By Tucker Axum, EAA Lifetime 1418919
“Mine was born with feathers,” I emphasized to settle the dispute between my two pilot buddies who joined me for their maiden pilgrimage to Oshkosh. One evening, after surpassing 15,000 steps from touring the amazing EAA convention, we tossed logs on the fire and plopped into camping chairs. Over the crackling and popping of wood, we shared tales of when we were once student pilots. We debated who had the superior flight instructor — each thinking ours reigned supreme.
“He was born with feathers,” the air traffic controller had told me in 1999 when I toured the Lafayette, Louisiana, tower my freshman year in college. “He’s the only instructor I would consider if I were you. His name is Farrell.”
“As in a feral cat?”
The controller chuckled. “Oh no. He’s a true gentleman. Maybe it was his callsign. He flew fighter jets in the Air Force. You can find him at the FBO. He’s practically a fixture over there.”
I walked into the flight school and heard the hearty laughter of folks in the breakroom. I passed a hallway lined with shirttails tacked to the wall, where scribbled permanent markers outlined runways, doodled airplanes, and congratulatory messages to showcase initial solo flights. I rounded the corner and spotted a larger-than-life Mark Twain doppelganger wearing gray slacks and a dingy, button-down shirt adorned with coffee stains. He was 51 years old, but veteran pilots and mechanics in their 70s sat around him and oohed and aahed as he regaled them with stories. He held a ceramic mug in one hand and in the other a cigarette. Coffee and tobacco had stained brown what I imagined was once his trademark white mustache. It crossed my mind that his callsign might more appropriately be “Marlboro.” It seemed a cigarette was one of his appendages, and I later discovered he could smoke a pack with one match.
He politely excused himself from his fans and gave me his undivided attention. He was personable and eager to be of help. At age 18, I couldn’t have imagined how much this local legend would teach me about flying, or life for that matter. After his service in the Vietnam War, he returned to Louisiana to serve his community as a leader in the Civil Air Patrol, Gold Seal flight instructor, FAA Safety Counselor, check pilot for single and multi-engine aircraft, and a pioneer in bringing computerized testing to South Louisiana’s bayous.
He took a genuine interest in my flight goals. I had completed an accelerated ground school through the Sea Cadet Corps at the Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base in New Orleans. It was like drinking from a firehose, and though I had received an endorsement to take my written exam, I didn’t want to wing it. The objective was the highest grade possible. Farrell taught a night class and must have sensed I was a strapped college kid because he lent me an expensive Jeppesen textbook and invited me to audit his class. I accepted his offer and never skipped. Class ended around 8 p.m., but he and I would lean against his battered station wagon that was littered with maps and approach plates and converse for hours. If we ran out of things to say, we’d tilt our heads back and gaze at the stars — each silently wishing we were in the air. Looking back on it, he must have been exhausted. But he never let it show because jet fuel and kindness coursed through his veins. His generosity helped pave the way for me to pass my written test and become a successful aviator.
I attended university during the day and worked nights and weekends, which afforded me one or two flight lessons per month. I’m not sure how two husky men like us did it, but we crammed shoulder-to-shoulder into that snug “Sky Puppy” — his nickname for a Cessna 152, where the musty smell of sunbaked plastic, oil, and 100 low lead avgas greeted us.
“You better not spill my coffee,” he warned as he placed his chipped mug on top of the glare shield. It was full to the brim!
I looked nervously at him. Then he formed an ear-to-ear grin that put me at ease — like going on a countryside drive with a playful friend. Still, I taxied that 1985 airplane to the run-up area slowly — very slowly.
“Only one thing left to do,” he said when I finished the checklist. “Release the brakes.”
The way and tone in which he said it conveyed a deeper meaning. Of course we had to release the brakes for takeoff, but I believe he meant that as a rule for living. Get out of your comfort zone and experience something new because there’s no growth without change.
The most impactful lesson with Farrell was the day we were flying over rice and sugarcane fields. He instructed me to perform a short-field landing at Abbeville’s Chris Crusta Airport (KIYA), named after one of the area’s celebrated crop dusters. He told me to use the runway’s 1,000-foot marker to simulate the end of the runway.
“Roger,” I acknowledged, thinking I understood the lesson.
I applied full flaps on final approach and made incremental changes to stabilize my airspeed and rate of descent. I was higher than I wanted to be, but the approach was steady. I glided over the numbers and floated down the runway before flaring and making the smoothest landing. As a low-time student pilot, I was feeling ecstatic as we rolled past the painted white 1,000-foot marker on the runway.
“You just killed us,” he announced.
“What?” I glanced to my right in utter surprise. That was my best landing ever!
“When you realized you weren’t going to be able to land and stop within a thousand feet, I would have rather seen you execute a go-around.”
I felt a pit in my stomach, and the euphoria from that landing vanished. It was only a practice scenario, but the stakes in aviation are life and death. And I also regretted that I had disappointed him.
“As pilot in command, you have to take responsibility for the safety of your passengers, yourself, and the airplane.”
The teacher was right, and he wasn’t merely teaching me the science of flying, but also the art of aeronautical decision-making in order to manage risks. I would never forget that lesson. To this day, I never hesitate to go around when it doesn’t look and feel proper.
“Alright, let’s go try it again,” he said. He was reinforcing that flying involved challenges and setbacks, but you had to practice perseverance.
A week before my FAA checkride, Farrell and I flew over Opelousas (KOPL — “the spice capital of the world”) so he could drill me through the procedures the designated examiner would use to evaluate my abilities. After I performed all the maneuvers to his satisfaction, he handed me a pair of foggles to place over my eyes. All I saw were the steam gauges. He keyed the mic and asked ATC for an ASR. I had no idea that an ASR was a surveillance approach, but the controller started assigning me headings, airspeeds, and altitudes. This lasted for about ten minutes before she said: “Cessna 96790, you’re cleared to land.”
“Okay, remove the foggles,” Farrell instructed and reached over to collect them. When my eyes transitioned from the instruments to outside the cockpit, I was on final approach with the runway’s extended centerline. How cool! ATC and I had worked together for a safe approach by using communication and trust, which are the key ingredients for teamwork.
The wheels chirped and Farrell exclaimed, “Great job! After you pass your checkride next week, start working on your instrument rating. A good pilot is always learning.”
After I earned my private pilot certificate, I saw Farrell sitting on the bench that overlooked the general aviation ramp. The FBO owned the bench, but everyone referred to it as Farrell’s. He was doing what he loved: sipping Community coffee, puffing on a cigarette, and watching airplanes.
“The magic of flight is to be shared,” he said. “Take your friends and family up. Just don’t put ‘em all in the back seat.” He chuckled.
Twenty-five years have lapsed since I walked into that flight school and had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Farrell Skelton. His cheerful smile is forever etched in my memory, and his lessons still guide me inside and outside the airplane: service to others, kindness, release the brakes, take responsibility, persevere, teamwork, always keep learning, and share your success. Yep, I guess you could say all I really need to know about life, I learned from my flight instructor.
Tucker Axum, EAA Lifetime 1418919, is a federal law enforcement professional and New York Times bestselling author who lives near Washington, D.C. Visit TuckerAxum.com for more flying stories and to email him what your flight instructor taught you about life. PS: That Sky Puppy was exported to Hungary, and pilots in Budapest are wondering why coffee stains are everywhere!