Basher Five-Two (4 page)

Even before my first flight, just the sight of a plane in the sky inspired dreams of travel and adventure. Growing up in the late sixties and seventies, I moved from Brooklyn, New York, where I was born, to Long Beach, then to Ridgewood, New Jersey, and finally, at age nine, to Spokane,
Washington. My sister, Stacy, was born exactly three years after me, and my brother, Paul, about one year after Stacy. I greeted my sister’s arrival in the world—and her very nerve for being born on the same date as I—by throwing balls at her head while she slept in her crib. Maybe I just wanted her to be a boy. When Paul came along, three turned out to be a good number.

As leader of the pack, I was forever convincing Stacy and Paul to join me in different fantasy games. Flying together to some distant island or conquering rugged, ice-faced mountains was pretty typical. We spent as much time as we could outdoors. If my parents took us to the ocean or the mountains, that was special; if not, a city park suited us just fine. I liked things physical, whether it was riding my bike or chasing baby-sitters around the house.

Even in my quiet moments, sitting down with a book, I was focused on the outdoors. My favorite stories had to do with exotic wildlife, particularly large cats and reptiles, and their incredible habitats. At age nine I joined the Cub Scouts and, later, the Webelos. In the Scouts, learning about animals, nature, and wilderness survival earned me badges and arrows for my uniform. I looked forward the most to Scout weekends with my dad. Although it never happened to us, being lost in the mountains, building one’s own shelter from scratch, starting a fire from a pair of twigs, and using a compass to find one’s way out
seemed as though it would be the greatest adventure possible.

With Stacy and Paul, I spent a fair amount of time in front of the television, but not just to pass the hours. Any action movie or adventure series with a war setting was “required” viewing. Because my father had served with the U.S. Marines as a medical doctor, the military was of great interest to me. When my parents had their friends over for a party, if someone had a military story to tell—especially a military
flying
story—I was hard to shoo away. At some point I grew fascinated with the basic mechanics of flight—how an engine or rudder worked—and how fast a jet plane could really go. I did a lot of my learning by observing and talking with adults. I was always amazed by how much some people knew about things that were a complete mystery to me, and I wanted to learn everything I could.

At age twelve, I attended junior high school in Spokane. My fantasy life continued with heavy doses of Dungeons & Dragons, but my interest in sports also blossomed. I played in neighborhood after-school football games and took karate lessons. Martial arts captured my attention to the point that I pleaded with my parents to let me move by myself to Atlanta so that I could study under a special ninja instructor. My request was turned down, but my enthusiasm for looking and acting like a ninja didn’t fade. The highlight of my summers was a
YMCA sleep-away camp in the mountains of northeastern Washington. At Camp Reed, I was definitely in my element. Whether taking rugged hikes or learning night navigation by the stars, I had such a great time I was sorry when it was time to leave.

Back at home, if not palling around with my brother and sister or kids in the neighborhood, I spent time with my dad. Knowing my interest in sports and things mechanical, he gave me advice one fall when I built my own race car to enter in the local Soap Box Derby. I didn’t win, but I was fascinated with the idea of how fast I could make a car go. Speed, in fact, was getting into my blood. When my dad later took the family on vacation, we went to the famous Cyclone roller coaster on Coney Island in Brooklyn. I jumped into the front row and threw my hands fearlessly into the air with every terrifying plunge. I don’t know how many rides I took before I was dragged off under protest. Later I became a black-diamond alpine skier, fearless no matter how icy or steep the slope in front of me.

With the fascination by speed came a deeper interest in sports, and with sports came competition. Whether it was soccer or football or skiing, I was never the type to be envious or jealous of those who had more talent. But I did like to compete against myself, setting goals and then pushing myself to do better. One winter, on a family vacation at Snowmass, Colorado, I learned that you could
earn a gold medal by trying a particularly challenging run and then entering your time against other skiers. My first attempt was okay, but nowhere near as fast as others my age. There was no limit on how many times you could make the run, so I did it over and over—maybe ten times altogether—until I was satisfied with my time. I came back with the silver medal, not the gold, but what was important was that I had tried my best. Later, when I became interested in high-powered rifles and entered several competitions for marksmanship, any trophies I took home were nice, but the endless hours of practice and sharpening my skills gave me the most pleasure.

