Flight to Heaven Read online

  A few days later I had another idea. “You want to do what?” Mom asked, stopping her dinner preparations.

  “I want to go back to Pasadena College. I need to get back into school so I can finish my degree and move on to becoming an airline pilot. The airlines need pilots real bad right now.”

  I knew she didn’t want to discuss my flying again. It had brought her too much pain. So she avoided that part of my statement.

  “Dale, it’s only been a few months since the crash. You need to get stronger before you tackle a goal like that. How would you get around? How would you carry your books, get up the stairs, and accomplish all the other things you’d need to do? You’re still in a wheelchair, and you’ve only got one arm to wheel yourself around.”

  “I’m stronger now, Mom. Besides, I feel I need to tell my friends about the changes God has made in my life. It might help them.”

  “You were pretty rebellious when you were there before,” she said.

  “Well, yeah. I didn’t exactly like all the rules.”

  “You don’t have to like them; you just have to follow them.”

  “How much trouble can a guy in a wheelchair get into? Look at me.”

  She smiled. And she talked to Dad. My parents made some calls; I wrote a letter and had a tearful meeting with Dr. Shelburne Brown, the president of the college, who saw the change in me, and Dr. Lewis Thompson, the dean of students, who was especially kind and understanding. Dr. Thompson went above and beyond the call of duty, helping make arrangements for my return.

  It was October when I returned, and classes had already started. Getting around was a pain. Still as stubborn as ever, I usually refused help. It didn’t matter how many books I had to carry, how many flights of stairs I had to hop up with my one good leg, I was going to do this. I was late for every class, sopping wet with sweat, and could hardly concentrate. I had trouble following the teacher, trouble taking notes, trouble remembering the notes I had taken.

  I had been something of a big man on campus before the crash, and I expected to be an even bigger man, commanding even more attention after it. But the old crowd I used to hang out with began to thin. After all, I was in a wheelchair, wrapped in bandages, and weighed down with casts. I wasn’t as mobile as I used to be, wasn’t as fun as I used to be. On top of that, I was pretty off-putting to look at. And I wasn’t sporting around in my MGB, giving rides to my buddies.

  I had experienced a lot of things on that campus, but this was the first time I experienced loneliness. It hurt, especially when the same people that had sought me out before were now seeking ways to avoid me.

  Even my former college roommate avoided me. I could hardly blame him, but I could also hardly bear it.

  My entire identity had been built around the physical, from body building to athletics to my appearance. Because of those things, I had an aura of attractiveness about me. Now the aura was gone, and I was alone.

  As I was wheeling myself across campus, feeling a little sorry for myself, I heard a small plane flying overhead. I was gripped with an unexpected longing. I’ve got to get out of this wheelchair and back in the sky, I thought. I don’t care how beat-up my body is, I’m going to be a pilot again. Someday. Nothing is going to stop me!

  I stopped in my tracks and wheeled myself to the first pay phone I could find. I called Capt. Fred Griffith, a veteran professional pilot I had become acquainted with. He had been a test pilot for Lockheed Aircraft and was one of the best instructors in the country. Fred was a true aviator. He also knew something of what I was going through. Years earlier he had had his own brush with death. He ejected from a test flight, and his parachute failed to open properly. He survived the fall but was severely injured. He knew firsthand the fear of flying after an accident. Who better to turn to? I thought.

  I told him of my desire to get back into flying again and particularly to fly over the air memorial that we had crashed into. “But I don’t want anyone else to know,” I told him. I asked if he would fly with me, and he agreed.

  The next day I managed somehow to get to the airport. I shouldn’t have been driving, but I was desperate. And desperate people do desperate things. Fred met me there and wheeled me out to his single engine Cessna 182. I hadn’t been back at the terminal since the day of the crash. Rolling up to the terminal, I saw the sign over the large glass entry: Pacific Aeromotive. Seeing it, I had a strange, unsettled feeling.

