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| Freedom’s Wings | Apr '07 |
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| By Cliff Robertson |
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I feel quite certain that more than one psychiatrist, psychologist or similar surveyor of mankind and his circuitous haunts attributes pilots' desire to fly as a subconscious desire to flee. To this addled actor, that seems like a rather obvious sophomoric explanation for our obsession. Hell, we could attribute any obsession to a desire to avoid many of earth's realities. But in my haunting Calvinist conscience, I would have to attribute at least some of my flying desires to a wish to step out of this mortal coil from time to time, for more idyllic pleasures than a "nine-to-five" routine.
Possibly that is the reason why, at age 13, I would spend the summer weeks as one of those "airport rats." To me it was a beautiful combination. No school. No studies. Nothing but freedom to peddle my Iver Johnson steed 13 miles from La Jolla to that sleepy little airport with one gravel runway. To me it was a "runaway" runway. An escape from boredom. A moment in the Southern California sun to bask in newfound freedoms. Cleaning airplanes and their engines under the wise eyes of real pilots could in no way be called work. I was a Confederate among Confederates. They were pilots and I a fervent "wannabe." How could anyone not see the vast difference between halcyon heaven and a dull, dreary, day-to-day existence?
To my young eyes it was self-evident. Flying and being around fliers was a clear choice—an inescapable choice—between freedom and dogmatic routine. Why no one else, with the exception of a couple of teenage pals (Bill Meanly and Emmons Blake), did not recognize the "heaven on earth" that sleepy Southern California runway represented was a mystery to me. In truth, it remains a mystery to this day why more good citizens do not recognize the vast difference between flying and just existing in a dreary world of routine.
I know that some would consider my thoughts as being not only fanciful, but also escapist. I have crossed the Rubicon and have seen, at this stage in my life, the value of following—chasing—one's dreams. The stuff that dreams are made of is the very stuff that makes an ordinary life more than ordinary.
I feel for those who have never dared to reach out and fly. To embrace that possibility. But we still live in a world—in a country—where we can chase and catch those dreams, if only for a short time, on freedom's wings. As a nation, we have fought to protect that freedom. Surely we will continue to embrace, to preserve and treasure the joy of flight.
Academy Award and Emmy Award winning screen star Cliff Robertson has owned and flown a wide array of aircraft, including a Spitfire MK IX, a Messerschmitt ME-108, a French aerobatic Stampe SV4 biplane, a Grob Astir glider (in which he still holds a distance record) and a Beech Baron 58. A holder of single, multi, instrument and commercial licenses, as well as balloon, the pilot of many thousands of hours has accumulated many aviation awards, including EAA's highest Eagle award and the AOPA Sharples award. He was recently inducted into the National Aviation Hall of Fame, and the American Veteran Association has honored him as Veteran of the Year. His columns will appear in his soon-to-be-published book. For more information, visit www.cliffrobertson.info.
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