Pilawt
Final Approach
- Joined
- Sep 19, 2005
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Pilawt
I've had almost nine weeks now, since the onset of my father's illness, to think of an appropriate tribute to him. During much of that time I feared with good reason that the tribute would be posthumous. I can gladly spare you the suspense, however, and tell you that he has pulled through and he will be all right. But the story still needs to be told.
He grew up in central Florida, spending long hours lying on his back in the grass, watching the Martin B-26 bombers ("one a day in Tampa Bay") and other wartime craft take off and land at his hometown field. At age 15, shortly after his mother died, he took a Greyhound bus to Los Angeles to live with his older sister. He married young, a child (yours truly) came along, and he had to set his love of airplanes aside for a long time. A young policeman's salary in those days was hardly enough to satisfy a craving for flight.
The flying bug is hereditary, and I was hooked at a young age. As I got into the awkward teen years, my dad seized the opportunity to forge a lasting bond between us. We both started flying lessons. As it happened I got my private license first, on my seventeenth birthday, in August 1968. He passed his checkride about three weeks later, and soon he bought a used Cessna 150 in which we both took our advanced training. We haven't flown together often (the few trips we did fly together were memorable), but for nearly four decades we've never lacked for exciting things to talk about, and we always look forward to the next chance to share our flying experiences.
In 1988 he bought a ten-year-old Skyhawk, and since then he has turned it into a real showpiece. Now it has a 180-hp Lycoming, Power-Flo exhaust, Lasar ignition, gap seals, new interior, etc., etc. The original exterior paint looks factory new.
When my mother became ill in the early 1990s, he didn't fly much. He was too busy taking care of her. After she died in 1995, the airplane and his airport pals became the focus of his life. Often he flew from his home in southern Oregon to airshows and fly-ins around the western states. In 1998 the Skyhawk took him to his 50th high school reunion, which was held in Laughlin, Nevada. There he met up with an old school flame. Three years later my airplane carried my wife and me to Southern California for their wedding. The wedding was performed by his grandson -- my son -- an ordained pastor, who himself had soloed a Cessna 152 the year before.
My dad and his new bride have two homes -- his Oregon property, and a condominium in San Diego County. Naturally the Skyhawk has been the primary mode of transportation between the two.
On September 30, 2005, at the San Diego condo, my dad suffered a ruptured thoracic aneurysm. He was airlifted by helicopter to a hospital in Escondido. It was almost his last flight. The helicopter crew did not expect to deliver a living patient. He was rushed into 3-1/2 hours of surgery, taking ten units of blood. The doctor told us he had a 5 to 10 percent chance of survival that night.
My wife and I bought tickets on the first airline flight from Portland to San Diego the next morning. I had a window seat. Weather was clear. As we flew over I couldn't help but stare at places that had been important to my dad and me over the years -- Yosemite National Park, where he took me camping; Columbia Airport, where he loved to go for fly-ins; places where we used to live; the college where he helped pay my tuition, and so on, all the way to San Diego.
He was comatose and on a respirator for three weeks. Circulatory complications forced amputation of his left lower leg, six inches below the knee. As late as October 20 the doctors were saying things looked bad and we should prepare for the worst. But he rallied and came out of it. He was finally transferred out of critical care, and spent a couple of weeks in rehab. Two days before Thanksgiving he was discharged to go home to the condo. He is receiving outpatient therapy and is looking forward to getting the leg prosthesis. He and his droll sense of humor ("Well, I don't have to worry about that bunion any more") are both alive and well.
We had much to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving holiday. Amid the feelings of relief for his recovery I am so grateful for what he did to bring us together as a family, through the magic of flight. I am grateful to my lovely step-mother for selflessly caring for him. I am grateful to my dad's mechanic and fellow "airport bums" for being such loyal friends.
Whether or not he will ever regain his medical certificate, I'm certain that he will someday soon fly that Skyhawk again, with another pilot -- maybe me -- alongside.
