Tears for a plane crash

Today I am in mourning, and I know you are, too.

Just days ago, on a weekend made for celebration, something went horribly wrong. Two airplanes collided in our bright blue skies and eight humans fell into our peaceful lake.

Those of us who love Lake Coeur d’Alene know well the call of an osprey. We know the unmistakable scent of fresh water and pine. And we know that throaty roar as our local seaplane climbs into the air. It’s still difficult to believe that plane has taken its last flight.

I was there when it happened. I heard the sound of impact and my wife, Rebecca, saw the explosion. Together, we rushed to the scene in our little craft, and so did many others. We hoped for someone we could help, even as I knew in my heart we could not.

There were very few signs something awful had just happened. Two hard hats floated upside down on the surface, a red one and a white one. There was one piece of an airplane. And something else. The U.S. Coast Guard, here for the Fourth of July from Seattle, responded along with our marine patrol. They gently and respectfully received those two bodies, something their training could never prepare them for. The people on the boats were silent, reverent.

For me, it was all too calm. I wanted a fire to extinguish, someone to save from the depths. Rebecca shook her head. The feeling was pure helplessness. If only someone was bleeding all over me and I could stanch the flow. Or I could cut myself to pieces while I dragged someone from the wreckage. I want the loved ones to know that I, and the others, would have done anything that day. Instead, there was only the gentle lapping of sun-dappled waves, and the silence.

And as the hours passed, we learned the truths we did not want to learn. We discovered, name by name, who was on those planes. Who, by chance and by fate, just happened to climb in and buckle up, filled with excitement for the flight ahead.

It could have been any of us.

It was in fact me, not long ago, on a brilliant fall day when I hopped into that same de Havilland Beaver with that same pilot, Neil Lunt. He took my dad and me for a flight we will always remember. Neil had the longtime pilot’s ways, his hands moving by instinct like he was playing a beloved instrument, the watchful eye, the ear for his engine. He was an excellent guide to the skies.

And Lake Coeur d’Alene from the air is an amazing thing to behold. One solace is that this was the departed’s last sight on Earth. We know that in a mid-air collision there is no time to react or fear. So Neil would have been doing exactly what he did every day. The passengers would have been eagerly enjoying the sights, entranced by our green mountains, our shorelines, our shining water. Those are comforting thoughts.

We think of the people who left us that day, including the teenage kids. We mourn the things they will never get to do. Their sudden vanishing leaves a giant hole for miles around them. More than that, we mourn for the ones who remain. We know that a loving mother paced the seaplane dock that day, waiting, waiting, waiting for her family to return.

I am a parent who once received that most dreaded phone call. I know what it means to have your world turned upside down in an instant. There are certain words you can never unhear. At a time like this, those things come flooding back.

But in the midst of Coeur d’Alene’s latest heartbreak, I saw people come together, determined to find any way they could to help. I saw our police and public safety workers do their job; quietly, calmly, professionally, respectfully. I saw people console each other. The same reasons we are so saddened by local tragedy are exactly the reasons we are so great together.

This is once again our reminder that nothing ever stays the same. It’s an admonition to put the phone down and give someone you love a mighty hug. To pay a compliment to a stranger.

Because if those eight people could tell us anything, it would be something like this: Do the important things now and let all the rest go. Forget the small annoyances and disagreements. Give a big smile and an encouraging word to those you meet along the way. Stop and watch that sunset. Talk to animals. Let yourself be overcome with wonder. Don’t be afraid to laugh delightedly for no reason at all.

Most of all, be as kind as you possibly can to absolutely everyone, especially yourself.

If you love Lake Coeur d’Alene, you know her great cycles, her seasons, her storms followed by sunshine. I can tell you from raw experience that as those seasons roll on, they bring a measure of peace.

The fatal temptation at a time like this is to go numb, to cease to feel. Yet I urge you to do the opposite instead. Follow the pain. Stand with your face to the wind and let the cold rain mingle with your tears. In that pain there is tenderness. In that pain there is connection. In that pain there is a most profound understanding.

And then, allow love to slowly, wonderfully take the place of pain.

With all my heart, I can assure you it will.

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David Kilmer is a Coeur d’Alene resident.