by Dale Black
The crash was chronicled in all the newspapers in surrounding cities, and I’ve been told it was later memorialized in Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
Not quite the epitaph I was hoping for.
The epitaphs of others are noted on tombstones that fill Valhalla like so many tabs on file folders of the fallen.
Aviators are memorialized there, but also athletes like Gorgeous George, the wrestler. And countless actors. From Oliver Hardy of Laurel and Hardy fame to Ruth Robinson, one of the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz. Even the voice of Jiminy Cricket is buried there, Cliff Edwards. Countless others are there, too. Who even remembers their names? Let alone the lives behind the names.
Located in North Hollywood, the cemetery is just off the end of Runway 15 at Burbank Airport, directly in the flight path. Since the opening of the airport, a new entrance to the cemetery was designated. Cars no longer drive through the shrine’s arches. An iron fence has been erected around the plaques inside the dome. And the three reflection pools have long since been filled in.
For the first couple of years after the accident, I went to the memorial every chance I got. Sometimes with family or friends, sometimes alone, about every two weeks.
During that time of change in my life, I found a new girlfriend. She looked beyond my broken body and limitations, and loved me for who I was and what I’d become. Her name is Paula, a tall blonde who loves God in an extremely personal way. We were married in 1972.
The last time I revisited the memorial was on July 18, 2009, with Paula. She arranged for a special flight that day. Our daughter, Kara, took pictures as I flew a small single-engine Cessna 172 from the French Valley Airport in Southern California. After the flight, we drove our car to Burbank. We toured Dr. Graham’s old office and St. Joseph Hospital, and spent some time at the grave of Chuck Burns. As always, we prayed together at the Portal of the Folded Wings.
I’m not sure why I keep going back. I have no unfinished business there. I have closure now, and peace. But I still return regularly.
I just turned sixty, and the shrine is more than eighty years old. It underwent a facelift in 1994, covering the gaping cracks, replacing the fallen tiles—a poignant reminder of the decay that will make dust of buildings and people alike, in the end.
Architecturally, the shrine lifts our eyes toward the sky, as if to say, “This is not their final resting place.”
The remains of fifteen pioneers of aviation are buried within the shrine, from the first dirigible pilot to the machinist who made the Wright brothers the fathers of modern aviation. His plaque reads:Charles E. Taylor
ASSISTANT TO WRIGHT BROTHERS IN
BUILDING FIRST ENGINE AND
FLYING MACHINE
May 24, 1868-January 30, 1956
My favorite plaque is the one over the remains of the chaplain at the site:
John F. F. Carruthers
AUGUST 31, 1889-JANUARY 13, 1960
CHAPLAIN, PORTAL OF THE FOLDED WINGS
AIR HISTORIAN
AT THE GRAVE, WHEN MY WARFARE IS ENDED
THOUGH NO FLOWERS EMBLAZON THE SOD
MAY A PRAYER MARK THE GOOD I INTENDED
LEAVING ALL DECORATIONS TO GOD.
With more life behind me than ahead of me, I wonder how my memorial will one day read. Not the one someone inscribes on a plaque, but the one my Father God writes.
COMMUNION ON THE MOON
The headlines immediately before and after my crash were all about the Apollo 11 flight. John F. Kennedy’s dream of putting an American on the moon was first publicly voiced by the president in 1961, and it was voiced with resolve. His speech left an indelible impression on me. By the end of the decade, he vowed, the U.S. would have a man on the moon. Here we were at the end of the sixties, and it appeared as if that dream was going to come true. After several preliminary missions that put men into orbit around the moon, this was to be the first mission to put them on the moon.
It seems ironic to me that while I was in a coma and visiting the splendors of heaven, astronaut Buzz Aldrin was leading Neil Armstrong and the NASA team in the first official, or maybe not so official, activity on the moon’s surface. Buzz conducted Holy Communion. Talk of what they did was hushed for many years but is now public knowledge. Still inside the newly arrived lunar module, Buzz Aldrin believed the best way of showing respect and celebration was to thank God for their safe arrival by acknowledging Him in taking communion as the first human act on the moon’s surface. He chose to honor God for this human victory, and he did so against much resistance. In some way, I have felt connected to Buzz Aldrin ever since.
ANNIVERSARY FLIGHTS
Working enormously hard through my injuries, I eventually, and gratefully, became a commercial pilot for TWA. I also became an FAA check airman for the Boeing 737, Learjet, and the Cessna Citation. I spent my career helping train airline pilots and tried my best to improve aviation safety as a ground, simulator, and flight instructor, as well as a flight examiner.
Each year on July 18, for the first twenty-five years, I flew as pilot in command over the Portal of the Folded Wings, with two exceptions. In 1971, I was a volunteer missionary in the jungles of northern Peru. The next year, Paula and I, newly married, returned to those same Peruvian jungles to share the love of God and the gospel message with the Aguaruna Indian tribe. What an experience. But that’s another book.
