By lex, on March 3rd, 2011
Having reached the experience level to do so, Son Number One selected helicopters as his first choice on his preference card, and – having won his first choice – will be heading back to Pensacola for to learn how to fly whirly-gigs. Had the grades to do whatever he wanted, and what he wanted was to learn how to do summat his dear ol’ da cannot: Hover.
Them egg beaters are dangerous, I warned, for they are chiefly constructed of lowest bidder parts whirling in violent opposition one to another. Not to mention the landing in absurdly small places on wee, bitty ships that heave, roll and yaw like drunken sailors in Hong Kong, which is one thing when you’re in Hong Kong and another thing entirely when you’re trying to place the rubber down between the cross-hairs. I need not belabor the categorical absence of ejection seats, which no one has the least need of until they do, at which time the need is turrible acute.
Rubbish, said he, for he was not afraid and he’d kind of like to give beating the air into submission the old college try. If only for the challenge that was in it. Not to mention the potential to while away his off-duty hours in Sandy Eggo rather than Lemoore, the dreary pain and suffering of it.
Good on ya’, I said for every man has to choose his own way through this life, and the important thing is to put yourself in the position to do what you want to do.
Which he did, so it’s proud of him I am, proud to bursting.