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my element. Whether taking rugged hikes or learning night navigation by the stars, I had such a great time I was sorry when it was time to leave.
    Back at home, if not palling around with my brother and sister or kids in the neighborhood, I spent time with my dad. Knowing my interest in sports and things mechanical, he gave me advice one fall when I built my own race car to enter in the local Soap Box Derby. I didn’t win, but I was fascinated with the idea of how fast I could make a car go. Speed, in fact, was getting into my blood. When my dad later took the family on vacation, we went to the famous Cyclone roller coaster on Coney Island in Brooklyn. I jumped into the front row and threw my hands fearlessly into the air with every terrifying plunge. I don’t know how many rides I took before I was dragged off under protest. Later I became a black-diamond alpine skier, fearless no matter how icy or steep the slope in front of me.
    With the fascination by speed came a deeper interest in sports, and with sports came competition. Whether it was soccer or football or skiing, I was never the type to be envious or jealous of those who had more talent. But I did like to compete against myself, setting goals and then pushing myself to do better. One winter, on a family vacation at Snowmass, Colorado, I learned that you couldearn a gold medal by trying a particularly challenging run and then entering your time against other skiers. My first attempt was okay, but nowhere near as fast as others my age. There was no limit on how many times you could make the run, so I did it over and over—maybe ten times altogether—until I was satisfied with my time. I came back with the silver medal, not the gold, but what was important was that I had tried my best. Later, when I became interested in high-powered rifles and entered several competitions for marksmanship, any trophies I took home were nice, but the endless hours of practice and sharpening my skills gave me the most pleasure.
    When I was around fourteen, on my first flight with my dad since our trip to Catalina, we flew a straight-tail Beechcraft Bonanza to Kalispell, Montana, for duck hunting. In the middle of the flight, as we passed over towering crags and peaks, Dad turned to me in the copilot’s seat. In the most casual of voices he suggested I take the controls for a few minutes. After overcoming my shock, I forgot the scenery and wrapped my hands around the steering yoke. That was when I realized I had been wanting to take control all along.
    The trust my dad showed in me by putting me in control of the plane was as important as the thrill of piloting it. As wild and headstrong as I could sometimes be, my parents, particularly my dad, rarely lost their patience. And they never lost their faith in me. As long asmy activity was reasonably safe, they let me do whatever I wanted. And no one lectured me when I made mistakes, as long as I learned from them and took pride in what I did.
    Pride, in fact, was the glue that held the O’Grady family together. My father’s mother had come over from Ireland without a penny and worked menial jobs to get by. She married a New York City policeman, and together they raised a family through difficult times. On my mother’s side, my grandfather was the oldest of five children. After his father died, he supported the whole family with odd jobs—I don’t think he was even a teenager yet. Later he put himself through college and medical school and became one of Brooklyn’s first children’s heart specialists. As if that weren’t enough work, he and my grandmother also raised nine children, including two doctors, two teachers, an engineer, and three business professionals. Hard work, patriotism, a belief in oneself, and support for each other—those are the core O’Grady values.
    Besides being patriotic, my dad was something of a historian. When our family moved from one coast to another, or just took a cross-country car trip, Dad never