Dean Martin crushed out his cigarette. His hands were shaking so badly the ashtray rattled. “All right,” he said quietly. “When do we leave?” His manager stood up immediately. “Dean, no, you can’t be serious.” “I’m serious. You hate flying. You especially hate small planes. This is This is my son,” Dean interrupted.

 “And he just asked me for something.” Dino Jr.’s ‘s face lit up. “Really? You’ll come?” Dean nodded, even though every part of him was screaming not to do this. “You’re the pilot. I’m just the passenger. So, tell me, Captain, what time’s our flight?” Nobody in that room thought Dean would actually get on the plane. But they didn’t understand something about Dean Martin.

Dean Martin’s fear of flying wasn’t a secret. Everyone in his inner circle knew. The Rat Pack knew. Frank Sinatra had watched Dean turn green on commercial flights from LA to Vegas. Sammy Davis Jr. had seen Dean grip armrests so hard his knuckles went white. But most people didn’t know how bad it really was.

 Dean had panic attacks on planes, real ones. Heart racing, sweating, hyperventilating. His doctor had warned him that the stress was dangerous for someone with Dean’s heart condition. Commercial flights are manageable, the doctor had said in 1972. But small planes, single engine aircraft, Dean, your heart can’t handle that kind of stress.

 Dean had taken that advice seriously. He’d structured his entire career around avoiding small planes. He’d turned down film roles that required flying to remote locations. He’d refused to visit friends who lived in places only accessible by small aircraft. In 1974, flying small planes wasn’t just uncomfortable for Dean Martin, it was genuinely dangerous.

 And now, on a Tuesday afternoon in May, his 22-year-old son was standing in his dressing room at the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas, wearing a brand new pilot’s jacket, holding a pilot certificate, and asking Dean to be his first passenger. Dino Jr., Dean Paul Martin had been obsessed with flying since he was a kid. While other children collected baseball cards, Dino Jr.

 collected model airplanes. While other teenagers were learning to drive cars, Dino Jr. was reading aviation manuals. 6 months ago, he’d started taking flying lessons at a small airport outside Los Angeles. Dean had paid for the lessons, proud that his son had found something he was passionate about. But he’d never imagined Dino Jr.

 would actually ask him to fly. Dad, look. Dino Jr. opened a folder and placed his pilot certificate on the table. I’m fully certified. I can take passengers now, and I want my first passenger to be you. Dean stared at the certificate. It was official, real. His son was a licensed pilot. That’s great, son. Really, I’m proud of you.

 So, you’ll fly with me? Dean’s manager, Mort Viner, who’d been sitting quietly in the corner, suddenly spoke up. Absolutely not. Dino Jr. looked at Mort, confused. Why not? Because your father’s heart can’t take it. Small planes, altitude changes, turbulence. It’s all too much stress.

 The doctor was very clear about this. I’ll be careful, Dino Jr. said. I’m a good pilot. I won’t take any risks. It’s not about risks, Mort continued. It’s about your father’s medical condition. Even a smooth flight in a small plane could trigger a heart episode. Dean watched his son’s face fall. Watched the excitement drain away, replaced with understanding and disappointment.

 “It’s okay, Dad,” Dino Jr. said, trying to smile. “I get it. I’ll ask Uncle Frank instead. Or maybe Uncle Sammy.” He started gathering up his certificate, his pride deflating like a balloon. And that’s when Dean Martin made his decision. “Wait,” Dean said. Dino Jr. stopped, looked at his father. Dean reached for his pack of cigarettes. His hands were shaking.

 He managed to light one, took a long drag, and crushed it out in the ashtray. The ashtray rattled from how badly his hands were trembling. “When do we leave?” Dean asked. Mort stood up immediately. Dean Mort, I appreciate your concern. I do. But this is between me and my son. Your heart.

 My heart will be fine for 45 minutes. 45 minutes? Mort’s voice went up an octave. You can barely handle a 2-hour commercial flight from LA to Vegas. And that’s on a 747 with 300 other people and professional pilots who’ve been flying for decades. This time I’ll have a professional pilot who I made, Dean said, looking at Dino Jr. and that makes all the difference.

 Dino Jr. was staring at his father, eyes wide. Are you serious? You’ll really do this? I’m serious. When’s the flight? Tomorrow morning, 10:00 a.m. Santa Barbara Airport. We’ll fly up the coast, circle around, come back. 45 minutes total. Dean nodded even though his chest was already tightening at the thought. Then tomo

rrow morning at 10:00 a.m. I’ll be there. After Dino Jr. left, practically floating out of the room with joy, Mort turned to Dean. You don’t have to do this. You could fake sick tomorrow. Tell him you came down with something. No, Dean said firmly. Dean, I’ve known you for 20 years. I’ve seen what happens when you fly. The panic attacks, the physical symptoms.

