Jay Honeck
Touchdown! Greaser!
A few weeks ago, someone brought up an article I had originally posted on rec.aviation called "Final Flight" -- the true tale of an old man on his last cross-country flight.
This article was eventually published in a short-lived aviation magazine called "Flying Life" -- and (in all the commotion of moving to Texas, etc.) I had quite frankly forgotten all about it.
Having fancied myself a writer at one time, I had been accumulating these sorts of little aviation snippets for a book I hoped to write in the future. Tonight, to my dismay, I discovered that NONE of these snippets were on any of the computer hard drives in my office.
Thankfully, through the wonders of the internet, I was able to find a copy of this article buried in an obscure internet archive of the Aeronca mailing list, of all places. (It's really amazing -- literally EVERYTHING you have ever written is still out "there" -- if you poke around long enough.)
So, with all that said, and without further adieu -- I present "Final Flight" once again, for your reading pleasure:
I heard him coming in on Unicom. His voice was scratchy and weak with age, and he was announcing his arrival to a runway that no longer existed.
Mary and I chuckled, and silently shook our heads as we worked, thinking to ourselves that another "fair weather flier" was up for his first flight of the spring season.
But this one was different, somehow. His voice, although tired, sounded authoritative. And although he was obviously using outdated information (our runways shifted from 06/24 to 07/25 a couple of years ago), he seemed to have a confidence born of many years in the air.
Still, it was scary. Here was a guy you would NOT want to share the pattern with anymore. But I soon forgot about him...
Minutes later, our reservation desk phone rang -- it was the FBO. They had a pilot who needed a room for the night -- could we come pick him up? Within seconds, I was making the 400 yard drive to the terminal building.
And there he was, out on the ramp, gathering his things -- our old pilot. Having beaten him to the terminal building, I sauntered out on the ramp to see if he needed help with his luggage.
He straightened as I approached, his gray head under a Bing Crosby fedora, his stooped shoulders in a sweater and sport coat, despite the 80 degree temperatures. His neck tie was tightly cinched, and his flight bag was of worn, ancient leather. His single suitcase had obviously seen decades of use, but was sound and tightly packed.
He could lift neither bag while walking, so I gently took them from him. While the line guy tied down his beautiful 35 year old Mooney -- the name "Blue Bird" painted on the nose in stylish script -- we struck up a conversation. His hearing was nearly gone, so I had to raise my voice considerably to be heard.
He was in his 80s, and had owned the Mooney since 1977. It was a 1967 model, and he had just had her re-painted last year, by an absolute perfectionist in Arizona. The paint was deep and perfect -- even the underside was flawless. It was a beautiful plane, and we both stood for a moment, silently admiring her sleek lines.
Asking him where he was from, I was thunderstruck to learn that he was on a long cross country flight from Vermont to Arizona, to see his nephew. Had he said he was from the moon, I couldn't have been more surprised, as this was clearly a man who, under normal circumstances, might be challenged to drive a car.
However, these weren't normal circumstances; you see, this was his final flight. And not just the final flight in his plane -- but his final flight *ever*. He knew it, freely admitted it, and was obviously bearing a strange mix of grief and relief at the prospect. He was on his way to Arizona to sell his beloved Bluebird, and would soon be flying a commercial jet home to Vermont. But in the meantime, he was seeing the country one last time, stopping every few hundred miles for the night, trying desperately to make this one flight last forever...
His nephew, an airline pilot, was supposed to join him for the flight, but the scheduling just somehow never came together. I got the impression from the old man that he was relieved at this turn of events, for this was a flight he needed to make alone, despite his condition.
The instrumentation in his plane was straight 1970s VOR/ADF stuff, but I got the feeling that he was navigating entirely from memory, going by landmarks and things remembered from hundreds of flights over the years. He confirmed this by regaling me with stories of making this same trip many times with various family members, and of the great times they always had together. His voice trailed off again, as he stated – almost unbelieving – that they were all dead now, the last one having passed away just this last winter. Never having married or had children, he was the last survivor.
With that thought ringing in my head, we walked slowly to the terminal, deep in thought.
When we got to the hotel, he took a pass on our new aviation theme suites, choosing instead one of our cheapest rooms. He then inquired about Saturday night church services, so Mary looked up the next Catholic service, finding one that was starting within the hour. He then asked the inevitable and dreaded question -- how could he get to the church?
