It's not every day that you get to witness the birth of a child. Unless you are a Doctor or Nurse the experience can be quite overwhelming. My son was born this year of the New Millenium on it's first day at around ten in the morning. The second baby born in Portland, OR on that day. We got a nice gift basket and some party hats from the Hospital. They let us keep the boy too. Six pounds and nine ounces of bald, wrinkled, alien looking baby looked up at me with a confused gaze, and then cried. The Doctor said he was just trying to clear his lungs and work out the Merconium he had taken into his system during the birth, but I think he was just upset. His world had changed.

I was born the Grandson of Pilots who fought in the Second World War, and who tried every day of my early life to get me interested in flying. They threw model airplanes at me, magazine articles, stories...you name it. Neither of them flew anymore so they resorted to brainwashing instead of taking me up in the air. I finished my high school education and set off to enlist in the United States Air Force. My grades weren't good enough, and the English portion of my SAT scores held me back from the hopes of any scholarships that would allow me the chance to attend University. You see I just didn't care about prepositions or verbs or personifications by definition. I'd been writing abstract poetry for so long that I'd forgotten how to write a sentence.

But off I went. June 18th, 1991 I arrived at Lackland AFB, San Antonio, TX. I'm not sure if I joined because of tradition, because I had no where else to go, or because there was something I needed to do. I know that I wouldn't be the man I am today if it weren't for the Military. Then again I know that if I hadn't gotten out when I did my life would not be the same. I would not have witnessed the birth of my Son. Some would say it would've happened any way; that fate dictates our paths. That God almighty has the adventure already laid out for us. If that's the case then God set out a whopper for me.

Broken back, blown out knees, married and divorced then married again. Broke, busted and revived, loss of family, loss of horses, dogs, cats, friends...you name it. Music has revolved around the entire thing; probably what has held me together, but a quote I read recently stated that '..once you've flown you can't stop staring at the sky...' or something like that any way. Research has never been a strong point for me.

'...you can't stop staring at the sky...'

Born in 1973 in Aurora, IL I've returned to the Midwest from Portland for a six month contract. The military taught me a lot of things about computers and telecommunications, and for the last 5 years I've spent my time traveling around the country helping folks solve their problems. From computer networks to phone systems; cups and strings I call them. It's been too easy for me.

When I got my first assignment in the Air Force it was to Cheyenne Mountain AFB, in Colorado Springs, CO, USA. Head Quarters NORAD. Peterson AFB was the HQ for Space Command and the Host base for all personnel assigned to Cheyenne. A friend told me about the Aero-Club and how you could get your private pilot's license dirt cheap from retired test pilots who've taken on teaching at the club to pass their days in the sky. I jumped at the chance to learn from some of the best around. My first flight was the clincher. Prime the engine, set the throttle, fuel mixture set for six thousand feet, "CLEAR!!!" master switch on, ignition...'...chug...chug...chug.......VVVROOM!!!......." The Cessna 172E (T-41A) was alive and ready. The vibrations soothed my body and sent sensations of pure joy through my veins.

I started the regiment of three days a week while attending ground school at the same time. I traded off between two instructors to get two different points of view and because I wanted to fly soo much RIGHT NOW!! After seven flights I went up for my solo. "Colorado Springs, Cessna 5754 Foxtrot STUDENT PILOT FIRST SOLO requests northeast to practice area..."

