父亲的再一次飞行

父爱如山，父亲严厉的叮咛饱含着深沉的爱，父亲用宽厚的肩膀为我们撑起成长的一片天——

My earliest memories are of pointing to the sky, having detected the far-off drone of a piston engine. Dad had been a pilot since before I was born. He flew a pea-green Cessna 172 from Rialto Municipal in Southern California. I can remember with crystal clarity those lazy Saturday afternoons at the airport, helping him push back the big hangar doors and leaning my small weight against the airplane’s struts as he pulled it into the sun.

I read him checklists, learning words like “aileron,” “magnetos,” and “pitot” that no one else in my first-grade class knew. I drew airplanes and helicopters all over every piece of paper I could find, proudly telling Dad that I was going to grow up to be a “helicopter designer.” I went to the library, looked up the addresses of every aircraft manufacturer I could think of, and sent them packets of drawings. (Grumman was the only one that responded, with a very nice letter and some glossy 8-by-10-inch photos of fighters.)

But, as a teenager, I had “better” things to do than hang out at the airport. I turned down invitations to fly out for breakfast—that would require getting up too early on weekend mornings. Eventually, I graduated from high school and moved away for college, beginning to build my life in a new city. I saw Dad less and less frequently. He talked occasionally about flying out to visit me, but then he fell ill and sold the plane. At 75 years of age, he was grounded.

Over the next few years his health deteriorated further. He lost weight, and his energy flagged. When I did see him, he often sat slumped in his chair in a defeated pose I’d never encountered before.

And then, one morning, I got the call that the ambulance had come in the middle of the night to take him away. I rushed to the hospital and met, for the first time, a thin, sad figure that I hardly recognized as my father—so different from the strong, robust figure of my childhood. I drove him home that day, driving as carefully as I could, and knew that he was weak when he never once bothered to comment on my driving! That night I told my wife about how much I regretted passing up the opportunity to fly more with Dad when I’d had the chance. I mentioned that in the back of my mind, I’d always thought that I’d become a pilot someday. I’d just never done anything about it.

A few weeks later, for Valentine’s Day, she surprised me with an introductory flight at a local flight school. I grinned like a chimp as I climbed into the school’s PiperCherokee. When the Lycoming engine barked to life, it was as if a spark had jumped a gap in my heart—the love, vigor, and excitement of my childhood came rushing back.

As the instructor led me through some simple maneuvers, I realized that flying had to be part of my life again. The instructor complimented me on how comfortable I seemed in the sky and how sure my movements were—I told him that I’d done this before.

Before I left the airport that day, I bought a logbook and had the instructor sign the first line. I was working an evening shift at the time, so I worked flying lessons into my morning schedule. Within three months, I had my private pilot certificate and was as happy as I’d ever been.

But by then, Dad’s condition had gotten worse. His energy was very low. I’d told Mom about the flying lessons, but I didn’t tell Dad—I wanted it to be a surprise. Dad still liked to go to the airport now and then to watch the airplanes and perhaps chat with some of the pilots. Mom told me about a fly-in breakfast that was coming up and said she would make sure he’d be there. When the day came, I took to the air, flying the one-hour cross-country to my hometown. As I taxied from the runway to transient parking, I found Mom leading Dad across the ramp toward me.

The first words out of his mouth were, “Why didn’t you tell me?” I laughed and gave him a hug.

The next thing he said was a string of admonishments—“Always watch the weather. Don’t spend too much money. Always be careful taxiing. Take the time to do a proper preflight.” Once I heard his strict tone, I knew that the old Dad was back, if only for the day.

Mom coaxed him into the cockpit, and I gingerly steered the plane onto the same runway that was featured so heavily in my favorite childhood memories. With a roar the Cherokee pulled us into the air, and a trip around the pattern rushed by all too quickly. On final, I asked him if he wanted to go around again. Feeling the stress of the flight, he declined. I let the plane down gently, pulled off the runway, and taxied back to parking.

Mom and I helped him climb down the Cherokee’s wing, and Mom asked him about the flight. “Sure, David’s a good pilot,” he said. Coming from him, this was high praise.

In the months that followed, he weakened further. I took any opportunity I could to visit him, even as his speech and breathing became labored. We discussed where I’d flown recently, and he told me stories of notable trips he’d taken. He continued to warn me about the hazards of not watching the weather, a lesson I’ve taken to heart. Dad passed away about four months after the fly-in. My first flight ever had been as his passenger, and his last flight had been as mine. I continued to revisit the little Southern California airports that we’d been to together.

At Apple Valley, an airport in the desert northeast of Los Angeles, a restaurant wall is decorated with handwritten messages from 60 years’ worth of pilots who’ve passed through. Names and dates fight for space on the long, painted brick expanse. I remembered this place. I wondered if I’d written anything there.

I spent 15 minutes searching the wall, trying to find my own name. Instead, I found Dad’s—dated five years before I was born.

The ink had faded over the decades, and the name was partially covered by newer additions. I borrowed a marker from the waitress and inked over his signature, smiling as I recognized his familiar scrawl. I colored in his name and date, and then added my own beneath it. Mine was a little bit smaller, a little bit newer, a little bit sloppier—but it was right next to Dad’s.

