An Aviation Accident Arouses An Advocate Saturday September 25 was one more perfect day in the city of Fullerton; at least it was supposed to be that way. It started out well enough with me getting up about 7:00. It was going to be a big day. Today was going to be a bit of a break for me because the past week had been absolutely harrowing. All was well under control, but today I would lay aside the books for a while and enjoy the Fullerton airport's biennial Air Festival. I had learned about this marvelous event a week earlier from one of the vendors at Cal State Fullerton who had casually mentioned it to me as I stood at his shaved-ice and kettle corn stand enjoying my break after a Thursday meeting of campus clubs. I determined then and there to attend the show if only because I would know two people there. Besides, it would give me a chance to see one of my favorite things in life: airplanes. Airplanes have taken over the spot in my psyche once devoted to motorcycles. It’s not an easy task explaining flight's allure, but there's always the possibility that someone's description or encounter will spark the next generation's passion for it. Mine has been sparked. The last week before this Saturday trip to the airport had been eventful enough with the completion of a paper, a harrowing read through an intense book on the new deal of the 1930s, a Toastmasters contest which I entered and won as a speech evaluation participant, and the preparation for another paper on which I would give a co-presentation in my class on U.S. Twentieth Century history. Today, I could put all that aside for a few hours and go to the Fullerton airport to see my friend, my pilot, and...airplanes. Except...the day got to an interesting start. Looking at the morning before me I decided I would work on my paper for a few hours then head to the airport, arriving there at about 1:00 pm. No, I said, that was too late, and besides, I was expecting company. Dale ploung the pilot whose plane had sparked my interest had promised that he and his wife and her sister would accompany me to the airport if they were up for it, and so part of me knew that I needed to contact him to see if indeed we were meeting there. But when would I call him? he was supposed to call me, so I decided instead of working on my paper I would go and get dressed and then just go to the airport. but I'd call him before actually leaving. So I did. "I was about to call you," he told me, and proceeded to explain that they were indeed going to the airport and did I need a ride? Well, yes, that would work out, so I finished getting myself together and waited. They arrived and we were off to get film, water, and take the leisurely trip to the airport. When we arrived, the usually placid little airport tucked between houses and businesses and sitting right on a heavily trafficked street and that has become my second home was bustling. Commander Chuck Streets traffic helicopter sat there, Mark's kettle corn stand was there, an old Steerman was there, and, my personal hang-out spot, the General Aviation Company hangar beckoned with a gleaming Glass air that had raced in the Reno Air Races only last weekend. Dale, Sandy, Judy and myself were about to go to the General Aviation Company office to find Todd, my certified flight instructor, when we were hailed by someone. Turning around, we discovered that it was Todd who was trying to get our attention. I was excited to see him, and we shook hands. “This is Dale,” I explained to the man who has taken me to the sky five times now and who, upon our first meeting, said "I'll fly you anywhere you want to go." I believed him. I still do. “I owe her a logbook entry and a picture,” Todd explained to him. A picture? I don’t remember the picture, but definitely the log book entry. I collect log book entries from all our flights. If I can’t be a pilot yet I can pretend, can’t I? If you aren’t familiar with the entire story of my aviation journey, it’s hard to imagine my excitement to see Todd and Dale talking to each other. Dale, whose plane had sparked my interest and Todd, the man who had helped cement that interest and who had taken my money in exchange for some of my most sublime moments had finally met. I have a knack for bringing people together in conversations, it’s one of my values as a hostess, and so, two years after the clear dawn that sparked my absolute passion for airplanes, here they stood talking about…well…planes. As we were about to go I got a picture of me standing between them. This was a shining moment for me because after two years and five flights, my two pilots had met face-to-face. A year ago as Todd and I sat waiting for our turn to approach the runway he had told me that there was a plane sitting in front of us "a Cardinal like Dale's plane" he said, and then I knew, strapped into that little seat, curled up next to a pilot, about to release me from the hell of printer's ink, that they had to meet. It had happened. We made our way through the bustling crowd, passed the book stall sporting P-238 clocks and raffle tickets for a headset, passed the serene structure of the Air Traffic Control tower, and made our way through the housing tract to our parking spot. We left behind the zoo that was, for that moment, the Fullerton airport. As we slowly turned the corner at Commonwealth and Dale, the official end of the airport’s one runway, we spotted the 1986 Bushmaster 2000, the replica