Chapter 2: Lifting Off
The first time Eli felt the full weight of a headset on his ears and a flight checklist in his lap, it was like sliding into a destiny he’d always known but never touched. He sat in the right seat of Captain Ray’s Cessna 208 Caravan, hands trembling slightly but heart steady.
“Relax,” Ray said, flipping switches above the dash. “You’re not flying solo today. Just observing.”
Eli nodded. Outside the windshield, the Fairhaven airstrip shimmered in the early spring sunlight. The snow had receded, revealing patches of muddy gravel and stubby grass, but the wind still carried the edge of winter.
Ray spoke into the radio: “Fairhaven traffic, November Eight-Two-Five-Zero Papa taking off runway one-seven, departing to the north.”
The engine’s whine grew to a roar. Eli felt the vibration through his boots, up his spine, and into his very bones. The plane began its roll, fast and faster, until the trees on either side blurred and the nose lifted. In that instant, the world fell away.
Eli looked down. The town became a toy village, rivers like silver threads, mountains like whispers. The cockpit buzzed with the instruments’ glow and the low rumble of the engine.
“This,” Ray said, with a sideways glance, “is freedom.”
They were heading to the remote village of Teller, where Ray would drop supplies and mail. Eli watched as Ray adjusted throttle, trim, and rudder like a pianist touching keys — deliberate, fluid, confident. Each movement had weight and meaning. Eli took mental notes like a sponge absorbing rain.
After the drop, on the return flight, Ray gave him a surprise.
“Take the controls,” he said casually.
Eli blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Just hold altitude and heading. Don’t overcorrect. I’ve got the backup.”
Eli reached for the yoke, his grip cautious at first. The plane responded, not like a car or bike — it felt alive, like guiding a bird. He made minor corrections, feeling the subtle give-and-take of wind and lift.
“You’ve got the touch,” Ray muttered. “Good instincts.”
They landed just before dusk. As they taxied to the hangar, Eli’s smile could’ve powered the entire airport.
Back at home, Walter was waiting with dinner. Eli’s words tumbled out — the instruments, the airspeed, the thrill of being behind the controls. Walter listened, a glint in his eye.
“You’re getting closer,” he said. “But don’t forget, flying’s not just up there. It’s in here.” He tapped his chest. “You’ve got to fly even when everything else tries to pull you down.”
Eli understood. Flying was more than engines and wings. It was trust, precision, and heart.
That week, he began studying for the FAA private pilot knowledge test. Ray lent him materials. Becca, from the diner, let him use her back office to study. Every spare moment, Eli read regulations, memorized airspace rules, calculated fuel burn, and reviewed emergency procedures.
Still, he had school, chores, and a job bagging groceries on weekends. It wasn’t easy. Some nights, he fell asleep over his books. But his dream pushed him through.
Then came a letter.
It was from the Alaska Youth Aviator Foundation — a small program offering scholarships to young aspiring pilots. Eli had applied weeks ago, encouraged by Ray and Walter. He opened the envelope with shaking hands.
“Dear Eli Morgan,
Congratulations. You’ve been selected to participate in our summer flight immersion program in Anchorage.”
He reread the sentence three times before running outside, waving the letter. Walter stood from the porch chair, squinting.
“You’re going,” Eli shouted. “They picked me!”
Walter chuckled. “Told you. You just needed a sky big enough for your wings.”
Ray and the other pilots chipped in to help him get gear — a flight bag, a proper aviation headset, and a weatherproof jacket. Eli had never owned anything so professional in his life.
By mid-June, he boarded a small commercial flight to Anchorage — alone. As the plane lifted off, he gazed out the window, breath catching as he saw Fairhaven shrinking below. He remembered sitting at the diner, dreaming of this. Now, he was on his way.
The flight program in Anchorage was more intense than anything Eli had done. Classes on navigation, weather systems, FAA regulations, and aircraft mechanics. Flight simulators that challenged him to the limit. Real flight hours with certified instructors.
Some of the students were rich kids from the city — private school educated, with parents who flew jets. Eli, with his small-town background and thrift store clothes, stuck out. But he worked harder than anyone.
His instructor, Ms. Halvorsen, was a sharp-eyed woman with decades of flying under her belt. “You’ve got grit, Morgan,” she told him after his third solo simulator flight. “Don’t ever lose that.”
One evening, they flew a training route over the Kenai Peninsula. Eli was in the left seat, practicing maneuvers. Below them, rivers curled through pine forests, and the sea stretched endlessly.
“Do you know what this is?” Halvorsen asked.
“Practice flight?”
She shook her head. “This is a memory. One you’ll carry the rest of your life.”
Eli swallowed hard. She was right.
That night, he stood outside the dorms, watching the northern lights dance far to the north. He felt his father’s journal in his pocket, the weight of dreams and legacy inside.
He whispered, “I’m coming, Dad. Just a little higher.”