Brian Kammerdiener and the Slam-Dunk

Someone once told me that on occasion, the best part of a flight would not be the flight at all, but the memory made while in the air. While I found this thought interesting, the gravity of the concept eluded me until years later.

I received the worst call of my life in late May 2008. It was a doctor in Las Vegas, Nevada. She was calling to discuss my brother’s deteriorating health. He’d been in the hospital for a week, but until now, testing had failed to reveal the cause of his symptoms. The doctor informed me that Brian had cancer and things didn’t look good. I was floored, as this was the first time a diagnosis had been confirmed. While I was worried when he fell ill, I hadn’t even contemplated a terminal diagnosis. I slammed my office door, clenched my fist and begged God for his recovery. My eyes watered and my hands shook as I tried to book an airline ticket. I called my dad, and by midnight we were in Las Vegas. When I saw my brother hooked up to machines with more tubes, levers, and pouches than I’d ever seen, my heart sank. My dad and I sat down, speechless and cried.

I pondered happier times with my brother and thought about the way he lived his life. It was not glamorous, luxurious or extravagant. Yet he was wealthy beyond most people’s comprehension. His occupation allowed him time to really live -- time he used to read, relax and enjoy friends and family. He had few attachments, which allowed him to live with minimal worries. Although his carefree lifestyle occasionally caused him difficulties, he had a way of persevering, and living on life’s terms with no pretense or animosity. Generosity and a humble demeanor endeared him to friends and acquaintances alike.

Brian lived for adventure. He once gave me a copy of Jimmy Buffet’s autobiography.
The book chronicles Jimmy’s island hopping exploits in a seaplane. This gift is how I learned of my brother’s affinity for aviation.

I thought back to a day when Brian came to visit me in Lee’s Summit, Missouri. The weather conditions left no doubt as to the manner in which I would pick him up from the airport. I reserved a plane and called Shawn, a gifted flight instructor, who since training me in the summer of 2000, had become one of my closest friends. He jumped at the chance to accompany me.

Shawn and I blasted off from Lee’s Summit into beautiful, cloudless skies en route to Kansas City International Airport. The flight was smooth and short. When we taxied to the terminal, Brian was waiting. He walked toward the plane with his usual “Lima Bean” strut, wearing his signature Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops and a grin from ear to ear. This flight was his first in a small plane. To Brian, it was traveling in style. No car rides; he was flying to Lee’s Summit in a “private plane.”

The sun had begun to set when we departed KCI so we illuminated the instrument panel and marveled at the night sky. The return flight was uneventful until approximately one mile north of Lee’s Summit. I had descended and was about to enter the traffic pattern when Shawn decided to simulate an engine failure. He turned and asked Brian if that would be OK. As always, Brian didn’t hold back, he gave a thumbs-up and said, “Go for it.” I immediately closed the throttle, turned to the final approach course, and quickly configured the aircraft for landing. The approach was steep, fast and exhilarating. We made a flawless touchdown and taxied to the ramp.

Shawn referred to the maneuver as a “slam-dunk” landing. It became a topic of conversation at family gatherings for years. Brian became a raving fan of the slam-dunk and never tired of discussions about it. Seeing his exhilaration made all of the training and expense I’d incurred learning to fly worthwhile. In retrospect, the slam-dunk seemed to have mirrored the part of Brian’s personality that never held back, that little voice inside of him that always said, “Go for it.” Subsequently, the memory remained strong.

The flight we took had no scary or dangerous moments. It was routine. Yet it allowed me the privilege of providing an enduring memory for my brother and me to share. My brother took his last flight out four days after I arrived in Las Vegas. I now believe what I’d been told years before. I can see with clarity how the real joy of flying is not always the act of flying. Unfortunately, the brutal realities of life tend to awaken us to what’s important. Looking back, it’s the smiles, excitement, and the memory that made it all worthwhile. Thanks for the flight, Brian. I love you, and I miss you.