 You once threw up for an hour after a flight from New York. I know. And this will be worse. Much worse. Small planes bounce around more. You’ll feel every change in altitude, every air current. I know, Mort. So, why are you doing this? Dean was quiet for a moment. Then he said something that Mort would remember for the rest of his life.

 Because my son just got his pilot’s license. He’s 22 years old. He’s accomplished something difficult and important, and he wants to share it with me. Not with Frank, not with Sammy, with me. Dean lit another cigarette, this time, his hand steadier. If I say no, I’m telling him that my fear is more important than his achievement.

 I’m telling him that I don’t trust him, and I can’t do that. I won’t do that. Even if it makes you sick, even if it triggers a heart episode, even then, Dean said, because he’s my son, and sometimes being a father means getting on the plane, even when you’re terrified. Dean didn’t sleep that night. He lay in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling, his heart already racing, just thinking about the flight. At 500 a.m.

, he gave up trying to sleep. He took a shower, got dressed, and tried to eat breakfast. He managed half a piece of toast and three cups of coffee. By 8:00 a.m., he was in the car with Mort driving to Santa Barbara Airport. “You can still back out,” Mort said. “Call him. Tell him you’re sick.” “I’m not backing out.

” They arrived at the airport at 9:30. Dino Jr. was already there, standing next to a small Cessna 172. Four seats, single engine, white with blue stripes. It looked like a toy. Dean felt his chest tighten immediately. Dad. Dino Jr. waved, grinning. He was wearing his pilot’s jacket, aviator sunglasses, looking every bit the professional pilot despite being only 22.

 Dean got out of the car slowly. Beautiful morning for flying, Dino Jr. said. Clear skies, minimal wind, perfect conditions. Dean nodded, not trusting himself to speak. I’ve already done the pre-flight check. Everything’s good. We’re ready whenever you are. Dean looked at the plane, then looked at his son, then looked at Mort, who was shaking his head slightly.

 Let me just Dean walked away from the plane toward the edge of the tarmac. Mort followed. Dean, you don’t look good. You’re pale. I’m fine. You’re not fine. Your hands are shaking again. Your breathing is shallow. You’re about to have a panic attack. And you’re not even on the plane yet. Dean took several deep breaths. I can do this.

 You don’t have to do this. Yes, I do. Look at him, Mort. They both turned to look at Dino Jr., who was standing by the plane, checking something on his clipboard, completely absorbed in his pilot duties. He’s so proud, Dean said quietly. He worked so hard for this, and he wants to share it with me. How can I say no to that? By caring about your own health.

 I care about my son more. Dean walked back to the plane. His hands were still shaking. His heart was racing, but he was going to do this. Ready when you are, Captain. Getting into the plane was harder than Dean expected. The cabin was tiny, cramped. When he sat in the passenger seat, his knees almost touched the instrument panel.

 The ceiling was so low he had to duck his head. Dino Jr. climbed into the pilot seat with practiced ease. Completely comfortable in this small space. Okay, Dad. Just a few things. That’s your seat belt. Make sure it’s tight. Here’s the headset. We’ll use these to communicate once we’re in the air. And if you need anything, just tap my shoulder.

 Dean nodded, pulling the seat belt as tight as it would go. Dino Jr. began his pre-flight checklist, calling out items, checking switches, testing controls. He was completely professional, focused, confident. Dean watched his son work and felt a complicated mix of pride and terror. “Okay, starting the engine,” Dino Jr. said.

 The propeller began to turn. The engine roared to life. The entire plane vibrated. Dean’s hands found the armrests and gripped them so hard his knuckles went white. Santa Barbara Tower, this is Cessna, November 73, Charlie Delta, requesting clearance for departure. The radio crackled. Cessna 73 Charlie Delta, you’re cleared for departure. Runway 21, wind calm.

Roger tower 73 Charlie Delta rolling. The plane began to move slowly at first, then faster. The runway rushed past. The engine roared louder. Then suddenly they were airborne. The ground fell away. The plane climbed. Dean felt every movement, every shift in the wind, every change in altitude. His stomach lurched.

 His heart hammered. His breathing became shallow. How you doing back there, Dad? Dean’s voice came out strangled. Great. Doing great, son? He was not doing great. They climbed higher. The coastline spread out below them. Beautiful, and terrifying. The ocean stretched to the horizon. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Dino Jr.

