Growing up as adopted fraternal twins with a father who was both a doctor and an aviation enthusiast made our childhood about as conventional as a disco ball in a library.

As we got older and started paying more attention to the world around us, it became pretty obvious that the Pearce family wasn’t quite like every other family on the block. Dad was a doctor in private practice with simple tastes, while Mom had social ambitions and kept the whole family operation running. Together, they managed a family of six with equal parts discipline, thrift, and determination. We lived in a nice house, attended private school, traveled to places few other families we knew ever visited—and ate plenty of Campbell’s soup along the way.

And then there were the family vacations.

We were pretty much like everyone else. You know? Load up the kids, the luggage, and the family dog in the station wagon and hit the road.

Except our station wagon had wings, traveled at 180 miles per hour, and cruised along the high road at 10,000 feet.

One could argue that by the standards of the day, we logged enough air miles to give frequent flyers a run for their money.

As adults, we can appreciate some of those trips more than we did at the time—and laugh at quite a few things that weren’t especially funny while they were happening.

It’s funny how hindsight works, isn’t it? Like rewatching the television shows we loved as kids and finally catching all the jokes that sailed over our heads the first time.

Hindsight can be 20/20, but foresight is usually nearsighted. If only they made glasses for that.

Of course, hindsight also has a way of making questionable decisions, near misses, and family travel disasters seem much more entertaining from a safe distance.

And there were plenty of those.

There were long hours in cramped a small aircraft, questionable landing strips, unplanned detours, close encounters with weather, wildlife, livestock, and insects large enough to require their own boarding passes. There were also a few moments when we seriously wondered whether Dad’s flying skills—or our mother’s patience—would hold out.

Some trips were wonderful. Some were terrifying. Others were simply very long.

Those are the stories we still tell.

Welcome aboard.

Just two days into the spring of 1962, we made our grand entrance into the world, surprising our soon-to-be adoptive parents, Henry and Joanne, who were expecting one baby, not two. They hadn’t been planning for a two-for-one deal, but like savvy shoppers at an unexpected sale, they decided to embrace the surprise and adopt both of us.

At the time, Henry (affectionately called “Hank” by his friends and family) was a young physician finishing his residency, while Joanne worked as a schoolteacher. They lived in a modest home in Fresno, CA, with their three-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, who was about to become a big sister twice over. 

Aunt Lois, Joanne’s sister, loves to tell the story of our surprise arrival. She recalls how she, her sister Ragna, and their mother were all waiting anxiously by the phone for news from Joanne, who was at the hospital awaiting the birth of their soon-to-be-adopted baby. When the call finally came, Grandmother Eileen was the first to hear the unexpected announcement from her daughter: “We’ve just had twins!”

In the early 1960s, such surprises weren’t uncommon—nature’s way of saying, “You thought one baby was enough? Surprise!”

We’ve spent years debating which of us was the “surprise” twin. Lisa likes to say, “Obviously, I was the planned one,” to which Leslie always replies, “You were clearly the bonus baby—I came out first!”

Eleven minutes apart, and we’ve never quite settled who was meant to be the singleton. Lisa insists that, as the second arrival, she was simply “fashionably late,” while Leslie claims she was just “making sure the coast was clear.”

Truth be told, we were both surprises—but we’ve always been okay with that.

Our parents, to their credit, were always straightforward about our adoption, explaining it to us early on in a way that made it feel natural and matter-of-fact. This led to some amusing moments in elementary school when classmates would sidle up to us, eyes wide with what they thought was shocking news: “Did you know you were adopted?” They’d whisper it like it was some sort of state secret, only to be completely deflated by our casual “Yeah. So?” response. It never failed to catch these would-be gossip-bearers off guard, leaving them to shuffle away, robbed of their big reveal.

And so, thanks to a series of fortunate decisions—our biological mother’s selfless choice, our adoptive parents opting for the two-for-one special, and everyone involved agreeing that we were better as a duo than a solo act—we ended up exactly where we were meant to be. 

Those choices gave us opportunities and stability we would come to understand and appreciate much later in life after reconnecting with our birth mother and learning more about the circumstances surrounding our adoption. But that’s a tale for another time—one that would unfold long after childhood experiences and travels had shaped us into the women we would become.

Lingering health risks following Joanne’s pregnancy with Elizabeth had made adoption the sensible choice. After our surprise twin entrance, Hank and Joanne reasonably believed their family-building days were behind them.

But the universe, as it often does, had other plans. Sometime in early autumn of 1962, Joanne discovered that the Pearce family was about to grow again.

You have to appreciate the irony: our father—fresh off eight grueling years of medical and OB/GYN training—getting his own surprise refresher course on “the birds and the bees.” 

Apparently, even the experts aren’t immune to life’s little curveballs.

Three decades or so later, as mothers of toddlers ourselves, we had to wonder where our mom found the time—or the energy—to, well, you know... It brings to mind the old saying, “Man plans, God laughs.” In any case, we would now be a family of six—which made things very interesting when traveling in a small aircraft or waiting for a table without restaurant reservations.

Dad received his military orders to report for duty in Taiwan on July 1, 1963— just fourteen days before Mom was due to give birth to their newest bundle of joy. Because Mom was so close to her due date, the Navy wouldn’t allow her to fly on military transport. With no other option, she and Dad booked her a commercial flight on Pan Am, then the gold standard of international air travel: elegant, iconic, and instantly recognizable.

