Category: Philosophy

Friends,

Below, a selection of photos from old albums of my fathers, dating back 74 years.  Over the years I have shared a number of stories of my father, his perspectives and values, and how they were shaped, and how they became the code I try to lead my own life by. I have spent the last 10 days in New Jersey, listening at great length to my fathers memories, brought back by combing through old photos. I remain stunned how easily, in spite of the distractions of health, diminished eyesight and the passage of decades, how dad can easily point out dozens of faces of men he has not seen in five six or seven decades. Turning over any picture and reading the notes on the back reveal that given only a visual reference, my fathers memory at age 90 is very strong.

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On the left, my father at age 16, four days before his 17th birthday. Beside him is Chief Frank Ryan. It is December of 1942. They are standing in the backyard of the Wynne family home at 118 Albion Street in Passaic NJ. Before my father was born, my grandfather found Frank Ryan, a young homeless orphan. He and my grandmother cared for him until he joined the Navy at age 16 in 1922. In the photo you can see he has 20 years of stripes. The photo looks happy, but it is cast against this back drop: Ryan is home because he was a plank owner on the USS Vincennes, CA-44, a heavy cruiser that was sunk a few months before at the battle of Savo Island. It took 322 shipmates, about half the crew, to the bottom with it. Ryan’s idealistic stories of Navy life were the largest factor in my father joining the Navy a few months after this picture was taken. If you read a single other story I have written, make it this one: A clarification and a century old story. It will dispel every thought one might have about my family being militaristic.

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When Frank Ryan went back to sea, he was a plank owner on the most fearsome battleship afloat, the USS Iowa, BB-61. On the Vincennes he was head of the ‘Black Gang’ in the boiler rooms, on the Iowa He was the Chief quartermaster. He is in Khaki on the left. Other than the kindness of my grandparents, to whom Ryan was devoted, his life knew no lasting joy; He was married in ’39, but his wife died of TB shortly after, he was haunted by the loss of his Vincennes shipmates, and no one could stop him from drinking himself into an early grave. He did not live to see 1950.

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Same two men, four years later: My father, who signed up as an Enlisted man in July of 1943, had become a midshipman at the Naval Academy by the time this picture was taken in 1946. My Grandfather, initial livid about Ryan encouraging my father to join in WWII, has relieved the war was over. There were a few brief years where it looked like my grandfathers one wish in life, that his son would not see what he had seen in WWI, might come true, but this didn’t last.

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Above the USS North Carolina, BB-55.  My father took this shot while he was on a midshipman summer cruise on the ship. Every boy of the 1920s and 30s thought of these ships as the ‘big guns’ of the fleet, the heavyweight knockout punch. Although WWII made carriers ascendant, and atomic weapons had been invented, there was something lasting about the mystique of battleships. For my father, this was tempered by a very ugly friendly fire accident on this cruise. The ships main battery of 16″ guns was being exercised on a Caribbean range; A land based block house fired a mortar which designated the target. Aboard the ship, someone pointed the optical range finder at the block house to see when the mortar was fired instead of waiting for the shell to mark the target, not understanding that the 16″ guns would train to the rangefinder. A mistaken command sent nine 16″ shells to the block house. At 20,000 yards the flight time of the shells was long enough to tell the personnel in the block house of the mistake and to take cover. It did no good at all. It was an awakening to my father, that even in peacetime, his profession would be dangerous.

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Just before the cruise, my father met my Mother at Bradley Beach NJ. In 1998, our family took at tour of the North Carolina, which is a museum in Wilmington NC. My father had not been aboard since 1946. What part of the ship did he want to show us? We went all the way aft to the post office, where dad showed us the mail slot where he put a letter in 1946….It was to my mother asking if she wanted to go on another date.  I looked at the mail box and realized that my very existence hinged on my father being a good writer. He is, therefore I am.

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Dad, on his summer cruise on the USS Randolph, CV-15, an Essex class carrier. In those days, all midshipmen learned to fly at the academy in ‘Yellow peril’ N3-N biplanes on single floats. On summer cruises, they were sent out as crewmen on attack planes. Dad flew in both SBDs and TBMs. It was a way of evaluating who would later be offered a slot at Pensacola.  In 1947, the USAF had just broken off from the Army, and they were threatening to end Naval Aviation. Dad’s N3-N instructor, a veteran of the ‘Marianas Turkey Shoot’, said that dogfighting was probably never going to happen again in the missile age, and the USAF, might end carrier construction in favor of something new called a B-36.  From there, Dad starting looking at Amphibious Warfare. Ironically, Essex class carriers had radically longer and more useful lives than B-36s, and people came to learn that both the USAF and USN need aviation.