"screech blurb sqwauk waaa waaa waa waaa......." The tower responds with perfect Charlie Brown Teacher delivering headings, altitude, etc. and a 'Good Luck.' I listen into ground control as they clear a path for me announcing 'student pilot first solo' headed for 35R. I've got the entire field rooting for me and clearing traffic all around. I felt so special. Little did I know they were getting everybody out of the way so I wouldn't get hurt, crash, burn, take someone with me; you name it. You see a week before, a 'student pilot first solo' had flipped at the end of 35R. He'd taxied to close to the end of the runway while a C-9 Nightingale doing touch and goes threw off some nasty wing tip vortices to cause major damage to the plane, and only minor damage to the pilots ego. I was the first solo since then. Sure enough, right on schedule here comes the C-9 and I'm at the end of 35R when I hear the tower ordering me to execute a 180 and move 300 yards away from 35R back down the taxi way. A little protective, but I didn't complain; complied, executed the requested maneuver and protected my airplane. I flew, touched, went, final stopped and had the back of my shirt cut out in front of USAF test pilots retired and felt like I belonged. After twenty some odd hours of flight later I got transferred to Onizuka Air Station, California, and I hadn't flown since. I never finished my license. Not a day has gone by since then that I haven't looked up in the air to hear the churning of a Mooney, or the humming of a Piper that I've wanted to try and finish what I started. I remember one of my instructors at Peterson saying to me..."Jason, if you don't finish it now, you never will..." I defied him on the spot and said that I would. The student without a teacher left for six years of life and maturity to bring us up to the present time.

So here I am in Illinois, making a good living. My family is with me, and we've set up camp for six months. My wife has given me permission to look at possible airplanes to buy and I've been hitting the Internet pretty hard in search of the right one. There are several services to look at that provide planes in all forms and sizes, configurations and price ranges. Days go by looking at Cessna, Piper, Mooney, Beech, experimental craft, Citabria, and then there it was. Globe Swift GC-1B for sale; 1946 low wing monoplane, single engine, retractable gear, fixed pitch prop, fully restored with a O-300 engine rated at 145HP. Polished aluminum and a blue stripe down the side N3333K stared at me with a smile through it's original cowling. I stared confused at the computer screen.

My mind raced back to the point after my Son's birth when he stared at me confused and then cried. MY life had changed. I felt a tear slide down my cheek and I noticed a fire building in my stomach. "I want to fly."

I went home. I took the rest of the day off and just sat in my chair playing my guitar and trying to calm my nerves. For two weeks I didn't talk about it, I tried to ignore it but it would not go away. I was infected. I am infected. I have AIDS.......Aircraft Deficiency Syndrome. Where I lack in research before I excel now. I pound the Internet looking up everything I can on the Globe/TEMCO Swift. The takeovers, the poor financial practices, the death of a beautiful plane, Richard Collins and Flying Magazines report on the "Miserable" thing and the owners responses. I even looked up FAA flight records for history on the craft and usage. I found the Buckaroo. I found Swiftparts in Athens, TN and then the Swift Foundation. BUT!! The kicker of them all; Richard Bach. Passionately I had read his books while I was in bed recovering from my motorcycle accident. My back in shambles, my future in question. He wrote of flying and life and discovery. He wrote of love and loss. Right there on the Globe Swift homepage was a story by Richard Bach. I decided to tell my wife.

The following was her response......

"It only has two seats......" uh-ohh......

"what about Jonas and I......" oh no......

"is it really practical......" help.

Gently, softly, and like a true loving companion that she is she let me come down slowly...the tear from my eye as my life, confused and changing again wants to return to the wondrous dream I'd been living in; streaking across the country in my little plane. But she soothes me.

She lets me take a hundred dollars out of the account and place a call to the International Swift Foundation to purchase a ticket. Number 452...a chance. A one in four hundred ninety five chance to have my dream. I suppose she thinks that if we don't have to buy it than it's ok not to be practical. That I'll get another plane so we can all travel together. I wouldn't mind. From no plane, to two planes wouldn't be bad.

I wait. I watch minutes creep by on my watch until the 27th of May, 2000 when the raffle is held for MY plane. I'm flying again. My instructor is hopeful I should be checked out and my ticket will be complete in a couple of weeks. I'll try to find my old instructor from Colorado and send him a picture. I may even send him the second T-Shirt that was cut out to commemorate my second 'Student Pilot First Solo.'

At that point I'm going to start right in on a Citabria. The club I'm flying with has a retired Air Force Pilot that teaches the stick and rudder ways of old. (if you can find 'em use 'em). Besides I have to be ready for my re-birth; as a Swift,

"all-metal, two-place, low-wing, retracting-gear monoplane. Design G 7.35 positive, 3 negative. Gross weight 1.710 pounds, wingspan just under 30 feet, height just over six ..."

Thanks, Richard.