Flight 307 – The Night I Learned to Fly

What happens when life puts you in the cockpit,
and no one checks if you can fly?

Step 1 Full Speed, No Clue

Departure

Stuttgart, early in the morning. The darkness clings stubbornly, as if the sun had forgotten to rise. Hanna stands beside me in the departure hall, her gaze calm, almost too calm for what lies ahead of me. A man approaches, pressing a badge into my hand. "You’re flying the 307."

I want to protest, to say: "I’m not a pilot." But instead, I nod silently. Hanna’s hand rests on my shoulder, an anchor in this sea of uncertainty. "You can do this," she says, as if speaking an irrefutable truth.

My knees grow weak, a dizzying sensation races through my head like a pinball gone wild. Yet beneath it all, faint as a distant call, something whispers: There’s no turning back.

I turn to Hanna, wanting to say something—perhaps one last "Stay here" or "I can’t do this." But before the words find me, she’s already embracing me, firm and calm, her presence holding me more than her arms ever could. "You know you can do it." Then she lifts her bag, turns away, and walks off. Just like that.

My eyes fill with tears. God, I love her. This kind of trust, this farewell without grand drama. It strikes me harder than any pathos.

What remains is a man who doesn’t know what awaits him. And yet, something stirs within me, a force that does not belong to me but flows through me.

The man with the badge is back. His gaze is steady, unwavering. “It’s time. We have to get to the plane.”

No, I think, impossible. Yet my body already knows what my mind still denies: forward is the only direction. He moves ahead, and I follow.

I feel my Nudie jeans, the old Adidas, the clammy shirt against my back, the Oakleys perched on my nose. What an outfit, I think. And soon, I will be flying an airplane.

The Machine

Then I see it: the airplane. Massive. Silent. Ready. A steel colossus that fills me with awe and dread in equal measure. I am overwhelmed, utterly out of my depth. Yet no one seems to notice that I am not a pilot. Everything remains surreal.

Seventy meters of metal, forty tons of weight—and me, 1.87 meters tall, 95 kilos heavy, like a fly in a shoebox.

I step inside. The door closes behind me. Silence. No voices, no flickering, no movement. Just rows of empty seats, a stillness that isn’t quiet but boundless.

It smells of steel, air conditioning, and something about to happen. Like a room someone left and never returned to. Slowly, I walk forward, each step echoes. I am not nervous. I am in awe. As if entering a cathedral. Or standing alone on a dune in the Sahara at dawn.

Through the cockpit door, I see two seats, switches, levers, gauges, a narrow window. I sit down. Hanna’s voice echoes in my mind: "You know you can do it."

Something within me has long since said yes. I move as if I’ve always known how—though I know nothing. And yet, I am completely at peace with myself.

The Copilot

The cockpit door swings open. A guy steps in as if he’d never been gone. How do I know his name is Raphael? No idea. But I know it. Deep down. As if we’ve been flying together for years—Sonny and Rico, sky edition.

"Hey, all good, man?" He grins broadly, slaps my hand in a casual high-five, and sinks into the co-pilot’s seat like it’s his living room. "Looking forward to Canada?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

And right at that moment, I let go—of everything I thought I knew about life, control, and reality.

"You know this is a test flight, right? No passengers. Just the company checking how the jet performs."

"Sure. Of course." I say it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Alright then." He flips open a panel. "Let’s go through the checks. We’ll taxi as soon as the tower calls us."

My eyes glide over the controls. Something deep within me presses buttons, flips switches, checks indicators. I have no idea how. But it works.

Am I high? In the wrong movie? Whatever. I’m here.

"Look," he says, "Beate made us liverwurst sandwiches and brewed some coffee."

He pulls a heavy steel box from his bag, along with a Stanley thermos. Raphael is a man of style—Red Wings, raw denim, flannel shirt, Ray-Ban aviators. A hint of Issey Miyake lingers in the air. I like it.

He hands me a sandwich. Sourdough bread. Soft inside, crispy crust. Butter, delicate liverwurst, a bit of chervil. Smells like home—at 10,000 meters altitude.

"Wow. I’m speechless. Thank you."

"Here, good coffee to go with it. Eat first, then fly."

Lift-Off

The engine roars, a deep, vibrating sound that pulses through the fuselage of the plane. I feel the tremor in the control stick, a familiar tingling that runs from my fingertips deep into my core. The tower’s voice sounds factual, almost indifferent: "Tower to 307. You have runway 8734. Please prepare for takeoff."