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In the story: Patriotism has no Party I make a brief mention about an F-8F Bearcat hitting the back of the USS Randolph. My father saw this on the same cruise. They brought midshipmen down to the aft most 40mm gun tub on the starboard side, which hung  just below the flight deck. It was an excellent vantage point to see planes approaching the carrier. An F-8F on final got a wave off from the LSO, and when the pilot put full power from the 2,000 hp radial at slow speed, the plane snap rolled and hit the stern of the ship, about 50 feet from the gun tub. It was a low hit, and the midshipmen were shielded by the tub. All that came to the surface in the wake of the ship was a fuel slick and one of the main tires. Nothing else was recovered. It was another reminder that being in the military had risks beyond conflict.

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Even though he did not choose to become a Naval Aviator, my father still loved planes. His albums are full of pictures of them. Above, he took this picture of a Martin Mars, one of the largest flying boats ever built, when it came to the Severn River at the Naval Academy. When going across the pacific many times between 1949 and 1953, dad made the trip in both a Martin Mars and a Consolidated Coronados, stopping at Midway, Wake and Guam. The note about the young officer and the pool in this story Patriotism has no Party, comes from a 1953 trip home from Korea.

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Above, a 1951 picture from Okinawa, where the Seabees were practicing amphibious landings for Korea. I wrote about these in this story: USN sea story.  If you want a better look at the island in WWII, read this: Memorial Day Reading. Unlike most other pacific island involved in WWII,  Okinawa had been densely populated.  In the WWII battle, which took place just 6 years before my father took this picture, The US lost 20,000 KIA, the Japanese lost 110,000 KIA, but nearly 40% of the 300,000 civilians on the island also perished, enormous numbers of them from committing suicide because they had been told that the US troops were monsters who did despicable things to civilians. Above, the ‘monsters’ are feeding little kids who survived the battle, years after it was done. Notice that one of the enlisted men is using chop sticks to eat. To get a look at what my father thought was worth fighting for, please read: William Edward Wynne Sr. – Father’s Day Notes

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Above, Dad operating a bull dozer on a beach while he was a company commander in ACB-ONE. This is the same piece of equipment that hit the LST door in this story: USN sea story.

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This is a LST, which stands for “Landing Ship, Tank” The US built about 1,000 of these in WWII. If you look closely, on the side it is carrying several hundred feet of floating pontoon causeway, folded up 90 degrees. Approaching the beach, these are dropped from each side, and the LST drops an anchor behind it to slow down, and the pontoons are maneuvered, mostly on inertia, out in front of the LST to form a path to the beach. This technique was used on assaults where the beach was not steep enough for the LST to get close.

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Above the two sections are joined, and lined up with the bow doors of the LST. The craft to the side of the pontoons is a “warping tug” a general purpose tugboat, crane, barge that Seabees used a lot.

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Above an amphibious DUKW, the command post of ACB-ONE, Dad described these as fun, but not really sea worthy. One of the ones he used sank, fortunately in practice mission.

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Above, a good end view of a LST with the bow open, a pontoon causeway and a warping tug. Lettering at the top of all of these pictures is dad’s handwriting.

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Above, a look at what made the Inchon landings so tricky: The have some of the highest tides in the world, 40 feet of change at times. That LST draws 15 feet at the stern, so it gives you a good idea of how fast the tide ran out, and ran back in to submerge anything stuck at low tide.

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Above, and LCU unloads two bull dozers after  the Amtrack on the left disembarked.

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Above, dad stands with his parents in front of an F-8F. Many sailor’s stories from WWII and later hint at exotic ports of call and drinking, gambling and brawling. Not all sailors excelled at those ‘arts’. My father was always a very grounded man, even when he was young. He credits this to his loving parents, who set strong examples with their own lives, and expected their kids to do something meaningful with theirs. If you want an example of how tough my grandmother was, get a look at this story: Italo Balbo in 1933, an 83 year old family story. My father dated my mother nearly the whole time he was at the Naval Academy, they were marred a few months after he graduated, and 66 years later they are still the love of each others lives.

