OM 6 - Contrary to popular belief...
6 - Contrary to popular belief...
...there really is room for a second person in a Viper cockpit. Enough room, that is, if the other person isn't any older than three or four.
I was three and a half the first time I saw space from behind something thinner than the Galactica's windows, the first time I even saw the old battlestar from the outside. The whole thing was reckless, very ill-advised, and just about the coolest thing in the entire universe.
My Dad, it's no surprise, didn't tell my Mom what he was thinking of doing. In fact, the way he tells the story, he didn't even think about it anywhere near her, because every now and then, she seemed to read guilty thoughts right off his face. Nope, it was a total conspiracy between him, Grandpa and Chief Tyrol. Somehow they managed to jury-rig a flightsuit for me and a way to tie a second harness to the pilot's webbing. The helmet was the worst part, though. It stayed on, and I could mostly see out of it, which was about as good as it could get.
I knew nothing about it, either, which was the point. Dad and Grandpa couldn't stop smiling as I managed to wriggle my way into the makeshift gear. My father climbed into the cockpit of his Mark VII, and I got hauled in after him. A lot of the details of this moment I've put together from other people's stories, but one thing I know I clearly remember was putting my hand down on the nameplate, the one reading, "COL. LEE ADAMA - 'APOLLO'".
Somehow, Dad managed to put on his own helmet and see around mine to finish the preflight checklist and work the controls. My only instructions were to keep my hands off of anything, especially if it blinked, and to enjoy the view.
I also definitely remember the crack of my helmet hitting my father's when the launch tube punched us into space. Sorry, Dad.
No stunts, no fancy aerobatic maneuvers. Dad made a couple of lazy circles around the Galactica while I oohed and aahed and probably asked a million questions in the fifteen minutes we were out there.
It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, and I doubt anything will ever compare to how it felt, that very first time. That was the moment that I totally got it, that I understood why Dad still kept a Viper under his name, and why he took it out for a spin every chance he could find or make. I understood why the pilots were always talking about flying, and why Dad was so proud the day that Mom got her wings.
And I understood later that even though he got a really huge thrashing from Mom over taking me out that day, Dad still did the same with Anne a year later.
The plan, I think, is that in a couple of months once the cadet officers are checked out on Basic Flight for the Raptors, I'll finally get back in the cockpit of a Viper, this time solo. Maybe it'll be the same kind of feeling, but I doubt it. I can't wait to find out.
(535)
...there really is room for a second person in a Viper cockpit. Enough room, that is, if the other person isn't any older than three or four.
I was three and a half the first time I saw space from behind something thinner than the Galactica's windows, the first time I even saw the old battlestar from the outside. The whole thing was reckless, very ill-advised, and just about the coolest thing in the entire universe.
My Dad, it's no surprise, didn't tell my Mom what he was thinking of doing. In fact, the way he tells the story, he didn't even think about it anywhere near her, because every now and then, she seemed to read guilty thoughts right off his face. Nope, it was a total conspiracy between him, Grandpa and Chief Tyrol. Somehow they managed to jury-rig a flightsuit for me and a way to tie a second harness to the pilot's webbing. The helmet was the worst part, though. It stayed on, and I could mostly see out of it, which was about as good as it could get.
I knew nothing about it, either, which was the point. Dad and Grandpa couldn't stop smiling as I managed to wriggle my way into the makeshift gear. My father climbed into the cockpit of his Mark VII, and I got hauled in after him. A lot of the details of this moment I've put together from other people's stories, but one thing I know I clearly remember was putting my hand down on the nameplate, the one reading, "COL. LEE ADAMA - 'APOLLO'".
Somehow, Dad managed to put on his own helmet and see around mine to finish the preflight checklist and work the controls. My only instructions were to keep my hands off of anything, especially if it blinked, and to enjoy the view.
I also definitely remember the crack of my helmet hitting my father's when the launch tube punched us into space. Sorry, Dad.
No stunts, no fancy aerobatic maneuvers. Dad made a couple of lazy circles around the Galactica while I oohed and aahed and probably asked a million questions in the fifteen minutes we were out there.
It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, and I doubt anything will ever compare to how it felt, that very first time. That was the moment that I totally got it, that I understood why Dad still kept a Viper under his name, and why he took it out for a spin every chance he could find or make. I understood why the pilots were always talking about flying, and why Dad was so proud the day that Mom got her wings.
And I understood later that even though he got a really huge thrashing from Mom over taking me out that day, Dad still did the same with Anne a year later.
The plan, I think, is that in a couple of months once the cadet officers are checked out on Basic Flight for the Raptors, I'll finally get back in the cockpit of a Viper, this time solo. Maybe it'll be the same kind of feeling, but I doubt it. I can't wait to find out.
(535)