Launch

We did roller coasters today.

My daughter has been bugging me about it. She wants to go up--without her brother, thank you--and rip up the sky.

Now, if you put your average five-year-old in an airplane and start chucking it about, you get one of two reactions:

1. Screaming
2. Extra Chunky Screaming

Her eight-year-old brother, for example, is not so big on the whole rock-and-roll-airplane thing, and yells at me whenever the bank angle exceeds 20 degrees. But G-Dub was having none of that. She wanted more: Faster, more rolling, more Gs, more zero-G over the top.

She comes by it honestly; her mother learned to fly expressly to do aerobatics. Me, I like to fly, and I like a well-turned maneuver, but I get off on things my wife never really learned to like, like a precision instrument approach, or even a meticulous flight plan. We joke that we trade personalities at the door of the airplane. On the ground, I'm...detail-challenged, shall we say. I forget things. I neglect birthdays. I leave dirty socks under the coffee table. She's the multitasker, a chemist, Goddess of the Family Schedule, lover of tiny-detailed picky handicrafts. In the airplane I mutate into a minutiae-obsessed control freak, while she blossoms into a wild-haired sky artist dreaming of lomcevaks. (Unusually, though, in this marriage, the woman's the one blessed with spatial intelligence. We divide up the tasks: When I fly, she navigates. And when she flies...she navigates.)

Today the kid and I went out to the airport, pretending we were Joe Pedestrian Aviator and his timid daughter. We scrupulously preflighted our Cardinal. We got a weather briefing and a clearance. We did the checklists. We talked to Air Traffic Control like obedient little fliers.

Before we pull onto the runway, we glance up the final approach area. The control tower is supposed to keep airplanes clear of conflict, but you never know. Watch the instruments as the power goes in--in 15 years, that airplane has never once hiccuped on takeoff, but better safe than sorry. A little extra airspeed before pulling off the runway, it's gusty today. No turns below 400 feet, even though ATC asks for one. No changes to the engine settings till we have 1,000 feet between us and the ground. We do slow and careful turns when we get to the practice area, ensuring that no other aircraft are around. "Umm, Approach, we'll be maneuvering out here...and changing altitude a ton." "Roger."

On receipt of that quiet word, we transform from a mild-mannered 30-year-old Cessna and her crew into a single organism, one wild amalgamated ton of aluminum, steel, and bulging eyeballs. We start with level turns at a 60-degree bank, pulling 2 Gs, but soon begin to yank and shove on the yoke, plunging our butts into the seats and levitating off them. Then we add quarter-rolls at the top and bottom of each dive. "Can we do more roller-coasters?"

Then I turn the controls over to Miss Pigtails--with some trepidation, I admit. "Can I do roller-coasters?" she asks eagerly. But her arms can't supply enough heave and twist to satisfy her lust for whirling scenery and Gs--the kid's still less than 40 pounds--so after a few whifferdills she gives it back to me. "Can we do more roller-coasters?"

We figure out a new maneuver: Start from level flight. Pick some hapless house, car, or ferryboat below. Stomp the rudder and pin the yoke to the roll stop so the airplane slams to knife-edge in less than a second, with the nose falling through like a homesick brick. The airspeed jumps 40 knots in five seconds. Roll upright when the target appears over the nose, then howl "SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT" over the intercom and rock with laughter. Haul the nose up so the view goes from rapidly-swelling ground to nothing but clouds--60 knots peel off the airspeed indicator as we roar skyward again. A good hard push floats us off the seats, and we're back level again, waiting for flying speed to return.

"Can we do some more roller-coasters?"

I tried to explore G-Dub's limits, but found only mine instead. After 20 minutes of yanking, diving, sudden rolls, and pretend fighter-swoops, she was still whooping and giggling. Occasionally a whoop would start scared--before I could do anything to fix it she'd be laughing again. But I started to feel distinctly unwell, and reluctantly told her that we'd have to go straight-and-level for awhile. I knew that I'd give her Total Kindergarten Bragging Rights if I blew chow while she was still hungry for more, but hey, today I was Pilot in Command. When you get your own license, kid, then you can make me hurl.