By the time you finish reading this, you’ll either be a certified FAA Small Unmanned Aircraft Systems (SUAS) pilot or you’ll have given up and decided to become a goat farmer in Montana instead. The journey to becoming an officially licensed drone pilot in this great and crumbling nation is not for the weak, the lazy, or those incapable of tying their own shoes. If you don’t have the coordination to manage two laces, you damn sure don’t have the motor skills to guide a flying death machine through the wild skies of bureaucratic madness.
First, let’s talk about eligibility. The government—ever the benevolent overseer of all things fun—has decreed that you must be at least 16 years old. That’s right, a teenager, potentially fresh off an Algebra II exam, can legally command an aircraft that could crash into a senator’s backyard barbecue. But don’t get too excited, junior, because while they don’t always ask for a high school diploma, they might. The rules are as clear as a fogged-up windshield at 30,000 feet.
Then, there’s the language requirement. You must be able to read, write, and speak English. This is presumably so you can understand when air traffic control politely tells you not to fly your DJI Mini 4 Pro into the White House. If you can’t string together a coherent sentence, you may want to reconsider your career choices—or run for Congress.
But here’s where things get real. It’s not enough to simply be a person with a drone and a dream. No, the FAA expects you to be a multi-faceted titan of industry before you can be entrusted with the sacred duty of flying a glorified camera in the sky. You might need to be a real estate agent, a police officer, or—God help us—an on-air news jockey. That’s right, if you’re not already shouting headlines about triple homicides at 6 a.m., you may not have what it takes to join the pantheon of great SUAS pilots.
Let’s be clear: you will need at least 25 jobs to make this happen. The modern drone pilot is not just a drone pilot. They are a social media influencer, newspaper editor, local politician, part-time Uber driver, weekend bounty hunter, substitute teacher, freelance mortician, wedding photographer, locksmith, and occasional alligator wrangler. The more roles you can stuff under your belt, the more likely you are to successfully navigate the labyrinthine nonsense of FAA regulations.
And don’t forget safety! A hockey helmet might come in handy—not just for protecting your skull in case of ‘drone-droppage’ mishaps, but also for those inevitable moments of deep concentration when you bite your own tongue and start drooling like a bewildered golden retriever. If you wear glasses, be sure they’re securely tethered to your neck, because nothing exudes “professionalism” quite like a pair of safety goggles swinging wildly as you attempt to convince an FAA examiner that you’re responsible enough to pilot a flying robot.
In summary, becoming an FAA SUAS pilot is a Herculean task reserved for only the most versatile, overworked, and absurdly qualified individuals. If you can juggle 30 careers, maintain the literacy skills of a third-grader, and keep your shoelaces tied, you just might stand a chance.
Godspeed.
