Going home
By Robert Goyer
This year marks my 16th
straight Oshkosh, and not all of those have been AirVentures. I forget
how long it’s been since they officially gave it that name five, six
years - but I remember thinking it was a terrible idea and wondering if
I’d ever get used to calling it anything other than
"Oshkosh." It took a few years, but it finally sank in.
"AirVenture" it is. And not only was it not a bad idea;
it was a great idea. Oshkosh is the place; AirVenture is
the event. It’s that simple, and it goes to show that while it
might be hard to make a change, if it makes sense, even old dogs can get
the idea.
Now, 16 years might sound
like a long time, but in my circle of friends, it makes me nothing
better than a whippersnapper. I don’t have any friends, at least that
I know of, who’ve been to every fly-in, but I know a few folks who’ve
been to 35 or more. So they’ve seen airplanes and air show acts and
pilots that I’ve only read about. I try to keep my mouth shut and ask
a lot of questions.
My dad is a bit of a
newcomer. We never lived close to Wisconsin when I was growing up, first
in Massachusetts and then in California, and although Dad first joined
the EAA in the 1960s, and even though he is a prototypical EAA pilot,
builder, and airplane owner, he’d never been to the big show. Then,
starting in the late 1980s, when he became an aviation journalist, Dad
started coming every year. In fact, this is the first year he’s missed
after 20 straight visits. He just had his 80th birthday, and he’s
doing fine, and still flying. Maybe I can talk him into coming back next
year. He’s missing a lot of cool stuff. (Those F-22s were amazing!)
Like me, most of my
friends who come here every year have been coming for years and, with
few exceptions, they stay, if not for the entire week, for at least five
or six days. During that time, Wittman becomes a small city. Well, maybe
not all that small. And it’s a city of nomads, too, coming from all
points to aviation central. I have so many friends that I see only two
or three times a year, at Sun ’n Fun, NBAA, and, most important, here
at AirVenture. We catch up about new planes, plans, kids and dogs, share
lunch, a few beers after hours and mostly just remind ourselves of how
much incredible fun it is to be here, living this life, whether flying,
building, supporting, or just drooling over these incredible airplanes,
and while we’re here, enjoying the company of people who, like us, get
the wing thing. I mean, really get it.
Like everybody else, I
have months to plan for and look forward to AirVenture. And like
everybody else here, whether pilots, journalists, vendors, volunteers,
the show comes and goes like a Kansas tornado. You might see it coming,
but once it hits, heaven help you and hold on for dear life.
And I have more to do
before I go, and I know I’m not going to be able to do it all. I’ve
already missed too much. I missed the Beach Boys. Darn. I never got up
to the seaplane base. I wanted to check out that new LSA over at the
Light Sport corral. And I’m leaving tomorrow morning and I know I won’t
get the chance to. Double darn.
But I have seen so much.
I watched the premier of the wonderful new film Flyboys the other
night at the Eagle Hangar, and I was there when FAA Administrator Marion
Blakey handed over the provisional type certificate to Eclipse for its
very light jet. I’ll remember that event for a long time. And I was
there, transfixed along with thousands of other show goers, as a pair of
F-22s did things in the sky that I had no idea an airplane, any
airplane, could do.
And then it’s the end
of the week and the show is almost over. I’m at that stage now, and it’s
making me kind of sad. I mean, I really miss my wife and kids and dog,
it’s true, but I know I’m going to miss this show, the incredible
conglomeration of aviation historians, hobbyists, business people and
just plain pilots coming together to create an event that transcends all
imagined boundaries of the activity. Bizjets, LSAs, headsets, aircraft
insurance, t-shirts, Tri-Motor rides, golf carts, bombers, late night
movies and early morning trumpet calls. All coming to an end.
Pretty soon I’ll hop
into the Cirrus, set my heading south for Texas, and six or seven hours
later I’ll be back home, away from the commotion, away from the
camaraderie, away from the cacophony of aviation magic that is
AirVenture.
Which is why I’m already planning for
next year’s show.
