FOREWARD
I dedicate this book to my family, and most especially to my parents, whose unwavering guidance set me on the right path from the very beginning. Throughout much of my life, I chased perfection with relentless determination, never pausing to relax, never allowing myself to settle for anything less than my best. My mother was my role model in this pursuit of absolute excellence, her example constantly pushing me to reach higher. Yet, in my journey, I also came to appreciate my father’s wisdom—a reminder that contentment and fulfillment can often be found in making the most of what you have.
I learned to extract the good from every situation, to focus on the lessons, and to let go of the bad and the ugly. This mindset carried me through countless chapters of my life, from the bustling streets of major capitals to the rigorous halls of various medical schools. It shaped the way I interacted with the world, helping me find common ground with everyone I encountered—whether they were friends or foes.
Now, I find myself living a life of deep fulfillment, both in my professional accomplishments and the warmth of my family. I’ve even cultivated hobbies that once seemed unattainable, dreams that once felt out of reach. I’ve often thought of Elvis, whose journey from humble beginnings to stardom resonates with me deeply. Like him, the child from the ghetto who saw his dreams come to life, I too have experienced something even greater than I ever imagined—a life where everything I ever wanted has been surpassed, a thousand times and more.
I was born in Bucharest, a city rich with history and steeped in legend. Founded by Bucur, the shepherd, whose name reverberates through the centuries, Bucharest's roots stretch back to the ancient past. The city was first mentioned in 1459 by Vlad Dracul, or Vlad the Impaler, a ruler who found both refuge and solace here, just outside Târgoviște, which was the capital of the country at the time.
Bucharest, often referred to as "Little Paris," is a city where ancient tales seamlessly blend with the vibrant rhythm of modern life. It stands as a living testament to the resilience and evolution of its people, a city that has weathered the passage of time yet remains ever-changing. A crossroads of cultures, Bucharest carries the weight of centuries of influence, its streets echoing with the stories of the past and the pulse of the present. Our roots stretch back to the Thracians, a people whose legacy is intricately intertwined with Roman history. With pride, we call ourselves Romans, our veins flowing with the enduring legacy of two powerful civilizations—ancient and timeless.
My earliest memories take me back to a time when I was just a young child, watching my baby brother nestled in a pram as I rode my little tricycle down the quiet streets of Drumul Sării. It was a place that seemed to exist outside the hustle of the world, a peaceful residential area surrounded by the hum of military life. Drumul Sării, a small, tucked-away neighbourhood, was nestled near a military base and close to the prestigious Military Academy. The people who lived there were all connected to the military in some way—either through contracts or service itself.
We occupied a small room in a beautiful house owned by my father’s uncle, a man named Tatianu. Our room, no bigger than 6-7sqaure meters, was a tight space for my parents, my brother, and me. It wasn’t much, but it was home. Despite the modest size of our living quarters, we had access to the bathroom, a kitchen, and, best of all, a beautiful garden where I spent countless hours playing. Tatianu was a soldier—like many others in the area—but he had no children of his own. Yet, there was something about being around children that he cherished deeply, and he made sure we always felt welcome in his home.
Though he wasn’t a doctor, Tatianu possessed an insatiable curiosity about medicine. His love for the field was evident in his collection of medical books, particularly anatomy atlases, which he treasured above all else. I vividly remember him introducing me to the world of surgery long before I could even walk. He would sit me down, flipping through the pages of his books, his eyes lighting up as he explained the intricate details of the human body. His passion for the subject was infectious, and it sparked something deep within me—a fascination that would remain with me through the years, long after I had outgrown the small room and the tricycle I once played on.
Tatianu promised me his collection of medical books, a gift that held more than just knowledge—it was a symbol of his belief in my potential. He encouraged me to become a doctor, not just any doctor, but one who could truly make a difference. He wanted me to be a healer, a kind doctor who could mend the wounds of the war-torn world and bring comfort to those suffering. He envisioned a generation of us, untouched by the ravages of conflict, living in a world free from pain and war. His dream for us was one of hope and healing, a vision that stayed with me as I grew, shaping my aspirations and the way I saw the future.
