"Why can't you take up golf?" I pleaded when my husband, Maury, announced he was going to learn to fly. Fly? First the red sports car, now this? Was this part of a man's "go-fast stage" of life? But the more I tried to talk him out of his newfound desire, the more set he was to try it.
I had a feeling this one would test our relationship. And all my pleadings were in vain.
Throughout his training, Maury urged me to take lessons. But I wasn't interested in riding in a small airplane, let alone piloting one.
I preferred tamer activities, such as water skiing in the alligator-infested lakes of Central Florida where we live. Of course, when I tried to learn to water ski, I broke a bone in my foot and sprained my neck. Bad knees prevented me from keeping up with him during snow skiing, and a near brush with drowning made scuba diving less than appealing.
But we wanted to find fun hobbies we could share. My pursuits of cross-stitch, gardening, and reading didn't lend themselves to drawing us closer as a couple. And Maury, who loved flying from day one, believed sincerely he'd found just the hobby for both of us to experience together.
"You should try it. It's really fun," he insisted. I responded that I don't appreciate being "should" upon. This hobby definitely wasn't love at first sight—for me.
A death-defying ride Several months later Maury earned his license and offered me a ride. My first impulse was to shout, "No way!" But I knew how much it meant to him, so I nervously accepted.1