Going with the flow—and keeping their sense of humor—they joked that if the baby turned out to be a girl, they’d name her Panamela. 

One can only imagine the looks on the faces of the Pan Am stewardesses (as they were called back then) when our extremely pregnant mom boarded the flight. In those days, flight attendants were trained in elegance, not emergency deliveries—so we can only assume there were a few tight smiles, whispered prayers, and a collective hope that she wouldn’t go into labor somewhere over the Pacific.

Oh, the irony it would have been—going into labor midair, miles above the ocean, without her obstetrician-trained husband suddenly called into service.

But the flight was uneventful, with no dramatic on-board, mid-air delivery in the aisle—and just six days after landing in Taiwan, Matthew made his debut.

With a preschooler, two toddlers, an infant, and an undoubtedly exhausted young wife in tow, Dad began his first military assignment at a U.S. Navy base tucked into the Tian Mu neighborhood of Taipei. The compound housed military personnel and their families, where Dad served as an OB/GYN for the wives of servicemen.

Our first two years unfolded in this foreign setting, where, in our formative years, we predictably soaked up bits of culture and language that stayed with us into adulthood. To this day, we can still count to ten (and proudly recite the word for ‘watermelon’) in Mandarin—linguistic souvenirs from our toddler years abroad. 

Life in Taiwan had settled into its own rhythm, and our parents had adjusted to their growing brood. While our memories of Taiwan are understandably hazy, family stories, photographs, and old 8mm home movies vividly capture two adventurous toddlers constantly in motion—usually in opposite directions. To help tell us apart, Mom cleverly color-coded our matching but differently colored outfits (usually dresses): Lisa often wore baby blue to match her eyes, while Leslie was dressed in red or yellow to complement her brown ones. We even had matching—but differently colored—Wonder Horses, those classic bouncy plastic horses mounted on a metal frame with four springs: Leslie’s was brown, and Lisa’s was blue.

Despite not being identical, people mixed us up all the time—even as adults. Personally, we don’t think we look alike at all, but perfect strangers—and, on occasion, our own family members—have mistaken us for one another.

Lisa is the “lighter” model: fair-skinned, blue-eyed, and freckled, with skin that burns at the mere mention of sunshine. Uncannily, she resembled our adoptive mother Joanne, whose family was Irish. Leslie, the “darker” model, has brown eyes and an olive complexion that tans just walking past a lamp. She resembled Hank, whose background included Mapuche ancestry on his mother’s side and Welsh and Scottish roots on his father’s.

Those who knew we were adopted found the resemblance to our parents uncanny. Those who didn’t were usually surprised when the subject came up. Looking through our family photos, no one would have guessed we weren’t related by blood.

Our favorite mode of transportation was a green tricycle that, adapted by twin necessity, usually carried both of us—one pedaling while the other perched behind, taking turns piloting our shared vehicle around the front of our house. It was one of the first of many belongings we shared as twins, and that tricycle even made the journey back to the States with us, faithfully serving until some preadolescent porch pirate-in-training stole it from our front yard years later.

The backyard was another venue for our twin synchronization, particularly the swing set where we invented our own version of aerial see-sawing—facing each other on the wooden swing, hands stacked on the ropes, feet interlaced on the seat as we swung back and forth while tilting up and down like a miniature carnival ride. Whoever was filming our little circus act apparently wasn’t too alarmed, seeing as they just kept rolling the camera. Then again, with a doctor for a dad, the nearest ER was usually the family bathroom.

Speaking of the hazards of toddlerhood, our neighborhood was lined with deep, open gutters—what Mom and Dad called ‘benjos’—which were basically concrete mini-moats practically begging for a wayward, wobbly toddler to tumble in. So naturally, at least one of us did! The ongoing debate about who took the most spectacular plunges into these rather noxious trenches continues to this day. “I distinctly remember you being the one who practically lived in the benjo,” Lisa teases, while Leslie maintains that our younger brother, Matthew, was the culprit, and anyway, such vivid memories from barely the age of two are suspect.

Dad still chuckles when he recalls strolling through the neighborhood and glimpsing the day’s menu floating in the benjos. There was often an eclectic collection bobbing along: Fruit Loops, oatmeal, and half-eaten fruit at breakfast time, followed by the lunchtime parade of PB&Js and SpaghettiOs drifting past like tiny life preservers. It was a low-budget buffet preview—courtesy of the neighborhood sewer line.

Then there were the ā-màs (pronounced AH-mahs), the household nannies who helped Mom with all the young’uns. Watching those old movies, we couldn’t help but think they surely must have earned their wages. While Lisa could generally be counted on to stay put, Leslie, ever the free spirit, would frequently take a spontaneous toddle-dash down the quiet street, keeping those poor women in constant motion. There’s no denying any of it, either. It’s all on tape—so to speak.

Our most cherished takeaway was a lifelong addiction to suanmei, those oh-so-salty-sweet, dried plums (which we affectionately dubbed ‘sour seeds’) that make your taste buds stand up and salute. Long before Sour Patch Kids hit the scene, we’d excitedly offer these wrinkled treasures to unsuspecting friends, watching their facial expressions journey from curiosity to horror. The polite ones managed a grimace; the dramatic ones performed impromptu gagging routines that would have prompted anyone not in on the joke to reach for the phone and dial 911. Even decades later, mentioning suanmei to our childhood friends triggers their gag reflexes—though we still buy them whenever we’re in an Asian market or Chinatown.