我能回忆起的最早的事情就是指着天空，耳边传来远处的活塞引擎的轰鸣声。在我出生之前，父亲就已经是一位飞行员了。他驾驶着一架豆绿色的塞斯纳172飞机从南加州的里亚尔托市飞过来。我还清晰地记得那些在飞机场度过的懒洋洋的周六下午，帮他把巨大的机库舱门推回去，父亲把飞机停在太阳下的时候，我就把小小的身体靠在飞机支架上。

我给他念设备清单，学会了很多其他一年级学生都不认识的词，像“副翼”、“磁发电机”和“空速管”。我在能够找到的每张纸上都画满了飞机和直升机，还自豪地告诉父亲我长大后要当“直升机设计师”。我跑去图书馆查找我所能想到的所有飞机制造商的地址，给他们寄去一包包我画的草图。(格鲁曼公司是唯一给我回复的公司，寄给我一封很亲切的信，还有几张8×10英寸的歼灭机的光面照片。)

但是，作为一名十几岁的少年，我还有比在机场闲逛更“好”的事情要做。我拒绝了父亲开飞机去吃早饭的邀请，因为那样的话周末要起的很早。接下来，我中学毕业，去外地上大学，开始在新的城市生活。我越来越不能常看到父亲了。他偶尔会谈起飞过来看我，但随后他生病了，并卖掉了飞机。七十五岁那年，他结束了飞行生涯。

接下来的几年里，他的健康状况更加恶化了。他日渐消瘦，精力也不济了。我看到他的时候，他萎靡地靠在椅子里，那副萧索的姿态是我以前从未见过的。

然后，一天早晨，我接到电话，得知他在半夜被救护车接走了。我冲到医院，第一次看到一个瘦弱悲伤的身影，几乎认不出那是我的父亲——他和我童年时那个身体强壮、精力充沛的形象是如此不同。那天我开车送他回家，一路上竭尽所能得小心翼翼。我知道他很虚弱，因为他都不再费神评价我的驾驶技术了!那天夜里，我告诉妻子，多么后悔当初没有抓住机会多和父亲出去飞行。我对她说，在我心灵深处，一直认为有一天自己会成为一名飞行员。但我却从来没有向那方面努力。

几周后的情人节那天，妻子给了我一个惊喜：当地飞行学校的驾驶入门课。登上学校的派珀•切诺基飞机时，我笑得开心极了。莱康明引擎开始隆隆作响的时候，我心里仿佛有一朵火花倏地一闪——童年时的热爱、活力和激动统统回来了。

教练教给我一些简单的操作技术的时候，我意识到，飞行要重新成为我生命的一部分了。教练称赞我在空中丝毫都不紧张，动作也很稳——我告诉他我以前也这样做过。

那天离开机场前，我买了一本飞行日志，并让教练写下了第一行。那时我上的是夜班，所以就把飞行课放在了早晨。三个月的时间里，我拿到了自己的个人飞行员证书，高兴得不得了。

但是彼时，父亲的健康状况更加恶化了。他精神非常不好。我已经把上飞行课的事告诉了母亲，但还没有告诉父亲——我想把它当作一个惊喜。

父亲仍然喜欢不时地去机场看看飞机，可能还会和某位飞行员聊聊天。母亲告诉我，不久会有个清晨飞行聚餐，还说她会确保父亲到时会去。到了那一天，我驾驶飞机飞了一个小时，来到了家乡。我在跑道上滑行到临时停机场时，看到母亲带着父亲穿过停机坪，来到我跟前。

他吐出的第一句话是，“你为什么没有告诉我?”我大笑着拥抱了他。

接下来他给了我一连串的警告——“一定要注意天气。别花太多钱。滑行时一定要小心。飞行前要好好准备。”一听到他严厉的口吻，我知道，原来的父亲回来了，即使只有这一天。

母亲劝他进了驾驶舱，我小心翼翼地把飞机驶入我儿时印象最深的那条跑道。切诺基飞机轰鸣着把我们带到空中，很快就绕航道飞了一圈。最后，我问他还想不想再飞一圈。感到飞行的压力，他拒绝了。我稳稳地降落了飞机，驶离跑道，滑行回了停机场。

母亲和我扶着他下了机翼，母亲问他飞行的感受。“当然，大卫是个不错的飞行员，”他说。从他嘴里说出这话，真是很高的评价。

接下来的几个月里，他状况更加不好了。我找到一切可能的机会去看他，甚至在他说话和呼吸都很费力的时候。我们聊着我最近飞行的地方，他告诉我他经历过的精彩的飞行。他不断告诫着我要注意天气变化带来的危险，这些我已铭记于心。距那次飞行几个月后，父亲去世了。我人生的第一次飞行就是作为父亲的乘客，而他的最后一次飞行，是我的乘客。我一次次地回到我们一起飞行的南加州那个小小的飞机场。

在苹果谷，洛杉矶东北部沙漠中的一个机场，一面旅店的墙上贴着60年来经过此地的飞行员的手迹。那面长长的，油漆过的砖墙上，挤满了层层叠叠的名字和日期。我记得这个地方。我想知道我是否曾在那写过什么。

我花了15分钟在那面墙上细细搜寻，试图找到我自己的名字。然而，我找到的却是父亲的名字，日期在我出生五年前。

过了几十年的时间，墨迹已经变淡了，这个名字也已经一半被更新的名字遮住了。我从女侍者那里借了一支签字笔，把他的签名描了一遍。我认出了他那熟悉而潦草的笔迹，一直微笑着。我把他的名字和日期描得更深一些，然后在下面添上了我自己的名字。我的要更小一点，也更新一点，也更潦草——但它就在父亲名字的旁边。