So I've been thinking about this question since the thread was posted.
Flying is my life. It's been my life since I was little. I was at a shuttle launch, watched Challenger explode on TV from my hospital bed. Used to go out and watch the concord come in. First word I said, according to my parents, was 'plane.' I used to devour every aviation book I could find, including a 1984 Jepp private pilot manual, WWII historical fiction, blow-by-blows, autobiographies, accounts of early/modern/late aviation, you name it.
I wanted to fly. More than anything else, it's what I wanted. I told my parents when I was 12-13 that I wanted to fly airtankers or warbirds.
I was an airport rat when I was learning to fly. Keep in mind, I lived 45 miles north of KPFN, out in the swamp. So it took an hour of driving to get to the airport. First flight school ("Sowell Aviation") didn't fly me at all and tried to screw me out of my money because I was just a kid, my parents had no aviation background, and they thought they could get away with charging me for "ground school" when "ground school" meant I was allowed to hang out in the back room where some old King tapes were. Well, my CFI clued me in, and I took what was left of my money and went across the runway to the FBO. Used to hang around there on the days between when I was trying to scrape together money and the days when I was flying. I'd make the popcorn, help people with stuff, and watch airplanes, secretly hoping people would invite me to go fly. Applied at the maintenance shop on the field, turned down. Offered to was planes, sweep the hangar, whatever was needed, but no dice.
Nice guy flying corporate in a Duke took me up a few times to go hang out with him as he was getting the plane worked on. Talked shop, and so on, and he let me fly a bit during cruise. Name was Dewey, nice guy.
When I was 17, I finished up my private pilot's license, and flew from KPFN to KDHN with a friend, then walked to a diner down the road, got a hamburger, came back, flew home, and ... that was the last of my money. My swordfighting group and the people I performed with had all split up, and I didn't have anything on the horizon but small office tech work and a bunch of stuff I did for community, like contributing to the debian project, running systems and MUDs for friends, and so on. Well, a few weeks after that last flight, I scraped together enough to go hang out with "Nine O' Nine" and the Collings foundation folks when they came to town. Spent the entire day hanging out on, admiring, and talking people's ear off about the B17—an airplane I loved to bits.
As sunset was coming on, my parents were coming to pick me up and they were getting ready to depart for their sunset flight, the crew took me over and said "Hey, kid ... wanna go for a ride?" I cannot tell you how fast I said "yes." Afterwards, the pilot told me that they were looking for pilots who were interested, and told me to give him a call once I had my commercial (or it might have been instrument, I can't recall).
A few days later, hanging out at the FBO, I met a guy who was flying Beech 18s, but he said he could get me in touch with a guy who worked tankers. Said what I needed to do was go do some cropdusting, get my multi. He'd give me more info the next day.
Well, I came back the next day and he never showed up. I lost the contact info for the Collings Foundation pilot. I do still have a picture of Nine O' Nine, but ... well, that's all that's left of her.
I was turning 18 around this time, and my parents told me that I needed to go out on my own, find my own way. So I came out to the bay area on a greyhound bus with $50 in cash and a bag full of clothes to see if I could get a job in tech—something I was uncannily good at—to make the money to pay for crop dusting school.
I had my sights set on Sam Riggs flying school in Claremore, OK.
'Course, then Sam Riggs lit out for Belize.
Shortly before or after, I can't recall, there were a series of high-profile tanker crashes, and the Blue Ribbon panel, and suddenly the industry contracted, and I realized that I was going to have a really hard time getting in, especially with no contacts. I tried to reach out to people, even sent in $50 to join the Associated Airtanker Pilots, a group run by somebody named Dale. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find anyone who knew anyone back then, and my AAP registration never got processed, so I never got onto the group.
Of course I did try to fly out in the bay area. But flying in the bay area was (and is) very hobby-focused for most people. I did start flying tailwheel, doing acro, and getting checked out in interesting planes like the Great Lakes, but at the end of the day, work pulled me in. And I never liked the $100 hamburger thing—I needed a mission. A reason to fly other than just converting money into exhaust.
The more tech work began to dominate my life, the more I desperately tried to reach out to find my place in aviation. I got my AGI, then my instrument, my commercial, multi, CFI. I almost bought a share in a C55 baron, and I was seriously considering buying a Super D to go fly across instead. I even built part of an RV-8 tail kit to see if that would stick.
But I wanted to fly planes, not build them or buy them. And I couldn't afford to build or buy AND fly.
Around that time, I went and flew with a friend of mine up in Alaska who flew beavers for 135 out of K-town. A week of flying around the Alaska bush, and I was hooked. He wanted me to come up and get me hired, but I didn't have my seaplane rating, and they didn't have any openings for the summer. He told me I could work the dock in the summer and he'd try to hire me for a float position in the fall, but then I had someone approach me about flying 207s in Juneau instead, and I took him up on it.
That company, Wings of Alaska, happened to be in CASS.
Three years later, having ridden around the country on various jumpseats—mostly AS—I decided to bounce to the airlines, hoping that maybe, someday, I might possibly be able to fly for Alaska Airlines. I came to a large regional with west-coast bases, got out onto the line, then eventually upgraded to captain.
Ten years later, here I am, thinking about leaving the industry for good, a bit heartbroken, a lot more worn down, and only a few hundred thousand richer than when I started flying for a living. More than five thousand hours, two thousand tpic, and almost thirty years of flying. But I'm still trying to do my best. I'm a pilot, not a business drone. I'm not wearing a suit, I'm wearing a uniform, and I try to be proud of it. I try to maintain the professional standards, courtesies, and inspire the next generation. But it's wearing on me.
So, in answer to that question: "What is this job to me?"
I don't really know anymore.
