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Fayetteville, and then back home to Raleigh-Durham. I drew a line for the route on a map and marked mile ticks (short dashes) and minute ticks out from the line. The mile ticks, labled, were on one side of the route line, and the minute ticks on the other. Since I was cruising at around one hundred miles an hour and thus over a mile a minute, the minute ticks were farther apart along the route than the mile ticks.
    I took off, flew to Wilson, landed, and took off again, having determined that at about eight minutes after my last checkpoint on this leg of the flight I would see the little airport near Fayetteville. What I didn’t know was that I’d confused the minutes and miles written on my flight-planning card, a card that summarized the information written on my map. It wasn’t eight
minutes
after that lastcheckpoint that I’d arrive; it was eight
miles
—and
five
minutes.
    At about two miles short of my airport (I thought), I started looking, not realizing that it was a mile or so behind me.
    I got on my radio and called the airport to let them know I’d be landing shortly.
    Nobody answered. So far, no air-to-ground radio call of mine had gone unanswered.
    And when I thought the airport should be directly under me, I could see
no
airport
anywhere.
I looked at my map and then back out at the ground. Nothing matched up. I was sweating. I looked from ground to map. There on my map was a racetrack. I looked all about the earth beneath me for a racetrack. None. I searched on the ground out in front of me, looking for anything that resembled an airport. Perhaps I wasn’t there yet . . . but . . . okay, okay. I saw a runway—three runways, and . . . I pulled my power back to set up a glide. Thank goodness. Now, Mr. Vaughn had warned me that to the west of the Fayetteville airport was Fort Bragg Army base, but . . . wait . . . were those . . .
army tanks?
Yes! And
big guns!
    I turned east, added power, started climbing, then called the little airport again.
    Someone answered!
    “Yes, Cherokee Four Four Seven Charlie,” said the voice. “Our airport’s at eleven miles from the Fayetteville VOR—that’s channel one two two—on the one-eight-seven-degree radial.”
    “Roger,” I said.
    Of course. That’s how I should have been looking for the little airport once I got lost. I tuned in the Fayetteville VOR. An instrument on the panel in front of me would tell me exactly how far and in which direction I was from any station I could pick up. Okay. Okay. Okay. All I had to do was . . .
    “Cherokee Four Four Seven Charlie, what’s your location?”
    “This is Cherokee Four Four Seven Charlie. I’m south of the Fayetteville VOR at, uh, twenty-three miles.”
    “Roger, Cherokee. Travel inbound toward the station on a heading of about three zero zero degrees, intercept the one-eight-seven-degree radial, head inbound, and at eleven miles out, we’ll be under your nose. Give me a call when we’re in sight.”
    “Roger.”
    I was relieved. The miles ticked down on the instrument that was saving my life. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen. At twelve miles I looked frantically below the nose. Yes, there it was, just ahead!
    “Fayetteville,” I said into my radio, “this is Cherokee Four Four Seven Charlie. I have your runway in sight and I’m landing. Numbers, please.”
    “Roger, Cherokee. Landing runway zero niner. Winds zero eight zero at ten. No reported traffic in the area.” (The designation 09 refers to the direction the runway is pointed—in this case, east: 090 is east, 180 is south, 270 is west, and 360 is north.)
    Before-landing check. Okay. Complete. No rush.Mr. Vaughn said to fly over the airport to get my bearings before landing.
    I looked at each end of the runway below. There was a big 18 on one end and a big 36 on the other. Was I crazy? Was the world coming to an end? There was no runway 09 down there!
    “Fayetteville, this is Cherokee Four Seven, uh, Four Four Seven, and I’m—I’m above your