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I cannot remember when I first learned to swim. But I’ve always been completely at ease in the water, whether bobbing in waves, swimming laps, or diving the ocean’s depths. So choosing an adventure, by definition, meant doing something as far from the water as possible — a notion I took quite literally when opting to fly a Cessna 172 Skyhawk on a Sunday morning in July. I arrived at Princeton Airport, home of the Raritan Valley Flying School in New Jersey, for my “Discovery Flight,” a trial run for people interested in earning a private pilot’s license. Danny Hanna, a 38-year-old flight instructor from Staten Island, led me to our plane and gave a brief overview of the aircraft and basic steering principles. Within minutes, I was strapped into the C172. I was reminded of driving school and my instructor, Larry, who had me cruising down the highway on my first day behind the wheel. Much like Larry’s sedan, our plane was equipped with two steering wheels and two sets of brakes. Knowing that Hanna could override my maneuvers in the sky made up for the cursory instruction on the ground. The summer sun poured into the cramped cockpit. Hanna pulled the plane onto the runway and pointed to an area about 200 feet away where he wanted me to drive the plane. Steering on the ground, to my surprise, was more difficult than in the air. On the ground, brake-like pedals at your feet dictate the plane’s direction. (Depress the left pedal to turn left; the right pedal to turn right. Do this gently to avoid mimicking a pinball.) The steering wheel did nothing, though I reflexively gripped it. Hanna took control of the plane for take-off, and it leapt off the runway after little acceleration. The ascent to 4,500 feet was relatively gentle — so different from a 747’s forceful thrust into the air. From one quarter of a mile up, Princeton University was reduced to a football stadium. From 3,000 feet, only a sprinkling of sand traps at nearby golf courses were recognizable, and the air in the cockpit cooled. At cruising altitude, all things manmade blended with either the green or brown features of the landscape under the morning’s haze. Trees fused and carpeted the land below. Two reservoirs punctuated the landscape, and Hanna suggested that I fly the plane in a figure-eight formation around them. “Can I try a regular turn first?” I asked through a headset. “Use one hand. That’s what pilots do,” he said. With my left hand in my lap, I casually turned the wheel right. The aircraft responded, swinging dramatically to the side. “And left,” Hanna said. We repeated the turns quickly, practicing at least a dozen in each direction. “It’s a common misconception that small planes are less safe than larger ones,” said Hanna. “All planes have the same principles. You can just feel the maneuvers more in a plane like this.” Hanna circled the reservoirs, while I enjoyed the view. The Round Valley Reservoir, the larger of the two, sits adjacent to Cushetunk Mountain — a mountain by New Jersey standards at least. It’s the deepest body of freshwater in the state. “You don’t seem scared at all. Are you up for a little adventure?” Hanna asked. I nodded. The nose of the plane, once pointing to the horizon, quickly dipped toward the ground. The plane accelerated. My stomach flipped as I laughed and squealed. Seconds later, Hanna pulled back on the wheel, and the plane shot back up. The haze cleared during our dives — we ended up doing a second one — revealing the glistening surface of the Round Valley Reservoir. The deep blue water looked inviting, and it reminded me of the quarry in Pennsylvania, where I earned my SCUBA license a few years earlier. My instructor told me I was natural. It felt natural, soaring through the vastness of the water, my body supported by its density. “Altitude is on your side up here,” said Hanna, who could tell I was still reeling from our dives. “You’re free. You can do anything when you’re up here.” I smiled because I understood what he meant.