  Fred helped me into the cockpit, and I perched in the left seat, feeling cramped and awkward.

  “Would you like to conduct the Before Start Checklist?” Fred asked.

  I stared at the instrument panel with all its dials and levers, and for the first time I realized I had no idea how to operate them.

  I started to read the checklist out loud. “Flap handle.”

  I paused. I couldn’t remember what a flap handle was. I had arrived at the airport believing I was capable of piloting the Cessna 182. After all, I had my pilot’s license and had even finished training for my multiengine rating. But as I scanned the dials and levers, everything looked foreign to me. I felt like it was the first time I’d ever been in the cockpit of an airplane. I simply couldn’t remember how to fly! Two years of information and experience had been wiped from my mind.

  Fred patiently went over the checklist and then started the engine. When it roared to life, I felt out of control. I wanted to stop and do it another day. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely hear Fred speak. Fred had wanted to let me make the takeoff, but he changed his mind when he saw how fearful I was.

  “Relax, Dale. I’ll do the flying. You just sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  Fred taxied the Cessna down to Runway 15, just as we had done the day of the crash. He pushed the engines full throttle and took off, just as we had done the day of the crash.

  It was so traumatic I could hardly breathe. We ascended rapidly, and in the blink of an eye we were soaring over the dome-shaped monument. My heart pounded and my forehead dripped with sweat as I watched the Portal of the Folded Wings disappear beneath us.

  “You did it, Dale! Congratulations!” he said. “Is that going to do it for you?” Then he looked at me. I had a white-knuckled grip on the seat and my shirt was soaked in sweat.

  “Are you going to be alright?”

  I was at a loss for words and an even greater loss of confidence. Finally I spoke. “I’d like you to land and then go around once again, Fred, if that’s OK with you. The sooner I get over this, the better.”

  Fred understood. But the second time around was no easier. I was limp with terror. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t engage. I felt so ashamed. Go on, I told myself. Get over it. It’s like getting thrown off a horse. You’ve got to get back on and ride or you’ll never overcome the fear.

  When we landed, I was relieved but embarrassed. I felt like I had let Capt. Fred down. He told me my reaction was normal for what I had been through and reassured me that I would conquer my fears. I just had to keep facing them.

  And that’s what I was determined to do. The next day I made arrangements to enroll in the aviation ground school at the nearby junior college—the same course I had audited and where I had spoken to fellow students. It would help me relearn what I had forgotten. The next class started in mid-January, which would give me a little more time to recover.

  Shortly after the flight with Fred, I dropped out of Pasadena College.

  Mom was right. It was too much, too soon.

  And it was too lonely.

  10

  A FUTURE AND A HOPE

  The remainder of the fall of 1969 was even lonelier. I had become disillusioned with my friendships, which one by one fell away during that season of my life. I became weary of the well-wishers, the Hallmark-card greetings, the hang-in-there sentiments. I became suspicious of the smiles, the promises to come and see me that never materialized, and the call-me-if-you-need-anything good-byes.

  One friendship, however, didn’t disappoint. I looked forward
to time alone with God—reading my Bible, praying, thinking, which I did a lot in our backyard, our suddenly leafless backyard.

  Up till then, I had always been a doer; now I was learning just to be. Not that I really had a choice in the matter. It was as if there had been an untimely frost and the seasons changed overnight. I went from the summertime of my life to the dead of winter without so much as a storm warning.

  Someone once said, I forget who, “In October, when the leaves fall, you can see deeper into the forest.” It’s true. So much foliage had fallen from my branching ambitions, and as a result, I could see deeper into the forest that was my life.

  I didn’t feel I needed to be doing anything—playing among the trees or gathering firewood or trying to find some way of making money out of the forest. I could just be there and rest. It was good. It was part of my restoration.

