Story and Photography By Donna Miller
About ten thousand hours ago (pilots understand this time frame, and this is a flying story after all), I found myself working as a civilian for the Air Force in Taegu, South Korea, while my then husband worked as a JAG officer at a nearby Army post. I had a nice office with a window from which I could see the runway. I watched the fighters take off and land, or do low approaches then pitch up wildly into the sky at the end of the runway. I came to enjoy this daily air show. Occasionally, one of the pilots would make his way into my office. I knew absolutely nothing about flying, and being naturally curious I began asking questions. I was told that I could take flying lessons in Osan. “Just go to the Aero Club and check into it.” “The Arrow Club?” I asked. He looked at me, surprised that I didn’t understand. “Yeah. The Aero Club.”
My reasons for wanting to learn to fly are different than most. It was winter and Koreans heated their homes with Ondol heaters. A yeontan is a large cylindrical brick made from the same substance as charcoal briquettes. In the Ondol heater, it turns the air sooty black, and Taegu was a huge city with a lot of heaters. I wanted to — no, needed to — get out. I learned that I could take a 20-minute taxi ride to the train station, a three-hour train ride to Pyeongtaek, a 50-minute bus ride, then walk the rest of the way to the place that would take me above the soot and out of the big city.
“Is this where I learn to fly?” I asked no one in particular, although there were four or five guys in the office who looked up when I came in from my five-hour trek. One of them came over and introduced himself as an instructor, Dan. “Yes. And here’s the most important thing you need to know: You have three cardinal head-ings and north is NOT one of them.” He looked at the others who all chuckled. Clearly, I had more to learn than I thought, because I didn’t get it.
Dan sat with me at a table and explained how the Aero Club worked. He unfolded a huge aeronautical chart and showed me where we were. I couldn’t help but notice the big red letters that read, “IF YOU FLY NORTH OF THIS LINE, YOU WILL BE SHOT DOWN.” “This line” was rather close to Dan’s pen mark at our air base. I see.
My first flight was pure magic. Our little Cessna lined up behind the fighters, and I felt like Maverick had nothing on me! We took off into the clear sky where the soot couldn’t reach us. The noise of the city gave way to the humming engine. My mind then split into two separate experiences. I could hear Dan explaining altitude and airspeed and headings and power settings, and at the same time I was marveling at the incredible view of the small peninsula, the huge river next to the incredibly long runway, and the pillowlike clouds. I noted the important landmarks that would keep us safe from the DMZ that separated us from North Korea. The story goes that the North Koreans had made good on their promise back in the ’70s, and an aero club aircraft came back with bullet holes.
The weekly 10-hour round-trip commute was worth the one-hour lesson. I became the poster child for the mandatory safety meetings held once a month. “If SHE can make it, YOU can make it!” the manager barked to the sleepy pilots who may have had a rough Friday night in “the Ville.”
I finally soloed and it was time for my long cross-country flight. To make the mandatory 50-mile legs on a small peninsula, my flight took on a star like pattern. Up and down while crossing the peninsula, I stopped at different airports to satisfy the requirement. The FAA examiner came from Hawaii twice a year to give the students their checkrides. You had to be ready or you would have to wait six months. I felt like an athlete trying to peak at just the right time. And I did.
With a pilot certificate in my pocket, the adventures really began. I sometimes became the target for training fighters who circled my plane just for fun. “That’s it. I’m going to guns!” I thought to myself. I would sometimes have to give way to “priority aircraft” that just might have been a U-2. I once landed at a civilian airport that I learned too late imposed a $70 landing fee. In order to avoid that which I couldn’t afford, I taxied over to base operations feeling quite smug, except that it was a Korean military base. I was met by the Korean military with M16 rifles pointed at my airplane, and confused expressions. What to do with a female American in a November-registered civilian aircraft that they weren’t expecting? I gave them all the American snacks I had in my bag, and they let me use their phone to file a flight plan to get home. Win-win!
After two years, it was time to leave Korea. We moved back to Germany where we had met. I settled into a job with Jeppesen in the Frankfurt office, and found that there was an Aero Club just 20 minutes down the autobahn (at 100 miles per hour). “That’s just perfect,” I thought. “Let the games begin.”