One day, back in the 60’s, Tatianu gave me something that would leave an impression on my young heart. It was a poster of a Cessna 172, a small aircraft that he thought might inspire me. I remember hanging that poster above my bed, gazing at it with wide-eyed wonder and a deep sense of awe. I’d stare at it for hours, imagining what it would be like to fly that little plane one day, believing with all my heart that somehow, someway, it would one day be mine.
At that age, I couldn’t know what life had in store for me. But in those quiet moments, as I drifted off to sleep under the gaze of that small plane, I dreamed. Little did I know that the very dreams I had as a toddler would somehow, in ways I couldn't yet comprehend, one day come true.
One day, Tatianu took me fishing, a passion of his that seemed to transcend everything else. He had an immense love for nature, and his knowledge about fish species and their habitats was vast—almost encyclopaedic. Behind the house stood a large shed, its walls weathered and worn but full of life in its own way. Inside, it was a treasure trove of fishing rods, all of them carefully crafted by his own hands. The shed was covered with asphalt, and a towering black cherry tree stood guard over it, its branches reaching out like the arms of an old friend.
In the summer, when the cherries ripened, we'd return to that same spot, lounging on towels spread out on the warm surface of the shed, stretching in the sun, and indulging in the sweet, juicy cherries that dripped with the essence of the season. Those were the days when life felt like a soft, pleasant dream, away from the rush of the world. His wife, whom we lovingly called "Mamă Nașa," would prepare rose jam for us, a delicate, fragrant treat that seemed to capture the essence of those sunny, carefree afternoons. Surrounded by blooming trees, with the serene beauty of a summer day wrapping around us, life felt perfect—simple, yet deeply fulfilling.
Back then, the fishing rods were far from the polished, high-tech equipment one might find today. They were rudimentary, homemade from trestie wood, and built with the kind of care that only a person deeply in love with the craft could manage. Tatianu even made his own silk fishing lines and hooks, each one an extension of his own meticulous attention to detail. Despite his military background—discipline and strength carved into his very being—he was a gentle soul, too kind even to hurt a fly. Yet, when it came to fishing, he was resolute, a quiet determination in his every movement.
The family didn’t own a car, so our fishing trips always began with an early morning wake-up. We’d take a bus and a tram, the journey part of the adventure itself, each step a prelude to the quiet hours spent by the water. Despite the modest means, those trips, those days, were rich in a way that wealth could never buy. They were moments of connection, of simple joys, and the kind of timeless beauty that lingers in the heart long after the seasons change.
The first time I went fishing with Tatianu, I could barely contain my excitement. I was so eager that sleep eluded me the entire night. With curiosity and imagination and mostly with hep from Tatianu, I grabbed an old newspaper and carefully folded it into a large paper boat, my mind already racing with thoughts of launching it on the water at Cernica the next day. I placed the boat gently next to my bed, imagining it floating along the river, and eventually, drifted off to sleep, my dreams filled with the vision of that little boat sailing across the water. The night seemed to pass in a blur, and before I knew it, Tatianu was waking me up before the first light of dawn.
I quickly fell asleep again, this time on the tram, lulled by the motion and the soft murmur of the city waking up. By the time we arrived at the lake, it was still early, the summer morning air warm and tranquil. The water was perfectly still, a mirror reflecting the soft hues of the sky, and there was not a soul in sight. It felt as though we had the whole world to ourselves. Amongst the tall reeds and grass, I carefully launched my paper boat into the water. I watched, mesmerized, as it began to float downstream, its tiny form moving gently with the current. As the boat drifted farther and farther away, it slowly faded from sight, disappearing into the distance. My mind raced with questions—where could it have gone? Did it travel to the big Black Sea we’d heard of, or perhaps, was it heading for the vast, mysterious ocean? How big was the ocean, really, and what kind of fish lived in it? My curiosity swirled like the water beneath me.
