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John Fitzgerald Keimedv Jr. 1960-1999 Goodbyc to Out Bov    /

By GARRISON KBILLOR Aug. 2, 1999

Aftcr thc initial disbclief, the liopc agaiust hope that the threc of them inight bc spotted on sonie tiny island waving, tlie anger at what one could sec as his foolhardiness in flying at niglit into hazy conditions with his wifc and her sister aboard, Lite morbid thought of their last minutes, thc aching sadness of it alL thc archival film footage of tlie children romping at thc White Housc and thc little boy's salute and all thc mawkish elegies on television, it was a comfort fmally to watch thc U.S.S. Briscoc raise anchor and put out to sca Thursday morning with thc ashes and the familics of tlie dcad on board.

There was a rightness about it, as therc was about thc profound competcnce of thc Fcdcral Aviation Administration, thc Coast Guard, tlić Navy, thc divcrs, tracking thc piane from radar records, scanning tlić ocean floor, locating thc wrcckage. bringing up the bodies, agreat mercy. And now, with the U.S. Navy in charge, you knew that therc would be sonie simpic grandeur and decorum at thc end. The crashed pilot would be released to thc elements, and thc young women who perished with him, and it would takc place beyond tlić public gazę, without narration or coinment. out on the sca.

He was a most romantic figurę, a bero endowed with a legend-when he was threc years old, for which tlicre was no prcccdcnt in our history, a hero sprung up from tragedy, thc son of thc murdered President bcaring his namc whosc lifc was mcanl in our minds to redeem that evil day in Dallas. I doubt that tlicre were many Amcricans who didn't want tlie best for John F. Kennedy Jr. And when his piane was reported missing on Saturday moming, although there was no prcccdcnt, no justification, for tc!cvision to maintain the vigil that it did, tlicre was a rightness about it. He was our boy. We had a right to stand on the sho.re and grieve for him.

For days thc reporters stood their posts at Ilyannis Port and on Martba's Vincyard, as the old photographs were brought out. again and again, and thc reporters lookcd into thc camera to say, at somc lcngtli, that tlicre was no news to report but that ii was tcrribly sad, terribly sad, which is not joumalism cxactly, but there was a rightness about it. The TV anchors and corrcspondents are likc old unclcs and aimts who eonie to the liouse aftor a deatli in tlić family and plop down in thc living room and sav, "1 just can'l belicvc it someliow." You don't expect them to be cogcnt; you are just gratefiil for their company.

We often accusc ourscIves of being cmcl and voyeuristic and of devouring our heroes, but this man was loved. gcnuinely, by people who didn't know him and vveren't airnous to. It would havc hcen heartbreaking to sec him tum up on laik shows to cxplain himself. We wanted him to bc distant. The press—cvcn the ferocious iconoclasts of the tabloids~gave him room. I le sowed his wild oats and went nightclubbing and liung out with inappropriatc w^romcn, and nobody begrudged him this. Of coursc, he was lucky to livc in New York Gity, whose citizcns are proud of their ability to rccognizc famous people and ignorc them at tlie same time. When hc wished to exploit his namc to start up a magazmc, tlicre was no objeclion to it, though we preferred him to be clusivc, a little mysterious. We were glad when he slipped aw^ray and married that radiant woman, a person of majestic reticencc who never uttered a word in public

It was terribly important that hc be adventurous and modest and fiinny and sclf-dcprecating and charitable to strangers and gracclul and fuli of lifc, and we bclicvcd lie was, and we nevcr carcd to hear otherwisc. Hc may havc bccn all of thosc lliings, as so many people say, or maybc someone will comc out with a book showing him to havc bccn not cxactly all of tliose things, but it woni matter. He was what we nccded him to be, a classy guy, and thc qucstion asked at his death—What might he havc bccomc?-was not so important in his lifctimc. Hc was a hero who Iived up to his legend, and that is morę than good enough.

His legend will grow now that hc's gone. The pathos of this story, Hic sense of fate drawing him into its clutchcs, tlie broken anklc, his anxiety about the flight, tlie hcavy traffic en route to thc airport and the late takcoff, darkness setting in as hc flew up tlie coast, the rcfusal to tum back, tlie radio silence, the nearly moonless night, the descent into tlie mist and tlie liorizoniess dark, and thc terrible, spiraling

fali.

"Show me a hero," said F. Scott Fitzgerald, "and I will write you a tragedy." This we all know. Life is terribly beautiful. Life is terrifying. We canlgo on. We must go on. We are not in control of this

situation. But we never were.