With the checklist completed, we taxied up to the runway and radioed again, this time on a different frequency, 118.5 MHz. "Hanscom Tower, Cessna Seven Three Four Yankee Alpha, full length runway Two Niner, requesting straight out departure."

"Cessna Four Yankee Alpha, hold short, landing traffic," came the quick and firm reply. "Hold short" is aviation talk for "Hey, dude, stay off the runway!"

Mike told me to confirm our compliance: "Four Yankee Alpha, holding short." One of the biggest causes of accidents is "runway incursions" where two airplanes try to occupy the same piece of pavement at the same time. To emphasize the point, Mike directed my attention to another Cessna coming in for a landing. It flew right in front of us and made a smooth landing. The radio crackled, "Cessna Four Yankee Alpha, Runway Two Niner, taxi into position and hold."

"Four Yankee Alpha, position and hold, runway Two Niner," I said, with Mike's coaching. Now, we were in position, waiting for the other Cessna to clear. Finally, the Tower said, "Cessna Four Yankee Alpha, cleared for takeoff, straight out departure approved."

As I pushed the throttle to full, I stepped on the right rudder pedal to compensate for the torque and maintain a straight path down the middle of the runway. We accelerated and then we were airborne. "Wow," I thought.

And then, as we climbed higher and higher, it all came back to me. My very first flight had been years earlier, when I was only 11. My dad had belonged to something called The Stick and Rudder Club, organized by Mr. Gibbs, who lived across the street from us in Westbury, Long Island. One day I noticed an envelope on the table from the club and asked my dad about it. He described the club and asked me if I'd like to come along sometime. "Sure!" I said.

The next Sunday, we headed out to Zahn's Field where we met Mr. Gibbs. He showed me the club's airplane, which was a small, blue, fabric-covered, taildragger with two seats called a Piper "J3" Cub. He put me in the front seat and got into the back. He showed me how to work the big control stick coming up from the floor and how to push the rudder pedals. I started to understand where the club had gotten its name. The throttle control was on the left sidewall.

When my dad yelled, "contact," Mr. Gibbs replied "contact". My dad pulled down hard on the propeller blade once or twice and the engine fired. "Wow, how great is this!" I remember thinking. Mr. Gibbs taxied us to the active runway, turning left and right as we went in order to see what was in front of us. Finally, we turned onto the runway and Mr. Gibbs pushed the throttle full forward. I felt the surging of the engine and the acceleration as we rolled down the runway. We were flying far sooner than I'd expected.

With every passing moment, it felt all the more magical. The houses, the cars, the people, and everything else on the ground grew smaller and smaller. When we leveled off, Mr. Gibbs demonstrated what he called straight and level flight. He told me that was the hardest thing for new pilots to master. Then he showed me how to make gentle turns to the left and right, pulling back slightly on the stick during the turn in order to maintain the same altitude.