There are two kinds of airplanes - those you fly and those that fly you . . . You must have a distinct understanding at the very start as to who is the boss.

Electronics were rascals, and they lay awake nights trying to find some way to screw you during the day. You could not reason with them. They had a brain and intestines, but no heart.

Flying is hypnotic and all pilots are victims to the spell. Their world is like a magic island in which the factors of life and death assume their proper values. Thinking becomes clear because there are no earthly foibles or embellishments to confuse it.

The emergencies you train for almost never happen. It's the one you can't train for that kills you.

I want a boat that drinks 6, eats 4, and sleeps 2.

Flying is hypnotic and all pilots are willing victims to the spell.

It's remarkable how quickly a good and favorable wind can sweep away the maddening frustrations of shore living.

It doesn't look nearly as big as it did the first time I saw one. Mickey McGuire and I used to sit hour after hour in the cockpit of the one that American used for training, at the company school in Chicago, saying to each other, 'My God, do you think we'll ever learn to fly anything this big?'

Rule books are paper - they will not cushion a sudden meeting of stone and metal.

There is no more alluring airspace in the world than the slit up a China girl's dress.