  Trees need the winter. I never knew that before. They need time to strengthen for the growth they experience in springtime. All that green, pulpy growth has to harden, or the tree would not be able to withstand the seasonal winds that whip against it.

  I had experienced a lot of growth. Now was the time for the energy to be diverted from the branches to the roots. The roots of my faith were going deeper. Much of what was going on with me was going on underground, so to speak, beneath the surface, unseen.

  Growth can be a lonely place, but it is a necessary place.

  That’s what I learned in the fall of ’69, there in my wheelchair, in the backyard with the bare branches—and my Bible.

  Initially my parents, as well as my doctor, had not revealed the full extent of my injuries. They told me things like “your ankle is broken” or “your shoulder is dislocated” or “your back is broken in a few places.” But they never went into detail. Later I learned that Dr. Graham had advised my parents not to discuss my injuries with me until I asked. In this way, he believed I would learn of their seriousness as I was emotionally able to handle the information.

  I had been talking about and praying about my physical restoration for several weeks, when my dad sat down with me for a man-to-man talk.

  “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you, Dale. And you need to understand that it may be years before you’ll be able to function normally, even somewhat normally. You’ll not be able to regain the use of everything, you know. The doctor says you’ll never walk again.”

  I wasn’t prepared for what he said and couldn’t respond.

  He explained, “We didn’t want to tell you everything too soon. You had enough trauma those first few weeks.”

  I don’t know if it was for my benefit or his, but I said, “Don’t worry, Dad. It will all come back. You’ll see. God will restore me to the way I was. And on the anniversary of the crash, I’m going to fly over that monument as pilot in command. With God’s help we’ll do it. He and I are a team now. Just wait, you’ll see.”

  Dad sat back in his chair and said nothing, which was uncharacteristic of him. He had always been a can-do kind of guy, always looking on the bright side. But Dad had been apprehensive about my flying. It wasn’t a career choice he could fully support. And now, after the crash, he could muster no enthusiasm at all. He couldn’t even fake it.

  That was the last time I spoke to him about flying over the monument, the last time I spoke to him about a lot of things.

  Ever since my release from the hospital, we had been making numerous trips to Burbank for additional surgeries, postoperative checkups, and treatments. Day after day we threaded our way along the freeways to Dr. Graham’s office, located just across the street from St. Joseph. We averaged three trips a week. Then we were down to two.

  On one of those visits in early November, my grandparents joined my parents and I to talk with Dr. Graham together. First there was the usual routine of X rays, and then the doctor examined my eye, head, face, back, legs, and ankles. Then we waited in the lobby for the X rays to come out.

  When Dr. Graham called us in to his office that day, he was unusually animated as he pointed to my X rays. “I can’t believe this,” he said.

  “Praise the Lord!” Grandpa declared under his breath as he characteristically rattled the coins in his pocket.

  I wheeled myself in for a closer look. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Dad spoke first. “Dale, when the doctors examined you at the hospital, they told us your left ankle was so severely shattered it would never heal properly. The bone had exploded on impact. Without blood circulation, there is no healing.”

  “It’s called avascular necrosis,” the doctor said. “It means bone death.”

  Dad continued. “The doctors recommended operating on your ankle to remove the shattered bone and move your foot up against your leg bone, supporting it with metal braces and pins. That way you could still put weight on your foot. The only problem is your left leg would be three or four inches shorter than your right leg. You’d have to wear an elevated shoe, and without an ankle joint, you would have a severe limp.”

  A chill crept through me as he spoke. I had no idea such a possibility existed. I shivered at the thought.

  “Your grandpa and I talked it over,” my dad said, “we prayed about it, and we felt we should give God an opportunity to work in the situation.”

  Dr. Graham listened as my dad spoke, his face reflecting no emotion. Then he interjected, “The risk was that once the bone died, it would likely collapse. We would not be able to do anything at that point. And you would be unable to walk at all. Ever. From my perspective, it was a big gamble.”

  Tears filled my eyes. “So what did you find on the X rays today?”

