The Column: Boyhood was spent with high-flying dreams

Piper Cub? Cessna? Beechcraft Bonanza?

When any self-respecting boy of 13 was devoting himself to 1950s cheesecake photos in tabloid centerfolds, I was staying awake nights with Flying magazine.

Even the italicization of the title — the forward tilt of the letters suggesting takeoff — made me as woozy as any love-struck adolescent at the sight of burlesque beauties like Ann Corio or Tempest Storm, legs crossed and skirt heart-stoppingly hiked.

Had my mother burst into my tiny bedroom in Brooklyn and demanded, “What have you got there?” she would have found nothing more growth-stunting than articles on wind vectors and night landings. Strip show stars came later.

“Just airplanes, Mom. Nothing to worry about.”

I read few of the stories in Flying, but the covers alone were worth my weekly allowance.

Thanks to the internet, you can find vintage reminders.

A man in khakis and fishing cap standing, dockside, on the pontoon of a seaplane. A red-and-white Aero Commander parked in a farmer’s field as perplexed cows gaze across the meadow. A fellow sitting in a little lightplane on a grassy plot, sleeve rolled up, arm out the window, as casual as if he were at the drive-in ready to order a root beer float.

Soon, he’d be airborne, above the Earth, exactly where I wanted to be.

After pondering the cover of Flying, I began the serious business of checking full-page advertisements and choosing which aircraft I would buy when the time came.

This particular exercise was roughly the equivalent of my ardent Bay Ridge pals imagining a weekend at the Waldorf-Astoria with Tempest Storm. Here I was, a guy whose father could barely afford an automobile, pondering private aircraft? Really?

Years later, I discovered how unreachable were my boyhood dreams and not just because of money. Like the penguin, ostrich and steamer duck, I can’t fly.

Oh, I can board a commercial jet and be jammed into steerage with everyone else without bursting into tears during rough weather or screaming when marooned indefinitely on the tarmac. What I mean is, no matter the emergency, you wouldn’t want me near the controls. You would, to be blunt, want me strapped to my seat and restrained by air marshals.

My woeful aeronautical skills came to mind recently after an astounding but, ultimately, sorrowful, episode at Sea-Tac Airport in Seattle.

You may recall that a 29-year-old ground service worker was able to heist a 76-seat turboprop airliner and execute several difficult maneuvers before a catastrophic final dive. Authorities are unsure how the fellow — apparently intending suicide — managed to fly the plane. From the cockpit, he explained only that video games gave him all the know-how he needed.

This, I found remarkable.

Here’s why:

A few years ago, my wife, Wink, aware that I had not quite outgrown my flying fantasy, surprised me with a demonstration lesson at Republic Airport in Farmingdale.

I reported for duty at the appointed hour and was assigned a young man as instructor.

Patiently, he pointed out the essential instruments on a little plane much like the kind I had admired in Flying all those years ago.

He cranked up the engine, offered a few tips on taxiing and told me to head for the airstrip.

I was in trouble — pronto.  

On the ground, you do not maneuver a plane with a steering wheel. Instead, the instructor noted, you apply pressure on foot pedals. Otherwise, you will look like one of your grandchildren when, charmingly, the tyke earnestly spins the wheel on one of those coin-operated kiddie cars at an amusement park. Ha, ha, how cute. He thinks he’s steering!

“Sir, I’ll handle it,” said the nice young man, effortlessly getting us down the runway and into the air.

Aloft, I again took the controls. The instructor said to keep an eye on the dial indicating altitude. The idea is to go neither up, nor down. I did both.

“Er, let me help,” the instructor said.

It went along like that — beginner or not, I was hopeless — until at one point, the instructor, cried “Whoa!” as another plane passed below, evidently too close for comfort.

He landed the plane. Class was over.

I found Wink in the flight school office.

“You look pale,” she said.

“You should see the instructor.”

“Another lesson?”

“Thanks, anyway,” I sighed.

What a disappointment.

All those hours with Flying magazine and nothing to show for it.

Piper Cub? Cessna? Beechcraft Bonanza? Turns out, I should have spent nights with Ann Corio and done my best if Mom asked questions.