I wriggled around my dad’s legs and tried to peer over the car hood as he wrote in his sailplane logbook. He picked me up and stood me on top of his sturdy brown shoes. With his ballpoint pen as a pointer, he helped me read: Thermals off second ridge, contacted weak wave over rock pile. Increased to 3–4 kts. Landed at sundown. But as a six-year-old, the meaning was as inscrutable as his organic chemistry quizzes.
