A few years ago I looked up registries of airplanes I've flown, and something like half of them have been destroyed. I sat down and began to add up lists of friends, co-workers, and associates I've know who have been killed in airplanes, and stopped when I the numbers became too many to dwell on. I've flown from cold muddy scratches in the ground, been baked in cockpits so hot I couldn't hardly see for all the sweat, for months on end. I've had fires, structural failures, hydraulic failures, explosions on board, a right-seat rider with a heart attack, pneumatic failures, gear failures, control failures, instrument failures, electrical losses, failures, and fires, and a host of other experiences over the years.
No man lives who has enough cash to buy those experiences, nor could I trade them if such a person might exist. They're mine, and I value them for what I have learned about my craft, and most of all, about myself.
I have watched pilots die. I have put out burning airplanes. I have sifted through my priorities as I struggled for memory in intensive care following a parachute failure and an impact with a very unforgiving cliff. This past year I watched over and over the death of five more associates and co-workers whom I knew, with whom I'd flown, in airplanes I'd flown and knew well. Five more names added to a long silent list.
I've been separated from my kids for ten months at a stretch, denied the chance to see them learning to walk or talk. I've lived out of airplanes, lived in hangars, slept underwings and in cockpits. I've gone years with unending cuts on my fingers and hands and arms from safety wire and aluminum, burns on my knuckles from hot exhausts and bleed ducts, working on airplanes. I have fond memories of being eaten alive by mosquitoes during all night cylinder changing sessions, or of standing frozen on a tall ladder, lashed to an engine in 40 knot winds in freezing climates while trying to be meticulous about every detail on that engine.
I've seen the underside of powerlines as I slid under them, unable to go over (or unwilling to take the risk), and the topside of thunderstorms that hurled about more power than Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined. I've been knocked unconsious in an airplane, burned by one, run over by another. One hand doesn't move the same as the other after being broken and cut in an engine compartment at a time and place when medical help wasn't in the cards. My hearing has adapted to it's environment, it isn't the same as it was. Too much loud noise, too much vibration.
I've been sick in chemical as it's been sprayed on crops, sick in MEK while working on an airplane. Sick from fever while turning wrenches in the dead of winter on a job that just had to get out...miserable for the condition, but grateful for the work.
Any regrets? None, yet. Only that one day it will end.
Pick your poison.