Tatianu, meanwhile, had already begun setting up his fishing rods, preparing the tripods, and carefully baiting the hooks with worms. After a short while, he pulled in a fish—a small one, but to me, it seemed enormous. I had never seen a live fish before, and it was a wonder to watch as it flailed and leaped, its body wriggling on the line. But the excitement was short-lived. The fish had swallowed the hook deep, and try as we might, we couldn’t get it out. We hadn’t thought to bring a pair of pliers, and there we were, stuck. Tatianu, ever the kind-hearted soul, was visibly sorry for the fish, and after a brief moment decided to head back home to retrieve the pliers.
He placed the fish gently in a water jar, and we packed up our things. By the time we made it back home, several hours had passed. I can’t remember now what happened to the fish, though. What I do remember is that back at home, Mamă Nașa was waiting for us with a warm lunch, the smell of her cooking filling the house. We sat down to eat, outside under the vine roof and we forgot about fishing for a while, diving into other games and moments of childhood joy.
About a year later, or so, my father took us to see something that would stay with me for a lifetime—the rocket that carried the first cosmonaut, Yuri Gagarin, into space. It was the Vostok 1, a towering monument of human achievement, which looked colossal from another world. A small metal fence separated us from the rocket, and we were so close you could almost reach out and touch it. It was overwhelming—immense in size, its engines massive and intricate. If it had been standing upright, I imagined, it might have reached up to the sun itself. That’s how grand and imposing it seemed.
Yuri Gagarin, the man who had journeyed into the unknown, must have been the greatest hero ever, I thought. He was our Superman, a symbol of courage and wonder. I could hardly wrap my mind around the idea of someone traveling through the sky, leaving Earth behind. As a child, the sky seemed so vast, so endless. The thought that a person had actually flown beyond it seemed like something out of a dream.
Later, I saw Yuri's wax statue in Australia, and I was struck by how different it was from the image I had in my mind. My imagination had made him larger than life, grand and imposing.
I remember the cold, the chill biting at the air, but somehow, the significance of the moment kept me warm, as if the very idea of space was a fire that burned bright inside me. I wore a white hooded top that day, and I remember that clearly because my father took photos of us standing near the rocket. I still see those photos from time to time, the image frozen in time, a reminder of how young I was, how wide-eyed and full of wonder.
As I stood there, gazing up at the Vostok 1, my mind was a whirlwind of questions. Space was a concept I was only beginning to understand. How did people travel in the sky? Were there others up there, somewhere, in the vastness? Where did the sky end, I wondered, and could it really be possible to walk on clouds? The questions swirled in my head, each one more fantastical than the last. The mystery of it all filled me with awe, and in that moment, the entire world felt full of possibilities, as infinite as the space above us.
In winters everything felt cramped. The only source of heat was a wood stove, and living in the constant haze of smoke became a part of daily life. We spent our days tending to the fire and cleaning out the ashes. Then, one day my father received a three-bedroom flat through his work. It wasn’t free—there was a loan attached to it—but the loan came with the benefit of being interest-free for twenty years. Back then, there was no taxation system, and whatever money you earned was entirely yours. The simplicity of it all made life feel a little less complicated, even if the reality was far from ideal.
In those days, owning a flat and a car was the dream of nearly everyone in Romania. It was a symbol of success, a mark of having made it in life. The car that everyone coveted was the Dacia, a Romanian version of the Renault 12. It was the only car available, the only one anyone truly wanted. There was also the Trabant, a cheaper alternative—a two-cylinder, air-cooled, cardboard-bodied car from East Germany. It wasn’t much to look at, but it was more affordable, and in a country where options were limited, it became an alternative for some.
As for the Germans, well… I used to be a big fan of them—their culture, their efficiency, their way of life. But as I grew older, my perspective shifted. The more I learned and experienced, the more I realized how naïve I had been in my admiration. It’s funny how time and wisdom change the way you see things.
