by

The magnitude of Bob Overmyer's death didn't really hit me until a few days after I attended his funeral in Houston. It was a Sunday afternoon in late March and I sat alone on a hill in a park, flying a kite.

My three-year-old daughter had been hounding me to take her out to fly the kite we had purchased a few weeks earlier. I've never had much luck with kites and had little expectation that this experience would be any better. But I was pleasantly surprised when the wind lifted the plastic white kite and its long red tail high over the park's playground. Lauren anxiously grabbed the string and stared up at the kite in awe. But within a minute she looked longingly at the swing sets and sliding boards, handed the string back to me, and darted across the open field for the playground.

I sat down to watch the kite. As it flitted about the sky, I began to ponder the aerodynamics of kites. Not much of an aerodynamicist, I thought I'd ask Bob about it the next time we spoke or exchanged E-mails, which we did on at least a weekly basis. For a fleeting second, it made perfect sense, and then the reality set in. He would no longer be calling or sending E-mails. The man whom I had come to respect as a pilot, friend, and writer would not be coming back. There would no longer be answers to my surely naive questions about the space shuttle. After just four installments, there would be no more "Time in Type" columns in Pilot  where all of general aviation could learn from one of the most experienced pilots in the world.

Bob's life was cut short -- way too short -- in an aircraft accident. As explained in "Pilot Briefing" on Page 28, the kitbuilt airplane he was test flying went out of control during a stall series on March 22 near Duluth, Minnesota.

Bob and I became fast friends from the first time we spoke last summer, when he proposed writing a column for Pilot.

I read through Bob's cover letter, which outlined his impressive credentials as a military test pilot; NASA astronaut who twice flew the space shuttle; McDonnell Douglas executive on the space station project; and, finally, professional speaker and writer. During his various careers he had written dozens of briefs and reports, had delivered speeches all over the world, and even briefly contributed a regular column to a British space magazine.

A cover letter is one thing, but what's important are the writing samples. He enclosed seven sample articles that just blew me away. Virtually every one of them was something that could be easily slipped into the magazine as submitted, with no major editing or rewrites needed. I began to get excited about the prospect of bringing on board someone who could so well communicate his experiences and relate them to subjects important to pilots who fly light airplanes. His words shimmered with his enthusiasm for flying his Mooney 201 and Starduster Too biplane, and for all of general aviation.

I called Bob and we spoke at length about his ideas. With each conversation I came away impressed by his knowledge and ability to communicate on any level. Besides aircraft ownership issues, Bob promised to share his flight instructing experience. He taught two of his three children to fly in the family Cessna 150. Bob's wife, Kit, is also a pilot. Another of his students was astronaut Sally Ride, the first American woman in space.

After numerous phone calls with him, I did something I've never done before. I hired someone without first meeting him. Since then I've had the opportunity to spend quite a bit of time with Bob and Kit and even with some of their children.

I had accepted a November speaking engagement in Houston before Bob and I had first communicated. The fly-in where I was to speak was, ironically, at Houston Gulf Airport, where the Overmyers' airplanes are kept. At their invitation, I spent the weekend with them, and they endured a Saturday with me at the small fly-in, made even smaller by the cool, rainy weather. Fewer than a dozen people were there for my speech, but both Bob and Kit clapped loudly afterward.

At my pleading, Bob and I toured Space Center Houston, the NASA tourist facility, which is just around the corner from where Bob and Kit have lived for nearly 30 years and where he spent most of his NASA career. It must have been a busman's holiday for Bob, but he went along cheerfully and answered my countless questions. Others nearby overheard his detailed explanations and soon began to tag along. By the time we got to the space shuttle mockup, the few tagalongs had swelled into a tour group. Trust me, the way to see such a place is with an astronaut in tow.

On Sunday afternoon, we went back to Houston Gulf Airport and Bob let me sharpen my Mooney flying skills in his 201. The next morning he flew me down to Kerrville, Texas, so that I could visit Mooney Aircraft. Stubborn fog put weather at Kerrville right at minimums for the NDB approach. We held for 45 minutes while another pilot missed the approach twice. Bob deftly entered the NDB hold and flew exact ovals as outlined on the Garmin 95 moving map GPS he always had clamped to the yoke. When it was our turn, he expertly piloted the Mooney down the final approach, the ADF needle never wavering from its appointed course. We broke out just short of the runway and motored in for a greaser landing after a perfect approach. "At least we had the option of a missed," he quipped, referring to the deadstick landing made every time by the shuttle.

Just a few weeks before his death, Bob and I were together again. This time it was in Dallas for the Helicopter Association International convention. For the hundredth time he asked me if I was certain that the columns he had submitted were just what I was looking for. He took very seriously the responsibility of communicating with 340,000 fellow pilots each month.

Though his introductory column detailing his career and "Pelican Lore," which revealed his passion for watching the aerodynamic feats of those strange birds, thrilled readers, his favorite columns were those where he wrote about sharing aviation with his family. In "The Inflight Gourmet," he expressed his adoration for Kit by noting that flying was among his favorite things, just below "being with the love of my life for the past 36 years." One needn't spend more than a few minutes with Bob to learn two things: he loved to fly and he cherished his family. Kit, Carolyn, Patty, and Robert really were the wind beneath his wings.

Some 900 people attended Bob's funeral on March 26 in Houston as, beneath a fittingly gray overcast, a missing-man formation of NASA T-38s screamed overhead. Robert tearfully and accurately referred to his father as a true American hero, a man who gave his career to the advancement of aviation and even died in the process, an irony in which the family has taken some solace.

Sometimes in the darker moments I wonder, if our relationship was to be so short, why it was that I was even to know the man. It would be easier not to have. But then I'm reminded of some bit of aviation wisdom he passed on to me and of how lucky I am to have known someone of his caliber.

I personally miss Bob a great deal, but each of us who pilots an aircraft suffered a loss on March 22. We will never again benefit from his unique knowledge and experience. But we can be inspired by his professionalism and his passion for his work and his family.

 
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Reprinted with permission of Thomas B. Haines