I suppose it's time for another post.

My Christmas break was gently relaxing, lazy, and a time of rest and peace. However, I did have one very unexpected adventure. It went a little something like this:

     At 400 feet and dropping, the flying tin can was handling nicely. It was like a skater on the ice; calm, soothing, with only the slightest atmospheric feather-ruffles to remind us that, yes, we were still functioning in reality, and no, we couldn't stay in the heavens forever. No wonder the beasts of the air are intoxicated with life, dancing lazily above the world of those ever-burdened men.

"71 fox turning final, runway 3-6"

     Dad's call rang through my headset with that distant, metallic tone that I only hear while traveling as the birds. As we neared ground-level, the plane jerked and shifted, like a grumpy sleeper tossing in the rays of the morning sun. But for fuel, I would've been content to hit the snooze and drift as the clouds a little longer yet.

"Aaron, you know we're missing our right brake."

     My mind processed Dad's comment. He wasn't worried. He was in control. During pre-flight, I wasn't anxious either. Who needs a brake in the air? But traveling at 100 miles per hour in a mass of aluminum skin, steel cables and electrical avionics, I was slammed with the reality that at some point, I would like to get off the ride, please. I prayed we wouldn't make the next day's headlines.

     As the plane glided over the runway, a river of gray asphalt rushed violently below my feet. The plane seemed to hover, like a diver hung in the suspense of an ocean. Then, suddenly and smoothly, touchdown. Rolling to a stop, i breathed a sigh of relief. Dad was right. Nothing to worry about. There would be a tomorrow, after all.

But it wasn't over yet.

Skillfully guiding the Cessna-172 down the taxi-way, dad made an interesting discovery. Our trusty eagle stubbornly refused to turn to the right. We were stuck.

"You'll have to get out and swing the tail to the left. Just push down and walk. It's not heavy, son."

Okay, I thought. Nothing to it. Just push down and walk.

     As I clambered out of the cramped quarters of the plane, the wind from the prop blasted me in the face. Strangely, I felt a moment of elated idealism; this, I thought, is what it feels like to be free. My hair was blowing about wildly, my breath taken away. The first pioneer aviators were heroes, I thought, heroes whose hearts were contented not with the complacency of land-dwelling but with the lonesome freedom of the air. The same wind that was blowing my spirit into wonder blew theirs into passion. Oh, the joy of the adventurous unknown.

I walked around to the tail, and -one, two, three- pushed with all my might!
It didn't budge.

    Now what? I thought. So -one, two, three- PUSH!!!
Nothing doing. That plane wasn't moving.

   Panicky, I scampered around to the pilot-side window. Dad's face was concerned but not desperate, like a lion watching his young miss his first kill. Sheepishly embarrassed, I just pointed gave a half-hearted shrug. There was nothing else I could do.

    With a sputter and a cough, our grounded eagle lost the spark of life. Dad clambered out of the pilot's seat, jogged around to the rear, and in one deft motion spun the whole plane around. It took him 20 seconds what I had tried to accomplish in twice that time. Now I was just plain humiliated.

Climbing back into our seats, I gave dad a sideways glance of clumsy shame. I had no idea what he would say.

But I had no need to worry. He just looked me in the eye, grinned, and said, "That is what happens when you only way 130 pounds. Get some meat on ya, boy."


And that is the end of my Christmas-break moment of excitement. We parked the plane without further incident, and learned that perhaps a missing break is a show-stopper, after all.

The air is still my soul-calming palace of endless dreams.