I miss flying. Must be 15 years since I was on a plane. I used to do it several times a year, from the islands to the mainland, and every time thought it a thrill.
It began when I was in the Air Training Corps as a lad. Not that I wanted to be a pilot. My ambition was to be an RAF storeman, giving out helmets, screwdrivers, nasal hair trimmers and so forth.
Reared on the romance of the RAF in war films, I just wanted to be a part of it, a member of a ready-made community with a noble purpose and, best of all, with a canteen, as I’ve always loved institution food.
Two-seater Chipmunks
In those days, they took us up in little two-seater Chipmunks. We sat in the rear, having waddled across the runway with a seat-cum-parachute attached to our bottoms.
Nothing much happened on the flights. We went up. We came doon. But I loved it all.
Once, I was also in a glider, freewheeling silently over the patchwork Yorkshire fields near RAF Catterick. Closest I’ve ever come to being an eagle, other when I make screeching noises.
One time, coming down from the isles at Christmas, I was the only passenger, so the crew invited me to the cockpit. Man, I loved the panoramic view and just the feeling of making our way through the air.
I enjoyed too when the pilot saw our city destination and turned towards it. I like to remember imaginatively that he said, “There it is over there!”, and veered accordingly.
Cargo plane not so much fun
One thing I never liked was travelling in the plane we called a “Skyvan”. Originally a cargo plane, its atmosphere was not decompressed.
This used to play havoc with what I thought was the bone structure of my face. On one occasion, I thought my coupon was going to explode. Only recently, I learned that I have sinus problems, and that these undoubtedly caused the pain.
On another occasion, I was left hard of hearing until I blew my nose a day after landing and, suddenly, could hear crystal-clear again.
I never felt any trepidation flying, except once, on a flight to Foula, a remote island off the mainland of Shetland, for a news story.
Nothing until America
The plane was tiny and the ocean huge and, apart from Foula, there was nothing between us and America. I felt … vulnerable.
I wish we’d an airport where I live currently. I do dislike long drives. And I haven’t been abroad since that trip 15 years ago, to a mate’s wedding.
I’ve just been reading that poorer people cannot afford to fly now because of all the taxes. That’s another reason not to indulge my former passion at present.
Also, I came to dislike the modern rigmarole of airports. Once, I saw an island security man asking his crofter neighbour next door to take off her shoes in case they contained explosives.
That said, I still get excited when an unusual aircraft flies overhead. I rush to the window for a look, being particularly thrilled when it’s the RAF.
I feel a nagging doubt about loving warplanes, but these ones are here to protect us, with the pilots kept fully equipped by their noble storemen.
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