Chapter 1

“Want to go flying?” my coworker Carlos shouted over the clatter of cooling fans in the machine room.

It was July 1985, and I was a new software developer at Digital Equipment Corporation’s latest research lab in Palo Alto. I’d only been on the job a week, but I already knew I’d found a friend in Carlos with his love of the Unix operating system and ability to deliver rapid-fire banter on all things programming. A geek after my own heart—that was my initial impression of him. But this flying idea crossed a line. I froze, and the circuits of my brain jammed with fear for a moment.

“You mean in a small plane?” I asked, stalling for time. Did I want to risk death? Um, no. I liked Carlos, and I was grateful he’d set up my workstation on my first day at the job, but I wasn’t the kind of person who flew in small airplanes. Nope.

I sneaked a glance at Carlos, not sure how he was going to take it when I told him no. I didn’t want to hurt the feelings of one of the few people I felt comfortable with in this new, intimidating world of high tech.

As he waited for me to reply, he closed the back panel of one of the computers with a snap. “I rent a Piper Archer from the Palo Alto Flying Club. It’s a beautiful plane.”

I hadn’t ever thought of airplanes as beautiful. Loud and reeking of kerosene, yes. Maybe sleek and fast, if I wanted to be positive. But didn’t every aviation scene in the movies end in engine failure, followed by the inevitable nosedive to the ground? My imagination raced ahead, placing us both in a smoke-filled cockpit with Carlos yelling over the intensifying shriek of the engines, “Grab the wheel! Help me pull out of this dive!”

I blinked and glanced once again at Carlos’s eager expression. If I said no, he might never ask me again. It would become yet another in a series of missed opportunities, like “taking a leave” (the polite way of saying “dropping out”) from UC Berkeley’s computer science PhD program. I’d dreamed of becoming a professor, like my father, for years. But the few available tenure-track faculty positions were in high demand with as many as four hundred applicants for a single opening. I was afraid not only that I couldn’t compete against four hundred smart people, but worse, that I wasn’t even intelligent enough to finish the required dissertation. So I’d simply given up.

Instead, I’d landed a job in Silicon Valley on the strength of my partially completed graduate work and undergraduate degree in math. But after only a week, I was terrified here too. Entering DEC’s brand-new building, I’d suddenly found myself inside something nascent and burgeoning—a movement perhaps?—surrounded by people with the heady conviction that technology was about to change the world. In the neighborhood surrounding the Stanford campus, the scent of falafel curled into the air, and words like “microprocessor,” “external cache,” and “high-­performance CPU” emanated from restaurants packed with geeks.

Yet, despite all the exhilaration around me, despite the fact that DEC had hired me, I was scared I didn’t belong. I was the only female programmer on the team, and everyone else seemed so confident, so driven. Surely, they’d soon realize that they’d made a mistake. I kept having flashbacks to how I was bullied as a child. But I needed to find a way to keep the job. My new husband, Ben, and I had been struggling to rent rooms in pricey Berkeley while I was still a student. We’d gotten married in 1984 but had been keeping our finances separate, carefully dividing shares of the rent, utilities, and food. With only a student income, I was the weak link in the financial chain, barely making enough to pay my share. Until now, we’d had to share our living quarters with a series of weird housemates.

This was my first real job, one that might even lead to a career, and I had to hang onto it. I wanted to hang onto it. I had to succeed at something. And DEC was an exciting place to work in 1985.

Most everyone else in the spanking-new DEC Workstation Systems Engineering Group was a superstar. My boss had invented the famous Bourne shell on the Unix operating system. Another coworker came to us from Microsoft, where he’d developed an operating system called Windows. He seemed to think it was going to revolutionize personal computing.

And then there was me, the kid once assigned to slow reading groups in elementary school back in West Lafayette, Indiana. The girl who’d been diagnosed with a speech impediment in second grade, whose teachers had shaken their heads about my immigrant parents, native speakers of two different languages: my mom, Tagalog, and my dad, Spanish. The kid who’d been ostracized. It was clear I didn’t belong. I felt like a bit player on a Broadway stage.

