By S. Robert Williams The Long Island Railroad Islip line pulled me through the steam of August toward a rendezvous with Long Island MacArthur Airport and the day that any fledgling pilot meets with a mixture of dread and excitement. First solo. I learned to fly at a prominent flying school devoted to the making of airline pilots. Most of the instructors were young, in their early to mid 20s, wearing cheap ties and mismatched shirts while accepting abysmal pay in exchange for building flying time. After 10 hours of stalls, turns and the occasional slammed landing, I hoped I was ready. That nig…