Well, to each his own. 

Those early years in Taiwan gave our parents a crash course in adapting to another culture while managing a growing brood. For us, they were the beginning of a lifelong familiarity with travel and exotic places.

Sometime in 1965, after Dad completed his Navy service, our family returned to the States, where he established his private OB/GYN practice in Santa Cruz, California. This coastal town became the backdrop for our childhood and adolescence. We grew up and attended school there, and it remained our hometown until we moved away as young adults. 

Our parents practiced an “excel or else” parenting style and believed in the holy trinity of tough love, exotic travel, and Ivy League aspirations. Childhood included a steady diet of private school uniforms, impromptu geography lessons at the dinner table, and the constant reminder that ‘B+’ on a report card stood for ‘Better do better next semester, young lady.’  

Instilled with a work ethic that could’ve powered a small country and carrying passports so variously stamped they looked like early forms of modern graffiti, we were inadvertently prepped for life’s unexpected turns. From piecing together last-minute school projects to handling travel mishaps, we learned that sometimes ‘figuring it out’ on the fly was the only option—and we got pretty good at it.

Being each other’s (almost constant) companions was a given, and we’ve always shared that unique bond most people attribute to twins: unwavering loyalty mixed with the occasional ‘sibling scuffle.’ Our personalities differed somewhat—Leslie was the feisty, defiant twin, while Lisa was more reserved—but we were both social and creatively inclined. And we always had each other’s backs.

But we sometimes felt like ducks being raised in a chicken coop. Technically we were all birds of a feather, but that was about where the resemblance ended. We gravitated toward art, music, sports, and social activities, while the rest of the family leaned more toward academics. We excelled at things they didn’t, and vice versa.

Ever see a chicken try to swim—or a duck try to roost?

Our point exactly.

And yes, to this day, we still experience those ‘twin moments,’ saying the same things simultaneously and sharing similar (and sometimes odd) mannerisms, much to the amusement of our husbands and kids. Dad always said we were ‘womb mates,’ guaranteed best friends for life—even when time and distance separate us. 

While our early years were filled with the usual childhood milestones, our parents’ penchant for travel set the stage for some of our most memorable experiences. Our passports were about to get a serious workout.

Around 1970, when we reached the tender age of eight, our family embarked on a series of travels that would make the average vacation look like a trip to the grocery store. For nearly a decade, we experienced more highs and lows than an airplane’s altimeter—literally and figuratively. With our aviator dad as captain, we crisscrossed the sometimes not-so-friendly skies over the western U.S. and Mexico, even venturing on an epic journey to Central America—all in the “flying station wagon.” 

As we look back on these airborne adventures, our memories are an assortment of amusing anecdotes, breathtaking vistas, and the occasional celebrity sighting that felt like our own ‘Close Encounter’ moment (minus the aliens). 

Naturally, our airborne adventures weren’t without a few dramatic moments—from midair stalls that gave new meaning to “stomach drop” to an encounter with an ice storm that made ground transportation look considerably more appealing. 

Those early years in Taiwan may help explain our lifelong comfort with travel and unfamiliar situations. Both would be tested repeatedly in the years ahead, once our flying physician took the family on the road—or, more accurately, into the air.

Some of those adventures we would gladly repeat. Others? Once was quite enough, thank you very much.

Dad’s first foray into “adventure hobbies” actually began on the high seas—or more accurately, on the mostly calm waters of Monterey Bay, just off the coast of Santa Cruz. 

But as fate would have it, that ship was soon to sail without him. 

Lisa

Before Dad got bitten by the flying bug, he thought he’d give sailing a shot. After a few lessons, he figured he was ready to take the family out for a spin on Monterey Bay. 

Now, the boat wasn’t exactly a luxury yacht—maybe twenty feet long if we’re being generous.  And, the Bay, which is usually calm, decided to kick up a fuss that day. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly smooth sailing.

The trip did not go well. Mom got seasick not long after we left Santa Cruz harbor and was soon hanging over the side of the boat, feeding the fishes. That pretty much killed the whole sailing dream.  

I’m sure there was some “discussion” on the matter— meaning Mom vetoed the whole idea, and Dad had no choice but to comply. Sailing wouldn’t cut it for a family pastime, and since she was usually the one steering the family ship (pun intended) when it came to family activities, that was that. Dad knew better than to push back.  

And so our dad—a Navy veteran, no less—was unceremoniously steered away from a sailing pastime (oh, the irony) and eventually took to the skies instead.

The Twins 

It eventually turned out that trading ocean waves for air pockets didn’t exactly avoid the problem of motion sickness our mom probably hoped for. (We have a funny story about that, which we’ll come back to in a future chapter.) As our future trips would prove, turbulence is just the sky’s way of rocking the boat.

Early in Dad’s quest to defy gravity, he joined The Flying Physicians. As kids, we imagined it as a secret club for doctors who found delivering babies or performing open-heart surgery somewhat pedestrian and maybe sought the occasional adrenaline rush. Turns out our family “vacations” were mainly Dad’s attendance at various Flying Physicians meetings (probably a nice tax write-off for the family practice), whisking us off to interesting locales like Yosemite’s Ahwahnee Hotel, Las Vegas or a golf resort in Sun River, Oregon. (By the way, to our knowledge, the only time Dad ever swung a golf club was at the miniature golf course at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk.) 