‘s voice was calm, happy in the headset. This is why I love flying. You see things from up here that you can’t see from the ground. Dean tried to focus on his son’s voice instead of the fact that they were suspended in the air in a tiny metal tube held up by physics Dean didn’t understand. Then Dino Jr.

 glanced back to check on his father and Dean Martin, terrified out of his mind, forced himself to smile. You’re doing great, son. Dean gave a thumbs up with one hand while the other gripped the armrest hard enough to leave marks. Dino Jr. grinned and turned back to his controls. For the next 40 minutes, this became the pattern.

 Dean would sit there, gripping the armrests, heart racing, stomach churning, silently praying they would land soon. Then Dino Jr. would glance back and Dean would smile, give a thumbs up, mouth fantastic or beautiful every single time because his son needed to believe his father was enjoying this.

 His son needed to believe his father trusted him. His son needed to feel proud, not guilty. So Dean Martin, one of the coolest men in Hollywood, spent 45 minutes pretending to enjoy the most terrifying experience of his life for his son. “Okay, Dad, we’re starting our descent. This is the tricky part, so I need to focus. You okay?” “Perfect,” Dean lied.

 The plane began to descend. Dean felt his stomach drop. The ground was coming up fast. Too fast. Dino Jr.’s ‘s hands moved confidently over the controls, adjusting, compensating, guiding the plane down smoothly. Santa Barbara Tower, Cessna 73 Charlie Delta on final approach. Roger, Charlie Delta, cleared to land runway 21.

 The wheels touched down, smooth, professional, perfect. The plane rolled to a stop. And we’re down. Dino Jr. turned around, grinning. What did you think? Dean tried to answer. couldn’t just gave another thumbs up. As soon as the engine cut off, Dean opened the door and practically fell out of the plane.

 He made it about 10 ft before he bent over and vomited into the grass beside the tarmac. Dino Jr. was beside him immediately. Dad, are you okay? Dean waved him off, still bent over. I’m fine. Just give me a second. He vomited again. Mort appeared with a bottle of water. I told you this would happen. Dean straightened up slowly, took the water, rinsed his mouth.

 Dad, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it would make you this sick. If I’d known. Dean turned to his son, pulled him into a hug. That was the best flight of my life, Dean said firmly. Dad, you just threw up. I know, best flight anyway. But you were incredible up there. Professional, confident. You knew exactly what you were doing. I’m so proud of you.

 Dino Jr. was crying now. Really? Really? You’re a hell of a pilot, son. They stood there on the tarmac. Dean still shaky. Dino Jr. crying with pride and relief. Mort shaking his head but smiling. Was I really good? Dino Jr. asked. You were perfect. Smooth landing, professional communication, everything. Were you scared? Dean looked at his son, thought about lying again, then decided on the truth.

 I was terrified every single second. Worst fear of my life. Dino Jr.’s face fell. Then why did you? Because you asked me to. Because you worked hard for that license. Because you wanted to share something important with me. And because you’re my son. Your pride is more important than my fear. It always will be. Dino Jr.

 hugged his father again. I love you, Dad. I love you, too, kid. They stood there for a moment. Then Dean said, “But if you ever ask me to fly in a small plane again, the answer is no.” Dino Jr. laughed. Deal. I mean it. Once was enough. You proved yourself. We’re done. Understood. Dean looked at the Cessna. Beautiful plane, though. You did good, Captain.

Dino Jr. never asked his father to fly in a small plane again. He didn’t need to. That one flight had given him everything he needed. His father’s approval, his father’s trust, his father’s pride. Three years later, in 1977, Dino Jr. joined the California Air National Guard. He became an F4 Phantom pilot, then later a weapons systems officer in the Air Force.

 Dean watched his son’s military career with enormous pride. every promotion, every achievement, every honor. And Dean never told anyone outside his closest friends about how terrified he’d been on that first flight. When reporters asked about it years later, “Is it true your son is a pilot? Have you flown with him?” Dean would smile and say, “Once, it was the best flight of my life.

” People thought he was being modest or romantic or just classic Dean Martin cool. Only Mort knew the truth. In 1987, 10 years after Dean’s death, Mort was interviewed about Dean’s life. The interviewer asked about Dean’s relationship with his children. Dean was terrified of flying. Mort said genuinely terrified.

 It was a medical issue. His doctor had warned him that small planes could trigger a heart attack. But he flew with Dino Jr. He did. And I watched him grip the armrest so hard he left marks in the leather. I watched him turn green. I watched him throw up the moment they landed. Why did he do it? Mort smiled. Because his son asked him to.

 That’s the kind of father Dean was. His son’s happiness mattered more than his own fear, more than his own safety. That’s love. Real love. The interviewer was quiet for a moment. That’s the best story I’ve ever heard about Dean Martin.