We also had a Romanian four-wheel drive, an ARO, and a Russian car, a Lada. However, these were out of reach for the average Romanian at the time, both in terms of cost and availability. The Skoda, a Czechoslovakian car, was more accessible, but it never held the same appeal as the Dacia. The Dacia was something special, something everyone desired. It wasn’t just a car—it carried with it a sense of national pride. The name itself had deep historical significance. It harkened back to the time of Decebalus, the great native ruler of Dacia, who fiercely defended his land against the Roman emperor Trajan in the famous Battles of Sarmizegetusa in 101 and 106. The Dacia car was a symbolic echo of that ancient battle, a tribute to the strength and resilience of our people.
To own a Dacia wasn’t just about owning a car—it was about owning a piece of history. It was a connection to the past, to our heritage, and to the very roots of Romania.
My parents were both born in a small village called Băești, located in the southwest region in the middle of Oltenia. My father’s side of the family was well known in the village—my grandfather had been the mayor. On my mother’s side, things were quite different. My grandfather had spent nine long years in a work camp in Kazakhstan, and in Siberia, after the war. He was taken prisoner in the battle of Stalingrad. For all those years, there was no word from him. His family feared the worst, thinking he was dead, and in time, they had to move on with their lives, assuming he was lost to history.
Then, one day, he unexpectedly returned, surprising everyone. He had suffered a severe head injury during his time in the labour camps when he worked in the mines, and when he came back, he wasn’t the same man. His mind, forever altered by his trauma, struggled to find peace. But what followed was an even darker twist.
In his absence, my grandmother had found comfort with a neighbour, and she had a son. This revelation crushed my grandfather. In his madness, he gave the boy away to the neighbours for adoption, unable to bear the sight of him. The neighbours had no children of their own, so they gladly accepted him. It was a decision he would regret deeply for the rest of his life. He longed for the son he’d lost, and in his heart, he would have loved that boy as if he were his own flesh and blood.
We all make mistakes, often driven by impulse and emotion. But the damage caused in a single moment of madness cannot be undone in a lifetime. The consequences of those choices ripple through the years, shaping the lives of everyone involved.
After the war, life in Romania was incredibly hard. Many people were deported to labor camps, where they perished under harsh conditions. Food was scarce, and poverty was widespread. As if that wasn’t enough, the government abolished private property, seizing whatever little land people owned. They forced everyone to join the Communist Party, stripping away any remaining sense of personal freedom.
Though my grandparents were not wealthy by any means, they had their own land, their little ranch, and, most importantly, their pride. They had a history, a heritage they cherished deeply, and the imposition of the Communist regime wounded them to the core. They refused to join the Party, holding onto their dignity, even when it meant facing harsh consequences. Their refusal was an act of defiance—a stand for everything they had once known.
My parents, however, followed the line. My mother became a primary school teacher in the village, but her new position came at a cost. The villagers, resentful and fearful of the regime, would open their classroom doors and hurl rotten eggs and tomatoes at her, mocking her, and pressuring her to join the Communist Party. The atmosphere was charged with hostility—people were pushed to betray their own principles just to survive. It was a fierce reflection of human nature under duress.
Eventually, my parents made the difficult decision to leave the village, to break away from everything they knew and find a place where they weren’t bound by the oppressive eyes of the past. They became the first generation in our family to leave their natal village, seeking a chance at higher education and a future outside of the shadows of their birthplace. Their decision, their strength, represented the willpower that had carried this nation through thousands of years of war, occupation, and feuds—a force of resilience that could not be broken.
My mother pursued a Master’s degree in biochemical engineering and went on to become one of the leading research scientists in the country. She became the right-hand of the president's wife, playing a key role in scientific advancements. Yet, despite her achievements, she remained steadfast in her refusal to join the Communist Party. The Party membership would have brought her the fame, wealth, and recognition she deserved, but it would have come at the cost of her pride and integrity. Instead, she chose to remain in the lab, working tirelessly, mostly unappreciated, and often hated by her less competent colleagues.
