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tried, flying, particularly my first solo, didn’t always go smoothly. Rushing down the runway in my small plane, I looked over to my instructor; his seat was empty. Only then did I remember that this was a solo. I was a bundle of nerves the entire flight, and my landing included three hair-raising bounces, as if I were a rubber ball. But I passed my test, and when I received my license, I felt great.
    I applied for admission to the United States Air ForceAcademy in Colorado Springs, Colorado, that fall. I was proud of my planning. The academy would further my dream of serving my country. Once I had my officer’s commission, it would be on to different air force flight schools for advanced training. My future was set—or so I thought. I had my congressman’s nomination to the academy and decent enough grades. My verbal SAT score, however, fell just short of the admissions requirement. There were no second chances. The United States Air Force Academy turned me down.
    I gave myself a pep talk, pretending the rejection didn’t matter, and in front of my parents I acted as if this setback were minor. My real goal was not the United States Air Force Academy, it was the United States Air Force, and I could always take ROTC courses at a regular college to earn my commission as an officer. But the truth was, my self-confidence had taken a beating. I was deeply disappointed because I had placed my hopes in being accepted to the United States Air Force Academy. Now that I had been rejected, I enrolled at my second-choice school, the University of Washington in Seattle.
    There I jumped from one area of study to another, changing my mind four times. I also joined a college men’s club called a fraternity, where I goofed off too much and didn’t get my schoolwork done. My ROTC courses were the only thing that meant anything. Duringthe second trimester of my sophomore year, without telling my family, I dropped out of school, made my way to Sun Valley, Idaho, and became a ski bum. This was one of the most unfocused periods of my life. I did finally get back to Seattle, and did reenroll at the University of Washington, but I still didn’t know what I was doing with my life. When I got together with my dad, I didn’t have to pretend otherwise with him. He just knew.
    “What do you want to do?” he asked calmly.
    “I want to fly,” I said.
    We had several discussions about my future, how to get my feet back on the ground—or in the air. Dad had always believed that there was more than one path to the same destination. A friend of his recommended that I apply to Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Daytona Beach, Florida. It wasn’t the United States Air Force Academy, but I could take ROTC courses and earn a degree in aeronautics, the science of flight and aircraft operation. I could also grab a lot of flying time and earn ratings in different aircraft. Embry-Riddle accepted me as a sophomore for the fall of 1986. When I was informed that its Florida campus was fully enrolled, I was disappointed but didn’t let the news stop me. There was still another path to take. Embry-Riddle has a smaller satellite campus in Prescott, Arizona.
    Prescott was a far cry from the snow-capped mountainsand green valleys of the Northwest or the partying atmosphere of Daytona Beach. It took some time to get used to the Southwestern desert and my new academic schedule. But I studied hard, did well in my major, aeronautical science, and put extra time into ROTC. The summer after my sophomore year, I had my first military experience, at Lowry Air Force Base in Denver, taking four weeks of field training that included a two-day survival course. Although it was only forty-eight hours, the survival course was intense. When our instructor showed us the joys of eating ants, I decided I’d rather go hungry.
    Back at Embry-Riddle I earned nine different flight ratings, from seaplane to commercial multiengine to glider to certified flight instructor. I