as the plane dipped and jumped. My eyes must have gotten really big, for I was convinced we would be thrown right out of the sky! Mr. Thompson looked over at me, smiled and said, "Mild turbulence." Mild? I wondered what moderate and severe turbulence would be like! Later I learned how to maintain control in turbulent situations.

About the time I was learning to fly, I was also teaching my son, Sky, to drive a car. I noticed he had the same problems as his flying dad, trying to do everything at once. "Put in the clutch, put it in low gear, ease the clutch out, and at the same time ease down on the accelerator while turning the steering wheel. Now clutch in, foot off accelerator, move gear shift forward halfway then to the right, now forward again. Push down on accelerator, not so hard! Keep looking out the window!"

One thing I learned is that you spare yourself some of the aging process if you don’t teach your own kids to drive! The other thing I concluded was that someday, for both of us, all those skills would come together. For me they did on a grand January day in 1976. After a 30-minute lesson, Mr. Thompson got out of the airplane and said, "You’re ready. Take it up yourself this time."

Did I really want to do this? Could I really take off, fly and land this plane without somebody there to remind me about everything and help in case of a problem? This was it! I taxied to the end of runway 25, said a hurried prayer, and made my announcement (Pilot Talk, of course): "Prosser area traffic, this is Cherokee 4258 Juliet taking off, runway 25. I’ll stay in the pattern, right hand traffic."

I pushed the throttle forward, adjusted the nose wheel on the center line, and waited for the airspeed to build to 60 MPH. Mr. Thompson said with just me in the plane it would take off sooner. But it didn’t. The plane seemed to be using more runway than it should. The engine didn’t sound exactly right. The airspeed crept to liftoff speed. I pulled back on the yoke and the plane gently lifted off the runway. I was excited and scared at the same time because that engine still sounded different. I quickly checked all instruments. I was not climbing at the normal 750 feet per minute. There were trees at the end of the runway, but I was still climbing so knew I would clear them easily. The airspeed was down a little and the RPMs only 2350. They should have been 2550. What was wrong? "Dear God," I prayed, "let me get this machine back safely to earth!"

Then I spotted it. The carb heat was left on after the last landing. It keeps the carburetor from icing up during the glide for landing. It also reduces the RPM and full engine power needed for takeoff. Now what would I do? If I pushed it in now, Mr. Thompson would know as he heard the engine gain power. I decided that at 400 feet, when I was supposed to reduce power, I would simultaneously reduce carb heat. He would not hear it. That’s what I did. He didn’t hear it, did he?

As I made my downwind turn at 800 feet, it suddenly hit me. I was way up here by myself! I wanted to just keep going and leave my instructor standing by the runway for a few hours while I took a wondrous scenic trip over hills and valleys. I was free! My dream had come true!

Then I realized I was moving at 100 MPH and needed to prepare for landing this thing. First step, put on that carb heat. I went through the steps, one by one, then lined up on the final approach (I hate that term!). Throttle back, flaps at 20 degrees, trim nose up. Everything looked good. Airspeed 80, perfect. Steady now, full flaps, l00 feet, 75 feet, everything looks good, 50 feet, 25 feet. Now, lift the nose, hold it off, and touchdown! A beautiful full-stall landing, one of my best. Pilots call it a greaser.

Soon after soloing, I bought my own plane. It was a 1953 Piper Tri-Pacer, two-toned green, fabric covered high wing and—most important—major instruments on the right side of the cockpit. I would spend 200 hours in 3501 Alpha.

The next big hurdle in flying was getting my license so I could carry passengers. Would they okay a guy whose body was mostly paralyzed?

I passed my ground school, then the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) written test with flying colors (pardon the pun). Due to the residuals of polio, I received a waiver from the Federal Flight Surgeon in Oklahoma City. Then I passed the physical exam given to all private pilots. This is required every two years and is called a 3rd Class Medical. Finally, I had to fly with a designated FAA flight examiner to prove my skills were good enough to safely operate a single-engine plane and carry passengers.

On June 15, l976, just a year and 20 days after my first lesson, I met my examiner from the Spokane General Aviation District Office at the airport in Richland, Washington. After an oral exam, he had me start on a cross-country trip which I had mapped out before take-off. Soon into the flight, he told me a storm was in our route. I was to open my map, take a plotter and pencil, determine a new heading, measure the distance, and draw it on the map. I managed to do it, but had to control the plane, look out the window, and watch the instruments all at the same time, using only one hand to fly, plot, measure and mark.

The examiner wrung me out! He had me close my eyes, then put the plane into "unusual attitudes" (turns, dives, climbs, and combinations). When I opened my eyes he expected me to quickly recognize our situation and recover before becoming inverted or worse!

Then he invented a bad-scene runway situation. He told me to imagine a brick wall across the middle of the runway and l00-foot trees at the front end of it. I was supposed to slip the plane over the trees, land on half the runway, then stop before hitting the brick wall. I brought the plane down beautifully over the trees, leveled off and blasted right through the "fake" brick wall! We both laughed and it relieved the tension a bit. My performance wasn’t exactly an "A" on that particular task.

The tests got worse. Near the airport, he pulled back on the throttle to simulate an engine-out landing. I shortened my pattern and set up the best glide speed. I kept the flaps to a minimum until I knew I had the runway "made." I set it up perfectly. Next came full flaps and another "greaser." Just as I started to flare, he yelled, "Go around, go around, don’t land!" It’s not that easy. Adding full power with the flaps fully deployed causes the nose to point almost straight up. I had to force the nose down to gain airspeed, then bleed off the flaps slowly to keep the plane from sinking onto the ground while we were gaining flying speed again. This is where it gets busier than life for a one-armed pilot. Thinking quickly, I threw my chest into the yoke and leaned as far forward as I could to hold the nose down with my chest so the plane would not stall. Then I slowly bled off the flaps, while also adjusting the trim and taking the pressure off my chest. It worked!

Three and a half grueling hours later, I was congratulated, signed off, given my "ticket" and sent home—officially a licensed pilot who could carry passengers. It had been 21 years since polio cancelled my first flying lesson. Judy was waiting for me at the Prosser airport. She climbed in—my first passenger. As the plane lifted off, we both cried as we went on our first flying adventure together. Well, she cried and my eyes sweated.