But right there, in that moment, with Carlos waiting on my answer, I decided it was time to face my fears just this once. Maybe it was a stupid risk, but I wanted to enjoy this adult life. After way too many years of being broke and afraid, I knew something was wrong with how I’d been living my life. It had become so very narrow. Every year my world contracted as I closed down another path, placed another fetter on myself. It’s not safe. I don’t belong. I’m not that kind of person. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost that connection to something I’d known as a small child, to something vast and deep, to the essence of the person I was meant to be.

And if I wanted a more expansive life, if I wanted to succeed in this career, I was going to have to keep my fears from ruling me. I might as well start with trusting Carlos’s offer.

“Sure!” I said with fake enthusiasm, not fully believing what I’d just done.

Carlos grinned with delight. “I’ll make the reservation,” he said, as though it were as simple as going out to lunch.

* * *

I managed to avoid thinking about the upcoming flight all week. Avoidance was always one of my superpowers. But the following Saturday, I arrived at the Oakland North Field Executive Terminal early. The automatic glass doors slid open, and cold air blasted me in the face. I tried to act like I belonged in the snazzy lounge, its occupants all either in pilots’ uniforms or business suits. I was the only woman other than the neatly coiffed and immaculately made-up blond attendant behind the counter.

I sat down in one of the plush chairs and pretended to be engrossed in a magazine labeled Flying in bold capital letters across the front. Every now and then I glanced up through the wall of glass at the tarmac, where dozens of small propeller airplanes lined the fence, and sweat chilled me in my thin T-shirt. I was trembling a little. Purely because of the cold, of course.

The doors swooshed open. Warm, briny air from the marsh surrounding the airport swirled in, and then Carlos appeared. “Ready to go?” he asked with a grin.

“Sure,” I lied and followed him out to the death trap … er … Piper Archer. This so-called beautiful plane was shockingly tiny, with wings spanning maybe thirty feet, and less than that from nose to tail.

“I got the nicest airplane in the fleet,” he boasted. “It’s a 1985 model and has all the latest instruments.”

The plane had only one door, and four narrow seats packed inside the minuscule cabin. Worse, the open door angled out over the top of one of the wings. I surely couldn’t stand right on the wing, could I?

“Climb up and go inside,” Carlos directed, busy with something under the belly of the airplane. I froze like a kid stuck on the ladder to the high diving board.

He reemerged from beneath the plane holding a clear plastic tube with a screwdriver on the end. He couldn’t possibly be repairing the plane right before we took off, could he? Just to prove I could, I tentatively lifted my foot up onto the wing.

“No, don’t step on the flap!” he warned. “Only the black area. That’s designed to walk on.”

Let’s hope I hadn’t damaged anything with my misstep. I climbed up on the black strip and stopped dead again. To get to the passenger seat, I’d have to step directly on the pilot’s seat and then over a panel studded with multicolored levers. I glanced back at Carlos, still busy with some task probably crucial for the safe operation of the airplane. I didn’t dare distract him. Fiery cinematic nosedives flashed before my eyes.

I surreptitiously wiped my shoes on my jeans, stepped onto the leather seat, and crawled past a dizzying array of dials, knobs, and bizarre-looking instruments. There was so much glass it looked like … a cockpit. A second steering wheel, just like the pilot’s, protruded into the passenger side, and foot pedals extended over the floor mats. I didn’t see how I could avoid bumping into one of the controls and causing certain death.

I vowed to sit absolutely still throughout the flight.

Carlos swung into the pilot’s seat carrying a stack of multicolored maps, handed me a headset, and showed me how to adjust the microphone. “When I push this button, I’ll be communicating with the tower, so please don’t talk. I’ll let you know when it’s okay.”

I nodded. I wouldn’t say a word, no matter what. Nothing like, Um, excuse me, I think I’m about to throw up all over these expensive leather seats. Nope. Not a word.

Carlos opened a window vent, shouted “Clear!” and the propeller began to rotate. The blades blurred into a translucent disk, and the engine growled around my headset. The airplane shook and rumbled, lifting slightly off its wheels as though eager to fly. All at once, this strange and ungainly machine not much bigger than my Honda came alive, a giant bird flexing its wings. A rush of excitement surged through me. We were actually going to fly.