Since he was quite knowledgeable about the inn, I assumed that he knew about the free courtesy car. However, I first mentioned the three cab companies we have in town -- hoping desperately that he would NOT choose to drive my 6,000 pound full-sized van around in a strange city. This was no "normal" old man, however, and he immediately jumped at the courtesy car option, so I reluctantly gave him the keys, and sent him on his way, with a map and detailed directions.
We didn't see him return before leaving for the evening, and I spent the night uncomfortably waiting for the seemingly inevitable phone call from my desk staff.
It never came. The old man did just fine.
The next morning he showed up in the lobby bright and early, still wearing the fedora and sport coat. I gave him a ride back to the terminal – he was on his way southwest today, to wherever Bluebird and the weather would let him go. I again carried his luggage, and he thanked me for the wonderful service, wishing out loud that he could come back again some day, both of us knowing full well that it would never happen.
As we walked past the usual Sunday morning crowd in the terminal, I exchanged knowing glances with the guys. Some of them rolled their eyes at the sight of the old man, but I just stared back, knowing that I was on a sacred mission.
I asked him if he wanted to check weather before departing. When he declined, I insisted that we at least take a look at the live radar, knowing full-well that there was a line of storms in Nebraska that might make flight dangerous or impossible. Reluctantly, he followed me into the computer room. When I brought up the live radar, showing the storms off in western Nebraska, he just took one look, chuckled, pronounced the weather "beautiful", and turned to leave. Wondering silently if he was actually trying to kill himself -- but knowing it was a losing battle -- I silently followed him to his plane.
Unable to untie Bluebird himself, I did it for him. Stowing his suitcase in the impossibly awkward Mooney luggage compartment, I turned to face his outstretched hand, and weathered face. Peering up at me through thick glasses from underneath his Bing Crosby fedora, he shook my hand and thanked me whole-heartedly, wishing Mary and me the best of luck in our new venture.
He then took a look back at the terminal building, grinned, and slowly hoisted himself up on the wing.
It was a long time before he started, and even longer before he departed. Every motion was measured, every action labored. The entire production was awkward, while at the same time rehearsed -- like someone trying to sing a song they hadn't thought of in many years. The words wouldn't quite come, but the tune was easy to hum -- and he slowly and gracefully lifted off and headed West on his final journey.
I drove slowly back to the hotel, pondering my own mortality, wondering when my turn would come...
This article was eventually published in a short-lived aviation magazine called "Flying Life" -- and (in all the commotion of moving to Texas, etc.) I had quite frankly forgotten all about it.
Having fancied myself a writer at one time, I had been accumulating these sorts of little aviation snippets for a book I hoped to write in the future. Tonight, to my dismay, I discovered that NONE of these snippets were on any of the computer hard drives in my office.
Thankfully, through the wonders of the internet, I was able to find a copy of this article buried in an obscure internet archive of the Aeronca mailing list, of all places. (It's really amazing -- literally EVERYTHING you have ever written is still out "there" -- if you poke around long enough.)
So, with all that said, and without further adieu -- I present "Final Flight" once again, for your reading pleasure:
Final Flight
May, 2003
(Originally published in “Flying Life” Magazine)
(Originally published in “Flying Life” Magazine)
I heard him coming in on Unicom. His voice was scratchy and weak with age, and he was announcing his arrival to a runway that no longer existed.
Mary and I chuckled, and silently shook our heads as we worked, thinking to ourselves that another "fair weather flier" was up for his first flight of the spring season.
But this one was different, somehow. His voice, although tired, sounded authoritative. And although he was obviously using outdated information (our runways shifted from 06/24 to 07/25 a couple of years ago), he seemed to have a confidence born of many years in the air.
Still, it was scary. Here was a guy you would NOT want to share the pattern with anymore. But I soon forgot about him...
Minutes later, our reservation desk phone rang -- it was the FBO. They had a pilot who needed a room for the night -- could we come pick him up? Within seconds, I was making the 400 yard drive to the terminal building.
And there he was, out on the ramp, gathering his things -- our old pilot. Having beaten him to the terminal building, I sauntered out on the ramp to see if he needed help with his luggage.
He straightened as I approached, his gray head under a Bing Crosby fedora, his stooped shoulders in a sweater and sport coat, despite the 80 degree temperatures. His neck tie was tightly cinched, and his flight bag was of worn, ancient leather. His single suitcase had obviously seen decades of use, but was sound and tightly packed.
He could lift neither bag while walking, so I gently took them from him. While the line guy tied down his beautiful 35 year old Mooney -- the name "Blue Bird" painted on the nose in stylish script -- we struck up a conversation. His hearing was nearly gone, so I had to raise my voice considerably to be heard.
