The warning lights on the cockpit blared DANGER, alarms going off like sirens. The pilot jinked left, right, left again. The missile accelerated, tracking to the A6’s powerful twin engines. He looked over his left shoulder, saw the plume of smoke to the deadly rocket tip, threatening to blow him out of the sky. He dropped more chaff, rolled right. The missile at almost the last second, took the bait and plowed into the chaff, detonating into a fireball. The jet roared away, back to the safety of the lonely carrier in the South China Sea.
I gulped. “Dad, was it really like that?”
With a gleam in his eye, he said “No. It was worse. We dodged 12 SAMs one day.” And I noticed that he had the Naval Aviator’s gleam in his eyes – that warrior glint that told me in no uncertain terms, that if he was called again, 40 years later, he would go.
It was one of those rare moments in my life when I got to feel, to taste, to smell the palpable danger of those years that Dad flew A6 Intruders in Vietnam. The movie, “Flight of the Intruder” was Hollywood’s adaptation of the book by the same name. The author, Stephen Coonts was a fellow pilot in one of Dad’s squadrons in Vietnam. While the movie went far beyond being historically
accurate, it gave me a powerful glimpse of the life that my Dad, Mike Eddy, lived during my earliest years of life. Those early days in the Vietnam conflict were a cauldron that formed a generation of men. Their dreams informed ours. Their fears and passions impacted the world we grew up in. They had families and hopes for their kids, the same as the generation before. But in those days, normal really wasn’t.
It took me years to realize that I was not a normal kid with a normal upbringing. I grew up around war machines – the streaking the sky kind that roared a throaty roar and make an American boy’s blood boil with pride. My neighborhood was always close to Navy jets, aircraft carriers, stuffy command buildings, and men who had a glint in their eyes. I moved every 2 to 4 years and had friends who had lived in the same house for their whole lives. I visited the flight surgeon on the carrier on the weekend – because it was faster than going to the hospital. I got shooed off of the airstrip when the command jets were taking off. It has taken me years to try to break down my Dad, something that every son probably does. It is perhaps, a lifelong effort. It is perhaps, my need to complete the jigsaw puzzle called Dad, to make all the pieces fit.
Mike Eddy was a man who had a ferocious patriotism that was balanced with free thought, love of the natural world, and a natural disposition to lead men. Since his death last year, I have often reminisced that there was only one thing that dad loved more than flying, and that was Mom. There’s was a tender love that was a true partnership in a world poignantly marked by the Naval Academy, the war in Vietnam, a long military career, and frequent moves around the nation following wherever the Navy took them. Though I may reflect that Dad’s path through life may look linear, I am struck by how very non-linear it actually was. Since my Dad’s death in October of 2008, with kids of my own now growing up without their Grampie, I find myself reflecting about how much I really need to know the man. I need to fit more puzzle pieces together. I need to even find more pieces.
Every father has precious moments that are burned into their memory banks. For some, it is the very moment of the miracle where the son or daughter joins the world in the birthing chamber and snuggles deeply against Mama’s breast. For others it is the first time their kid laughs the deep belly laugh that tells the world Dad is the most important person alive. For Mike Eddy, my dad, perhaps it was receiving family letters and pictures while in Vietnam, while being buried in a sweltering aircraft carrier. He kept all of the pictures in a small, brown photo album, reviewing them when he felt lonely. Perhaps he wanted a touchstone of his own, anchoring him to the family back home. I think the old and new memories tied him to us and us to him.
I remember a time swimming in our pool in Florida where I swear Dad was the strongest man in the world. I used to love being on his back under the water, clinging to his neck. He would look back and impishly say “hold your breath”. I only had moments to comply before he dipped, coiled his legs then shoved off a million miles per hour under water. I positively knew that we would burst through the concrete. Instead, we floated like
sleek seals and he brought his head up just in time to tap the other side. The motion was so fluid, that I was amazed he was as comfortable in the water as he was in the air, inside the graceful jets streaking across the sunset sky. Did he remember those days in the pool as much as me? Perhaps he did. Perhaps they were little nuggets of good times, stored away.
Mementos are quirky things. Some nik-naks we pick up and they have meaning in the moment. Others, become touchstones that remind us of an important place that we cement into our memories. For me, for my Dad, my touchstones are his medals. I often used to paw through that mysterious drawer in his bureau that held the exotic chunks of bronze, silver, and gold. Their meanings escaped me as a child. They no longer do as a man. The medal that holds the most meaning to me is the Distinguished Flying Cross, a medal given to the best of the best pilots in war time, for those who demonstrate “heroism or extraordinary achievement while
participating in an aerial flight” during operations. The gravity of what this medal means, now that Dad is gone, is enough to lodge deep in my heart, enough to pursue the valor, the heroism it portends. This was given to my very father, the man who poured out his heart to Mom, my brother and me. What were the lessons he learned along the pathways of life that he never got to share? I certainly could have been a better listener. What dreams did he dream for me that I now have to color in, since only the linework of the picture is visible, if at all? I could have asked. Can I become the man that makes Dad proud? A man worthy of a medal? It is a weighty thought; one that I am sure that he thought about while pondering his own family legacy.
