Jerry’s Ashes

If Hollywood teaches pilots anything it’s that “Nothing succeeds like repetition.” Proof: 88 and counting, Mission Impossible movies. I’ve screened a sneak preview of 89 in which Tom Cruise overpowers aliens aboard the International Space Station by numbing their minds with a nuanced reading of MOSAIC misinterpretations before jumping through an escape hatch to freefall 253 miles and parachute safely into the open cockpit of a passing 1944 Stearman biplane, which he then lands at the Antique Airplane Association’s fly-in at Blakesburg, Iowa, to win both the spot landing contest and Best Singed Hair for Pilots over Sixty awards. A sequel is already in development.

Farfetched? Then consider these two classics: The Big Lebowski (Coen Brothers, 1998) and Life Stinks (Mel Brooks, 1991). While seemingly unrelated to flight, both explored the unanticipated effects of wind in almost identical scenes of grieving characters dispersing loved one’s ashes without proper foresight, and both mimicked one of the dumber things I’ve ever attempted in the air. 

It’s common that whenever a pilot is cremated—presumably after death—the family requests an aerial memorial with missing-man formation, warm beer, and a somber scattering of ashes accompanied by a bagpiper playing Led Zeppelin’s dirge, Stairway To Heaven. All quite moving plus safe and surprisingly legal if conducted under the auspices of CFR 91.15 Dropping Objects, which says that tossing charcoal’d friends from your airplane is fine provided you don’t “create a hazard to persons or property.”  So, whether ashes, water balloons, or pumpkins aerial bombardment is legit but, like much in aviation, not always smart.

Years ago, I had a student pilot we’ll call Jerry, who’d recently passed his private pilot checkride and subsequently received tailwheel training and 61.31(i) endorsement in Quinta, my 1946 Aeronca Champ. A good pilot, he then died in an unrelated accident. His family asked me to scatter his ashes over their farm as part of an earth-to-sky memorial service. I agreed despite having never scattered anyone’s ashes. Couldn’t be hard. 

On the chosen date, the family carried Jerry’s ashes in a glossy white box trimmed in gold to my dull gray hangar trimmed in rust. Stratus clouds dripped low, with no sign of improving, so we canceled and I placed Jerry on a shelf between a worn-out Continental cylinder and an abandoned mud dauber nest. There he remained for weeks awaiting VFR weather and work schedules to align. One cool summer morning they did, and I removed the heavy gauge plastic bag containing Jerry’s ashes from the box and placed him on the Champ’s floorboards clear of the joystick, rudder pedals, and control cables. Skipped the usual passenger briefing.

We climbed across maturing corn fields and over a slight ridge to the family farm beyond a small cattle herd that showed little interest in my approach. I could see Jerry’s family arrayed along a fencerow, and as they heard Quinta’s 65-horsepower engine, faces tilted skyward with hands shading eyes, and tears likely welling. I didn’t want Jerry, who was rarely on time for a lesson, to be late for his own funeral. I checked my watch—on time, now to be on target.

Nearing, but not directly over, the dearly beloved gathered there, I reduced power, slid the side window aft—bomb bay doors open—removed the twisty wire and hoisted the bag atop the ledge. The Champ flies beautifully hands-off when properly trimmed and using gentle rudder pressure, so little need to touch the stick now clamped between my knees. Wind was negligible. Tracking the bomb run was easy.

Having never scattered ashes, I imagined that once I dangled the body bag through the window and slowly opened its neck, Jerry’s remains would stream into the sky as a white mist like smoke behind an airshow performer. They’d swirl in the Aeronca’s wake, his spirit waving a final goodbye from the sky he loved to the non-pilots below who never understood his fascination with flight. Still, the observers would weep in awe at my presentation as their uncle, brother, son, father spread forth in an ethereal display.

I’d theorized that air passing the open side window at 60 knots would create a vacuum to suck the ashes into the slipstream. To an extent it did but not enough. I’d only released a small measure of Jerry’s physical legacy when a miasma of pulverized and cremated former student rushed back into the cockpit as though he refused to leave. 

Struggling to see as Jerry grit-blasted my face and clothes and quickly spread throughout the cabin, I wondered what Tom Cruise would do but merely responded with aggressive swearing: Gawfulbmabidall….!  And given that I was near to the assembled family, with engine power low and therefore quiet, they likely heard and wondered what sacred aviator’s eulogy I was delivering with the ash dispersal. 

I’d barely released a smidgeon of Jerry when it was obvious safety of flight was in jeopardy, so I jettisoned the nearly full bag. Squinting through ash-encrusted eyelids, I watched my former student drop like a sack of … well, ashes and explode in a spectacular Pfoof! before his survivors. I can’t confirm, but it seemed that they applauded as I banked away.

Later, back at the field, I vacuumed out what I could of my student who’d Gone West, but to this day I feel as though there’s still of bit of him flying with me … especially back in the tail cone where it’s really hard to reach with the Shop-Vac. And no amount of pleading will entice me into producing a sequel.

Note to Mr. Cruise: If you want to use any portion of this for future Hollywood adventuring, call. We’ll do lunch.