Her story is one of quiet sacrifice, of a woman who stood by her convictions even when the world around her was willing to compromise for glory. It was a sacrifice that, though largely unseen, was deeply felt by those who knew her.
My mother was strict—unyielding in her belief that education was the key to a better future. Having lived through a harsh and often unkind childhood herself, she understood the power of knowledge, and she was determined that her children would not face the same struggles. Growing up, she was often belittled, told she was unattractive, and discouraged from dressing up or dreaming of attending a ball. Instead, she was expected to stay home and do chores. Those harsh lessons from her youth shaped the way she raised us, and she was adamant that we would not only excel but be the best at everything we set our minds to.
I started my first year of school in the village where my parents had been born. Mum was at university, and Dad worked to support us, so there was rarely anyone at home to look after us. As a result, we spent most of our early childhood in the hilly, remote area of Oltenia, surrounded by nature. For the locals it wasn’t an easy life, but for us it was one we loved and those memories will stay into my heart forever.
In the village, I managed to be one of the best students in my first year at school. But when Mum came home for the Christmas holidays, she was appalled by the state of my homework. She saw the mistakes in my writing, the clumsy characters and in a burst of frustration, she tore my homework into pieces. “This is not acceptable,” she said, “you will spend the entire holiday redoing it.” There I was, surrounded by snow, the joy of Christmas, the scent of the Christmas tree, and the laughter of friends. Instead of joining in the festivities, I was locked inside, rewriting three months' worth of homework.
Of course, I didn’t manage to finish it all. By January, we were back at school. During the parents' teacher meeting, I was presented as an exemplary student. My teacher, Gheorghe Popescu, proudly held up my homework book to show the other parents. But when he opened it, his face fell. He stared at the empty pages, page after page, all left unfinished, awaiting my calligraphy lessons in the coming weeks. His face turned red with disbelief, and I could see the exasperation building up. As he turned to me, I blurted out in one breath, “Mum wasn’t happy, and I had to redo the whole lot.”
It was a moment I will never forget—the look on his face and the weight of what I had just revealed. I had learned the hard way that Mum’s expectations were not something I could escape. No shortcuts, no compromises. What she wanted was excellence, no matter the cost.
On the other hand, my father was the complete opposite. He always saw the good side of things, a trait I inherited from him. From him, I learned how to make do with what I had and find a way to improve life, no matter the circumstances. He was charismatic and friendly, never critical, and always focused on making friends. This often frustrated my mother, who felt that she was often seen as the "bad guy" in our family for her more pragmatic and disciplined approach.
My father’s career was a testament to his adaptability. He started in construction, then worked as an electrician, welder, laborer, and eventually found a place in telecommunications at the Telegraful Central on Strada Stefan Cel Mare. He was ambitious, always striving for more, and motivated by my mother's success. He tried to get into university, following the path his father had taken as a community leader. However, his dreams of higher education didn’t come to fruition. He failed the entrance exam to a political university. When he was told he had passed, but there were no more seats available, he famously joked, "I can bring my own chair, no problem." He always had a way of making light of failure and bouncing back, never letting it defeat him.
He wasn’t the kind to be broken by setbacks. In truth, he likely would have never been accepted to the university without a party membership, and he quickly understood that reality. He was far more open to going with the flow, accepting life as it came, rather than fighting against the impossible, much like Don Quixote tilting at windmills. His resilience, his ability to laugh in the face of failure, and his willingness to start over whenever necessary were qualities that defined him, making him an anchor of optimism in our family.
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I’ve always dreamt of being an explorer—someone who pushes the limits of human achievement, like the characters of Isaac Asimov on their space expeditions, or the great navigators of history—Magellan, Columbus, those audacious souls who dared to chart the uncharted. I’d long been captivated by figures like Charles Lindbergh, whose incredible feat of crossing the Atlantic from New York to Paris without ever touching land stood as a monumental testament to human endurance and willpower. It was his courage that sparked the fire within me, an unshakable belief that one day, I could do something just as daring.