Over time, we came to understand that The Flying Physicians was more than just a high-altitude social club for MDs. It was—and still is—a community of healthcare professionals dedicated to serving those in need, often in places where ‘remote’ might be an understatement. These flying doctors were bringing medical care to new heights—literally— proving that sometimes, the best way to reach a patient was on wings rather than wheels. 

Dad’s first airplane was a Piper Comanche, which we dubbed One-Zero-Papa, a nod to its tail number N7710P (“P” for Papa). This smallish single-engine private plane, apparently a favorite among pilots and aviation enthusiasts during the 1960s and 1970s, seated four adult passengers.  

One-Zero-Papa was more than just a mode of transportation for our dad: it was his pride and joy. When he wasn’t on call delivering babies, he logged many weekend hours buzzing around the skies over Santa Cruz County. 

Our family’s first trips in One-Zero-Papa were short outings around Northern California, and the most memorable of those were the day trips to The Nut Tree, a unique roadside attraction and restaurant off Interstate 80 in Vacaville, CA. The property featured a small airport that welcomed light aircraft, making it the perfect stop for us. The grounds were beautifully landscaped with gardens, an orchard of walnut, almond, and various fruit trees, a playground, and a miniature train circling the area.

For us kids, the real highlight was the gift shop. We loved wandering through the little store, where colorful knickknacks and handmade crafts lined the shelves. But it was the candy and nuts that truly captured our attention. There were endless jars of rock candy in every color, alongside tubes of flavored, colored sugar—the kind you couldn’t wait to tear open and pour directly into your mouth. The shop also offered a wide assortment of nuts—almonds, walnuts, and cashews—neatly packaged and ready to be sampled. The mix of sugary treats and crunchy snacks made every visit feel like a special occasion.

The airport has long since closed, and the Nut Tree of our childhood is now just a memory. Today, it bears the same name but only vaguely resembles the unique roadside attraction we knew. The property is now a modern shopping center and park—a reminder of the changing times. Still, it always stirs a bit of nostalgia whenever we pass by on our occasional trips to and from the Bay Area.

As Dad’s confidence and our range increased, flights to Mexico became a regular part of family life.

All that aside, in all honesty, as kids, we couldn’t help but dread those long trips. At times, it felt like a family of six crammed into a flying clown car. Instead of honking red noses and oversized shoes, we had carry-on bags and an assortment of games and puzzle books to keep us occupied for long hours.   

Still, we kids would occasionally pine for the comfort and speed of commercial flights on those long treks to faraway destinations.

By age ten—probably even earlier—we had already mastered the entire aviation alphabet: Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta and so forth. We can still recite it today. Instead of playing “spot the license plate,” our in-flight game was “spot the airport or nearby airplane.” Every flight, we were enlisted to scan the skies for nearby airports or aircraft, earning a quarter for each one we spotted.

We were taught to use clock positions to let Dad know where the other planes in the sky were by imagining the plane sitting in the center of a giant (invisible) clock. Using the nose of the plane as twelve o’clock, wherever a plane appeared on either side or behind us, flying higher, level, or lower than us, we’d call out, “One o’clock!” or “Nine o’clock low!”. This became second nature and, admittedly, a fun way to help Dad keep an eye on the skies—and stay occupied during our long flights.

In short, we were Goose to Dad’s Maverick.

This, friends, was our typical vacation: hurtling through the skies at 180 mph for hours on end. Even the shorter trips to Mexico meant eight or nine hours of flight time, not counting refueling stops at the border. And let’s just say that “holding it” took on a whole new meaning at 10,000 feet over the middle of nowhere. 

We would often gaze longingly out the backseat windows at enormous commercial airliners gliding past our little plane at the larger airports. These behemoths promised stewardesses (back before they were called ‘flight attendants’) ready with drinks and—miracle of modern technology—a lavatory mere steps away. With ample space and the promise of reaching your destination before your bladder exploded, it seemed like luxury travel compared to our noisy, unpressurized station wagon with wings.  

At least, that’s how it felt at the time. We didn’t know it then, but these flights prepared us for a future of cramped economy-class air travel and claustrophobic rush-hour subway rides in foreign countries. Who knew that one day, we’d be paying good money for less legroom and even less personal space on those big airliners? Go figure.

It’s probably pretty evident by now that we kids didn’t particularly share Dad’s passion for flying at the time. This was especially true when Mom insisted on Dad dragging one of us along on his check rides to get or renew his pilot’s license.  

The check ride is a test required by the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) for a pilot to be eligible to receive or maintain a pilot’s license or rating. 

For the uninitiated, in simple terms, the procedure is not unlike having the DMV examiner ride shotgun during your driver’s test—except the DMV guy doesn’t require you to stall the car’s engine while you’re cruising down the highway at 55 miles an hour.  

The checkride examiner, on the other hand, expects you to stall the airplane’s engine mid-flight—a few thousand feet in the air. No pulling over safely to the side of the road in this scenario. 