When I was around fourteen, on my first flight with my dad since our trip to Catalina, we flew a straight-tail Beechcraft Bonanza to Kalispell, Montana, for duck hunting. In the middle of the flight, as we passed over towering crags and peaks, Dad turned to me in the copilot’s seat. In the most casual of voices he suggested I take the controls for a few minutes. After overcoming my shock, I forgot the scenery and wrapped my hands around the steering yoke. That was when I realized I had been wanting to take control all along.

The trust my dad showed in me by putting me in control of the plane was as important as the thrill of piloting it. As wild and headstrong as I could sometimes be, my parents, particularly my dad, rarely lost their patience. And they never lost their faith in me. As long as
my activity was reasonably safe, they let me do whatever I wanted. And no one lectured me when I made mistakes, as long as I learned from them and took pride in what I did.

Pride, in fact, was the glue that held the O’Grady family together. My father’s mother had come over from Ireland without a penny and worked menial jobs to get by. She married a New York City policeman, and together they raised a family through difficult times. On my mother’s side, my grandfather was the oldest of five children. After his father died, he supported the whole family with odd jobs—I don’t think he was even a teenager yet. Later he put himself through college and medical school and became one of Brooklyn’s first children’s heart specialists. As if that weren’t enough work, he and my grandmother also raised nine children, including two doctors, two teachers, an engineer, and three business professionals. Hard work, patriotism, a belief in oneself, and support for each other—those are the core O’Grady values.

Besides being patriotic, my dad was something of a historian. When our family moved from one coast to another, or just took a cross-country car trip, Dad never missed the opportunity to teach Stacy, Paul, and me. We saw Gettysburg, Manassas, Plymouth, Jamestown, Mount Rushmore … and Dad was our tour guide. It was no wonder I fell under the spell of some of the giants
of American history. Andrew Jackson and Abraham Lincoln were at the top of my list for their ability to lead and for their taking of risks to decide the fate of the country. I liked their stubbornness, too. That is another O’Grady trait. If you pursue something, pursue it with all your heart.

After I entered high school, I began to think seriously of the military as a profession. A lot of kids my age didn’t care about patriotism or serving their country, but my friends and I had a different view. We never understood why Vietnam veterans were treated so poorly by the American public or why the military had such a black eye from the Vietnam conflict. Maybe I was old-fashioned, or was modeling myself after my dad, but to me no goal was more honorable than joining the military. With my love of flying, the U.S. Air Force became my new focus.

I was feeling very grown-up. I tried to convince my parents to let me convert our basement family room into my personal apartment. I could have my own space, I explained, and come and go freely, staying out of their hair. The idea was politely rejected, along with my suggestion—when I had my first driver’s license—that my parents buy me a Ferrari sports car. No matter. Entering high school, I let them know I was mature enough to handle any problems that came my way. They were kind enough to nod and say nothing.

While I had many good friends, I was hardly part of
the in crowd at Lewis and Clark High School in Spokane. Serious about my future in the military, for a while I considered transferring to a high-school military academy. In the end, I stayed at Lewis and Clark and worked toward my goals. In academics, I took home decent grades, but I was far from a whiz. In athletics, I had some skills, particularly in soccer, but I was no natural. Nothing came easily for me. I had to put in twice the effort that most kids did to achieve the same results.

I was no star, but because I was such a big dreamer, I decided that besides soccer, I would add football to my after-school schedule. I thought the really cool guys played football. Because of my relatively small size, there weren’t too many positions I could seriously consider. But with my soccer skills and after much practice, I made the varsity football team as a placekicker.

