Russell Baker, an eighteen-year-old from Baltimore (and a future New York Times columnist), was told that flying an airplane was like driving a car. Baker had never driven a car, but he did not dare to admit it, fearing that the instructor would think less of him, or perhaps even expel him from the program. Later, after a bumpy flight in the Stearman, the instructor told him to ease up on the control stick. “Baker,” he said, “it’s just like handling a girl’s breast. You’ve got to be gentle.” Baker did not dare to admit that he had never touched a woman’s breast, either.
