A mentor flies west

As we travel through life, from birth to death, each of us has the opportunity to meet and bond with an innumerable number of mentors. Some are members of our family. Some are total strangers who become treasured friends. These are the people who help us become the adults we are. With luck, they steer us in the direction of being the best possible version of ourselves.

One of the giants I benefitted from throughout my life has been Dave Criley, a true gentleman who never sought fame or fortune. The legacy he leaves behind includes the memory of a man who was patient, kind, smart as a whip, and managed to keep an attitude of unfailing good humor even when challenged unendingly by the much younger, far dumber, and fairly demanding version of me that existed as a young boy.

Dave passed on recently after logging 88 years of experience on this planet. His passing, as is true of all humans, was an unavoidable reality. Yet this unexpected and decidedly unwelcome life event has left me feeling reflective and appreciative even as I acknowledge the vast gaping hole that now exists in my heart.

I will miss Dave forevermore.

As happenstance goes, the fact that Dave and I met at all was as unlikely and random as it might be for a boy like me to encounter the Beatles in their prime or to be welcomed into the Vatican to establish a relationship with the Pope. We came from different parts of the country. We lived thousands of miles apart for the entire time we both walked the earth.

Yet, Dave looms large in my intellectual and emotional make-up. He taught me about self-reliance, personal responsibility, and to be compassionate whenever the opportunity to do so might arise.

Good lessons, one and all.

We came together simply because he happened to be hired as a Pan American engineer/pilot in the same group my dad was a part of. My dad, a U.S. Air Force fighter pilot, teased Dave incessantly about his background as a pilot for the United States Navy. They became the best of friends. While I can’t remember the specifics of how we met, I can be sure it was in the living room of my childhood home in Connecticut. My dad brought Dave home to stay from the Pan Am training facility in New York. Our living room couch became his occasional crash pad.

His presence in our home was such a gift. I cannot even begin to articulate what a joy it was to see him saunter through our front door, wearing cowboy boots with the casual air of an astronaut on vacation.

He was the aeronautical equivalent of Elvis as far as I was concerned. He still is, I guess.

Dave flew S2Fs off straight-deck carriers. He referred to the aircraft as a Stoof, in the parlance of a true naval aviators. This was in the late 1950s, in the days of round engines and analog everything. He taught me absolutely nothing about flying, as our relationship was based far more closely on ground-based adventures.

He accompanied my dad, my brother, and I on numerous camping trips into inhospitable terrain throughout the northeast. To this day I have a vivid memory of his laughing figure sitting in the stern of a Grumman aluminum canoe as we sliced through white water so terrifying the experience brought me to tears. The canoe hung up on a rock in the middle of the river and folded itself in half. As the water rushed in and our supplies rushed out, Dave and my dad rescued my brother and me from the treacherous situation. They carried us to shore and lit a fire so that we might dry out. They laughed and joked and brought comfort to their two young passengers in a decidedly alpha male way that might be considered unacceptable in today’s parenting journals. But that experience and so many others helped craft me into the man I eventually became.

I can’t even begin to express how thankful I am for those moments. Terrifying, hilarious, bonding moments that meant so much to a young boy who was trying to find his way in the world.

Humility was a huge part of being Dave. I was well into adulthood when we began swapping flying stories. During one conversation he related the memory of being a young engineer on a Boeing 707. This was in the mid-1960s. Dave was only a few months into his tenure with the airline, still in his 20s. As the flight reached cruising altitude a knock came on the cockpit door and a tall, lanky man wearing a suit entered. He asked the captain if it would be okay for him to ride jumpseat for the flight, as he preferred the cockpit to his assigned seat in the back.

The hopeful visitor was Charles Lindbergh, a member of the Pan American Board of Directors who felt far more camaraderie with a random flight crew than he did with the businessmen and celebrities sitting on the other side of the flight deck door.

In near reverence I asked Dave what went through his mind when the most famous aviator in the world stepped up and took a seat right beside him. He answered in his trademark deadpan, “I thought the man was dead.”

When I lived in Greenwich Village, a struggling musician with aspirations of greatness, Dave would check in on me whenever he had a layover in the Big Apple. During my early flight training days, when the idea of becoming an airline pilot started to nag at me, I called Dave for advice. Not my dad, who flew for the same airline and wore the same four bars on his shoulders. Dave was my sounding board. Dave was the one who told me, “Yes, you can do this. You’re smart enough.”

A few years ago, I got the tremendous opportunity to visit NAS Pensacola. Naval aviators have been training at this station since the early 20th Century. Dave did his training there, graduating as an ensign in February 1956. He was an accomplished pilot before I was even born. Ultimately, he went on to fly 707s, L1011s, and the behemoth 747. He was the real deal and then some.

Perhaps my proudest moment with Dave was when he visited me at SUN ‘n FUN and I was able to arrange a flight for him aboard a powered parachute. Dave climbed in with the excitement of a small boy, hooting and hollering in his quiet way. From the lightest, least capable flying machines to his regular ride that took off weighing hundreds of thousands of pounds, Dave loved it all. He loved me. And I loved him.

In the deepest recesses of my heart I hope everyone who reads this memorial has the good fortune in life to meet their own Dave. Someone who cares for us and guides us, not because they’re expected to, but because they can.

Farewell old friend. You’ll be well remembered well by so many, for so long. Thanks for a great ride.