A few clicks – switches flipped, levers pulled. The plane starts to roll. Just like that. As if it’s the most normal thing in the world. But for me, it’s a miracle.

“Raphi, did you check the weather?” I ask, eyes fixed on the runway.

Raphi grinned, that casual, almost cocky grin: “Of course, bro. You think this is my first time?”

I shake my head, a sheepish smile creeping across my face. “Sorry. The sandwich relaxed me.”

The runway stretched out before us, an endless ribbon of asphalt. This was it. I could drive cars, trucks – even big rigs – but this? Lifting a multi-ton aircraft into the sky? Yikes.

The headset crackled. "307, you are cleared for takeoff."

I took a deep breath. "All right. Here we go."

Full throttle. The engines roared, a tremendous thrust pinning me to the seat. I kept the plane centered, the rudder under control—somehow, it felt completely natural.

The speed climbed. 519 knots—breathtaking velocity. I felt as if I were strapped to a rocket, wrapped in nothing but thin metal skin.

I pulled back on the yoke. The nose lifted. The moment of truth. Weightlessness, my stomach lurched, and then – the ascent. Swift, direct, powerful.

The Long Flight

The world shrinks beneath me, houses turning into dots, streets into lines. I feel the firm grip on the controls—steady, composed. A faint aftertaste of liverwurst lingers in my mouth, mingling with the subtle scent of Issey Miyake in the cabin.

“Well done, bro,” Raphi mutters. “Mother Sky’s got us again. Miss this, old friend? This is home, isn’t it, Bo?”

Bo? Oh, right. That’s me. Bo Danski. The sky is my home.

Raphi grins. “Our master pilot in action.”

And I smile. Because we’re flying. Just like that. Sky. Sandwiches. Coffee. Two guys in the clouds.

Ten hours later, after countless miles over endless seas of clouds, Vancouver finally emerges on the horizon – not as a clearly defined city with recognizable buildings, but rather as a shimmering sea of lights flickering in the darkness, standing out against the black of the night sky. No building outlines, no visible runway, just this mysterious glow welcoming us like a distant lighthouse.

Despite the long journey, a certain uncertainty lingers within me, a quiet yet constant whisper reminding me that I don’t truly know what awaits us. But I trust. I trust in what has carried me all this time, a force greater than myself, something floating between the clouds and stars, guiding us safely.

I reach for the radio, calling the tower, while Raphi sits beside me with practiced calmness, checking the weather, monitoring the autopilot, and performing final system checks. We move in sync, almost trance-like, gentle and coordinated, as if we were part of something greater, a dance in the sky that knows neither haste nor tension.

A sense of emotion wells up inside me, a quiet awe at the moment. I am moved, yet simultaneously filled with an almost unnatural calm. We engage the ILS – he Instrument Landing System. The course is set, the glide path calculated, and somewhere amidst all the technology and precision lies something that feels like magic.

The city lights grow larger with every meter we descend, yet the runway remains hidden, cloaked in darkness, with only a faint shimmer hinting at its existence. I hope everything goes well, but deep within, I know: it doesn’t matter. There is no turning back.

Landing

"Ready, Bo?" Raphi leans slightly toward me, his voice a familiar anchor.

"Let’s give the lady a smooth landing, okay?" I reply with a smile that radiates more confidence than I might actually feel.

"Yes."

I lower the flaps, extend the landing gear. Everything flows, each movement a blend of routine and intuition. We touch down, rear wheels first, gently, a slight jolt, then we glide over the asphalt as if the sky hasn’t quite let us go yet.

The brakes engage, the reverse thrust roars, we slow down, inch by inch, until we finally come to a halt. Silence. A moment that says it all.

We’ve made it. A smooth landing.

Raphi raises his hand, I high-five him. "We nailed it, bro."

He smiles, that easy, almost tender smile I love about him—not just for his calmness, but also because he took this flight with me.

We keep rolling, park, shut down the systems.

Arrival

We open the door, step out into the cool night air.

Outside, it smells of freedom. Of pine needles, salty air, cold wind, and a hint of bear musk. A scent that tastes of arrival, of adventures yet to come.

If this resonated with you – I send occasional notes.
Supportive reminders to reconnect.