Unfortunately for the unlucky kid forced to tag along on these airborne tests, the event usually involved Dad having to do just that: intentionally stall the engine to demonstrate the ability to recover in flight should such a thing happen in a real-life scenario.  

Sure, he passed with flying colors, but the hapless kid in the backseat emerged from the experience with a few years knocked off her life and a newfound appreciation for terra firma. 

Why Mom thought it was a good idea to force her kids to endure such a trauma remains a mystery. Perhaps she thought it would build character…or more likely, she realized that if one of us went, she wouldn’t have to.  Parenting 101: Delegation. 

Leslie

Dad was a mild-mannered, friendly guy but could be somewhat dispassionate at times, though he did have his cuddly moments and a sense of humor. Which probably explains why he was an excellent doctor and pilot—he could keep his wits about him and (almost) never lose his cool. That said, his bedside manner sometimes had the calming effect of a tax audit, leaving much to be desired when it came to easing the anxiety of those around him—if he even noticed their discomfort. 

One day, I drew the short straw and was compelled (by Mom) to accompany Dad on one such flight test. In our family, lending moral support to Dad during these tests was compulsory, not voluntary. Mom made it painfully clear that it wasn’t open for discussion. The irony is that the gesture was probably lost on him.  

So, there we were, up in the air at whatever altitude Dad had been told to reach, and then the fun began. I vaguely recall the examiner instructing Dad to complete various maneuvers while I sat in the backseat, marinating in my anxiety, fully aware of what was coming next. 

We didn’t have the fancy headsets you see passengers wearing on most private aircraft today. We pretty much communicated with each other the old-fashioned way—by shouting. 

Dad had the only headset with a microphone for talking to air traffic control, and we could usually hear their side of the conversation over the cockpit speaker. 

So, it was a bit hard to hear the conversation between the examiner and Dad. But, even with all the ambient noise of the engine, I could clearly make out the examiner loudly instructing Dad to “...stall the engine.” 

Here we go. I gripped the edges of my seat, knuckles white, as the plane’s nose suddenly pitched upward. A few choice words no ten-year-old has business uttering tumbled out at that moment. The engine’s steady hum faltered, and the plane’s stall warning sounded, a demanding shrill wail piercing the cabin. More choice words fell out, and my stomach lurched as we began to fall. 

Dad looked as calm as if he’d just turned off the engine of our Vista Cruiser station wagon while sitting in the driveway. The examiner in the co-pilot’s seat was equally unfazed—as if plummeting from the sky was just another Sunday drive in the countryside. 

Whatever words they exchanged during the maneuver faded into background noise as I squeezed my eyes shut, silently bargaining with any deity who’d listen and vaguely wondered what it felt like to hit the ground at 200 miles per hour.  

Then, with a roar, the engine came back to life. I cracked one eye open, then the other, as the horizon steadied, and I remembered how to breathe again. 

“Excellent recovery,” the examiner yelled, scribbling on his clipboard. 

Dad looked pleased with himself while I slumped in my seat, my legs shaky and my hair feeling a shade grayer. Soon, we landed safely and taxied back to the hangar. 

Later, with feet firmly back on the ground—when I knew I wasn’t catching the one-way flight to Neverland that day, I would be very glad Dad hadn’t heard me cussing like a sailor in the backseat. Mom surely would have washed my mouth out with soap—or worse.

In the years that followed, as our range of travel increased, it eventually felt like Mexico was our second home. Almost every holiday, our parents would pile us into the plane, and off we’d go—hello Mexico, goodbye normal kid holiday, once more. 

Before you roll your eyes in judgment at our ungrateful younger selves, imagine being an eight-year-old kid battling Montezuma’s Revenge at 10,000 feet, with the nearest bathroom a few hundred miles in any direction. Sure, Dad, ever the family doctor, always packed medications for such predicaments, but they weren’t a miracle cure.  

And for the record, brushing your teeth with Coca-Cola instead of the local water—no, we’re not making that up—is not a sure-fire defense against Mexican stomach bugs.

We visited destinations like Hermosillo—a hot, dusty place where the desert stretched on forever, and the streets were busy with people and old cars. Then, there was Guaymas, a quiet fishing town where life moved slowly. Old boats bobbed in the harbor, and we kids could run along the empty beaches with barely a tourist in sight. 

Mazatlán felt like the ‘big city’ with its busy streets, crowded beaches, and vendors selling everything from trinkets to treats. Tourists flocked to iconic restaurants like The Shrimp Bucket, Señor Frog’s, and Carlos’ n Charlie’s, whose names were plastered on the side of calandrias—small horse-drawn carriages that leisurely clattered up and down the main boulevard along the beach. These carriages offered tourists a charming, slow-paced ride past the city’s lively waterfront. 

On one of our trips to Mazatlán, our parents surprised us with an overnight ferry trip across the Gulf of California to La Paz. For us kids, the 13-hour journey on this “giant” boat (the accommodations were relatively modest by today’s cruise standards) felt like sailing on the Queen Elizabeth 2. We spent hours on deck, staring out at the endless ocean, mesmerized by how the horizon seemed to stretch forever. The salty breeze whipped through our hair as we imagined all the far-off places we could sail to. 

But the ship itself was just as much an adventure. We explored every corner we were allowed to venture into, darting between the railings and peeking into rooms, feeling like we were part of some grand voyage. Inside, we explored dining areas and lounges. We marveled at the novelty of sharing meals and socializing with other families while in transit, a far cry from our usual cramped air travel. 