That is, if we didn’t crash and burn first.

A nonstop current of voices surged through my headset, but I couldn’t understand a word. We taxied out. Carlos gave me a thumbs-up, and I nodded weakly. He advanced the throttle, the engine roared, and we accelerated along the runway. I clutched the sides of the leather seat. Beyond the metal cowling, a view of the wide world opened out in front of me. The runway streamed away beneath us as we picked up speed. Gasoline fumes and burnt rubber dispersed as the roar and vibration increased. Then the plane lifted its nose, and we were airborne.

There was nothing to do but hold on.

The earth dropped away from us. Through the windshield, concrete and trees and endless blue sky pivoted as we wheeled away from land toward San Francisco Bay. Little sparkles of sunlight flickered on the waves beneath us, golden and sapphire.

We were flying.

And my heart lifted. I smiled so hard the muscles of my face ached.

Carlos pointed the plane toward the Golden Gate Bridge, a shimmering arc across the sea and sky. He dipped the nose gently, and we flew low over the California coastline, low enough that I could almost feel mist spray my face from waves breaking on the shore. The cliffs thrust up from the water, carved into the earth, vivid and sharp and near. Down we flew over mansions with their elaborate pools and gardens. I wondered if these affluent homeowners had any idea how naked they were to any ordinary citizen who happened to have a pilot’s license. It was like having x-ray vision, a tremendous, secret delight.

Suddenly, Carlos tossed one of his complicated maps into my lap. “Quickly, find which radial of the Oakland VOR crosses the tip of Marin County.”

Panic bubbled up in me. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I felt that I had to figure out what he needed or surely the plane would plunge into the ocean below us. I had to do something. I had to answer him, but instead I froze. As we sat in that tiny cabin suspended far above the earth, my hands sweated as I clutched the map.

* * *

Sweaty palms had been a humiliating trait of my body ever since childhood. The worst was when I faced heights, like riding the Ferris wheel with my dad at the Lafayette Fair, one evening when I was in sixth grade. At the moment we reached the top, the wheel lurched, and I clung to the bar while our pod rocked back and forth. Rust-colored sweat streaked my palms, and I rubbed them on the orange polyester pants my mom had bought on sale at Sears.

“What a beautiful view,” my dad said, his smile gleaming in the reflected glow from lamps that looked like pinpoints beneath us.

I pressed my shoulder into the warmth of his sweater. My gaze trailed along the horizon, where the sky radiated a dusky apricot, sealing itself over cornfields in the distance. The air smelled different up here, purer, wilder, free of dust. Below my dangling feet, our town clung to the earth, the houses as tiny as Monopoly pieces in my mind, the people invisible. I raised a hand and imagined I could simply reach out and move those tiny pieces wherever I wanted.

Yet, if I leaned over the side and slipped, or if one of the bolts or rivets gave way, I’d plummet to certain death. I could imagine it: the rush of air, my terrified scream, the ground widening and expanding around me, closer and closer—then nothing.

I clutched my dad’s arm with both hands.

“Whoa,” he said, slipping his arm around me. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re awfully high up,” I whispered.

“Shhh, it’s fine.” He pointed at a metal spoke. “See how wide those struts are? They’re calculated to hold many times our weight. Remember I told you about the scientific method?” My dad was a physics professor and a mathematician, and if he said the ride was safe, it must be. In his arms, I relaxed—a little.

When the ride was over, my dad held my hand as we stepped onto solid ground. He kissed my forehead to say goodbye. “I have to work, but I’ll pick you up in two hours. Unless you changed your mind and want to go home now?”

I shook my head, arms stiff at my sides. I wanted to stay at the fair, but I was considered too old to be babysat by a parent. I watched the stripes of his navy sweater get smaller and smaller until he vanished in the crowd while tinny music blared from loudspeakers all around me.