Dad’s dad, Frank Merrill Eddy, was also a Naval Academy grad (WWII diesel subs). And if that weren’t enough pressure, Mom’s Dad, Ed Dankworth, was another Naval Academy grad (WWII & Korea fighter pilot). Did Dad desire for Scott, my brother, and me to attend the Naval Academy and become warriors like the men before us? Sure he did. But before that, he desired us to be true to ourselves and be men of character, integrity, and passion. He allowed us to choose our path and supported us both when we chose a university path and not a military one. I will forever be grateful that Dad believed in Me, not in where I should go, not in what I should do. Dad believed in me. Dad believed in Scott and Dad believed in me. That's a pretty amazing thing for a kid to grow up with.
So this Father’s day, I remember him. I remember how Dad trumped my brother and me, in an email brag session about who had the best office. Scott sent an email with a picture of his office, on the water in Pensacola, sun setting on the horizon, bay bridge in the distance. I sent an email with the picture of my office, the waters of Liberty Bay sparkling in the foreground, the majestic Olympic Mountains in the back.
Dad’s trump card and touché was a simple email, with a simple picture of him in a cockpit and 2 words - “My office”. Though we were 3000 miles away, I am sure that Scott and I had the same silly grin that said “Dad – you win”.
The last words Dad shared with me were “I will see you in our heaven”. I cannot think of that sweet last Sunday afternoon without weeping. Dad was all skin and bones, in pain but relaxing at home on his bed. My 4 year old son, Caedon, Dad’s youngest grandson, scampered across his lap to be with him that day. Dad reached out his hand and held Caedon’s. Caedon, held his hand back. For Caedon, Grampie was just moving a little slower. For me, I knew it was close to Dad’s last day.
Dad and I shared some great moments that afternoon. I prayed with him. I prayed over him. I prayed to our Father to heal him. And I prayed to my Abba Father to hold my Dad in his arms. I shared with Dad how proud his grandkids are of their Grampie. I shared with Dad that his name, our name, is carried on by Scott, me, and his precious and precocious grandkids. With the humor of a warrior, he said to me “I hope that doesn’t hurt.”
No Dad; carrying your name doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt at all.
I gulped. “Dad, was it really like that?”
With a gleam in his eye, he said “No. It was worse. We dodged 12 SAMs one day.” And I noticed that he had the Naval Aviator’s gleam in his eyes – that warrior glint that told me in no uncertain terms, that if he was called again, 40 years later, he would go.
It was one of those rare moments in my life when I got to feel, to taste, to smell the palpable danger of those years that Dad flew A6 Intruders in Vietnam. The movie, “Flight of the Intruder” was Hollywood’s adaptation of the book by the same name. The author, Stephen Coonts was a fellow pilot in one of Dad’s squadrons in Vietnam. While the movie went far beyond being historically
accurate, it gave me a powerful glimpse of the life that my Dad, Mike Eddy, lived during my earliest years of life. Those early days in the Vietnam conflict were a cauldron that formed a generation of men. Their dreams informed ours. Their fears and passions impacted the world we grew up in. They had families and hopes for their kids, the same as the generation before. But in those days, normal really wasn’t.It took me years to realize that I was not a normal kid with a normal upbringing. I grew up around war machines – the streaking the sky kind that roared a throaty roar and make an American boy’s blood boil with pride. My neighborhood was always close to Navy jets, aircraft carriers, stuffy command buildings, and men who had a glint in their eyes. I moved every 2 to 4 years and had friends who had lived in the same house for their whole lives. I visited the flight surgeon on the carrier on the weekend – because it was faster than going to the hospital. I got shooed off of the airstrip when the command jets were taking off. It has taken me years to try to break down my Dad, something that every son probably does. It is perhaps, a lifelong effort. It is perhaps, my need to complete the jigsaw puzzle called Dad, to make all the pieces fit.
Mike Eddy was a man who had a ferocious patriotism that was balanced with free thought, love of the natural world, and a natural disposition to lead men. Since his death last year, I have often reminisced that there was only one thing that dad loved more than flying, and that was Mom. There’s was a tender love that was a true partnership in a world poignantly marked by the Naval Academy, the war in Vietnam, a long military career, and frequent moves around the nation following wherever the Navy took them. Though I may reflect that Dad’s path through life may look linear, I am struck by how very non-linear it actually was. Since my Dad’s death in October of 2008, with kids of my own now growing up without their Grampie, I find myself reflecting about how much I really need to know the man. I need to fit more puzzle pieces together. I need to even find more pieces.
