Of course, being the junior pilot, I got to teach the beginner's class. Most of these kids were 12 to 14 years old, which means they were all gung-ho about learning the really cool stuff, but not too interested in the boring stuff. One of the first things I did was to hand out the questionnaires. This was partly to try to get to know these kids a little, and partly to give them something to do. Then I went on to describe the things that I would be teaching them over the course of the next year, and what I expected each of them to do.

During the break, I started reading some of the questionnaires that they completed. I had asked some questions like "why did you choose to join ground school?" and didn't really have any particular expectations about the answers I would receive. Some were mundane: "I want to learn to fly." Some made me chuckle: "My uncle has a Cessna and my mom wants me to learn, too." But one in particular made me sigh: "I wanna fly a F-14 like Tom Cruise."

I stole a quick glance at the one who had given me the paper. I remembered him because he was the first to finish the questionnaire. He looked up at me through a pair of dark-rimmed glasses that struck me as the kind mom buys for you after the last 3 pairs got destroyed playing soccer, and you wear them because you really don't have much choice in such things when you're 13. That face briefly transported me back in time a year, and I recalled the stone look of the recruitment officer who after only a brief glance had handed me back my application for admission to Military College, as he had coldly said, "we can't accept applications for pilot positions if you wear glasses." I remembered that feeling of emptiness, as though my inside had suddenly vanished.

But I smiled at the youthful face that now greeted me, and received an unsuspecting smile back. It was not my place to tell him these things. It was not my duty to shatter childhood dreams, but rather to transform them into a kind of reality. The more unpleasant realities would have their due time. This was a time for beginnings, not for endings.

"I wanna fly a F-14 like Tom Cruise."

"Okay, how many people didn't get that one?" We had had a quiz, and my preferred method for qualitatively evaluating them was to see how well they were able to identify and correct their errors. In my experience, I was rarely asked to submit any kind of grades, and if the administration people wanted some numbers to stuff in some books, I would make some up, because I knew it didn't make any difference at all to anyone. Most importantly, it made no difference to these 6 kids who had stuck with the class all year, and had learned a lot since that first day.

My eyes were drawn to a solitary hand, and I made a casual gesture to that same kid with glasses, only by now it was a different pair.

"I thought spars were only on the wing," he objected.

"Yeah, you always have spars on the wing," was my answer. "But spars can also sometimes mean one of the main structural members." Noting a slightly puzzled expression, I clarified. "One of the strong pieces. In this kind of fuselage, you need strong main beams, where in the other kind you don't. You can call them longerons, but you can also call them spars, because they hold most of the strength."

The funny thing was, this was a minor fact I had never even realized until I re-read the chapter on airframes to prepare today's quiz. A couple of quick chalk drawings later, and by the look on his face, I knew he understood it now too. Of all the people in that first day's class, I had expected him to be the first to quit. Especially after the day he had confronted me, forcing me to delicately disassemble that childhood dream of his.

There was no way out of the situation when he asked me my opinion on his chances on becoming a fighter pilot. All I could say was "none," and offer the best justification, reasoning, and range of alternative options that I could. In a way, it helped me to make peace with the rejection I had faced. But I had been afraid that that would be the last class for this guy, but when he showed up the next week I could tell right away how much harder than normal he had studied, and how eager he was to tap every drop of knowledge from that class that he possibly could.

"Sir?" An interrupting hand stopped my discourse. "I read that before, and it still doesn't make sense. Why does the aileron position matter in a spin, if the wing is stalled anyways?"

"There was no way out of the situation when he asked me my opinion on his chances on becoming a fighter pilot."

Two years had passed, and it was the week before the qualification exam. Now the senior instructor, I was also the officer responsible for the entire flying program for the squadron, and the senior class was mine to teach. I had heard during the summer that the level of difficulty would be stepped up for this year's exam, so this class had gotten four months of intensive drilling. Tests every week, extra classes on Thursday nights, and I had even made them do a kind of term project with an in-class presentation. It had all made a big difference.

And the person I expected to place the highest on this upcoming exam was the same one whom I hadn't expected to last 2 months in the beginner's class.

At that moment the discussion topic was actually about wing washout, but I had also made a passing comment regarding how it affects aileron response during a stall. This guy was a mile ahead of everyone else right then. In order to occupy him and not confuse everyone else, I returned his question with another one. "Think about it. What part of the wing is stalled?" It was a bit of a red herring, because washout was no kind of an explanation for his question, but it would help to make the connection.

He started positioning his hands in the air at different angles, working on the problem while I finished explaining washout. When I saw the beginnings of understanding, I returned to the subject. "The ailerons are at the tips of the wings, which because the wing is washed out, is the least stalled part of the wing. But-"

He cut me off, only to continue my thought. "But that doesn't make sense, because like you showed me in the glider back in November, when you fly close to the stall speed, the ailerons don't have any effect."

I smiled. I was now also qualified as a glider instructor, and so of course every time I had the chance to sit with someone in a glider, I chronically tried to squeeze some kind of a lesson into the 12 minute flight. It was nice to know that it had made a difference on at least one occasion. "You are totally correct. So it doesn't make sense, right? Wrong. Weird things happen in a spin, and that just happens to be the next topic."

One of the greatest rewards of being an instructor, is that you get to watch your students grow with the knowledge you feed them, and by doing so you gain much in return. Two years later, I was no longer with the organization and no longer teaching, but I was in the neighbourhood so I stopped by to pay a visit.

It was near the end of the class, and the door was open, so I stepped quietly into the entranceway. At the front of the class was someone whose face I certainly recognized, but who hadn't seen me enter and continued with his lecture.

". . . which normally wouldn't make a whole lot of sense, but . . . well, weird things tend to happen in a spin. That just happens to be our topic for next week . . ."