Alone, I shuffled my feet in the gravel, trying to decide what to do next. I knew the tilt-a-whirl would make me throw up and the roller coaster terrified me, but I had just enough money to buy cotton candy. I felt like a grown-up as I placed my order and a man spun frothy pink wisps into a huge solid ball. As I wandered down the path, the cloud of spun sugar hid my view of the crowd. The feathery strands melted to sweetness in my mouth. I relaxed a bit. This was fun after all.

“Hey, look, it’s Rod-ree-kezz!” A familiar voice mispronounced my name, and I dropped the paper cone, backing against a wall plastered with posters.

Then I saw them across the midway—three of the classmates who most enjoyed making my daily life in sixth grade miserable, their faces blurred in the uneven lighting, their expressions identical and hostile. They wore matching short blond haircuts, and their pale hair gleamed under the lights. The tallest boy, Don Schwartz, stepped forward, flanked by his friends, grinning in anticipation. He scooped up the ruined cone and inspected the dirt-studded pink mass.

“I thought you spics were too poor to waste food.” He thrust the mound of cotton candy at my face. “Eat it.” His friends laughed.

I dodged his swipe and shrank back against the wall, frozen, glancing left and right for an escape path. Dozens of adults and kids streamed past, shouting and laughing over the music, but no one was paying attention.

Don stepped closer.

All I had to do was duck under his arm. I was a fast runner, faster than most of the kids in my class. But my feet were nailed to the ground, my body immobile except for the pulse drumming against my throat.

Time stretched out, and the smell of sugar and dust swirled into my nose.

“Why, how nice of you boys to share candy with your friend,” an elderly woman behind them said, a yellow rose bobbing on her hat. “My grandson is waiting at the merry-go-round. Can you help me find it?”

I grabbed my chance and scurried into a thick crowd of adults. I ran under a ring of lights, hugging the walls and panting. I spent the rest of the evening lurking behind booths and checking the shadows for my tormentors.

* * *

That night was the last time I rode a Ferris wheel. I never saw the earth from above in that same way, not until this first flight in a small plane with Carlos. And just like that day over a decade before, time seemed to stretch while everything waited on my unfreezing. Carlos’s question hung in the air as I stared at the map.

But this time I didn’t have to run away. The chart on my lap held geometry and numbers—my strong suit. My muscles might have frozen, but my mind could still calculate.

“Three forty-seven,” I said, following a line on the chart from the promontory of land to a funny little symbol on the Oakland Airport, noting the number where it crossed a blue circle.

Carlos grinned and fiddled with a set of dials on the dashboard, and we banked ever so slightly to the right. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I said little during the rest of the flight but never forgot the waves splayed out like lace against the cliffs, the sky cupping the ocean like a welcome, calling to me. Carlos let me take the controls, rotate the wheel left and right, and that sweet little Archer leaned into the wind at the touch of my hand. I felt profoundly blessed, touched by something beyond this world. We made a long arc over the East Bay and landed back at Oakland Airport. I was shaking as Carlos taxied the plane back to the Executive Terminal. He unlatched the cockpit door and took my hand to help me out. I inhaled deeply as my feet touched down on the solid concrete.

“Cheated death again,” he announced with a grin.

I’ve heard people describe how alcohol or heroin seems to fill the hole in their heart, how it wipes all the pain away. That’s the effect flying had on me. For so long, I’d been aching, lonely, missing something essential. Flitting from one failure to another. But that day, the hole in my heart was filled.

I had to go flying again, I realized. But when I pictured myself returning to the runway, I didn’t see myself in the passenger seat. I saw myself at the controls. But what did this mean? It meant I would need to learn to fly. It meant that I would become a pilot.

There was only one problem, of course: fear.

I was terrified of operating machinery. Even driving a car scared me. And when I got scared, I got clumsy and awkward and made mistakes.

Aviation, they say, is “unforgiving of carelessness, incapacity, or neglect.” Flying was dangerous for someone like me, whose fear often translated into panic and shutdown. I didn’t perform well under pressure. Like the time at the fair when all my muscles locked up until chance freed me to run.

I couldn’t help wondering if learning to fly would end up being my final failure.