I flew with Tom Haroski twice. Both were business flights, and they marked several personal precedents: my first helicopter rides, my first time shooting aerials, and the first times I had talked to Tom.
Tom was immediately likeable. He struck me as the kind of person who knows only friends. And showed considerable patience with a greenhorn photographer.
We talked over the headsets as we traveled to our first shoot, and as we did I learned that Tom's flying repertoire knew no bounds. He had flown almost everything. On a hunch, I inquired, "You like flying choppers the best?" "Yep," came the response. Shortly, Tom said, "Look at those gliders!" I squinted and searched the horizon, and saw nothing. Tom saw more and more gliders, and finally had to point them out to me. All the while he oohed and aahed at the sailplanes with a yearning in his voice.
Our first assignment was covering a local air show, and there I learned of Tom's great love of all machines of flight, new and old. I remember him exclaiming, "Look at all those J2's (the iconic Piper Cub light airplane) down there!" He got really excited as we watched a friend of his enthusiastically demonstrating a restored WWII T-28, saying "Look at 'im, he's just GETTIN' it!" I could feel the elation in his heart, and though a partition separated us, I could hear his beaming smile. I sensed a nostalgia and perhaps a bit of envy as we watched the war bird buzz the crowd below.
Circling around to the end of the runway, Tom said, "I'll park it here, and you can get a shot of all the planes." I waited for us to 'park' when I suddenly realized a new definition of the word. Our 'parking space' was a good hundred feet off the ground.
A recent newspaper article about television helicopter pilots had mentioned that there was a certain "aura" about chopper pilots. A glamour. An exciting kind of confidence. Tom exuded such an air.
At the airshow, I had begun to shoot out the open side of the chopper, and discovered my seatbelt and safety line too restricting to frame the desired shot. In the most pilot-like delivery I could muster, I requested the carefully composed, "Can you rotate us counterclockwise about twenty degrees?" With a quick, "You got it, Babe," the maneuver was done. I felt an incredible sense of competence, of ability in this man. I knew that he could do whatever was required with sheer confidence.
On another assignment, Tom pointed out an apartment complex which we were approaching. He said, "That's my folks’ place down there. They usually come out when they hear me coming and wave..." He pointed out his parents’ patio and his father's car in the parking lot. We slowed a bit, but no waving figures appeared. "I guess they didn't hear me coming," he remorsed.
I thought about that remark as I drove home tonight. I thought about Tom's parents out on their patio, not able to hear him coming. That is when I decided to write something down.
It is now 4:45am. It is Wednesday, September 26th, 1984. Seven hours ago, Tom Haroski died. He was killed in a crash in that same helicopter in which we first met.
How he crashed and why seem unimportant now. The media for which we both worked will record that. I feel a deep regret that Tom's death must become part of that business. A business, ironically, in which such tragedy is its life's work.
Tom and I spent few hours together. Hardly enough, ordinarily, to be considered close friends. But I feel a terrible loss. A loss not only to myself, but to all those who knew Tom Haroski, for all those who knew him have lost a friend.
-Ellsworth Chou