My Place In Space

I have to say the question I am always asked is how I got into flying in the first place. My
automatic response had been, "My father flew and so did my brother - being a tomboy it seemed to be the path to follow." But  I've come to realize it was more than that. 
My father, with the rugged good looks of a modern day George Clooney, embodied the glory of aviation and while he certainly inspired my love of flying, my own desire to become a pilot came from somewhere deep inside. It was pure and spontaneous.

Captain "Gus" Tiburzi

Try to be me for a moment and imagine the beauty of flying at an altitude of 30,000 feet with a stunning 270 degree view of three brewing thunderstorms while you are at the controls of a 400,000 pound beast of a machine, nimbly darting through layers of tumultuous atmosphere. While the instrument panels blink urgently with complex technical readings and meteorological data, you delicately steer the airplane around rumbling patches of flashing gray and purple clouds to the east, in full view of a crystal blue sky to the west all a flame with the orange glow of the setting sun. On all sides, in perfect harmony, the sky explodes with magnificent colors and electricity.  The mass of the plane and the force of the wind are both awesome. You and your airplane engage in a daunting dance with the heavens themselves, while back in the cabin, two hundred passengers, to borrow from T.S. Elliot, "talk of Michelangelo."

Years of training, exhausting concentration, huge responsibility - and what a view!

At the end of the day what you remember is the sheer thrill of soaring through the skies and the quieter joy of accomplishment. Your two co-pilots and you have just crossed an ocean together in a tightly orchestrated, silent camaraderie. 

Who wouldn't want to be part of that world?

It is hard to believe that more than forty years earlier, I admired the same sky from 30,000 feet below while lying on my back in our back yard as a child. My heart followed each plane across the expanse of the sky. Where were they going? How did it work? I was fascinated by the sight and sound of the majestic aircraft as they approached the little landing strip. Ponderously heavy on those tiny tricycle wheels, yet so light and elegant in the sky. 

PBY-5 Catalina 

When my Dad took me up for my first flying lesson he was tanned and unshaven just back from a long three months of flying a tadpole look-a-like twin-engine PBY-5 Catalina airplane for the Air Transport Command in the Amazon Jungle.  We were at Danbury Airport, a small two runway airfield nestled between rolling hills in northwestern Connecticut not far from our home.  I was only eleven years old when I felt the sky wrap around our small two-seater Cessna. It seemed as though the sky was holding us up, like the night holds the stars. 

From that day flying had become a part of who I was.