By now, the whole world knows John F. Kennedy, Jr.’s plane is missing. As of right now, they’ve found some baggage with ID tags from one of the passengers and some other wreckage which has been identified as coming from a GA (general aviation) aircraft. Not a good sign. Sad as it seems, the three on board are probably long gone, though none of the officials can say that yet of course.

So what happened? It could be any one of a million different things. Bird strike. Engine failure. Mid-air collision. Mechanical problem with the control system. If I had to guess, I’d bet that he simply lost sight of the horizon in the thick haze and couldn’t maintain level flight.

I got the news this morning from Kristina, who called as I was getting ready to head to the airport. I watched the news coverage for a while before inaccuracies in the reporting started to bug me. Why must general aviation be given such a bad name just because a celebrity has an unfortunate accident? I could sense the subtle yet ever-present lean toward branding aviation as “daredevil” and those who pursue it as extremists, mavericks who throw caution into the wind without much regard for their own lives or those around them. It does make for bigger headlines, doesn’t it? So what if it’s not the truth?

The Saratoga that JFK, Jr. was flying is almost identical to my Cherokee. In fact, just about everything Piper Aircraft has made in the past 35 years has been based on the original Cherokee design. And speaking of the Cherokee, my aircraft’s annual inspection is finally over. It took most of the day to get everything put back together, but around 4:00 p.m. Norm and I fired her up after a careful preflight. The engine runup showed no problems, but we shut down anyway to inspect the inside of the engine compartment. All was well, so we proceeded with a high speed taxi test, and then opened the cowling again to check for any obvious problems before taking to the air. After three or four times around the pattern, Norm had to head out, but I decided to fly over to John Wayne and give the engine a workout to circulate the oil.

I put about another hour on the Hobbs meter before getting my clearance to return to Corona. The departure seemed normal, but a few minutes out I noticed some water streaked across the bottom of the windshield. That was odd. Where the hell would water have been coming from?? Then I remembered that since the oil had just been changed, it would probably be clear. Just like water. Unbuckling the seatbelt allowed me to stretch far enough to see that oil was bubbling up between the hinges on the cowl.

I started to watch the engine gauges very closely while asking ATC for a higher altitude. No sense getting caught with your pants down if the engine were to quit, right? The landing at Corona was uneventful, but the plane sure was a mess. After spending all that time polishing the paint, it was disheartening to see oil streaked halfway back to the tail. And don’t even get me started on what the inside of the engine compartment looked like.

So after a six week long annual inspection, the plane’s status: grounded. Disappointing, to be sure. But considering the kind of day a certain Martha’s Vineyard-bound pilot just had, I think I can live with it.

I had a relaxing dinner at a local Mexican restaurant tonight with some friends. The cool, dry breeze blowing off the lake was a welcome relief after Rome’s blast furnace heat and high humidity.

During dinner, discussion naturally centered around the big news of the day–the Kennedy plane crash. Somehow we ended up on the topic of air traffic control. I asked if anyone remembered the PATCO strike in the early 80’s. No one did.

I shouldn’t feel bad, because it’s probably not an age thing. I remember the strike well, but for a different reason: I was there. When I moved to Alaska in 1982 to live with some family, my cousin Dave was in working at the Anchorage enroute air traffic control center (aka “Anchorage Center”). The Center controls a lot of the traffic in the Pacific. The next closest Centers are in Seattle and Tokyo. The actual Anchorage Center building is a large windowless structure sitting on the edge of Elmendorf Air Force Base. Even in the early 80’s the equipment had a antiquated feeling–you could almost smell the electronics slowly cooking themselves.

Anyway, Dave was working there as a controller. He was hired after President Regan fired all the controllers who went on strike as part of the PATCO union. Even with the new personnel hired to replace them, the nation’s air traffic control system was extremely understaffed. I was in 6th and 7th grade during that time, and just for fun I used to go in to work with Dave on occasion, usually on a Friday night. Oftentimes I’d help out in the Flight Data section, functioning as the “runner”. The runner’s job was to make sure the aircraft data strips which came off the printer were delivered to proper controllers for each sector.

There were even a few times when Anchorage Center was so understaffed that I, at the age of 11 years old, would sit at one of the controller’s stations and watch an area known as Sector 12. Sector 12 was fairly close to the North Pole, and was traveled only by the occasional jumbo jet flying the “Great Circle” route from one side of the world to the other. The sector was often empty, so I’d sit there and wait for something to show up on the screen. When it did, I would call one of the guys over and they’d take care of it.

It sounds sort of surreal to write about it in today’s highly litigious world, but back then nobody seemed to mind–the stuff I did was fairly brainless. I can still recall the large green scope, keyboard, and trackball. When I’d get tired, I would nap in the lounge or tune in a funky new station called MTV or watch Friday Night Videos on a small television mounted high up in a corner of the room.

There were some exciting moments, like the time that Korean Airlines flight 007 was shot down by a Russian fighter, but typically the place was quiet and business like. Not exactly part of your stereotypical childhood, was it? Nevertheless, it’s one of those things I look back on fondly.