By Tucker Axum
At the end of the runway in Mombasa, Kenya, I turned and looked at my friend
Duncan. He had never been in an airplane before, and his smile told me everything I needed to know.
I gave him a thumbs-up and then pushed the throttles forward. The two engines came
alive, producing a combined 440 horsepower, and we accelerated down the runway.
Duncan had spent his entire life with his feet planted firmly on Kenyan soil. Now, for
the first time, he was about to see his homeland from the sky.
I had made him a promise, and I was finally keeping it.
Aviation had already taken me farther than I could have imagined when I earned my
pilot certificate on America’s Independence Day in 2001. Like most new pilots, I thought of flying in terms of airplanes, airports, destinations, and hours in a logbook. But aviation’s greatest rewards often have very little to do with the airplane.
A decade after earning my wings, my work with the U.S. government repeatedly took
me to Kenya. By my ninth assignment there, the country no longer felt entirely foreign.
Neither did Duncan Karanja. He was 28 years old and a member of the Kikuyu tribe.
Officially, he was my driver. Unofficially, he was my Swahili teacher, cultural adviser,
and friend. Somewhere along the way, I learned that Duncan had never flown. For a pilot,
that’s an invitation almost impossible to ignore. I told him that someday I would take him up. Duncan made sure I understood that he intended to hold me to it. And he should have. A man’s word ought to mean something, whether you’re in the United States or Kenya.
The problem was finding an airplane. Renting a plane in Mombasa wasn’t as simple
as walking into the local FBO and asking for the keys. But rarely are things impossible. I
eventually found a 1975 Piper Seneca to rent.
Under the relentless Kenyan sun, Duncan and I walked around the faded
orange-and-white twin. The airplane wore its years proudly. Inside, the upholstery’s brilliant reds, purples, and blues were reminiscent of the traditional clothing of the Maasai.
As I taxied us toward the runway, armed Kenyan soldiers stood along the taxiway.
President Mwai Kibaki was visiting Mombasa, and his aircraft sat nearby on the ramp, the
Kenyan flag displayed prominently on the fuselage.
It made an already unusual flight feel even more extraordinary. But I wasn’t thinking
much about the president. I was thinking about the man in the airplane with me.
At the departure end of the runway, I looked at Duncan. His face held that
unmistakable combination every pilot recognizes in a first-time passenger: excitement
battling nervousness. He then smiled and nodded.
I advanced the throttles and the Seneca surged forward, the engines roaring as we
gathered speed. The tires left the runway and Mombasa began falling away beneath us.
Duncan was flying.
We leveled at 500 feet and crossed the bustling seaport. Below us were warships,
commercial tankers, the Kenyan naval base, and the city of Mombasa spreading toward the coastline.
I banked south, and the city gave way to beaches and the Indian Ocean. From our low
altitude, we could see turquoise coral beneath the surface. Fishermen worked below us,
casting traditional nets into the water. Resorts dotted the shoreline while the Kenyan coast stretched ahead.
It was the kind of view pilots can sometimes begin to take for granted. Then I glanced
at Duncan. His head moved constantly from one window to the other, trying to absorb
everything at once. For his entire life, he had known this place from roads, villages, beaches, and city streets. Now he was seeing home from an entirely new perspective.
Eventually, he caught me looking at him. He raised both thumbs, then immediately
turned back toward the window. I smiled and faced forward again.
There are moments as a pilot when you know, even while they’re happening, that
you’ll remember them long after you’ve forgotten the number on the Hobbs meter. This was one of them.
All flights eventually return to earth. After landing, Duncan climbed out of the
airplane exhilarated. He raised a fist and thanked me, calling me rafiki. But what stayed with me most was what he said next.
“I will never forget you!”
The feeling was mutual. I’ve flown many hours since that afternoon in Kenya. I’ve
owned an airplane and experienced adventures that the teenager who first dreamed about aviation could never have anticipated.
Some flights occupy a line in a logbook. Others become part of your life. Duncan's first flight did both.
You don’t have to fly halfway around the planet or skim the coast of Africa to find
that kind of adventure. Sometimes it begins much closer to home—with an empty seat and someone who has never experienced the world from above.
Wherever your next flight leads, pilot your own adventure.
–
Tucker Axum is a New York Times bestselling author whose writing explores adventure,
friendship, and extraordinary experiences both inside and outside the cockpit. He teaches a writer’s workshop at EAA AirVenture and believes the best entries in a logbook are often the stories behind the hours. Learn more at www.tuckeraxum.com.