Junior Fitzgerald Sung to the tune of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from Chappaquiddick on down,
of the big isle they call "Martha's Vineyard."
The island, it is said, never gives up her dead
when midsummer night skies turn gloomy.
The autopilot was true, GPS in there too,
as Saratoga's wings kept straight-and-level.
In the cabin it seemed like a Kennedy dream
Julyís hazy night sky untimely.
The ship was the plan of the Kennedy clan
after Skylane Nine Juliet Kilo.
As tiny planes go, 'twas more mammoth than most
of the small single-engine four-seaters.
Enough room for a crew and four passengers too,
the instructor stayed back in New Jersey.
They took off delayed, as the sunset then made
endless dark skies with no land below them.
And later that night, no horizon in sight
could it be IFR that was hailing?
What seemed like a haze starlight captured a maze
of dull lights reflecting on water.
Seasoned pilot's all knew, as the weatherman did
too, midsummer's night sky winding gloomy.
When descent then came, as the radar explain,
only 500 feet per minute.
At pre-landing time, the Captain didn't mind
switching off autopilot to fly her.
And later that night a grave spiral got tight,
like guidance direct from the devil.
Ahead of his time, twilight left him behind,
as he thought "We're in flight
straight-and-level." John Junior augured in, he
had water comin' in as the good ship and crew
sank in peril. And later that week, as the media
did seek, came the wreck of the Junior
Fitzgerald. Does any one know where the love of
God goes when TV shows get all pre-empted?
The pundits were raving "he'd have made Vineyard
Haven if he'd said his instructor's invited."
He might have stalled-out or he might have
spun-in; Radar showed his descent was much
steeper. And all that remains are the luggage tag
names of the son and his wife, and her sister.
Gay Head's beach scene scatters Edgartown dreams
on Nantucket Sound by Cape Cod.
Hyannisport steams with a media team
white wedding tents now disassembled.
A fathom below only ashes now show
where foggy night vertigo can lead you.
But the instrument scan, through the night is a
plan all the pilots should know and remember.
On a big Navy ship in the sound they all prayed
in a service called burial at sea.
A gallery book in Massachusetts throngs wrote
of the way their life was affected.
The legend lives on from Chappaquiddick on down
of the big isle they call "Martha's Vineyard."
The island, it is said, never gives up her dead
when midsummer night skies turn gloomy.
Back to Poetry Index