When we finally arrived in La Paz, it was a different world—a sleepy seaside town with quiet beaches and gentle waves, starkly contrasting Mazatlán’s busy streets. 

This early taste of “cruising” must have left a lasting impression on our parents. A few years later, we embarked on our first family cruise to the Caribbean, an adventure that, for at least one of us, ignited a passion for cruising that would carry into adulthood.

Cabo San Lucas was a world apart—its towering cliffs and crashing waves also contrasted with Mazatlán’s bustling energy. It was still a sleepy town, with crystal-clear waters and little in the way of tourism back then, far from the bustling hub it would later become.

Puerto Vallarta was old-school back then—cobblestone streets, many old buildings, and vendors everywhere. Seeing the occasional lone burro clip-clopping down the rustic street with no owner in sight wasn’t unusual.  

An odd little anecdote about our trips to Puerto Vallarta: for some reason, Dad always managed to break at least one toe every time we visited. It became almost a running joke in our family—Puerto Vallarta wasn’t complete until Dad was hobbling around with a swollen, black-and-blue toe. The cause? Usually something as mundane as slipping on the slick tile by the hotel pool or in the shower. The hotels we stayed at were of the older, “charming” variety, often with those shiny, polished, blue tile floors that could be rather treacherous under wet feet. Ouch! 

One trip to Guadalajara took place over the Easter holiday. We stayed at a large hotel, though the name escapes us now. What we do remember vividly was the Easter display in the lobby—a special exhibit that, to a child, felt like the most magical thing in the world. It was shaped like a giant egg, and inside, dozens of yellow baby chicks peeped and flitted around under warm lights. 

We later learned that this setup was a custom-designed brooder created for the special occasion to provide a cozy environment for the chicks.

The brooder had a clear plexiglass midsection, allowing guests to see the chicks inside. There was an opening where you could reach in and pick up a chick or two. We were utterly transfixed and could have spent the entire day playing with those tiny, golden fuzzballs.

Such displays were common back then, particularly in Mexico, where the symbolism of the chicks, the egg, and the new life they represented was central to the season. Easter is a time of renewal, and in Guadalajara, traditions run deep. Displaying baby chicks was a whimsical way to celebrate the season, a reminder of the joy and rebirth that comes with spring. But at the time, for us, it was all about holding those adorable peeping cotton balls.

And then there was Zihuatanejo. Back then, it was just a small fishing village, nothing like the tourist spot it is today. It was sleepy and simple, where you could walk for ages along the shore and barely see anyone. It was the kind of place where you could lose track of time—though as kids, we were too busy exploring to notice. 

If we had a Mexican peso for every trip we took “south of the border,” we probably could have funded a travel blog by now.

Not that anyone knew what a travel blog was back then.

For most travelers today, getting from the airport to the hotel is a (mostly) seamless process. At major airports, a steady stream of taxis wait their turn at designated stands while ride-share drivers circle endlessly, responding to a constant ping of requests from their apps. Hotel shuttles arrive like clockwork, their digital displays announcing destinations in bright LED letters. 

A world where your driver knows exactly where you are, down to the foot (or meter). 

Even at smaller regional airports, the system holds—rental car counters, taxi services, or at least a courtesy phone stand ready. For private pilots landing at municipal airports, it might take an extra step or two—perhaps some advance planning or a local taxi service on speed dial—but in the United States, it’s generally manageable. 

But there was a time—a golden age of private aviation—when pilots flying to remote destinations needed something more creative. In an era before the widespread use of cell phones, GPS coordinates, and ride-sharing apps, when airport shuttles in remote locations were not an option, there was an elegant solution that would make modern air traffic controllers cringe and definitely raise eyebrows at the FAA.

It was called “buzzing”.

During our family travels to Mexico in the 1960s and ‘70s, landing at major airports was usually straightforward enough—taxi the plane to the terminal, find a waiting cab, and head to the hotel. But it was the remote destinations that required real ingenuity.

Of course, cramming a family of six—and all our luggage—into a sedan-sized cab was an exercise in spatial planning that would have impressed those college students of the 1950s who competed to see how many people they could stuff into a single phone booth. (For you younger readers who only know phone booths as Clark Kent’s quick-change superhero closet, yes, this was actually a thing.) 

The routine was pretty much the same: two kids perched on siblings’ laps, precariously balancing whatever luggage couldn’t fit in the trunk, while Mom tried to maintain her dignity despite being wedged between suitcases and four sweaty kids. Add to that a thirty-minute ride in an un-air-conditioned cab after an all-day trek through the skies, and you can imagine how desperately we all needed a shower by the time we reached the hotel. Occasionally, though, the travel gods would take pity on our compressed clan and manifest their mercy in the form of a small van.

Many of our landing spots in Mexico were little more than strips of asphalt or packed dirt carved into the desert landscape, barely qualifying as airstrips. No terminal buildings, no phones, sometimes not even a windsock to indicate wind direction. Just a lonely stretch of runway where tumbleweeds outnumbered people, and the occasional lone coyote watched us from a safe distance.

Enter the art of “buzzing”—an informal yet effective system born from necessity. 