All season I was stranded on the bench—the coach let the starters do the kicking—until the biggest game of the year, against archrival Gonzaga Prep. It was an important game, not just for the prestige of having bragging rights for the year, but because I had briefly attended Gonzaga as a freshman and wanted to show off to my former classmates. Maybe the coach knew, because just after we had scored a touchdown, he ordered me into the game. I looked at him from the other end of the bench as if there might be a mistake.

“O’Grady,” he repeated, “get in there and kick the extra point.” I was so nervous as I trotted onto the field that when the ball was finally snapped to the holder, I was late in my timing. My kick got blocked. This had been my chance to be a hero, and I had flubbed it. I was so embarrassed and frustrated that I did a spontaneous frontward flip right on the field, which gave my coaches a good laugh when they reviewed the game film the next day. I never got to kick again.

My pride took longer to heal than my body, but I learned an important lesson. I didn’t have to win popularity contests to be happy. If I did what I wanted—and not what I thought the crowd wanted—and if I did it well, I would have respect for myself.

That summer, with Dad’s encouragement, I put in the hours to earn my private pilot’s license, flying out of nearby Felts Field. I can’t boast that I was an immediate success. Like everything else I had tried, flying, particularly my first solo, didn’t always go smoothly. Rushing down the runway in my small plane, I looked over to my instructor; his seat was empty. Only then did I remember that this was a solo. I was a bundle of nerves the entire flight, and my landing included three hair-raising bounces, as if I were a rubber ball. But I passed my test, and when I received my license, I felt great.

I applied for admission to the United States Air Force
Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado, that fall. I was proud of my planning. The academy would further my dream of serving my country. Once I had my officer’s commission, it would be on to different air force flight schools for advanced training. My future was set—or so I thought. I had my congressman’s nomination to the academy and decent enough grades. My verbal SAT score, however, fell just short of the admissions requirement. There were no second chances. The United States Air Force Academy turned me down.

I gave myself a pep talk, pretending the rejection didn’t matter, and in front of my parents I acted as if this setback were minor. My real goal was not the United States Air Force Academy, it was the United States Air Force, and I could always take ROTC courses at a regular college to earn my commission as an officer. But the truth was, my self-confidence had taken a beating. I was deeply disappointed because I had placed my hopes in being accepted to the United States Air Force Academy. Now that I had been rejected, I enrolled at my second-choice school, the University of Washington in Seattle.

There I jumped from one area of study to another, changing my mind four times. I also joined a college men’s club called a fraternity, where I goofed off too much and didn’t get my schoolwork done. My ROTC courses were the only thing that meant anything. During
the second trimester of my sophomore year, without telling my family, I dropped out of school, made my way to Sun Valley, Idaho, and became a ski bum. This was one of the most unfocused periods of my life. I did finally get back to Seattle, and did reenroll at the University of Washington, but I still didn’t know what I was doing with my life. When I got together with my dad, I didn’t have to pretend otherwise with him. He just knew.

“What do you want to do?” he asked calmly.

“I want to fly,” I said.

We had several discussions about my future, how to get my feet back on the ground—or in the air. Dad had always believed that there was more than one path to the same destination. A friend of his recommended that I apply to Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Daytona Beach, Florida. It wasn’t the United States Air Force Academy, but I could take ROTC courses and earn a degree in aeronautics, the science of flight and aircraft operation. I could also grab a lot of flying time and earn ratings in different aircraft. Embry-Riddle accepted me as a sophomore for the fall of 1986. When I was informed that its Florida campus was fully enrolled, I was disappointed but didn’t let the news stop me. There was still another path to take. Embry-Riddle has a smaller satellite campus in Prescott, Arizona.

Prescott was a far cry from the snow-capped mountains
and green valleys of the Northwest or the partying atmosphere of Daytona Beach. It took some time to get used to the Southwestern desert and my new academic schedule. But I studied hard, did well in my major, aeronautical science, and put extra time into ROTC. The summer after my sophomore year, I had my first military experience, at Lowry Air Force Base in Denver, taking four weeks of field training that included a two-day survival course. Although it was only forty-eight hours, the survival course was intense. When our instructor showed us the joys of eating ants, I decided I’d rather go hungry.