  “The bone has begun to vascularize,” the doctor said. “For some reason blood is beginning to circulate. The bone is beginning to heal.” He looked at the X rays and shook his head. “I can’t explain it, but here it is.”

  “Praise the Lord!” Grandpa said again, a little more emphatically.

  You can imagine the ride home. We were all filled with joy—and gratitude. As the familiar green freeway signs flew past, the visual of a checklist came to mind:1. God spared me from certain death.

  2. My vision is changed. Nothing looks the same to me.

  3. God has given me a renewed spirit.

  4. There are no internal injuries.

  5. I was released from the hospital in eight days.

  6. Now God is healing my dead ankle.

  There is a pattern here, I thought. God is doing something. Even the crazy idea to exercise my eye is part of it.

  With that thought, I closed my left eye. It was true. The vision in my injured eye was becoming clearer.

  My faith was doing handstands. I could hardly contain myself. That’s when I prayed, God, I’m going to get to know You better. I’m going to work with You to get the job done that You have in mind for my life. I don’t know what Your plan is exactly, but I have a feeling it’s something special. I’ll tell You this: I’m going to stick close enough to You to find out exactly what it is.

  11

  SURVIVING THE UNSURVIVABLE

  It was late November. I had to get out—out of the backyard, out of the house, out of town. I asked a friend to take me to the Portal of the Folded Wings in Burbank.

  I had to see it again, this time up close and personal. I had to see the place where my pilot friends had died and where I had lost so much of my life, so much of my memory. Maybe something would come back. An image. A feeling. A missing piece to the puzzle my life had become.

  We drove to North Hollywood, where Valhalla Memorial Park Cemetery was located, just off the flight path of Runway 15. After we parked, I eased into the wheelchair, and my friend wheeled me to the memorial.

  The closer we got, the larger it loomed.

  The larger it loomed, the smaller I felt.

  It was massive, a huge cube of a building topped with a colorful dome. As we approached it, I saw a large bronze plaque that read:WELCOME TO THIS SHRINE OF

  AMERICAN AVIATION.

 
; THE PLAQUES HEREIN MARK

  THE FINAL RESTING PLACE

  OF PIONEERS IN FLIGHT.

  On each side there were sculpted cherubs and female figures lifting their hands skyward. It felt strangely comforting, this lifing of hands. My prayers to God were for clarity about the crash. They were questions I raised to Him. I came empty-handed. Would I leave the same way? I didn’t expect all my questions to be answered, but I expected to leave with something.

  We looked at the dome. The place of impact was still being repaired. I didn’t say much that day, but I did a lot of thinking. The FAA classified our accident as non-survivable.

  At that moment I asked God, Did I survive only to find out that I caused the accident, the deaths of Chuck and Gene? Will that be the outcome, once the investigation is complete? Do I need to learn to live with the guilt and the shame? How can I live with it? How can I move on? Was it a blessing that I lived, or a curse? Perhaps the investigation will reveal I wasn’t to blame, I wasn’t at all responsible. Perhanps the crash was caused either by mechanical or pilot error.

  As we got closer, I saw another plaque identifying the Italian-American artist who created the sculptures and ornamentation:Frederico Augustino Giorgi

  PORTAL SCULPTOR

  1878-1963

  I later learned the sculptor considered this work to be his masterpiece. It was beautiful in one sense. In another sense, it was grotesque—a hulk of a building standing so stoically; an immovable object that had snatched our plane out of the sky and threw it to the ground. An unchanging structure that forever changed three lives. Without apology or the slightest show of remorse.

  We went inside to see plaques of remembrance for the fallen pioneers of aviation. The ashes of fifteen of them were buried there. Sensing I needed time to process my thoughts, my friend left me alone. I looked up to see that the dome was a mosaic of stars—a portal to the heavens. All of my thoughts were drawn there, all my empty-handed prayers.