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How the stories have always been shared: Above, in a photo taken yesterday, Grace sits with my father, as he is recovering. She drove up from Florida with ScoobE to see Mom and Dad. They are looking at some of the old photo albums that contained the photos above. Grace has a phenomenal memory, and treasures this kind of history, she needs only hear it once for it to be saved. ScoobE had his little yellow vest on and his shots cards so they let him into the hospital, and after they saw that he could sit in my fathers lap, silently, for hours, the staff was glad to have him. He and Grace spent many hours of every day this week taking care of dad, attending to his needs, one of which is sharing memories of 90 years on earth.

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Many of the stories are moving, some are very somber. The case of characters are mostly all memories now. Having made it to 90, my father feels nothing but gratitude for his good fortune. I know many people who only like to hear ‘nice’ stories, and my father knows plenty of them, but ‘nice’ is rarely what was the pivotal, moving moments of a life well lead, where values were followed and costs were not a consideration when weighed against one’s virtues.  My father was born to and raised by such people, and in turn become one himself, and found a soul mate with the same codes in my mother.  He taught us all that a life well lead will contain both triumph and tragedy, and to strive for ‘nice’ or ‘happy’ is to desire a luke-warm world in which to live. In the quiet hours my father wants you to consider and remember the pantheon of good men he once knew, and the values for which they lived, the willful decisions they made to lead meaningful lives.

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“Sunday night, with most of the family and friends on their way home, found my parents home suddenly quiet. While all of the afternoon’s conversations had been on family and good memories, my father, now almost 90 and somewhat frail, took the last hour of the evening to meet an obligation he finds very important;  I sit beside him and listen while he looks back through the decades to remember and speak the names and the stories of good men, who’s devotion to their Shipmates, the Navy and our Country cost them everything, including a chance to grow old with the families they loved. This spoken remembrance is central to my father’s gratitude for the great fortune of being married for 65 years.”-from New Jersey, June 2015 and 65 years ago …

 

 

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-WWjr.

A while back, a friend who has known me for many years asked why I never buy lottery tickets. I told him it was because I had won once already. He asked “When?” surprised he had never heard this. I told him it was a long time ago, the last week of December ….1962, when I was born to my parents. He thought this was funny, but I wasn’t kidding, nothing else that has happened in my life has or will ever likely match this good fortune.

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Today I was going through the old albums, trying to find a few pictures that will spark some good stories from Dad as he is recovering.  The image above is Mom and Dad in 1951, a pre-deployment picture taken in Coronado California. Mom and Dad met at the Jersey shore the summer after WWII ended. Seventy years later they remain the lasting joy of each others lives.

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Above, a photo of my parents on the beach in California in 1952. The smiles don’t speak of my father, a young Navy officer in amphibious warfare, having  just returned from his first tour in the Korean War. He had left from San Francisco in 1951. My mother, 24 years old, had seen him off and boarded a Martin 4-0-4 for the flight back to San Diego. In flight, the plane had a terrific engine fire on her side. It was a rocky start to a long year, but my mother made the strongest friends with other Navy wives, awaiting and praying for the safe return of husbands from the new war.

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The story of my brother’s arrival in ’53 during my father’s second deployment to Korea is integral to understanding the history of my family. On New Year’s Eve 1952, my father received an emergency notice recalling him to Korea. My mother, expecting her first child, had the option to return to her caring family on the east coast, but instead chose to stay in Coronado with the other young wives, women who shared the same struggles.

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My brother came more than a month early. At that moment, my father was near Wolmi-do island with the 1st Marine Division, under communist air attack. My mother had not heard from him in weeks, went to the delivery room knowing only that he was in an area of hard fighting. Ten days later my father’s unit was withdrawn to Japan.

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By chance, a friend said that there had been a message for him. A search of hundreds of notes in the com center revealed one that only said “Lt. j.g. Wynne: Boy. Wife, baby, doing well.” A drive to another base finds a Ham radio operator, then a clear connection to another Ham in California, and a phone link. My mother tells him she has chosen to name the boy Michael. My father is very moved; it is his own father’s name.

