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By Dr. David Watson (Published 8/03)
I grew up on a small mid-western family farm. Normal in most respects, except that ours had its own airstrip, and private planes landed there on a regular basis. We lived in a very rural area, and as young boys always are, I was convinced the world was passing me by--except when shiny airplanes would drop down from the sky, flare out, and gently touch down just past our barn lot and hanger. Then we would visit with the occupants, who were frequently professionals of some sort, usually toting money and gadgets aplenty. One languid summer morning in 1975, however, something different happened. We had been sternly warned by my dad, my brothers and I, that ours was a Restricted Landing Area (an RLA in FAA jargon), and that nobody was to touch down without permission (and that minors could not grant such a right, even if we had wanted to). So when the gentleman called that morning to ask if he could bring his plane over a bit earlier than had previously been agreed upon, I simply told him no, that my parents weren't home and I could not say yes. I gave it no further thought until later when I heard the familiar buzz of an incoming plane. Cautious pilots, I had observed repeatedly, came in high and dropped down quick to stay well away from the power lines spanning the eastern approach to our airfield. This one was quite high, so much so in fact that he endeavored at the last minute to add power and "circle the patch." The engine coughed rather than revved, and the plane did not complete the circuit.
Dad's fascination with aviation goes back, he says, to being a little boy while World War II raged. Other youngsters played army; my dad looked to the skies, built model airplanes, and vowed to someday fly a plane. As the war ended and the decade of the 1950's arrived, the newest innovations in aviation were the helicopter and the jet. Pop came of age and signed up with Uncle Sam to learn how to work on helicopters. He was sent to Korea to help keep the peace, then to Hawaii, where he was serving as a confident young crew chief at the time of my birth. In 1961 the Army sent him to learn how to work on Hueys, and would very much have liked for him to head up a maintenance team in America's newest hotspot, Vietnam. Too many of his fellow soldiers were coming home in body bags, however, and since he had three little boys of his own by that time, he decided against the trip. Instead, we moved to Kansas, where he found work with a crop duster. He cut a dashing and debonair figure then, dressed in a suit and holding a cigarette. Tragically, it wasn't long before the owner of the business and his son were lost in a crash. Off we went to Illinois, where Dad worked as an aircraft mechanic and inspector. Again, a terrible (and preventable) accident occurred where an instructor and a junior mechanic were lost. Both times Dad was shaken, I know, but he didn't give up on what he loved. In fact, his resolve was never stronger than when he decided to construct and operate his own airfield and repair shop. Hard work and sacrifice would lead him (and us), he believed, to the good life.
You guessed it. The plane crashed. For a young teenager marooned in the middle of nowhere in a place nothing ever happened, this constituted serious irony. I was the sole eyewitness to an airplane crash. I was both exhilarated and terrified. As it turned out, fire trucks, sheriff's deputies, and even newspaper reporters were only minutes away, but I didn't know that, and didn't care. My parents and my older brother were gone, but there were car keys handy, so off I drove to the end of the runway. I jumped out of Rick's car, and bounded through the woods toward where I thought I saw the craft disappear from view. I was soon face to face with the pilot who had called earlier. He was bleeding slightly from a small cut on his forehead, but I will always remember what he said to me (and I to him). "Is your dad home?" he asked me very casually. Almost apoplectic, I gasped out my words "Where's your plane?" "Oh, its back there," he said, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. I looked up, and to my astonishment, there it was, suspended high above us in the trees, and not badly damaged. The real problem was that a plane had crashed while attempting to land at an RLA. Never mind that the owner had (by his own admission) "tinkered" with the carburetor, and that he had indeed not received prior authorization to land.
It seemed like wherever they went and whatever they did, my parents were dogged by aviation accidents. Such dreams they had, but always these aspirations were elusive, seemingly for reasons not within their control. But wait. Take another look. Allow me to re-examine what constitutes a dream fulfilled. How about defining it as raising a family of five boys that all contribute to society, as being involved parents who coached sports and were Scout Leaders, and as citizens of their local community who are to this day trusted, respected and relied upon. That's definition enough for me.
P.S. Mom and Dad, I'm on a flight as I write this...and I love you both.
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Dr. Dave Watson is InDyne, Inc.'s Program Manager for Peer Review for the National Space Biomedical Research Institute, as well as Adjunct Associate Professor in the Department of Microbiology & Immunology at the University of Texas Medical Branch in Galveston. In his free time, Dr. Dave serves as a member of the Board of Trustees of the Pearland Independent School District, where all four of he and his wife Fay's children are currently students.
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