I remember well my own first airplane ride. It was shortly after the end of WWII. My pilot was an ex-B-17 driver, the father of a schoolmate, who became somewhat famous for being a very young wing commander. He was a "bird" colonel while in his twenties, partly by surviving in combat.
The flight took place at the then-new Laconia airport in New Hampshire. The airplane was a UC-78, the so-called "bamboo bomber". It was a twin-engine craft not unlike today's Cessna 310, though it was a tail dragger and not on tricycle gear. In some ways it reminds me of the widely used Beechcraft D-18, probably because that too was a tail dragger.
I remember vividly the thrill of that moment of lift off, the excitement of seeing the ground from high above familiar landmarks. Off to the left, over there at ten o'clock, was the lake, magnificent Lake Winnipesaukee. And there, just ahead and a little to the left was the bridge to Governor's Island. That's where my home was. My, how small it looked.
We circled at perhaps 2000 feet over the hills, lakes and streams of the region. We even flew over my school in the hamlet of Gilford. What a thrill that was. Gee, those yellow school buses looked tiny for such large vehicles. I was amazed.
Before I knew it we were back on final approach to the airfield. We landed smoothly and soon headed for the parking place beside the hangar. And then, suddenly, everything got quiet as the pilot shut down the two engines. The cabin door popped open and it was time to leave. My emotions were mixed. I was thrilled at the very idea of being up in a plane, but so disappointed that it was over. That must have been the fastest half hour of my life, but it was one that I'd never forget.