On September 3rd, 1941 in the skies over England a young aviator soared his Spitfire fighter aircraft to an altitude of 30,000 feet and was so inspired by the beauty of what he saw on that day he wrote a poem in its memory. Unbeknownst to him at the time his poem would capture the mantra of every aviator since. Those who choose to challenge the laws of gravity and slip the surly bonds of earth know an indescribable fullness and feeling of deep satisfaction. The urge to soar where never an eagle has gone is stronger than any risk associated with it.
As much as flying is a pleasure it is one of the most regulated endeavors anyone could imagine much less be involved in. It requires endless training, endless study, endless patience and humility measured in tons. Mistakes are all too often unforgiving, they are at times life taking or crippling, all without regard of experience. But to have danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings and join the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds, and to wheel and soar doing a hundred things you could not possibly dream of reduces any fear to nothing more than the wisp of a slight breeze.
It was perhaps the calmness experienced when chasing the wind, and flying an aircraft through footless halls of air that lured the young aviator into descending through clouds on December 11th 1941. Whatever his thoughts, we can only surmise, for on this day he collided with another aircraft and tumbled to his death. Of all the open sky, all the space, two aircraft at the same place at the same time can only end in disaster.
John Gillespie Magee, Jr penned an elegant poem expressing the passion and beauty of flight and in his unfortunate death we learn it can also be unforgiving. We also learn the sky is not as large as it may seem, everyday is gets smaller, we must be ever vigilant. Safety is not an accident.
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