It was many years ago that I first sat in the cockpit of an F-16 Fighting Falcon. It was at an Airshow at some RSAF airbase. I had queued up for 10 minutes waiting to sit in the in the cockpit. The hot tarmac and crowds did not deter me. I'd queue there till sunset if I had too.

Finally, it was my turn. I scampered up the ladder and jumped into the cockpit. The queue had died down so I could take my time in the cockpit.



I strapped up the safety harness.
Though it was too loose for me.

I put my feet on the yaw pedals.
Though it was too far from me.

I put on the helmet.
Though it was too big for me.

I wrapped my fingers around the joystick.
Though I hadn't the strength to move it.



The cockpit was too big for me. I couldn't see anything but the control panel unless I stood up and leaned on the headrest. I couldn't reach most of the controls.

Still, I was the happiest boy on earth.

For a brief moment the hangars and the crowd disappeared, replaced by blue skies and landscape zooming past below me.

There was no school, no homework, no friends, no enemies. No worries.

Just two elements.

Speed and Altitude.

In the years that followed that brief spark of hope was kept alive by Tom Cruise and Topgun, X-Wing: Alliance, The X-Wing Series of Books, Youtube...

And then reality sets in.

You realise you're just like everyone else who's had a dream to be an Astronaut or Ballerina. They grow up and realise they'll probably end up writing a collumn for a shit magazine that nobody reads.

But between writing essay outlines for stupid boring as fuck topics that nobody gives a damn about and writing speeches for topics equally as dull you look out the window and wonder if you could have been that lucky bastard 80,000 feet above you at Mach 2.