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It is several months before he can come back. It was a difficult birth, and my brother is born with terrible colic. My mother is exhausted when he arrives, and collapses in sleep. Here is my father’s home-coming from his first war: He is a new father, rocking his son to sleep in a quiet apartment in California. This tiny boy in his arms is named for his own father, the hero of my father’s world, a man who is fading in a long twilight of his life. On this evening in August of 1953, my father certainly understands how fortunate he is. He is married to a very strong person; he has survived a war that others have not; and he holds his own son in his arms. In the coming years it will take all of these blessings to sustain him through the agonizingly slow loss of his own father.

 

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 My mother, “Mickey Wynne” turned 89 last week. For all our lives, she has given our family a sterling example of kindness and compassion to follow. Every element of human decency and empathy that resides in me owes its absolute origin directly to her.

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Above, my mother at age 26, standing in front of their 1951 Buick super eight Convertible. Mom had just had my older brother 6 weeks before.

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The finest hours of my life, those I gave to others, all bear the indelible prints of my mothers faith, that kindness and forgiveness are the ultimate virtues. In the four score and nine years she has been on this earth, she has never wavered in her belief, nor missed a chance to demonstrate her fidelity to it. She is held in the hearts of all who know her. On this day I wish everyone a peaceful hour of reflection on the lives of the men and women that each of us owe our very existence to.

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-ww.

 

Builders;

Today I enjoyed one of my life’s priceless blessings: being 53 years old and still having my father to spend the whole day with. I sat with dad today and we spoke about a great number of things on his mind. To balance some of the somber thoughts in the last story, a short, lighter one:

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Above, with the .45 and 7x50s is Father at age 26. The sign reads “Welcome US Army to Okinawa Courtesy of ACB (Amphibious Construction Battalion)  ONE Seabees”. This was during the Korean war, not WWII.  To prepare for landings in the Korean war, US forces practiced on Okinawa, which most people forget is only 600 miles from Korea. It was a close location under US control that offered some secrecy.

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In amphibious invasions of that era, some of the first people ashore were Seabees. They developed ‘welcome’ signs to remind everyone they were out front. This wasn’t just true in Pacific battles, Seabees were places at Anzio and D-Day. In the picture above, Dad is a Lt.jg, commander of ‘Dog’ company of ACB-ONE. This was one of the lighter moments before heading north to Korea.

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When an LST headed to the beach, the first vehicle down the ramp was usually a bulldozer run by a Seabee. It went out ahead because it was far less prone to getting stuck than a tank. The moment the doors open and the ramp drops, the vehicles poured out as fast as possible.

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Because landings were typically made at 4am, the Navy wisely chose to have Japanese harbor pilots, who knew the waters,  on the LST’s for the practice landings at Okinawa. These men had been officers in the Imperial Japanese Navy, fighting the US just 6 years earlier.

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On the very first landing, my father stood above the well deck with a bull horn, directing the vehicles the last minute to the beach. Beside him was a former Japanese Navy officer, observing. Everything looked perfect right up to the moment the Seabee bull dozer moved forward. It accidently hooked the blade on the door frame, and jammed on the ramp. The tank behind it lurched forward and hit the bulldozer, preventing it from backing up and freeing itself, In the dark, bathed in noise, no one behind could tell what was happening. Pandemonium broke out with Seabees and Marines shouting at each other and nothing headed down the ramp. A general altercation ensued. Dad, powerless, watched a perfectly choreographed maneuver fall apart.  He noticed the Japanese officer standing next to him staring incredulously. Evidently he had a very hard time rationalizing how his nation has just lost a war to clowns like these.

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I want to say thank you to all the people who took a moment to share a thought or a prayer for Dad. He is actually doing much better this week, and we are working to bring him home in the next week. It is my genuine wish that everyone understands that speaking of my father is just a specific appreciation for my great general respect for men of his generation, and what we all received from them. Dad would be the first person to correct anyone who even suggested that he was someone special. He is most comfortable when people identify him as simple participant in events that mattered. I trust that many of you who’s fathers had similar experiences had that same perspective in your own homes. Whenever someone wants to speak of admirable men in front of my father, he will always turn the conversation to his own father, who lived from 1891-1960. Perhaps most fortunate men look upon their own fathers with a profound sense of gratitude. I do.