It was primitive but effective air-to-ground communication to let the hotel know you’d arrived and to send a shuttle to come and pick you up. No phone calls, no precise arrival times to coordinate—just circle the property a couple of times and wait for your ride after you land. 

It was basically ringing the doorbell—only from a few hundred feet up.

After completing the ‘buzzing’ ritual, we’d head to the nearby airstrip, touch down, and wait, with not another soul in sight. While we waited, we’d unload the luggage and secure the plane. Sometimes, the airstrip had proper wooden blocks for the wheels, but when they didn’t, we kids would be dispatched to find suitable rocks. Our desert rock-hunting expeditions were often punctuated by sudden squeals when lifting a promising candidate revealed an irritated lizard or scorpion who didn’t appreciate having their home exposed to daylight.

Like clockwork, within fifteen to thirty minutes of landing, we’d finally spot a cloud of dust heading our way as the hotel’s shuttle bumped down the dirt road to collect its newest guests.

This played out regularly in the smaller resort towns throughout Baja California and the mainland. While lounging on the beach or by the pool, we’d frequently hear the familiar drone of an approaching small plane. We’d instinctively look up, shielding our eyes from the sun, to watch another pilot announce their arrival and request a pickup. Sometimes, we’d try to guess which hotel was their target based on the circles they were making. 

And if you’re of a certain age, you’re probably hearing Tattoo’s excited cry of “The plane! The plane!” from Fantasy Island right now. (Go ahead, admit it—you just said it out loud in his accent, didn’t you?)

Other non-aviator guests probably wondered what all the buzzing was about, but for us, it was just another day at a Mexican resort. 

We figure places like this—where bush pilots still have to buzz the airstrip to announce their arrival—probably still exist somewhere. Maybe the wilds of Africa, or the Australian Outback—or Big Sur, California, where there are luxury lodges and meditation retreats aplenty, but good luck finding a single bar of cell service to call for a Lyft.

These days, with smartphones tracking everything that moves and aviation regulations that would make our old travel habits seem practically criminal, such practices have surely vanished into aviation folklore. But back then, buzzing was just another part of our family’s travel routine, as routine as Dad’s pre-flight checklist or Mom’s reminders to pack a clean shirt for dinner. It was a simple solution for a simpler time.

Of course, buzzing the hotel for a pickup didn’t always go as planned. Sometimes, the local wildlife – or in this case, livestock—missed the memo about airstrip safety protocol. 

Take the time we approached the small airstrip just outside Mulegé (pronounced MOO-leh-hey), a smaller coastal town in Baja California Sur. As we approached the airstrip, we discovered an impromptu bovine convention had commandeered our landing strip. A dozen or so rather scruffy-looking cows were loitering across the runway below us. 

This presented an obvious problem—if hitting one or more birds could bring a plane down, one could only imagine the damage from hitting one or more cows at seventy miles per hour. It would be like plowing through a Lazy-boy warehouse while swinging a giant machete. The poor beasts would be sent tumbling in a hoofed explosion of milk, leather, and absolute bewilderment—not to mention the damage to Dad’s pride and joy.

Dad’s solution was simple: circle the airstrip a couple of times and perform a low flyby to shoo them off. The cows, clearly unimpressed by this aerial harassment, eventually surrendered their claim to the runway with all the urgency of teenagers being asked to clean their rooms. It was less a panicked stampede and more a leisurely protest march, complete with what we imagined were bovine mutterings about their rights being trampled. Apparently, there were no First Amendment privileges for Mexican cows on this airstrip.

We touched down shortly after, Dad having unofficially added “aerial cattle herding” to his pilot’s skills. The cows, meanwhile, had merely relocated just beyond the end of the runway, watching us with mild but obvious disdain. 

One has to appreciate the cosmic humor of having to herd cattle off an airstrip in a town whose name starts with ‘Moo.’ The irony wasn’t lost on us, even if it was lost entirely on our bovine critics.

Then, there was the time we landed at a small airstrip just outside Yuma, Arizona, about a mile from the resort where we would stay. The resort’s name has long vanished from our memory, but we recall it was very new at that time and sat perched atop a hill surrounded by the Arizona desert. 

Dad buzzed the resort as usual, completing his typical three rotations, and then headed for the little airstrip. We landed without a hitch, unloaded the luggage, tied down the plane, and waited. 

And waited.

And waited some more.

The minutes ticked by, stretching into an hour. The sun began its descent, stretching our shadows across the airstrip like accusing fingers pointing toward the still-empty road, while our optimism about prompt hotel service withered in the desert heat. 

Finally, Dad sighed, resigned to the fact that no ride was coming. After a short (and heated) discussion with Mom—the kind where only one person does the actual discussing—he set out on foot toward the road leading to the hotel.

Left behind with the luggage and Mom’s simmering irritation, we kids were handed our marching orders—literally. We grabbed what luggage we could carry and started the dusty trek toward the hotel. Each of us carefully chose the lightest bags we could find, a strategy Mom quickly noticed and corrected with a pointed redistribution of weight. 

After ten or so minutes of silent trudging, Mom broke the silence. “When our driver shows up—if he shows up—we’re going to practice our very best manners.” The way she said “best manners” made it clear she meant the complete opposite.

“When he arrives, we’ll all say, ‘Thank youuuu for picking us up at the airpoooort,’” she sing-songed, voice dripping with mock gratitude.

