Civil Air Patrol Collar Insignia

Plainview, NY, 1967

There was a time in my life when I wanted desperately to wear a uniform. I took it to some length. At age 16 I wrote my local congressman for a letter of recommendation: a requirement for my application to the Air Force Academy in Colorado.

My motive was simple: I wanted to go to outer space. The logical first step was becoming, like all of the Mercury and Gemini astronauts, a jet pilot.

I’ve always been fascinated with flying. At 13, I joined the Civil Air Patrol: a civilian wing of the Air Force that flies volunteer search and emergency missions. As a crisp cadet I studied aviation, aerospace, and leadership, reaching the rank of Airman First Class. And I flew, nearly every weekend, in a single-engine Cessna with a very laid-back pilot who taught me the basics of solo flight. I was tempted to get my pilot’s license—but it would have around $1,500, an unthinkable sum.

So what happened? Puberty, for one thing. Vietnam and the draft. Woodstock, Jefferson Airplane, Kent State, Country Joe, Kurt Vonnegut Jr., and my best friend’s bong.

Do I regret abandoning my space-bound aspirations? Yes, actually. By the time I’d grown up, astronauts didn’t have to be test pilots or members of the military. These days there may even be stoner astronauts, although they sure don’t talk about it.

If I win a billion dollars, or meet a genie, I’ll arrange a trip to the International Space Station. And I’ll double down for a spacewalk. The very thought of it still leaves me breathless.

Meanwhile, I’ll have to be satisfied flying within the Earth’s atmosphere: far below the canopy of stars, but wearing what I please.