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I am staying in NJ until Dad is back home, and then I am headed to my hangar in Florida for a few weeks to build back up the inventory of parts on the shelf. After that, I am flying back to California to resume the last legs of the Western Tour. The goal is to return to Florida and have a solid month to work before heading to Oshkosh. I have been out of the shop a long time, but keep in mind that the Weseman’s take care of the distribution of our catalog parts now (Outlook 2016, New order page and distribution method. ) so anything ordered doesn’t have to wait for me to be in Florida to get it on it’s way to your shop.

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-ww.

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Builders,

When I was driving to Corvair College #34 last September, I briefly met the woman below in a north Georgia gas station.  She has a sprit and a story worth sharing…….

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At a glance, she was petite, in her 60’s and touring alone.  Most people in the station took notice of her, but she didn’t welcome the looks, gave nothing back.  Their cars, dress and facial expressions betrayed them was suburbanites with judgments, people who’s instinctive reaction to seeing anyone or anything different is to state how they wouldn’t do that or look like that.  This is the part of society that Richard Bach was satirizing in Jonathan Livingston Seagull as the flock of birds trying to peck the different individual to death.

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I was filling Paul Salter’s F-250 with diesel on the opposite pump. I waited a moment and looked around the pump and said “Nice Shovel.”  There was a moment of recognition, and a big smile came across her face.  I am no expert on Harley’s, but I knew enough to recognize her bike as a late sixties or early seventies “Shovelhead.” This small bit of recognition broke the ice, and we had a really memorable 20 minutes.

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She has owned the bike for 36 years. Toured all over, liked visiting friends, preferred to travel alone. Knew the machine inside and out, did all her own work. Her home was in the Florida panhandle, but she liked riding in mountains also. Her every motion said she was confident and comfortable in her own skin. Everything she said had charm or a bit of wit. Her nature was alert, and a comment about knowing how to take care of herself suggested she was equipped to do so. I am a married man and this woman is half a generation older, but her presence and manner was undeniably attractive. You could go stand in any shopping mall in America for a month, and you wouldn’t see a single person half as interesting as this woman. In a world where most people are homogenized to the point of being difficult to distinguish acquaintances, this woman didn’t remind me of anyone else, she stood out as an individual.

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What made this conversation possible when the other people in the station barely made eye contact with her? Something I call “Camaraderie among the Creative”.  Consider this:

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Homebuilder brings his airplane to Oshkosh, parks it in with the Homebuilts, and unfolds his lawn chair behind the wing in a position that clearly identifies him as the guy who brought it. The canopy has stickers from the last 16 Oshkoshes, the prop card says what the plane is, his name, where he is from, what powers it, and in big letters says “This Plane Has Flown 2,000 Hours.”

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A stream of people walk past. Even without saying anything, many of them express a judgment with body language or gesture.  Many others stand there, as if the builder was invisible, and loudly express opinions about the choice of designs, the powerplant, the color, etc. A third group comes by and says “Your first trip to Oshkosh?” or “They say these planes glide like bricks when they are loaded”. The fourth, and possibly worst group, are the people who ask questions you would chastise an eight year old for asking: “How much did this cost?” , “Where can I buy one of these?”  “Does it come in any good looking colors?”   Our Homebuilder puts on his strained smile,  and says little to these people. Although they may be EAA members, or pilots, they are not homebuilders. They are just another form of mindless consumers, and engaging them would be just as pointless as our woman with the motorcycle above trying to converse with the couple staring at her through their Prius window.

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Now picture yourself walking up to the same homebuilder: Because you have already had a parade of neighbors and co-workers make stupid comments about the plane you are creating in your shop, you already know what not to say to a person who created any hand made work of art.  Because you are actually building a plane, not just walking up and down the rows at Oshkosh pontificating about things, you are skilled at things like reading plans and observing things, so you take the time to read the prop card and note the 16 Oshkosh stickers. Because you have already had two dozen ‘experts’ walk into your shop and tell you about how Ferdinand Porsche built the Corvair (even though he died in 1951) you know that no one ever learned anything by repeating any story that starts with the phrase “They Say…” So you know to say something simple like “Nice Shovel”,  and let the creator of the project share with you what they have learned first hand. You know all of these things because you are a homebuilder, and as such, speak an universal language known only by creative people. And I believe that this is one of the greatest benefits of being an actual homebuilder; it is your passport to a different world that that co-exists with the consumer world, but shares almost nothing in common with it.  Having escaped the monotonous repressive conformity of consumer-ville, you will be free to lead a interesting and productive individual life and communicate with your comrades in creativity.

