You can see why flying involves a lot of trust. You’re entirely reliant on many, many other people to keep you safe. You rely on your wing man not to fly into you; you rely on the ground troops to let you know what areas are safe to fly over; you rely on air traffic controllers to keep everyone properly separated. A poorly coordinated traffic pattern can wind up with you trying to land one jet on top of another. I’ve been lucky enough to escape my few harrowing moments mostly unscathed, but if you do this job long enough, you’ll know someone who has died flying.
But in spite of the ever-present specter of death, be it from rocket-powered seats, Looney Tunes catapults, pitching decks, flying gas stations, passing out in the middle of a fight, suicidal birds, busted aircraft, or just the old proverbial “sudden stop at the end,” I absolutely love this job and wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Mostly because of the shirtless volleyball.
Read it all. Yes, even you, Regbo–even though I know already you could furnish a lot more than just five.