My (divorced) father took me, a 12 year-old, on a holiday to Ireland in 1954; we flew in an Aer Lingus Viscount. It was my first flight of any kind, and he had to stop me from sprinting across the apron to board. The sights and sounds of that flight have stayed fresh in my memory ever since.
For Dad, an ex-RAF pilot, it must have been a very strange experience; he said nothing at the time. It was the first time he had been airborne (apart from a DC3 repatriation flight from Germany) since October 1943 when his Lancaster III exploded at 6000 ft after a night-fighter attack over Southern Germany, which took him to Stalag Luft III.
My lifelong love of flying and all things aviation stems from that magical flight.