For me, it wasn’t the Atlantic I dreamt of crossing, but the vast expanse of the Pacific—an endless stretch of water that seemed as daunting as it was alluring. The idea began as a fleeting thought: to journey from Los Angeles to Sydney, a feat no one had undertaken in the same way, and in doing so, I would carve my own name in the annals of exploration. But like any dream that grows roots in the soul, it soon consumed my every waking moment.
I began to plan. The logistics took over my thoughts—the training, the equipment, the aircraft. I wasn’t yet an expert on the ocean; in fact, I had only a vague understanding of its vastness and mystery. But there was a hunger inside me, and I fed it by focusing on the details that would bring my dream into the realm of possibility. I spent hours, countless hours, gazing out of the small window of every flight I took, watching the water below ripple and churn, and observing the skies above, as if the clouds might offer me a glimpse into the secret of survival across such an unforgiving expanse. How long would it take between landing points? How far apart would each waypoint be? What would I do in case of an emergency? And what kinds of emergencies might I face?
It was a strange sort of meditation, this staring at the endless horizon, the questions piling up like the weight of the clouds themselves. I was beginning to realize that this wasn’t just about a physical journey; it was about preparation for every possible scenario. Every piece of knowledge I could gather felt like another lifeline that would connect me to success.
Others had made similar attempts, but they had done so in high-performance aircraft, machines designed for speed and efficiency. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for something so advanced. But then, what kind of aircraft would I choose? One suited to my own skills, my experience, my limitations, and my ambition? The question loomed larger every day as my dream grew into something real, something tangible, something I could almost touch.
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When I first arrived in Tracy, I still held on to the belief that he was genuine, that he could be trusted. I called him, asking where to go next, hoping for some clear guidance. His response was a disjointed blur of words—something about taking a break and offering me points for flights. I think that was the last time we spoke. You’ve probably heard of Rob Waiver; everyone knows who he is, in one way or another.
In Tracy, I made my way to Skyview Aviation. Upon arrival, I discovered they were in the business of installing fuel ferry tanks. As I wandered around, I was eventually invited to meet Erik, a young engineer who was overseeing the design and installation of the tanks. He struck me immediately as a meticulous, driven person, but after a few questions about my intentions, his demeanour shifted. When I told him I was ferrying a Cessna 172 over the Pacific, he stood up abruptly, his eyes widening in disbelief. "That can’t be done," he said flatly, turning as if to walk away.
But I wasn’t ready to let him dismiss me just yet. As a last resort something in me refused to accept his doubt. I stopped him in his tracks and asked, "What if you can fit 140 to 160 gallons of fuel into the cabin, if I remove all the seats? Could you do that?"
He looked at me still thinking that I had just stepped out of a madhouse. But then, he realized he wasn’t being asked to fly the plane. This wasn’t a matter of navigating the skies or dealing with the complexities of a long Pacific journey. No, this was an engineering challenge. It was about pushing the limits of his expertise, seeing if he could design fuel tanks large enough to fit into the tight confines of the smallest of planes.
And as I stood there watching him, I could see something in his eyes shift. He didn’t balk at the idea; instead, there was a flicker of excitement, a spark of enthusiasm that told me Erik wasn’t just good at what he did—he thrived on it. This was the kind of challenge he needed, one that demanded creativity and precision. He was more than ready to dive in.
"You clean out the interior," he said, his voice steady with newfound resolve. "And I’ll see what I can do."
We stepped outside together and had a look at the plane. There was a moment of quiet inspection, an unspoken understanding between us. Then, we parted ways for the day, each of us stewing in our own thoughts.
That afternoon, I climbed into the cockpit and took off, heading to Monterey Airport, my mind swirling with possibilities.
