N339L

In the Aero L-39 Albatros, the passenger sits slightly above the pilot, close enough to watch their hands move across the instruments. For this and a few other reasons, the L-39 has remained one of the most popular fighter trainers since the end of the Cold War. The Czech-made aircraft carries the unfortunate name Albatros, though pilots find it nimble and forgiving. All except the stock engine, which must be discarded after heavy use. Replacement parts are difficult to find, so most owners simply accept this peculiar disposability and replace the engine early in its life. The aircraft has developed a reputation among enthusiasts as a top-notch aerobatic plane and are often seen at experimental air shows like the one last week in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.

On the morning of July 21st, 2025, an Albatros with the tail number N339L left Alpine, Wyoming, from a private airstrip near the home my friend David had just moved into. David was a talented engineer and startup founder who found success young and spent the rest of his life giving back. He was constantly starting new ventures, investing in other entrepreneurs (myself included), and living the kind of life you hope you’d live if things went your way.

You never went hungry when you were with David. He was the type of person who would order one of everything off the menu so we could savor the entire experience. And there was always another trip, another adventure, another long, meandering voice note about the next business venture.

He was an experienced pilot with hundreds of hours logged, but on this trip, he was the passenger, suited up, wearing a breather, as required above 10,000 feet (the L-39 has a pressurized ceiling). He was excited to board the navy blue jet, with a serifed number three painted across the fuselage.

They flew east all morning. The sun passed directly overhead, and they kept going. They stopped for fuel twice. The second stop was in Watertown, South Dakota, where they filled the external tanks for the last leg to Oshkosh. They planned to arrive at Fond du Lac County Airport, Wisconsin in the evening.

Twelve minutes after takeoff, they reached a cruising altitude of 20,000 feet when David and the pilot, Mark, smelled smoke, heard a bang, and lost their only engine.

Well-maintained, the original L-39 engines can last up to 10,000 hours, but because of the aircraft’s maintenance challenges, engine failure isn’t uncommon. David and Mark were both experienced flyers. They had a plan and a backup plan. When the engine gave out just after 5 p.m. local time, near Granite Falls, Minnesota, they radioed in and began a deadstick descent, dropping below the cloud cover at 14,000 feet in a controlled, if speedy descent.

When the airstrip came into view, it became clear they wouldn’t make it. They shifted to Plan B.

The L-39 is equipped with two rocket-propelled ejection seats. Mark’s worked. David’s didn’t.

Until the official report is released, that’s all we know about the last day of David’s life. He was excited. He was happy. He was prepared.

Thankfully, we know a lot more about the 49 years before because David made memories.

I first met David on a trip to Bali, and we bonded quickly because he's easy to bond with. He was attentive and asked probing questions. He had a swift and witty sense of humor that was disarming.

David wasn’t just an engineer or a founder or a pilot. He was a brother, a son, an uncle, a nephew. And when I say he wasn't just a friend, I mean he was the person who quietly held everything together. He was the one behind the group threads, the calendar invites, the travel plans. The one who kept up with the people you meant to. I knew him through Amy, technically, but I never once felt like a tagalong. He had a way of folding people in without making a show of it.

He was the kind of friend you could ask a favor from and get a yes before you finished the question. He was generous and thoughtful. He paid attention. He had a near-superhuman ability to realize when he’d said too much or taken up too much space. And when he did, he would stop, apologize, and then do something about it.

He knew that emotional intelligence wasn’t something you were born with. It was something you had to practice. And he practiced more than most.

He was steady when the moment called for it. Honest when it mattered. Critical, but careful. He questioned everything except your value. And he never left you hanging.

He became one of my main confidants during my last round of fundraising and was always willing to admit when he wasn’t the best resource, despite almost always being the best resource. Never once did he get annoyed with a late-night voice note or an inexperienced question. I sent more questions than I needed answered. The truth is, I just felt better when I ran things by him.

These weren’t just personality quirks. They were the tools David used to keep people connected. That’s why he had so many friends. I think that’s part of why this loss feels so devastating. And I can’t even claim to be one of his closest friends. There are plenty who were far closer and are hurting in ways I can’t fully understand. But I also know there are people like me — people on the periphery who’ve lost their connector and confidant. Their friend and supporter.

In losing him, we’ll all have to work harder. We’ll have to stay connected in ways that used to come easily, because David was the one holding us together.

So when we attend his memorial in the coming weeks, it will of course be a somber occasion. But it will also be a party. We’ll make new memories while we reflect on the ones we made with him. We’ll take plenty of photos. We’ll start WhatsApp groups and promise to stay in better touch. We’ll try to maintain the connections that used to come effortlessly, because David was the one who made them feel effortless. We'll tell stories that make us laugh until we cry, the way David would have wanted.

That's his legacy. Not just the memories he made, but all the memories he made possible for the rest of us. And the ones he’s still making, through the people he brought together.

In memory of David Colin Dacus, 1976-2025

Photo Credit: Morgan Kaplan, David’s niece.