I had heard it as a joke.
“When I turned eighteen, I told him I wanted to fly for real,” Brock said.
“A pilot’s license cost money my family didn’t have.”
“Twenty hours in the air, just to solo, came to twenty-one hundred dollars.”
“I thanked your father and went home, and I figured that was the end of the dream.”
“Two weeks later he handed me an envelope.”
“It had the exact amount in it.”
“I asked where it came from.”
“He said, ‘Doesn’t matter.'”
“It wasn’t until years later that I found out he’d sold his bass boat.”
My head snapped toward my father.
“The Skeeter?”
He gave a small, embarrassed shrug.
“I told you it had a cracked hull.”
“It did not have a cracked hull,” Brock said, and for the first time, he laughed.
“The day I flew my first solo, he met me on the
