Paper airplanes became physics. We made different designs, hypothesized which would fly farthest and why, then launched them out his bedroom window. When one tumbled unexpectedly, he asked, "Wait, why did it do that?" Suddenly we were talking about drag, lift, and center of gravity.

Flight simulators became math. He translated runway designations into cardinal directions. He explained how changing one variable in the lift equation affects flight. The math wasn't the point. It was the tool to understand something he cared about.

Aviation history became critical thinking. Processing college-level reading on the Wright Brothers, he built a timeline of early inventors. Without prompting, he started drawing arrows between them, mapping who influenced who. Then he asked: "If all of this happened before the Wright Brothers, why did we always say they invented the airplane?" That's a college-level insight. He got there on his own.

Ground school became self-directed learning. He enrolled himself in an online pilot training program designed for actual student pilots and worked through the modules because he wanted to. At his first real flight lesson, the instructor pointed to parts of the plane and asked what they did. He knew almost all of them, including terms I'd never heard. I hadn't taught him any of it.

Pre-flight checks became risk assessment. He learned to methodically verify conditions before each flight. Safety wasn't a lecture. It was built into something that mattered to him.

The radio became confidence. At the airport, he had to call the tower for the first time. His hand hovered over the button. He pulled back. Took a breath. Then pressed it and spoke clearly, confidently, professionally. Six weeks earlier, he wouldn't try anything he might fail at.