Imagine a warm, sunny day in Orange County, California. Back in 1993, when Marine Corps Air Station El Toro was still open and holding its annual airshow, my family went for the first time. And it was an experience. I had never been around so many airplanes, nor had I been so close to both civilian and military planes alike (I was one of those boys in elementary schools who had practically learned a good portion of the inventory of the US arsenal that had wings on it). But I had no preference. Both were cool.
I remember seeing the Red Barons fly for the first time there. Hearing those roaring Stearmans flying, and seeing them fly a graceful show was something.
Seeing Patty Wagstaff fly for the first time in my life. That was also inspiring.
The USAF Thunderbirds were there as well. It was the first time I saw an F-16 fly in person. Of course, I was 6 years old at the time. And, on top of that, one fly over me.
It was also the first time I saw aviation's ugly side. An F-86 Sabre, pulling out of a loop way too low slams against the flightline, and created a huge fireball. One larger than the controlled pyrotechnics of the air attack demonstration. That one made the ground shake significantly. The explosion caught my attention, and I looked to see a huge plume of smoke, in three different colors: white, yellow, and black. I was too short to see what was going on, and I heard my dad say, "He crashed...". I stood on my tiptoes to see what happened, but to no avail. At the time, I had no compulsion to do anything but watch and try to see what would happen next. A lot like Ernest K. Gann's experience when he saw a DC-3 crash, sitting in a jeep with another pilot, and so suddenly, and insidiously stunned, that they were unable to do anything to help.
I never thought that I would see a plane crash in person. And although some memories of that day were foggy, I remember the atmosphere felt different.
The airshow went on, however. The civilian acts continued, and the Thunderbirds did fly. By that time, I had forgotten about the crash. I was in aviation-sensory-overload, seeing so many airplanes fly, and being around so many people who went for one thing: to see planes and pilots do what they do best. To fly. Watching in the same awe that people had when barnstormers flew into their towns and gave rides, or even daring aerobatic acts in their biplanes.
From what I understand and remember, the pilot of the Vietnam-era F-86 unfortunately died.
You can download the video here, and you will see the crash that I, and about 200,000 other people saw.
I have read in the scant accounts of that event that many people left after the crash. I have also read accounts of airshow enthusiasts driving home mid-show right after a crash. As if they cannot stomach the rest of the show. And with such a bitter note that an accident brings, who can blame them? I never understood it until reflecting on what I experienced that day over 15 years ago.
Since then, I have not seen a plane crash in person. But I have seen airshow pilots perform during one of their last airshows, like Eric Beard, Jimmy Franklin, Bobby Younkin and Jim LeRoy. Seeing such great pilots fall is something that all aviation enthusiasts feel pain in. A heavy, hard pain. Seeing their acts, and sharing their love for flight and adventure creates a bond between performer and attendee, pilot and spectator, aviator to dreamer. I nearly cried when I heard about those fine men losing their lives doing what they loved. It hurts the airshow industry by fueling the reputation that airshows are dangerous. It hurts pilots because it hurts their professional reputation. It hurts enthusiasts and fans dearly, because they lost a figure, a friend.
I still attend airshows, and obviously, I still love flying, of course. I had been attending airshows for years, and will continue to do so for years to come. Flying is something beautiful, too beautiful to keep to yourself. It needs to be shared. You embrace the good in that it provides wonderful memories for life. You also learn to embrace the bad, since each accident has a lesson that all pilots should learn. It's why I am so bent on becoming a pilot. And it's why I'm pursuing a minor in aviation safety at ERAU (my major is professional aeronautics). Each error has a lesson to be learned. And, although there is no such thing as a working crystal ball, anticipating such errors, be it in airmanship or in design, is key. The latter can only go so far, and though morbid in thought, it will take an error of the scale of an incident or accident for all pilots to learn something. Though it is not a positive experience, it is part of "growing pains", so to speak, in our pilot careers.
Blue Skies and Tailwinds to all.
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