Dr. Graham was a regular passenger for many of my anniversary flights over the years. So was Ron Davis, my best friend and the one most instrumental in me becoming a pilot in the first place. Friends from college or from the family business often joined me, and later other pilots or missionary friends.
On those flights I flew an assortment of airplanes. From the Cherokee 140 to the Cherokee Six, Piper Seneca, Aztec, and of course the Navajo on anniversaries 1977 and 1978. Later I flew the Cessna Citation I, Citation II, the Learjet 24, Learjet 35, MU-2, Piper Cheyenne II, and Learjet 55. Some years I was able to radio the tower and give them my traditional transmission, publicly dedicating the flight to God. Other years the tower appeared too busy, so I didn’t attempt the radio announcement.
On the eighth anniversary of the crash Dale was finally able to fly a Piper Navajo (the same type that crashed) as pilot in command over the Portal of the Folded Wings.
Of all the anniversary flights flown on July 18 over the monument, one is burned in my memory like it happened yesterday. Paula and I had arranged for a small prayer service near the Portal of the Folded Wings, led by our family friend and pastor of my youth. The control tower allowed us to park our jet at the southern end of Runway 15, off to the side. From there the monument and cemetery are close and clearly visible. Our son, Eric, and daughter, Kara, now old enough to comprehend so much more, seemed moved by the experience. Dr. Graham was there, along with several others.
We read from Psalm 91, then prayed and thanked God for answering so many prayers. Next we boarded the twin-engine Learjet that my company managed, this one called Lady Barbara, Frank Sinatra’s private jet.
As usual, Paula took charge of the passengers and got everyone seated while I taxied the airplane to the approach end of Runway 15. I set the parking brake prior to takeoff.
What is so memorable to me is what happened when I took a peek into the cabin prior to making the traditional call to the control tower. Somehow I connected all the dots again. Dr. Graham’s smiling eyes met mine. Here was the man who had helped put my body back together. The man I had seen from outside of my body in the emergency room, the man for whom I was filled with an overwhelming love within minutes of my awaking from the coma, even before I could talk. Dr. Graham winked and gave me a thumbs-up.
I saw the expectant faces of our precious children. If God hadn’t spared my life, Eric and Kara wouldn’t be there. I remember watching Paula, seeing her so full of God’s love and wisdom, as gorgeous as ever, and knowing she’d drop anything, anytime, to obey God. Another happy face that day was my pastor, Mark Smith, who had baptized me
when I was twelve years old. I remember the joy, the unity, the peace. But primarily, it is the love I will never forget. It is the love from and for others that reminds me more of heaven than anything else on earth.
Dale and Dr. Graham in a TWA Boeing 747 at Los Angeles International Airport. Photo taken on the tenth anniversary of the crash July 18, 1979.
I called the tower: “Burbank Tower, on this day in 1969, a Piper Navajo crashed just south of the airport. Two were killed. I alone survived. I dedicate this flight to the glory of God.” The throttles were advanced and the jet screamed into the air barely above the monument. As I looked down, I reflected on the familiar Scripture we had just read minutes earlier: “He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty” (Psalm 91:1). The secret place for me was the relationship between my loving heavenly Father and me.
It was an understanding that He and I have. This is because of my uniqueness as His creation, and because of His amazing capacity to love me as a single individual.
And just think . . . if God loves me this way, imagine how much He loves you.
For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved. He who believes in Him is not condemned; but he who does not believe is condemned already. . . .—JOHN 3:16-18
On the twenty-fifth anniversary, I guess you could say I had a climatic moment. I was able to fly captain in a United Airlines Boeing 747 from Denver to Burbank and back. My son, Eric, was the copilot and my wife, Paula, and daughter, Kara, were able to sit in the cockpit for the entire round-trip flight, right next to the UAL instructor pilot. (Oh, did I mention this was a United Airlines, $120 million Boeing 747-400 six axis flight simulator?)
Following the twenty-fifth anniversary flight in the simulator, Paula had arranged for a surprise celebration backyard barbecue. Many friends from the airlines and the local church, plus our children and relatives, were in attendance, and it was a complete surprise to me. During the festivities, Paula came over to me, pointed skyward, and asked, “Dale, what kind of airplane is that?”
I looked up and for once was not exactly sure. But it was circling right above us, so I had time to study it.
“Take a good look, Dale.”
“Well, I think it’s a uh—uh.”
I was so focused on trying to determine the aircraft type, I couldn’t see anything else. (Has that ever happened to you? Happens to me a lot.) Then Paula, who knows me so well, said, “Dale. What is the airplane pulling?”
Finally I saw it. Behind the aircraft, a large banner read, “Dale—Celebrating 25 years. Praise God!”
My mouth dropped open and my eyes filled with tears.
All I remember next was bowing my head, hugging Paula, and thanking God again for sparing my life.
Dale and Paula on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the crash, 1994, at the United Airlines Training Center in Denver.
DR. GRAHAM—SPECIAL FRIEND
One of the last things Dr. Graham cautioned me about in 1970 was not to injure my left ankle again. Although it was an answer to prayer on so many levels, the blood circulation in the talus bone remained at only 40 percent after two years.
