Eleven feet clearance on each wing, said Regis, can you imagine the nerve it took to do that?
They say when the FAA officials found him, he handed them his license and said, You can have it. That was my last flight, and as far as I know he never flew again.
He had a landing strip on his property, said Regis.
He became even more withdrawn and isolated after the death of Flatters, said Lyle.
I remember watching him, said Regis, my wife and I stood on the shore of the Souhegan River with a hundred other people all in a festive and carnival mood. It felt like we were about to witness a once–in–a-lifetime event. Like seeing a hole in one or a perfect game or hearing a politician give a Gettysburg Address type speech. A defining moment that lives in the memory of witnesses forever. We heard the plane from far off, and we all looked up at the sky, many of us with our hand over our eyes to block the sun. It looked like we saluted God coming into our midst. Finally we could barely make out the plane, and a murmur went through the crowd, and when the plane gained greater definition a cheer rose from the crowd in homage to what they were about to witness. About fifty kids were on the trestle waving their arms and dancing. There were those electrical wires in front of the trestle, and we all caught our breath as the plane approached, and the plane cleared the wires, and dropped down, and Bronson pulled up before going underneath the trestle, and he circled around, and made another pass, but again, pulled up, and there was murmuring in the crowd – spectators thought he’d lost his nerve, until the police came out onto the trestle, and ordered the kids off. Bronson made a third pass, and pulled up again, while the cops were getting the kids off the trestle. He came around again, and went under the trestle this time, and the shot of excitement went through the crowd – it was exhilarating to see it, it really was, I got goosebumps. There was a streak of white paint on the side of the trestle that Billy Jones said that Bronson figured out where exactly half the distance was between the two pylons, and smashed a gallon can of white paint at that exact point so he would know where to point the nose of his plane. Billy said that Bronson had eleven feet on each wingtip to make it. A gust of wind could have been a disaster. It was something to see – it really was. Looking back on it, it was the last time I can think of when we were all for the same thing. No one on that riverbank that Sunday wanted Bronson to fail. There are very few times in life where everybody wants the same thing, and that was one of them, and I think all of us who were lucky enough to see it had an event that doesn’t happen very often, and is getting harder and harder to find as society gets more and more complicated.