When you marry a pilot, you marry his love of flying. That means pointing out airplanes you see in the sky, because if he found out you saw it and didn’t tell him, he’ll be sad and wonder what other cool things you’ve made him miss. It means waking up early on a Saturday to go to a grass strip and fly tail draggers and spending the rest of the day remembering how fun it was. And it means, that his day job isn’t always in the daytime and when I hear that deep rumble of the B-1 Bomber taking off, I know that my man is once again in the air, where he loves to be. That is what marrying my kind of pilot means. And I love it.
While my husband loves all things with wings, I’ll be quite honest here and say that flying small planes makes me woozy. I spend the flight hanging on to the seat in front of me and trying to look at the horizon. I squeeze out a smile when my man looks back at me with his “Isn’t this the greatest experience of your whole life?” smile. While I don’t mind flying, and I think it’s quite beautiful, the swaying is my Achilles heel. So, after our last bumpy flight I had to break it to my wonderful husband that flying, at least in light aircraft, just might not be my thing. And before he could say “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me!” (his heart is airplane shaped, one must tread carefully) I said “BUT, I would love to photograph you flying and then you can have pictures of all the wonderful planes you’ve flown!” That perked him up again and he said “Okay I like that.” and after a moment, “But we should try flying again when it isn’t so bumpy…” I smiled and put my head back. I love my pilot.