Within a few years, Dr. Graham and I didn’t see much of each other. He was busy with a thriving practice as well as traveling the country, giving lectures and attending Evel Knievel’s events.
I was still working to regain what I had lost in the accident. Due to the head injuries, my short-term memory had been permanently impaired. For years I studied everything I could on how to improve my memory. I discovered that anything I wanted or needed to learn now had to be placed into my long-term memory, or I simply couldn’t recall it. This required an extraordinary amount of study, review, and more review to get things to “stick.”
In the midst of this new way of living, I was hard at work in flight training, gaining more aviation certificates and ratings, and busy finishing college; I was now married and raising a family, and also worked full time at the family business to pay for it all.
I’ve mentioned that before the crash I had been very active as an athlete. Afterward, I returned slowly to a variety of sports. I played softball, swam regularly, played tennis. I even got back to water-skiing, lifting weights, and some boxing. These activities helped me keep my focus on recovery instead of falling into self-pity about the things I couldn’t do.
Then one day in 1976, while playing sandlot tackle football, I blew it. I pulled back to throw the pass, but my wide receiver wasn’t open (at least that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it). I had to run the ball for the first down. A would-be tackler forced me to jump over him. When I landed, I was pretty sure I’d broken my left ankle.
For three months it hurt horribly. I continued to work and acted as normal as possible in public. But at home, I used my old crutches from after the crash. (I still have those crutches, by the way.) Paula tried repeatedly to get me to go see Dr. Graham. For two more months I refused. “It’ll be fine,” I’d say.
Not only was I in excruciating pain, but I had never told Paula that my ankle was only 40 percent vascularized—that the rest of the ankle bone had no blood circulation and was considered dead.
After her persistence, I finally broke the news to Paula. I also shared about Dr. Graham’s warning not to run or jump, and my foolish disregard of the doc’s advice.
Paula handled the news amazingly well, but she still encouraged me to see Dr. Graham. He had the talent, the experience, and all my files. He’d know exactly what was wrong and what to do about it.
Finally, five months after the football injury, I conceded. Paula made the appointment, and I went to visit Dr. Graham.
As I sat in the examining room, it was as if I had gone back in time. Seven years after the crash everything was still familiar. When Dr. Graham finally walked in he didn’t even say hello or make eye contact. His hands went immediately to my left ankle and he held it warmly, like it was something precious to him.
“What brings you in here today, Dale?”
I explained what had happened.
He took X rays, and a few minutes later we were standing in front of the familiar screen.
Silence.
He said nothing. He didn’t even look at me. Then he gazed out the window for a moment, then back to the X rays.
More silence.
It was more than enough time for somebody to say something.
“Doc? What is it?”
“It’s normal.” He slowly shook his head, rubbed his chin.
“What do you mean?”
“Your ankle is normal.”
More silence.
“Doc, you used to talk to me in percentages. You used to say, 20 percent healed, 30 percent, or 40 percent vascularized. So what percentage are you seeing today?”
He paused, looking for the right words.
“Dale, your ankle is 100 percent. Completely vascularized.”
The doctor walked out of the room. I wasn’t sure what he was feeling, what it all meant to him.
I borrowed the office phone, called Paula and broke the news. She was amazed and relieved. Together we thanked the Lord.
About ten minutes after my phone call, the doctor came back into the room, composed and warmer this time.
“Dr. Graham, if my ankle is healed, then what is causing all the pain?”
He pointed to the X rays as he spoke in medical terms I couldn’t follow. The bottom line was that although my ankle was 100 percent vascularized, many bones inside the ankle needed relief by repositioning. He picked up my shoe and showed me where it was putting pressure on some of the bones in my ankle. He suggested that I get special orthopedic shoes.
He wrote down the name of a podiatrist and had his secretary make an appointment for me. Then he started fashioning a handmade insert with a pair of surgical
scissors.
“In the meantime, put this in your left shoe. It’ll take some pressure off the talus.” Even though I never kept my podiatrist appointment, I did buy some new shoes and kept the insert inside, and the pain slowly faded away. But this whole event seemed to have a wonderful purpose.
About two weeks later, back at our home in Long Beach, we got a call from Dr. Graham. He invited Paula and me to his home for dinner.
Dr. Graham gave us a tour of his luxurious estate, which overlooked the city of Burbank and the San Fernando Valley. I could easily see Hollywood-Burbank Airport, and my eyes gravitated to the newly installed red light on top of the Portal of the Folded Wings.
During our wonderful dinner overlooking the city lights, Dr. Graham showed signs of vulnerability. I had seldom seen this softer side. After dinner we discussed the many miraculous events that he had been witness to throughout the aftermath of the crash. Dr. Graham had a front-row seat, observing a personal, loving God who had revealed himself over and over throughout the days and years following the accident. Ultimately that evening, I was able to share the free gift of pardon made available to us through Jesus Christ. A short time later Dr. Graham surrendered his life to the Lord. His search was over and we became more than doctor and patient. We became brothers in the family of God.