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-ww.

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“Strained Smile”:

 

Builders

Below, photos of our illustrious mascot:

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Above, Napping on the front seat of the Suburban on the way to Oshkosh

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Above, In deep thought, poolside.

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Above  ScoobE staying warm at Corvair College #22.

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Above, ScoobE at 16 weeks old. Read: Happiness available for $650 /pound.

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Builders:

If you are something of an ‘old school’ guy in the world of alternative engines, you might recognize both of the people in the picture below:

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Above, Subaru guru Chuck Condas on the left, and a much younger version of myself on the right. The photo was taken 12 years ago at Sun n Fun.  Although we look like kids, 2004 was my 15th consecutive year at the fly in, and Chuck had already moved on from the world of alternative engines.

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Something most Homebuilders are yet to understand: Homebuilding really isn’t a big industry, and the world of alternative engines is a small part of it. In this world, most alternative engine guys who have been around for a number of  years,  know each other, and usually get along pretty well.  The partisan rhetoric on the internet said by ‘fans’ of one engine over another is not reflective of how established engine guys get along in person. Our website has many photos of engine gurus of all types and layouts hanging out at our Oshkosh tent after hours.

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While there are a lot of zealots who come and go, the people who last in alternative engines tend to be people who find an innovative solution that serves a segment of the market. To a zealot, anyone who doesn’t choose his engine is ‘stupid’, to an innovator, they are just an individual making a choice that suits them differently. There are fans of a particular design, brand, layout or provider that are far bigger zealots than the guru that actually works with that format. Most alternative engine guys know this well. If you think about it, I have a lot of experiences in common with the other dozen alternative engine gurus who have been around for a decade or more than I do with any internet commentator who is going to buy or build and engine ‘someday.’

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Fifteen years ago, my work with the Corvair was most often compared with that of Subaru guru Chuck Condas. Chuck had put a belt reduction on a turbo EA-81 and installed it on his avid flyer, accumulating 500 hours. He wrote a very candid book about it, and self published it. His approach was not the kind of ‘vanilla ice cream Disneyland experience’ that print magazine editors insisted on then. Chuck really didn’t care, he wasn’t born to be a conformist. His book was a very big seller in the late 1990s.

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I spent a lot of evenings at Sun n Fun with Chuck, and he told me that he felt the whole industry had gone commercial, and homebuilding had changed, and he wasn’t a fan of things people said on the net. I thought these things also, but wanted to fight the trend. Chuck was of a different mindset. He had said his piece, and wasn’t interested in the conflict. He said he was going back to Taos NM, and was going to build planes his own way, in anonymity, in a very beautiful setting.  To his perspective, one would have to be a masochist to try to rekindling the original spirit and values of homebuilding in the age of the internet discussion group, when all the trends were heading the other way. Sun n Fun 2005 was the last time I saw him, but it wasn’t quite the last time I heard from him.

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A few years later, I wrote a long post on an internet discussion group, about a series of tests we had done on Corvairs. I thought it had been interesting work, and it had opened my eyes to some new ideas.  Alas, my testing had contradicted the pet theories of some internet personalities, and they responded with a long series of posts saying the test were worthless, I was condescending,  I was just a salesman, their mechanical engineering degree trumped any A&P tests and observations, some comments about my alleged politics, etc. near the end of these was a strange encrypted post from a mystery email name that simply had the numbers “36.40 – 105.60.”  Everyone else missed it, but I knew this was the most mocking criticism of them all…….It was Chuck sending me the Lat-long of Taos NM.

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Builders,

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May this Easter bring you a peaceful day, with time to reflect on the many blessings of our lives.  Best wishes for a good day with friends and family.

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Grace, William and ScoobE.

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Something worth reading: A thought on Easter….

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Thought for the Day: “My Dreams” The only belief that I will always openly champion, the belief that is at the central core of the story above, is my unshakeable faith in the goodness of common, decent people.

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Thought for the Day: What are you thankful for? “The secret I would like to share with anyone who at times feels the same way, is that I have a sanctuary where I am insulated from much of my self-criticism, and a have a front, where at 50, I am much better on than I thought possible in my youth.”

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-ww.

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