Richard L. Collins died April 29 at his home. He was 84. Collins was a giant and an innovator in aviation journalism, starting with working for another such legend, his father Leighton Collins, founding editor of Air Facts magazine.
In his last blog post on the current online version of Air Facts, Collins wrote that he earned his flight instructor rating in 1953. But for 60 years, he did his most effective instruction behind a keyboard, transposing his more than 20,000 hours of flying experience into words and stories for pilots from teenage students to grizzled, old-school pros. He also launched the aviation journalism careers of a small army of writers, including this one.
Most of the hours represented in his logbook were powered by avgas, as Collins plied the skies of this country in a series of piston singles—culminating in his signature Cessna P210 N40RC. His writing on flying IFR in light singles guided and counseled generations of pilots with a folksy, anecdotal style that delivered his message with words that stuck. And he wasn’t shy about voicing unpleasant opinions.
Collins served as editor-in-chief at Flying magazine, AOPA Pilot magazine, and later editor-at-large for Flying. In his later years, he came full circle to writing online for Air Facts Journal. Perhaps his best was this account of losing his wife, Ann, five years ago. His last blog appeared on March 22.
Richard L. Collins died April 29 at his home. He was 84. Collins was a giant and an innovator in aviation journalism, starting with working for another such legend, his father Leighton Collins, founding editor of Air Facts magazine.
In his last blog post on the current online version of Air Facts, Collins wrote that he earned his flight instructor rating in 1953. But for 60 years, he did his most effective instruction behind a keyboard, transposing his more than 20,000 hours of flying experience into words and stories for pilots from teenage students to grizzled, old-school pros. He also launched the aviation journalism careers of a small army of writers, including this one.
Most of the hours represented in his logbook were powered by avgas, as Collins plied the skies of this country in a series of piston singles—culminating in his signature Cessna P210 N40RC. His writing on flying IFR in light singles guided and counseled generations of pilots with a folksy, anecdotal style that delivered his message with words that stuck. And he wasn’t shy about voicing unpleasant opinions.
Collins served as editor-in-chief at Flying magazine, AOPA Pilot magazine, and later editor-at-large for Flying. In his later years, he came full circle to writing online for Air Facts Journal. Perhaps his best was this account of losing his wife, Ann, five years ago. His last blog appeared on March 22.
Reflections:
Mark Phelps, AIN executive editor
As an admissions staffer for a small aviation college in the early 1980s, I concocted an ad to place in Flying magazine, mostly so I might wangle an excuse to meet one of my heroes, editor-in-chief Richard L. Collins. During a visit to the Park Avenue offices, Flying’s ad manager Patricia Luebke got my life’s story. When I told her I could fly AND I had a degree in English, she said, “Really? You should be an editor here!” It was like telling someone who dreamed of someday taking 10 minutes’ batting practice at Yankee Stadium that he had a shot at the starting lineup. I focused the entire four-hour trip home on the letter she told me I should write to Richard.
His initial response was, “Nothing available right now, but we’ll keep you in mind.” I took it to be a polite “thanks-but-no-thanks” brush off. I would later learn that Richard would never have said he’d keep me “in mind” if he didn’t really mean it. A few months later, another letter arrived with a job offer, and my life changed forever.
Richard was, and remains, the most famous person I have ever worked for. And that led me to another realization. I can’t count the times I heard people speculate on the “deeper” meaning in something that he had written or said. I heard complicated trails of logic, innuendo, and subtle nuances of meaning. My grand sociological realization was, there is a direct relationship between the size of the population who reads someone’s words and the depth of the speculation as to what he “really” meant.
Just as in his letter to me, Richard meant the words he put out there, nothing more, and certainly nothing less. He wrote the way he flew, in a straight line on the shortest, most direct route possible. But always enjoying the view.
from Eric Weiner, former Flying editor, long-time National Public Radio reporter, and author of New York Times bestselling book, The Geography of Bliss, Man Seeks God, and The Geography of Genius.
Richard was a pilot extraordinaire, a fine journalist and a mighty decent human being. He gave me my first writing break. I was fresh out of college with a few clippings from my school newspaper, a private pilot's license and not a clue about the "real world." He took a chance on me. I had the honor—and terror—of flying in the left seat while he sat in the right and silently, but kindly, criticized my technique. (There's a reason I am still writing but not flying.) He never lost his southern drawl and could stretch "bullshit" (his favorite word) to five or six syllables. He was not an easy man to get to know but proved big-hearted once you did. I'm glad I did. Thank you, Richard. Enjoy the high untrespassed sanctity of space, and remember to put out your hand.
Matt Thurber, AIN Editor in Chief
A few years ago at the EAA AirVenture show in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, I needed a break from the hot sun, the multiple simultaneous press conferences, and I’ll admit it, almost way too much aviation in one place at one time.
The cool shady Flying Magazine pavilion beckoned, and so did an empty seat next to an old friend and mentor, Dick Collins.
I happily plopped myself down and greeted Dick and we enjoyed a relaxing moment together.
When I went to work for him at Flying in 1985, I was a brash, barely mature young fellow, in many ways unappreciative of the amazing opportunity and the incredible people I got to work with every day. Commuting into Manhattan on the train from Connecticut every day was onerous, and the Flying office at One Park Avenue seemed far from any connection with general aviation. My impression at the time was that the newbies like me weren’t in line for any of the fun flying activities that came with working for Flying.
That turned out not to be true; Dick generously invited me and my colleagues to fly in his famous Cessna P210—N40RC—and when there were other opportunities, he let us take advantage of them. Granted, I wasn’t in line to do a pilot report, the pinnacle of aviation writing, but I managed to sneak a couple in here and there.
What I didn’t realize at the time, but came to learn over the years, was how dedicated Dick was to getting at the truth. I had made some callow assumptions about Flying based on my reading the magazine before working there, and, at least in Dick’s case, my assumptions were completely wrong. He was a bloodhound when it came to digging up the facts, and he didn’t let us get away with sloppy editing and reporting. I’ll never forget the day that he poked his head around my doorway and said, “It’s a TSI-Oh-520, not a TSI-zero.”
Dick also had a way of making us feel part of the close-knit insider team at Flying, and although he knew way more than any of us ever would and rarely needed our opinions, he would gladly listen and occasionally ask questions. I was never happier than when I correctly responded to his question about something that went wrong on a Baron he was flying (it was a bad fuel pump).
I left Flying after a relatively short stint to work for AIN, and it wasn’t till many years had passed that I came to appreciate Dick’s massive contributions to the aviation industry, his loyalty to his friends, and his wisdom. When I saw him at Oshkosh that hot sunny day, I finally told him how much I appreciated his taking a chance on me so many years ago. He just smiled and said, “You’re doing a good job.”
Thanks for everything, Dick.