Heretofore we had been milling about behind the ropes which lined the field. At my suggestion we invited ourselves into the arena and looked about. I saw a man tagged “official” and asked my father to talk with him about instruction. I felt suddenly shy about making inquiries myself, lest the idea of a woman’s being interested in trying to fly be too hilarious a thought for the official.
My father was game; he even went so far as to make an appointment for me to have a trial hop at what was then Rogers Airport. I am sure he thought one ride would be enough for me, and he might as well act to cure me promptly.
Next day was characteristically fair and we arrived early on the field. There was no crowd, but several planes stood ready to go.
A pilot came forward and shook hands.
“A good day to go up,” he said, pleasantly.
My father raised an inexperienced eye to the sky and agreed. Agreeing verbally is as far as he went, or has ever gone, for he has not yet found a day good enough for a first flight.
The pilot nodded to another flyer. “He’ll go up with us.”
“Why?” I asked.
The pair exchanged grins. Then I understood. I was a girl—a “nervous lady.” I might jump out. There had to be somebody on hand to grab my ankle as I went over. It was no use to explain I had seen aeroplanes before and wasn’t excitable. I was not to be permitted to go alone in the front cockpit.
The familiar “contact” was spoken and the motor came to life. I suppose there must be emotion with all new experiences, but I can’t remember any but a feeling of interest on this occasion. The noise of the motor seemed very loud—I think it seems so to most people on their first flight.