Every father has precious moments that are burned into their memory banks. For some, it is the very moment of the miracle where the son or daughter joins the world in the birthing chamber and snuggles deeply against Mama’s breast. For others it is the first time their kid laughs the deep belly laugh that tells the world Dad is the most important person alive. For Mike Eddy, my dad, perhaps it was receiving family letters and pictures while in Vietnam, while being buried in a sweltering aircraft carrier. He kept all of the pictures in a small, brown photo album, reviewing them when he felt lonely. Perhaps he wanted a touchstone of his own, anchoring him to the family back home. I think the old and new memories tied him to us and us to him.I remember a time swimming in our pool in Florida where I swear Dad was the strongest man in the world. I used to love being on his back under the water, clinging to his neck. He would look back and impishly say “hold your breath”. I only had moments to comply before he dipped, coiled his legs then shoved off a million miles per hour under water. I positively knew that we would burst through the concrete. Instead, we floated like
sleek seals and he brought his head up just in time to tap the other side. The motion was so fluid, that I was amazed he was as comfortable in the water as he was in the air, inside the graceful jets streaking across the sunset sky. Did he remember those days in the pool as much as me? Perhaps he did. Perhaps they were little nuggets of good times, stored away.Mementos are quirky things. Some nik-naks we pick up and they have meaning in the moment. Others, become touchstones that remind us of an important place that we cement into our memories. For me, for my Dad, my touchstones are his medals. I often used to paw through that mysterious drawer in his bureau that held the exotic chunks of bronze, silver, and gold. Their meanings escaped me as a child. They no longer do as a man. The medal that holds the most meaning to me is the Distinguished Flying Cross, a medal given to the best of the best pilots in war time, for those who demonstrate “heroism or extraordinary achievement while
participating in an aerial flight” during operations. The gravity of what this medal means, now that Dad is gone, is enough to lodge deep in my heart, enough to pursue the valor, the heroism it portends. This was given to my very father, the man who poured out his heart to Mom, my brother and me. What were the lessons he learned along the pathways of life that he never got to share? I certainly could have been a better listener. What dreams did he dream for me that I now have to color in, since only the linework of the picture is visible, if at all? I could have asked. Can I become the man that makes Dad proud? A man worthy of a medal? It is a weighty thought; one that I am sure that he thought about while pondering his own family legacy.Dad’s dad, Frank Merrill Eddy, was also a Naval Academy grad (WWII diesel subs). And if that weren’t enough pressure, Mom’s Dad, Ed Dankworth, was another Naval Academy grad (WWII & Korea fighter pilot). Did Dad desire for Scott, my brother, and me to attend the Naval Academy and become warriors like the men before us? Sure he did. But before that, he desired us to be true to ourselves and be men of character, integrity, and passion. He allowed us to choose our path and supported us both when we chose a university path and not a military one. I will forever be grateful that Dad believed in Me, not in where I should go, not in what I should do. Dad believed in me. Dad believed in Scott and Dad believed in me. That's a pretty amazing thing for a kid to grow up with.
So this Father’s day, I remember him. I remember how Dad trumped my brother and me, in an email brag session about who had the best office. Scott sent an email with a picture of his office, on the water in Pensacola, sun setting on the horizon, bay bridge in the distance. I sent an email with the picture of my office, the waters of Liberty Bay sparkling in the foreground, the majestic Olympic Mountains in the back.
Dad’s trump card and touché was a simple email, with a simple picture of him in a cockpit and 2 words - “My office”. Though we were 3000 miles away, I am sure that Scott and I had the same silly grin that said “Dad – you win”.The last words Dad shared with me were “I will see you in our heaven”. I cannot think of that sweet last Sunday afternoon without weeping. Dad was all skin and bones, in pain but relaxing at home on his bed. My 4 year old son, Caedon, Dad’s youngest grandson, scampered across his lap to be with him that day. Dad reached out his hand and held Caedon’s. Caedon, held his hand back. For Caedon, Grampie was just moving a little slower. For me, I knew it was close to Dad’s last day.
Dad and I shared some great moments that afternoon. I prayed with him. I prayed over him. I prayed to our Father to heal him. And I prayed to my Abba Father to hold my Dad in his arms. I shared with Dad how proud his grandkids are of their Grampie. I shared with Dad that his name, our name, is carried on by Scott, me, and his precious and precocious grandkids. With the humor of a warrior, he said to me “I hope that doesn’t hurt.”
No Dad; carrying your name doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt at all.
.
.
.
(For those Navy brothers and friends of Dad's who get a chance to read this, my apologies for any inaccuracies! I would love to hear from you; hear stories, receive pictures, or help me to fill in all of the gaps that I have this burden to fill. Be happy to buy dark, chewy beers, scotch, margueritas, whatever and talk about dodging SAMs and doing all of those things Navy pilots don't do because it is against the rules. Email me if you get a chance, love to hear from you.
Here's another of my favorite pics of 
Dad's in an A4- anybody know who took the pic? Love to hear that story...
Dad's in an A4- anybody know who took the pic? Love to hear that story... Another point of clarity - the pics of the cute kid are actually Scott, I raided Mom's photo albums to get them the right pics for this post. He's not so cute anymore :-), but he is doing well down in Pensacola FL as a successful engineer and member of the community. As a side note, he is a far better fisherman than Dad ever was, btw. Scott actually catches fish. But that is another story for another day.)
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