What I first noticed, which foreshadowed the fateful event, was the graceful, arcing line and extreme closure rate of the P-63 moments before impact. The thought became, Wow. I wonder what his rejoin will look like, in an attempt by my pilot eye to reconcile how he was going to rejoin on the B-17, something I was clearly not expecting and knew was impossible considering the speed and geometry.
Zach put his iPhone flashlight to use in the only shadow to be found in the brilliant blue aloft. “Dad! Oil is pooling at my feet.” Instinctively I began a 180-degree turn to the last airport we flew over—a life boat in the distance known as Silver Wings Airpark (TS36). I traded airspeed for altitude and resisted the urge to command more from my faithful Continental by pushing up the power, knowing now the race against time had begun.
After a week in self-imposed quarantine, I decided to socially distance myself in the clear blue western sky over Texas. A creature of habit as all pilots are, I interrupted my preflight ritual of fully opening the hangar so as to avoid making contact with a fellow pilot who happened upon my same idea. Looking out through the partially opened hangar door as I’ve never before thought to look, I was rewarded with stunning contrasts.