of the Ford Tri Motor airplane that would give rides to spectators today. Slowly inspecting the big plane from propeller to stern, Dale commented “There’s the Tri Motor” and informed me of the existence of the corrugated siding on the aircraft. The Tri Motor would give rides today to people who had $40.00 to spend on such a fun adventure. Earlier at the airport Dale had talked about how he should bring his grandson for a ride, sometime. Personally, though experiencing a nudging, quiet desire to do so, I couldn’t justify the expense today. I, however, would have been happy with a picture. The arrival time for the plane conflicted with ours, and, we were simply too hungry to wait for the plane’s arrival. We were content then to view it and appreciate the replica for it’s historical value. We made our way in search of a restaurant and not finding it, settled for one close to my house. As we parked and entered The Jalapeno Grill for lunch, we had no idea that the zoo we had just left would become even more frantic. At approximately 1:00, after an enjoyable day at the airport and an excellent lunch, Dale and Sandy drove me home and made their way back to their part of the woods. We both had plans for the rest of the day. Finally, I could sit down and write my paper. It would be easier now that I had seen my airplanes and gotten pictures of them. And then, I heard Sirens! I vaguely wondered if they were heading in the direction of the airport! I sat happily in my chair writing. It was the easiest thing I had done all week. Cooking for the contest, preparing to be a competitor, reading through the book, attending meetings, and trying to get my act together for the presentation had all left me wondering if I really wanted to go to the airport. Now I was glad I had gone. Finished with the paper about 8:00 I signed onto AIM to talk to my deaf friend Richard. “Youre lucky youre okay,” he typed to me. Somehow, even before forming my next question I knew something was wrong. I didn’t have to ask. “I heard about the crash. Word spreads out fast.” Wait, wait, wait! What crash? Where? Oh my God, did I have to ask? Oh probably not! The crash? Indeed, there had been a crash! The pilot and co-pilot of the Tri Motor Air Tours plane scheduled to give rides to air show spectators today—the very plane we had slowly and carefully inspected less than an hour earlier--had suddenly banked, lost lift, and crash landed the 18-year-old replica right on Commonwealth Avenue, smack dab in front of the airport, in front of God and everybody! Those of you who live in blessedly rural areas will not immediately understand that Commonwealth Avenue is not the place to land one’s plane even on the worst of days. It was, however, a hell of a lot better than slamming into the five-story control tower just feet beyond the street. If someone had done that, then the day was not a very good one. Indeed they had done that. Taking the plane out for a post maintenance flight check, their day had come to a crashing halt and noone was going anywhere that day except to the hospital. As I sat there looking at the story I realized two things: (1) I had planned to arrive at the airport around 1:00 pm, putting me directly in the path of the oncoming plane, and (2) I wood have been stranded there had I not gone to the airport with Dale and sandy. The bus I take to the airport stops right by the control tower. Had God spared my life? The three-engine plane landed right on that street, clipping a car, sheering off the wing, ejecting the pilot who landed under the remaining wing next to a burning engine. Pulled to safety by passersby, he now lay, along with his co-pilot, critically injured. It was clear that God had spared their lives as well as many others on the ground. Many people saw the plane go down. Mark the man who runs the kettle corn stand told me it flew right over his stand, shaking the trailer, creating the most incredible noise. Smoke and fire blocked his view of the injured men, but did not block his view of the anguished crowd. There were, in his description, a lot of tears that day. The day that was supposed to be so perfect ended up as a nightmare for some. I am sure that this story is not over! No airplane story for me is ever over. Just as it took two years for Dale and I to meet and for me to introduce him to my newly found friend, it may take a while, but I’m determined more than ever now to be passionate about flight and see what I can do to help. If I cannot be personally involved in the lives of the accident victims, general aviation needs a good advocate. I know this will probably spur more debate about our local municipal airport. Accidents like this usually do create debate, but it seems that general aviation has had more than its fair share of debates in the last three years. The airport sits as a retreat from the overwhelming printer’s ink of my life and also sits right in the middle of a bustling city area. I am sure that this will again stir up debate over the safety of the airport and if they don’t know it yet, officials there will soon understand that they have found a willing advocate for their cause. I wrote in my last flight article that I was ready for the next plane. Perhaps the next aviation related event in my life is not simply a jaunt in an airplane, but an experience in standing up and fighting for the existence of one of my most prized retreats.
Copyright © 2004 Shelley J Alongi |