The Wonder Of Flight

My dad and I always cherished our airplanes as more than just machines. When he died, I began the search to find the Smith Miniplane that he’d loved the most.

- Jonathan Rotondo

IT HAPPENS TO EVERY PILOT: the realization you’d rather be up there than down here. Some can’t quite put their finger on the precise moment; they just always knew they’d be happier looking down at the clouds than gazing up at them. Others, like me, can narrow it down to the exact second.

I remember my tiny hands closed around a control column. There were rudder pedals, too, but I had no hope of reaching them with my short legs. The airplane rocked and sighed in the wind. I felt safe.

Then, strong hands grabbed me and lifted me above a little red and white biplane. I floated for a moment, looking down at the top wing and fuselage, then my feet hit the ground. As my dad led me away, I turned to look at the plane. The arrangement of the air intakes made it seem as though the aircraft was smiling at me.

It was the spring of 1988. I was four years old, living in Ottawa, and I was saying goodbye to the Smith Miniplane known by the call sign Charlie Foxtrot Foxtrot Alpha Mike—or FAM for short. It would be 25 years before I’d ever sit in a Smith again.

My father, Antonio Rotondo, logged relatively few hours in FAM—50 in total—but the effect those precious hours had on him was immeasurable. He spent time in dozens of airplanes, doing everything from aerobatics to instrument flying, but in the sanctum of his Miniplane’s seat, he discovered the true meaning of the miracle of flight. On twin crimson wings soaring above the patchwork farmers’ fields of Ontario, my father escaped the tempor al bonds of earthly woes—at least until fuel levels became a concern.

THERE ARE TWO KINDS of pilot. The first group regards their planes as living, breathing aerial companions that understand and empathize, reward and punish, give and take life. The second group sees them as machines to fly. My dad was of the former persuasion, and so am I.