Patrick and John learned to fly last Summer in Vancouver. I was very afraid that they were learning to fly. I was very afraid that anything would happen to them. However I never once tried to stop them.
At this stage I can recognise when I’m unlikely to win.
Last September I spent a great week with Patrick in Vancouver. Patrick was at the final stages of his pilot’s licence and was all organised to take me up flying. I was scared, but with much ‘power of positive thinking’ and all that, I was bracing myself. Yes I would go up with him in the tin can, aka small plane.
The week went on, Patrick took his mock exam, all was perfect. Day of real exam came. Consternation, radio licence and medical cert could not be found. Though they said otherwise, Patrick and Brian (friend with whom he shared apartment), blamed me. Not overtly but I knew they felt I had ‘mislaid’ them as I tidied away some stuff. I protested (to deaf ears). No exam, no flight possible for Mum.
Very relieved Mum.
Paperwork later turned up at airport, but only after I was safely back in Ireland!
I referred to this essay which John wrote a few weeks ago. It really explains his love of flying.
The perfect place is a bit of a cliche. We all expect it to be a quiet, lonely refuge. A haunt where we can escape from the stresses of modern life by immersing ourselves in nature and isolation. A secret place, which nobody else knows. I refuse to take part in this stereotype. My place is noisy – so noisy, in fact, that local residents have been known to complain. It smells of various flammable chemicals (avgas, diesel, oil), which are wafted and spread by the fuel truck which trundles by at regular intervals. It is unsafe – you’re far more likely to have an accident here than in any tranquil meadow. It’s busy – everyone has an agenda; and the air is full of constant hurried dialogue. My refuge is an airport.
Not of course, Dublin Airport or anything like that. No, I spent a large chunk of time last summer flying small planes at a quiet general aviation spot called Boundary Bay Airport in British Columbia, Canada, (or CZBB as we affectionately called it). In theory, it shouldn’t be relaxing. The constant over-and-back of the ATC channel rings through your ears as you fill out flight plan forms. Out on the apron, you have to keep your wits about you to avoid being run over by that guy in the Piper Seneca. In the air, you have to avoid infringing five different airspaces and keep well out of the way of the business jets and King Air turboprops. Yes, an airport definitely should not be relaxing. But it is.
When you enter the main building, you are met with a hive of activity. Students are chasing after instructors, families are waiting to go up for the first time, receptionists are fighting a losing battle against an eager phonebank and mechanics are rushing by looking for people and parts. A radio sits on the desk, tuned to the fuel frequency, “Bay Fuel, this is Sealand Echo Mike Lima requesting full tanks, over”. This chatter is a reassuring sound. You fill out a flight plan form and file it with the national transport agency. If you don’t return after your intended time, they’ll start worrying about you. That’s one of the reasons this is the perfect place – everybody’s looking out for you – the transport agency, the air traffic control (ATC), the flying club, even fellow pilots. It’s a close-knit community where care and compassion are key.
You walk out onto the apron. The image in front of you – rows and rows of small planes resting neatly in place – reminds you of Spitfires on a grass strip in World War II. The fueller is filling you up and you salute him. He finishes and trundles on his merry way. Time for the pre-flight inspection – you must personally ensure the craft is airworthy before flight. You run your hands over the wings – your searching caress is ensuring there are no nicks or dents. You take a fuel sample from the tanks to examine it for sediment. Holding it up to the sunlight, the bright blue nonviscous liquid glistens like a Caribbean sea in a travel brochure. You open the engine cowling and check the oil level – because aeroplane engines working at full capacity constantly they use oil at a much faster rate than cars. You stomp on the tyres, ensuring full pressure. Runways are generally not potholed so this is seldom a problem! Satisfied that the craft won’t fall out of the sky (at least, not without provocation), you climb in.
This is where the freedom truly begins. Sitting in that seat, feet resting in anticipation on the pedals, the world’s your oyster. Well, anywhere within a 400 nautical mile radius. You sigh contentedly, and look at your instruments. The dashboard clock ticks on, urging you to act. The small plane representing your angle on the attitude indicator mocks your hesitancy. You sigh once more, plug in your headset and begin to speak: “Bay Ground, this is Cessna 152 Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. On apron requesting taxi for local east departure”. “Whisky Tango Foxtrot, set altimeter 29.95, taxi via echo for departure on two-five”. That patter is music to your ears. You turn the keys and the propeller comes to life with a throaty splutter. Creeping along the scenic taxiway Echo, you take in the Search and Rescue helicopter, the World War Two-era former Royal Canadian Air Force hangar, the mechanics resuscitating a vintage P-51. Caught up in your thoughts, you’re in the queue for the runway before you know it.
Butterflies set in now – not from nervousness, but anticipation. These butterflies want to be set free. The three planes ahead of you squeeze out whenever there’s a gap in the sequence of planes landing. Soon, it’s your turn. Your feet on the brakes, you hold just short of the yellow line that separates the taxiway from the runway. You’re waiting for the call; the blessing from the man in the tower. A Citation Mustang lands, then a Diamond Katana, then a 182. The circuit’s busy today – will you ever get a chance. Right before self-pity can seep in, there’s a rush of static: “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, cleared for take-off on runway 25. No delay.” There’s no fear of a delay anyway. The message has barely ended and the brakes are off, throttle applied and you swing round the corner. Four thousand feet of tarmac lie ahead of you, and in these few short seconds, it’s all yours. The throttle goes in all the way, and you watch the airspeed indicator creep up. Thirty knots, forty, fifty knots! You increase backward pressure on the stick.
Despite being a major event, you never notice the take-off. You’re engrossed in speeds, angles and controls. Only when you feel safe do you lift your head and realize you’re one hundred feet off the ground. The next few minutes are comprised of stressful and delicate navigation of the airport’s only traffic artery. At five hundred feet, you turn parallel to the runway. At eight hundred you switch radio frequencies. At one thousand, you make another turn. You fiddle with instruments, knowing you’re almost liberated. As the flaps are coming up, the controller says what every pilot loves to hear, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, clear to the east. Have a nice day”. That’s it. You’re out of the airport, off his books. Before, you were following a pattern to leave the airfield safely. Now, you can go where you like. The sky is yours.
Things look different from the air. Motorways are narrow and slow. Houses are uniform and uninspired. Ships are like arrows in slow motion – their wake revealing their fixed unwavering determination in one direction. But more importantly, it alters your perspective. The road network portrays humans as a hustling, bustling mob, who never sit back and reflect on life that they are so focused on. You wonder why the natural beauty of the mountains and lakes is neglected by virtually all, who prefer to frequent the cinema, mall and racetrack. Of course, you were once like them. You once hustled and bustled. You came flying with a checklist of places you wanted to visit and overfly. But now, that list is long forgotten. You are a soaring eagle, and eagles don’t do sightseeing. You go where your emotions take you.
As the sun threatens to set, you realise it’s time to head back. You follow the earmarks, make a call to ATC and join the traffic circuit. The plane’s shadow appears long and distorted on the runway. You pull out the throttle at five hundred feet and the engine idles as you float down to ground. Just before impact, you flare to soften the landing. The wheels kiss the ground welcoming their trusted friend. You glance at the dashboard clock as you float along and realise that only an hour has passed since you entered the plane. Flying has the ability to distort time and stretch space. You forget your stresses, worries and fears. You find a hitherto-undiscovered freedom that comes with the ability to transverse all three dimensions. And as you step out of the plane and tie it down, you realise that the only thought in your head is when you can go up in the air again.
