I've known Des for a short time (six or so years) and recognised one of aviation's heroes.
He didn't break records and get tickertape parades; he was a quiet hero.
He loved that old aeroplane and shared her with all who shared that love.
An old bloke once stated about vintage car buffs, " There's the goers and there's the showers".
Des was definitely a goer. He didn't have a rope around his aeroplane with signs saying 'NO closer'.
He let us smell her. All older aeroplanes have their own smell.
Old and bold pilots can be led to an aeroplane blindfolded and told to sniff. They'll announce, Tiger Moth, Chippy or DC-3 or whatever, soon enough.
Des shared her with us all. We could go and sit in the cockpit and see what it was like for those pilots who went before us and were stoked to get command of a twin.
He was ready to take people up for a fly whenever he had time.
I went twice. First time was with my cousin who had never been in a Dragon and always wanted to, my son whose grandfather had many hours in them, a mate who's 'first time up' had been in a Dragon when he was a little kid and wanted to relive the thrill, as I did.
As an eight and nine year old, I'd sat on my old man's lap in one and 'flown the plane' on a few occasions. We'd chased emus and dingos on one trip.
Des didn't just take us up for a fly; he gave us options as to what we wanted to see. The three older blokes had seen Brissy from the air hundreds of times, so Des rang a mate and checked he was at home and the state of his strip and took us there.
Two takeoffs and landings as well as a spin up the Wivenhoe, over Watts Bridge and the top end of the Somerset dam and home.
He charged only what it cost and I know the total we paid wasn't what it cost to operate her.
We returned to the halcyon days of aviation, listening to a couple of Gypsies gurgling along at 1900 RPM. We looked through vibration wires and stands of struts. The ground wasn't far below and it oozed along at a sedate 90, so we could really see what was happening on the ground. A farmer looked up while driving his tractor and waved.
We dropped in to 'a paddick with a bit of a strip near the fence'. It had white painted tires delineating the edges and worn grass to show where aircraft taxied off.
We were welcomed by a few aviation types and invited under a haus wind for a cuppa and some bickies.
Naturally flying and aeroplanes were discussed and there were a couple of soppy dogs needin' a pat and more importantly, any spare bits of biscuit.
The cat put in an appearance and looked us over. We were deemed OK, so were permitted to stand still and get our legs rubbed against.
After the cuppa, we wandered around looking in hangars at a marvellous array of interesting aeroplanes from rag and tube to the latest plastic technology.
The flight took an hour but it was most of a morning that we got the nostalgic whiffs of avgas exhaust, leather seats, doped fabric and country air.
We got stuck in and were allowed to help fold the wings back against the airframe, attach tow bars and carefully manoeuvre the old red girl back into the hangar and get the wheels over the dots on the hangar floor.
Unlike the costly, regimented experience of a commercial operation, we felt part of laid back owner operations. Three of us were logbook fillers with totals of thousands of hours and were as chuffed as we were back in the day when a four seater was a big deal.
I rounded up five more people for a repeat performance a couple of years later and they were stoked.
A mate told me that he went for a fly in Riama at Toowoomba. Thirty five to forty minutes and Des wouldn't take any money for the flight. They pressed paper in his hands and he said, "I'll bung it in my Flying Doctor kick".
That was Des... a sharer and carer.
Aviation will be poorer for the loss of a great bloke and I guess Riama will go to Moth Care or another restorer for a rebuild.
I certainly hope so and will bung my hand in my pocket if needed to, to resurrect her as a monument to Des Porter and his dad.