Flying Life: Three days with my brother

Our father, a U.S. Air Force and FedEx pilot, died when Chas was 11 years old. So through the years, I have tried to share an “adult” perspective on the man I knew our father to be. I have told as many stories as I remember and shared pictures and little mementos that Dad had given me. When EAA’s annual AirVenture (that’s Oshkosh to you regulars) rolled around this year, I found myself with an empty seat in my Cessna 172 and knew just whom to bring. This would be a perfect opportunity to share one more piece of our father’s life so that Chas could feel closer to the man he had too little time with. Like the first-born that I am, my mind started spinning with all sorts of plans. I had visions of us doing ground school at the fuel stops, practicing stalls and slow flight during cruise, and reviewing emergency procedures over meals. In short, I was going to take this three-day trip and turn it into a whirlwind flight training experience.

However, as is often the case, my fun-loving brother ended up being the one teaching me. When we approached Wittman Field in Oshkosh and saw nothing but a sky full of airplanes all descending on AirVenture at the same time, I felt my shoulders start to tense. How were we supposed to safely navigate an unfamiliar visual approach that was already saturated with traffic? My brother must have sensed the cockpit atmosphere change because he immediately started doing what he does best, making me laugh. When we found ourselves in the middle of a long line of approaching aircraft—some of which were cutting in front of us with barely a half-mile separation, while others flew right overhead or underneath—Chas shouted, “Bogey on the tail, Captain!” pointing behind us, then grinning over at me.

He did not understand the implications of wake turbulence or the fact that I was having to fly slower than I wanted because of the aircraft that was slowing in front of me. But still, given that we were heading into the world’s largest fly-in, about to spend three days at an aviator’s paradise, my brother’s enthusiasm was more than appropriate. After nearly an hour spent circling over Oshkosh, waiting for our turn to land, we heard the words we had been hoping for, “High-wing Cessna over Fisk (the last visual waypoint on the approach), turn right and enter a left base for Runway 36. Welcome to the show!” By this point, my brother’s infectious attitude was starting to rub off on me. I gave him a high five as we celebrated our good fortune.

When we landed and made our way to aircraft camping, I got out and immediately began the business of tying down the wings and setting up the tent. My brother, however, had other thoughts. “Nat, come over here and take a picture. We made it!” The rest of our time at Oshkosh proceeded in similar fashion—with my brother continuing to school me on what really matters. Chas made fast friends with our neighbors at the campground: a horseshoe farrier from Amarillo who flies his Super Cub into various ranches to see his four-legged clients, and another big-hatted Texan who runs a crop-dusting outfit and often came to chat over coffee in the morning or a cold beer in the evening. While I was busy studying the map and planning the most efficient route to different exhibits, Chas was content to wander, taking videos of the airshow, chatting with our neighbors, or marveling over the size of the engines on the Airbus.

When it was time for us to head home, my student flew the entire last leg with minimal help from me, proving that he was indeed paying attention. Somewhere over St. Louis, my brother said, “Nat, I know you explained how airplanes fly, with the high and low pressure and all that, but it still feels like magic to me.”

And so I think we had a successful trip to Oshkosh, one where I got to share with my brother a little piece of our father’s life, but also where my brother shared with me a gift equally as precious: a reminder that while we should be serious about flying safely, we need not be serious about ourselves. Aviation is meant to be marveled at and enjoyed—both the aircraft and the people who fly them.