He was in his 80s, and had owned the Mooney since 1977. It was a 1967 model, and he had just had her re-painted last year, by an absolute perfectionist in Arizona. The paint was deep and perfect -- even the underside was flawless. It was a beautiful plane, and we both stood for a moment, silently admiring her sleek lines.
Asking him where he was from, I was thunderstruck to learn that he was on a long cross country flight from Vermont to Arizona, to see his nephew. Had he said he was from the moon, I couldn't have been more surprised, as this was clearly a man who, under normal circumstances, might be challenged to drive a car.
However, these weren't normal circumstances; you see, this was his final flight. And not just the final flight in his plane -- but his final flight *ever*. He knew it, freely admitted it, and was obviously bearing a strange mix of grief and relief at the prospect. He was on his way to Arizona to sell his beloved Bluebird, and would soon be flying a commercial jet home to Vermont. But in the meantime, he was seeing the country one last time, stopping every few hundred miles for the night, trying desperately to make this one flight last forever...
His nephew, an airline pilot, was supposed to join him for the flight, but the scheduling just somehow never came together. I got the impression from the old man that he was relieved at this turn of events, for this was a flight he needed to make alone, despite his condition.
The instrumentation in his plane was straight 1970s VOR/ADF stuff, but I got the feeling that he was navigating entirely from memory, going by landmarks and things remembered from hundreds of flights over the years. He confirmed this by regaling me with stories of making this same trip many times with various family members, and of the great times they always had together. His voice trailed off again, as he stated – almost unbelieving – that they were all dead now, the last one having passed away just this last winter. Never having married or had children, he was the last survivor.
With that thought ringing in my head, we walked slowly to the terminal, deep in thought.
When we got to the hotel, he took a pass on our new aviation theme suites, choosing instead one of our cheapest rooms. He then inquired about Saturday night church services, so Mary looked up the next Catholic service, finding one that was starting within the hour. He then asked the inevitable and dreaded question -- how could he get to the church?
Since he was quite knowledgeable about the inn, I assumed that he knew about the free courtesy car. However, I first mentioned the three cab companies we have in town -- hoping desperately that he would NOT choose to drive my 6,000 pound full-sized van around in a strange city. This was no "normal" old man, however, and he immediately jumped at the courtesy car option, so I reluctantly gave him the keys, and sent him on his way, with a map and detailed directions.
We didn't see him return before leaving for the evening, and I spent the night uncomfortably waiting for the seemingly inevitable phone call from my desk staff.
It never came. The old man did just fine.
The next morning he showed up in the lobby bright and early, still wearing the fedora and sport coat. I gave him a ride back to the terminal – he was on his way southwest today, to wherever Bluebird and the weather would let him go. I again carried his luggage, and he thanked me for the wonderful service, wishing out loud that he could come back again some day, both of us knowing full well that it would never happen.
As we walked past the usual Sunday morning crowd in the terminal, I exchanged knowing glances with the guys. Some of them rolled their eyes at the sight of the old man, but I just stared back, knowing that I was on a sacred mission.
I asked him if he wanted to check weather before departing. When he declined, I insisted that we at least take a look at the live radar, knowing full-well that there was a line of storms in Nebraska that might make flight dangerous or impossible. Reluctantly, he followed me into the computer room. When I brought up the live radar, showing the storms off in western Nebraska, he just took one look, chuckled, pronounced the weather "beautiful", and turned to leave. Wondering silently if he was actually trying to kill himself -- but knowing it was a losing battle -- I silently followed him to his plane.
Unable to untie Bluebird himself, I did it for him. Stowing his suitcase in the impossibly awkward Mooney luggage compartment, I turned to face his outstretched hand, and weathered face. Peering up at me through thick glasses from underneath his Bing Crosby fedora, he shook my hand and thanked me whole-heartedly, wishing Mary and me the best of luck in our new venture.
He then took a look back at the terminal building, grinned, and slowly hoisted himself up on the wing.
It was a long time before he started, and even longer before he departed. Every motion was measured, every action labored. The entire production was awkward, while at the same time rehearsed -- like someone trying to sing a song they hadn't thought of in many years. The words wouldn't quite come, but the tune was easy to hum -- and he slowly and gracefully lifted off and headed West on his final journey.
I drove slowly back to the hotel, pondering my own mortality, wondering when my turn would come...
