By Bert Botta

Bert Botta in the cockpit. I should have known better, thinking I was through flying and bolting into retirement seven years before the clock struck 60, leaving my air carrier home of 26 years.

The bailout from my airline was more reaction to the morose conditions created there by a corporate raider than logic. But it was also part of my quest to satisfy some silly, primeval longing for a deeper spiritual life in a world that continues to threaten the theft of an aviator’s soul.

My “retire now” knee-jerk reaction should have triggered a fail flag in my brain, to move slowly, consider my options. Just like a bad sim ride, everything I’ve done in a hurry I’ve screwed up.