Oh boy... She wasn’t kidding either, and despite our collective discomfort about weaponizing politeness against a total stranger, we all knew better than to disobey. Surrounded by a desert that our imaginations had populated with every menacing creature, from rattlesnakes to Gila monsters, this was not the time to stage a rebellion. When choosing your battles (and battlefields) with Mom, it’s best not to pick one where retreat involves walking backward through scorpion territory in the growing darkness. Some hills are just not worth dying on…

By the time the van finally caught up with us, just as the sun dipped behind the hills, we were sweaty and dusty, and Mom’s patience was lying dead on the road about a half mile back. As we climbed into the van, under her stern gaze, we hung our heads and performed our rehearsed chorus of gratitude with all the sincerity of politicians at a fundraiser.

Secretly, we felt sorry for the poor driver, who looked somewhat flustered about the whole matter. After we arrived at the hotel, Mom undoubtedly had words with the manager—who, perhaps in self-defense, knocked a few dollars off the room. We’ll never know.

Today’s travelers track their rides with real-time apps and GPS coordinates. But there was something special about that aerial sign language we once used—a mix of innovation and seat-of-the-pants problem-solving that defined an era. No GPS, no confirmation texts—just the open sky, a pilot with a plan (or sometimes without one), and the understanding that adventure often began where predictability ended

While travel is more seamless now, we’ll admit to feeling a touch nostalgic looking back on those days. In retrospect, the unpredictability added to a sense of adventure that is hard to find these days.

Even now, when we hear the faint hum of a plane overhead, it often takes us back to those days of dusty airstrips and remote beach resorts. Sometimes, the best memories aren’t about what went according to plan—they’re about what happened when nothing did.

So, remember how we shared the controlled midair stalls that Dad would have to execute during his certifications? 

Well.

That was just dress rehearsal for all our trips to Mexico. 

Turns out, ‘running on fumes’ isn’t just a metaphor when your dad’s a pragmatic and unflappable pilot who embraces fuel efficiency and economy. 

It became a quirky ritual of running the fuel tanks dry midair to clear out the Mexican gas on our return trips home. 

Every flight in and out of Mexico required a stop at the border for customs and immigration: Mexicali was on the way down, and Calexico was on the way back up. These pit stops could last anywhere from thirty minutes to a couple of hours, depending on how many families were making the same south-of-the-border dash for fun in the sun.

We’d land, taxi to a tiny commuter terminal, and settle into an austere waiting room attended by stern-faced officials while Dad vanished into an office to wrestle with paperwork. Add another fifteen minutes for refueling—because nothing says “vacation” like the aroma of avgas (airplane fuel) wafting across a sweltering tarmac. 

And then, of course, there was Dad’s patented ‘Airplane Fuel Detox’ program—a thrilling addition to our otherwise monotonous flights home. His method? Purging every last drop of Mexican fuel by running the tanks dry mid-flight. 

Yes, you heard that right. 

Dad’s cardinal rule—and a common one among private pilots flying in Mexico—was always to keep two of the four fuel tanks filled with U.S. gas. The fuel quality at smaller Mexican airports could be questionable, and relying on it entirely meant risking everything from minor engine hiccups to catastrophic failure—not precisely the kind of in-flight entertainment you hope for at 10,000 feet over the Mexican desert. 

Before each flight, Dad would perform his usual fuel inspection on the tanks with Mexican gas, checking for contaminants. Ironically, it looked an awful lot like a doctor drawing blood from a patient—except the patient was an airplane, and the syringe was a small, clear plastic vial used to drain fuel from the tanks. This won’t hurt a bit... 

As children who had often been on the receiving end of one of Dad’s needles, we could only imagine what One-Zero-Papa might have thought of his bedside manner—if it were a patient and not an airplane. 

The real adventure, though, began in the air. Dad’s method of purging the tanks meant running them nearly dry. If you’ve ever run out of gas on the road, you get the idea—except we were cruising at 10,000 feet.  

No shoulder to pull over to up there. 

As we cruised along at altitude, inching past the two-hour mark, our glances at the fuel gauge became more frequent, our eyes tracking the needle’s steady drift toward “E.” The closer it got, the more nervous fidgeting kicked in. Eventually, we were locked in a staring contest with that gauge, as if willing it to reverse would actually work. 

We braced ourselves like cats about to get a bath, knowing what was coming. Time slowed down (as it always does when you’re not having fun). Inevitably, the engine would make a noise that sounded like what you’d expect—like a car running out of gas. There would be a cough and a sputter, followed almost immediately by our reactive jolts of adrenaline.   

Cue the ol’ familiar “fight-or-flight” response, which was ironic because if the plane ran out of gas and Dad couldn’t get it restarted, chances are we wouldn’t be doing much fighting or flying.  

Dad, on the other hand, remained the picture of calm. Just when we were certain the propeller was about to become the world’s most expensive pinwheel, he’d smoothly flip the switch to the next tank. The engine would roar back to life, and onward we’d go.  

This cycle repeated—two hours of mounting dread, a brief heart attack, and Dad’s cool-as-ice recovery—until we touched down safely back on U.S. soil with not a drop of Mexican fuel left. 

These flights taught us lessons in fuel efficiency, anxiety management, and how not to visibly panic in a small, enclosed space. They also definitely gave new meaning to the phrase “running on empty.”