Any pilot working in Zambia will know how quickly a violent storm can blow up. I found this poem, written by my older bro when he was 15. Living in Zambia, and at boarding school in England, we would fly back and forth six times a year. The inland flights were nearly always scary during the rainy season:
THE KITWE FLIGHT
The weather wasn't perfect, but the tower thought it right,
That we should make this journey(the beginning of our night)
The passage should take near an hour, by turbo jet, of course,
But ours was an old plane and the weather getting worse.
The take off wasn't too bad, a little bumpy, though,
And everything was going well for half an hour or so.
Then suddenly we hit the rain as if a solid wall
Our old machine it shuddered and we feared lest it should stall.
But the pilot used his skill and climbed a thousand feet
To try and get above the storm as each gripped fast his seat.
But still the gale was raging, too high for us to go
It reduced our speed to walking pace thus making progress slow.
Lightning lit the outside world, showing a terrible scene.
A tiny girl towards the back let out a tiny scream.
I cant say that I blamed her, it gave me quite a scare
To see the whirling torrent, I wondered how we'd fare.
For in those awful seconds, hell surely was displayed,
And I could see the hostess was more than just dismayed.
A description of the clouds outside I simply cannot tell,
Like giant augers, swiping, at our tiny shell.
A gloomy sight, with little light, mixed up a thousand greys,
A million streaming corridors, pointing a million different ways.
The clouds were not woth silver lined, but with a darker hue,
Blacks and purples everywhere, but not a sign of blue.
The raindrops fired against the wings, we felt as in a cage,
They beat against the windows, too, in their stormy rage.
The plane dipped down into a dive and then rose up again
Thor tried his best to bring us down, but tried his best in vain.
For however old our vessel was, it flew on through the night
Down again and up once more, from right, to left, to right.
Then suddenly it was over, not a sign of it was here,
The very end of our ordeal, the end of all our fear.
The lights of Kitwe shone below, meaning minutes to the end.
Beleive me, I was quite afraid, on that I won't pretend.