Y'know, there are some people who have this funny idea that airplanes are inanimate objects, just manufactured assemblies of metal, rubber and cloth. Uh-uh, can't fool me. I know better.
-- Pilawt
He grew up in central Florida, spending long hours lying on his back in the grass, watching the Martin B-26 bombers ("one a day in Tampa Bay") and other wartime craft take off and land at his hometown field. At age 15, shortly after his mother died, he took a Greyhound bus to Los Angeles to live with his older sister. He married young, a child (yours truly) came along, and he had to set his love of airplanes aside for a long time. A young policeman's salary in those days was hardly enough to satisfy a craving for flight.
The flying bug is hereditary, and I was hooked at a young age. As I got into the awkward teen years, my dad seized the opportunity to forge a lasting bond between us. We both started flying lessons. As it happened I got my private license first, on my seventeenth birthday, in August 1968. He passed his checkride about three weeks later, and soon he bought a used Cessna 150 in which we both took our advanced training. We haven't flown together often (the few trips we did fly together were memorable), but for nearly four decades we've never lacked for exciting things to talk about, and we always look forward to the next chance to share our flying experiences.
In 1988 he bought a ten-year-old Skyhawk, and since then he has turned it into a real showpiece. Now it has a 180-hp Lycoming, Power-Flo exhaust, Lasar ignition, gap seals, new interior, etc., etc. The original exterior paint looks factory new.
When my mother became ill in the early 1990s, he didn't fly much. He was too busy taking care of her. After she died in 1995, the airplane and his airport pals became the focus of his life. Often he flew from his home in southern Oregon to airshows and fly-ins around the western states. In 1998 the Skyhawk took him to his 50th high school reunion, which was held in Laughlin, Nevada. There he met up with an old school flame. Three years later my airplane carried my wife and me to Southern California for their wedding. The wedding was performed by his grandson -- my son -- an ordained pastor, who himself had soloed a Cessna 152 the year before.
My dad and his new bride have two homes -- his Oregon property, and a condominium in San Diego County. Naturally the Skyhawk has been the primary mode of transportation between the two.
On September 30, 2005, at the San Diego condo, my dad suffered a ruptured thoracic aneurysm. He was airlifted by helicopter to a hospital in Escondido. It was almost his last flight. The helicopter crew did not expect to deliver a living patient. He was rushed into 3-1/2 hours of surgery, taking ten units of blood. The doctor told us he had a 5 to 10 percent chance of survival that night.
My wife and I bought tickets on the first airline flight from Portland to San Diego the next morning. I had a window seat. Weather was clear. As we flew over I couldn't help but stare at places that had been important to my dad and me over the years -- Yosemite National Park, where he took me camping; Columbia Airport, where he loved to go for fly-ins; places where we used to live; the college where he helped pay my tuition, and so on, all the way to San Diego.
He was comatose and on a respirator for three weeks. Circulatory complications forced amputation of his left lower leg, six inches below the knee. As late as October 20 the doctors were saying things looked bad and we should prepare for the worst. But he rallied and came out of it. He was finally transferred out of critical care, and spent a couple of weeks in rehab. Two days before Thanksgiving he was discharged to go home to the condo. He is receiving outpatient therapy and is looking forward to getting the leg prosthesis. He and his droll sense of humor ("Well, I don't have to worry about that bunion any more") are both alive and well.
We had much to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving holiday. Amid the feelings of relief for his recovery I am so grateful for what he did to bring us together as a family, through the magic of flight. I am grateful to my lovely step-mother for selflessly caring for him. I am grateful to my dad's mechanic and fellow "airport bums" for being such loyal friends.
Whether or not he will ever regain his medical certificate, I'm certain that he will someday soon fly that Skyhawk again, with another pilot -- maybe me -- alongside.
Y'know, there are some people who have this funny idea that airplanes are inanimate objects, just manufactured assemblies of metal, rubber and cloth. Uh-uh, can't fool me. I know better.
-- Pilawt
My best wishes to your dad and hope all goes well and that he can regain his medical certificate again! 
