Frequency change approved.

This was the eulogy I delivered at the service celebrating my father's life and passing from it in 2009.

Good morning.

My father was a pilot, and some of my earliest memories are of airplanes: gliders, U controls, radio controlled model planes—then later, airplanes in dim hangers and on baking tarmacs, the  sharp sulphur smell of aviation fuel, the gleam of propellers in  sunlight,  mysteries of all the instruments and radios.  I was fascinated by this, and my dad spent endless hours explaining lift, drag and thrust, pitch, roll and yaw to me—and instilled in me a deep love of flying.  I'm a pilot too.

My father was an instinctive pilot; he learned to fly  in his teens, and was then forced to unlearn all of those skills when he went into the Air Force;  I have heard there are good stories to be told of the molding of Cadet Fawcett by the heavy handed instructors of the Air Wing, but after some gentle reorientation, Dad joined the test pilot corps based at Wright Patterson Air Force Base.  Dad left the Air Force after an injury, but this didn't quell his love of flying.  He continued to fly—a Beech Bonanza, a Beech Baron.  He never qualified for jets, because he didn't think he could wedge that 6' 4" frame into what he affectionately called “Bill Lear's mailing tube”. But Dad and aircraft just went together like a hand and glove.

My father was an intuitive pilot; I remember watching him fly a very fidgety Piper Arrow on a hot turbulent afternoon in Western New York.  I was all white knuckles and sweaty palms and a steady stream of almost profane language while I had my thumb (unawares!) locked down on the push to talk switch of the radio when my Dad suddenly said “I have the aircraft”.  I looked over in amazement:  he had the yoke  easily balanced between thumb and two fingers, and suddenly what had been a bucking bronco of an aircraft became a tame and docile machine.  “Don't fight the plane; move with it, exploit the strengths, recognize the flaws.  Be patient.  Be calm.  Observe.”  Those are good words to live by as well.

My father was the best pilot I have ever known.  An airplane is just a collection of metal, rubber, wires and bad upholstery without the guiding hand, eye and mind of the Pilot.

When a pilot is planning a long journey, he files a flight plan.  After leaving the ramp, the aircraft is directed by Ground Control radio, then handed off to Tower.  The pilot completes his checklist at the end of the runway, and when given clearance, he advances the throttle; the plane rolls down the runway and at the proper speed there is a sensation of the the earth tugging, clinging, fighting to  pull the aircraft down.  But velocity and lift win out, and the nose wheel rises from the runway, followed by the mains.  The gear and flaps are retracted and the plane climbs faster and faster.  The plane is released to Departure control who will guide the aircraft through the crowded airspace

When the airplane has exited the controlled airspace there is a dialogue between the pilot and Departure:  for example, “Bonanza November 1931 Juliet Foxtrot, turn right heading 270; climb and maintain one zero thousand; squawk 1200 and  contact Center on 128.55.  Frequency change approved—good day”  The pilot will read back these instructions, and then begin his journey.

I see my dad on this final trip; there is no more cancer,  no more pain and fear, he is tall and strong, eager for this journey.  He strides purposefully across the tarmac, swinging easily, gracefully into the left seat of  his airplane.  He completes his preflight checklist, taxis to the east end of the runway and after receiving clearance  moves the throttle forward to a smooth and steady take off with just a gentle rock of the wings to those of us watching from behind that inevitable  fence. The air is calm and stable today, and his airplane climbs rapidly, fading into a white dot before it disappears from our sight.  I see him looking over his charts, studying the instrument  panel,  gazing out to  that sun pierced and  amazing horizon; I see my Dad doing what he loved the most:  flying, suspended between the vanishing earth and that brilliant, deep blue sky, climbing to heaven.

Have a good flight home,  Dad.  Frequency change approved.