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I have loved airplanes for about 60 years, since my mother wrapped me in a blue blanket that had World War II-era fighter planes in red and blue around the edges.

I have read literally hundreds of books about flying. I traipsed across Australia and the South Pacific with Sir Frances Chichester, going along knuckles-white on his first solo across the Tasmanian sea. I roamed the skies and, saw the glorious Taj Mahal from 500 feet and participated in the beginnings of modern commercial airlines with Ernest K. Gann. I joined the Army Reserve and flew through the dust and sand in Saudia Arabia, Iraq and Kuwait, hugging the ground to avoid the SAMs. I read "Stick and Rudder" before it became a classic.

My love of flying was firmly fixed and I wanted to be a pilot. However, like so many, I let things like low-paying jobs as a journalist, a marriage and child, college spread out over 20 years, and a lot of other things interfere with my goal.

By the time I was approaching 60 years of age, I probably had as much time in the air as any non-pilot you will run into. But other than a couple of hours when a friendly pilot shared the controls with me in a Cessna 172, and another in a Stinson, I had never flown myself.

Finally, with no small amount of trepidation, I informed my wife that I thought we now could (almost) afford for me to fly and that I intended to take lessons. After the usual, lengthy discussions about safety and finances, I finally got "permission," and in June 2006, at the ripe old age of 60, started lessons.

I soon discovered that while my mind grasps the concepts about as quickly as it ever did, getting my slower physical reflexes to work in coordination with my mind was a bit challenging. But I progressed gradually and finally got to the big day of my first solo.

I had been well-prepared by a very patient instructor less than half my age, Eric Caderette. He felt I was ready and I felt I was ready. The big day dawned, a little windy for my taste, but a beautiful blue sky with historic Kennesaw Mountain in the near background as Eric endorsed my logbook and got out of the Cessna 152.

The taxi and radio work went very well and finally I heard those magic words, "Cessna 24884, cleared for takeoff." I pushed the throttle, rolled out and lined up on the centerline and applied full power. I was a pilot - I thought.

The takeoff, climb out and turns to downwind went very well. I even had a brief moment to look around and take it all in. I"m really flying, by myself. I'm a pilot!

The controllers knew it was a first solo, they promptly cleared me for touch-and-go in plenty of time to apply carb heat (it is a 152 after all), reduce to 1700 rpm and begin the descent.

The turn to base was on speed and at altitude, the turn to final looked good, flaps went down at the appropriate speed and place, and I was lined up well. I put in the last 10 degrees of flaps at the right time and was on short final looking good. Then, things came apart!

Did I mention that it was windy that day? Did I mention that there is a huge open-pit gravel mine just off the end of the runway which frequently makes the wind do strange things?

Just as I began to flare, I think I caught a gust. I got the plane half down on one wheel and canted to the left, and suddenly discovered there's grass over there!

I managed to get things sorted out short of the grass, but was pretty shaken by now. And my mind was behind the airplane. I found the centerline again - it was way over to the right - shut off the carb heat and applied power for takeoff.

Did you notice I left something out? Yep, in my now muddled frame of mind, I forgot to raise the flaps! The prop wash hit the flaps and all of a sudden there was grass ahead of me again.

Training kicked in, I pulled the throttle, but I was even more shaken. By this time, I was half-way down the runway and decided I had done enough stupid things for one day and calmly (you can seem calm in situations like this if you've been shot at a few times around the world) called the tower and told them I'd decided to make this one a full-stop.

So my first solo consisted of one bad landing and one aborted takeoff. I'm not a pilot.

I went over it in detail with Eric and asked him for a full evaluation of whether he thought I might be too old for this. He was very nice and said, no we would work through things. We tried to find a time on both our schedules where I could try it again, with him in the right seat for the first couple of landings until I got my confidence back.

Not as easy as it sounds. One day I could fly, but he couldn't. Another day when he could, I would have just finished a drive of five or six hours and would be tired. I passed on that day and he boosted my confidence a great deal by telling me: "You can do this, you make good decisions."

I thought about the "good decisions" comment for awhile. I had made a good decision to park the plane after the single first solo landing and aborted takeoff. I definitely was too shaken to continue. I made a good decision about not trying it again after a long drive. I made a good decision in asking Eric to go with me for the first couple of landings next time.

As it turns out, by the time I could get out again, Eric couldn't accompany me, but I was feeling better about things. So, slightly less than two weeks after my first first-solo, I tried it again.

Everything went well this time. There was no wind. I made three good landings (hey, three out of four is not too bad), and I didn't break anything on the one not-so-pretty landing. And I loved every moment of it!

Finally, I'm a pilot. And it only took two first-solos to get it right. My only question is do I count Dec. 5 as my first solo - as my logbook says - or Dec. 18 when I finally got it right? By the way, between the 5th and 18th, I turned 61.

I probably have a few more good years of flying left in me. And I'm going to love every moment of slipping those surly bonds. The reality is just as good as the dream!

Article by Warren B. Causey; Send him an email