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While I was in Tracy, I met another pilot, Brian Mellor. Brian was a flight instructor and a seasoned ferry flight pilot from Britain, known for his work and now flying a twin-engine Cessna 310s to Australia. He’d spent most of his life ferrying small general aviation aircraft across the Atlantic ocean, from the USA to South America, Europe and Africa. However, he’d never attempted the Pacific crossing to Australia. Now, here he was, in Tracy, waiting for ferry tanks to be installed, and the delay was wearing on him. He was growing increasingly frustrated by the wait, and the time seemed to drag on for both of us.
Despite his irritation, Brian and I became fast friends. We shared many lunches and dinners, and in the process, our bond grew stronger. He was particularly intrigued by my ambitious plans, and he listened intently, often for hours, as I outlined my vision. I could see the skepticism in his eyes, but there was something else, too—genuine curiosity.
Brian was no stranger to difficulty in his work. Ferry flights were never straightforward, and the risk to life was always present. The pilots, after all, were doing it for a little money and some recognition, often delivering aircraft cheaply to wealthy clients who were reluctant to pay what they should. More than once, Brian had tried to take off, but the makeshift aluminum fuel tanks he was waiting for had issues—they leaked. One of his attempts was particularly nerve-wracking when the cabin filled with fuel. It was a harrowing experience, and each failed attempt only added to his frustration.
He confided in me one evening over dinner, his voice tinged with the bitterness of his predicament. “Oliver, you’re here for an adventure,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You don’t have any time constraints. Me? Time is money. The longer I wait, the more it costs. I can’t make an income from anything else right now, and that’s bad for business.”
Despite his frustration, Brian’s fascination with my plans only grew. In the end, after listening to my every word and watching my unwavering commitment, he turned to me and said something that I’ll never forget. “Oliver, you’re a pilot with no experience in this kind of work, but you are the most prepared, the most knowledgeable, and the most informed pilot I’ve ever met. I’ve learned from you.”
That moment was a turning point. Brian and I decided that we would fly together. He’d go ahead, faster, with his plane, but wait for me on the Pacific legs of the journey. We’d face the ocean together, one shortly behind the other, each of us pushing the limits of what we could achieve.
One day, as I was in the pilot’s lounge surrounded by survival gear and my bags strewn across the floor and the couch, I had a strange encounter. A Virgin Atlantic captain came in with his girlfriend, who was taking flying lessons. While she went outside with her instructor, Erik, the engineer, was chatting with the captain. Erik, who designed and equipped my plane with ferry tanks, quietly pointed to me, then subtly pointed toward my plane outside. With a quiet voice, he muttered to the captain, “This plane is flying to Australia.”
The young captain, clearly taken by surprise, chuckled dismissively and he laughed loudly and made a remark to Erik about that pilot should have his brains checked. But when he noticed me watching, staring at him intently, he looked embarrassed. His laughter died as he walked over and apologized, clearly aware of the weight of his words.
We sat down together, and after a few moments, the captain opened up to me. “You know,” he said, “before I became a pilot with Virgin Atlantic, I used to do exactly what you’re about to do—ferry flights across the oceans. It wasn’t easy, but it’s something I’m familiar with.” He gave me several tips, but there was one that stuck with me and would prove invaluable in the coming days.
“Oliver, when you do flight planning, they give you waypoints,” he said, leaning forward. “But out there, at your altitude, there’s nothing. You won’t collide with terrain or other planes, no matter how you fly. So, you tell ATC what they want to hear, but you fly directly to your destination without zigzagging across the ocean. They don’t understand your plane doesn’t have the speed, the fuel reserves, or the performance to stick to the flight plan. But flying in a little plane like yours? That takes courage. No one’s done it in this plane before.”
His advice rang true, and looking back, I realized how right he was. For a law-abiding citizen like me, not taking his advice could have cost me everything. At that moment, I was like a sponge, soaking up every piece of wisdom, every shred of insight I could get my hands on. Each conversation, each encounter, and every piece of advice had become part of the puzzle I was piecing together for my grand adventure. It was as if the universe itself were whispering its guidance, and I was determined to listen
TheBeginning.....
