Four years ago this week, my wife dropped me off at the Lynchburg airport well before my flight. I was headed to a new career adventure: teaching for two days at what is considered the auction industry’s premier designation course. I didn’t know what to expect; so, I was almost vibrating with anxious energy. I had no idea there was a significant sendoff happening back up in the ticketing area.
I boarded the turbo prop and grabbed my window seat. A quiet, clean-shaven man sat on the other side of the armrest. I remember liking the outdoorsy patch on his jacket or hat.
My house at the time was right underneath the flight pattern, a handful of seconds past the end of the runway. I had booked my seat so I could be on the side of the plane that would let me see my house after takeoff. As the plane passed over that brown Cape Cod, I told the guy on my right that my dogs barked at the commuter planes. [That may or may not be true. They barked at everything, and I just assumed they barked at the planes every once in a while.]
From there, I segued into the story of my first hot air balloon ride, where the pilot told us that the dogs barked below us because of the noise from the burners—sounds that we couldn’t hear but that canine ears could. I don’t remember where I transitioned from there, but I know it included hang gliding and multiple other adrenaline stuff I’ve tried. It’s about a 40-minute flight to Charlotte; and that part of the conversation filled a lot of it.
On the Tarmac, as we waited for our stowed carry-on luggage to be wheeled to us, I asked, “So, where are you headed?”
“Nepal. I’m hoping to summit Everest.”
“Wow!” I added something about the accomplishment of that, tapped him on the shoulder, and then promised, “I’ll pray for you, dude!”
“Thanks.”
I prayed for the mountain climber as I walked into Terminal E to make sure I fulfilled my promise. But I spent the rest of that walk (and many moments since during my annual teaching trips), thinking about that encounter on that plane.
A Google search later revealed that my seat mate had been Dr. Robert Sullivan, an accomplished pediatrician. Turns out, Bob had summited multiple continent-topping peaks—each of which would’ve been stories I would’ve loved to have heard on that plane ride.
I’ve often wondered if there had been a crowd wishing him goodbye on the other side of security that day—maybe even signs that would’ve given me clues to change what we talked about on that flight. I’ve wondered if he had just wanted some quiet space on that flight to transition from Lynchburg to his epic journey. I’ve wondered how small my aerial accomplishments must have seemed to a man who was about to stand on snow higher than I had ever been in the air (outside of a commercial jet).
I did pray for Bob multiple times during his absence from Lynchburg. I don’t know if he needed it. Two months later, he was descending from the highest point on the planet, having successfully reached the summit on a beautiful, blue-sky day. A month later, he was deservedly a headline in the local news.
I’ve not run into Bob since that encounter. I’ve thought about writing him a letter. I’ve wanted to thank him for demonstrating humility—for being an example to me for the rest of my life. I’ve wanted to apologize for telling my story at the expense of his much better ones. My guess, though—from my short time with him—is that Bob wouldn’t have told unsolicited stories.
I just wished I had known to ask.
My adventures still make their way into onboard conversations, but they’re tempered now. I ask more questions, when a fellow passenger starts an exchange. It’s led to fun and insightful dialogue. I try to remember that everyone has a story and that anyone could be heading somewhere incredible.
Like Mount Everest.
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Airport image from linked article from Lynchburg News & Advance.
Everest images from this blog post: http://www.peakpromotionnepal.com/wms/everest_expedition/everest_summit.php
