Centaurus Tall Tails.
Thread Starter
TEN TONNES AND HOLD THE POTION.
Normally I am not superstitious. Well, maybe just a little. OK, I avoid walking under ladders, I am tempted to throw salt over my left shoulder and I certainly touch wood. Yes, I believe rats will leave a sinking ship – but wouldn’t you?
In the Pacific islands superstition is rife. A former airline pilot I know has lived on a tiny Pacific island for 29 years. He is unemployed, does not have citizenship but the government let him stay there with free housing. He keeps fit by running around the island and the locals accept him as one of their own. Let’s call him Bill, although that is not his real name.
Bill joined the local airline around 1977 and elected to be based there on the island rather than in Australia. It was tax free, accommodation provided and his contract included free medical and hospital services. The money was good and because there was little to spend it on, his bank account grew nicely. In 1988 the airline’s 30 Australian based pilots went on strike over pay and conditions of service and perceived safety issues. At that time, only four pilots lived on the island. Their salary was tax free, the booze plentiful and cheap and it was pleasant life style. The airline flew to exotic destinations such as Hong Kong and Honolulu and the flight attendants who lived on the island were good company.
The government of the island made a lot of money from natural resources and they owned ships and several Boeings. They named these ships and Boeings after island chiefs. One ship was destined for the ship-breakers in Taiwan as it was going to cost a mint to renew the sea-worthy certificate. It had been found un-seaworthy by the local authorities of another island 500 miles away who prevented it from leaving their harbour. The vessel was named after an eminent lady of the rich island who was still alive but very old. The superstitious islanders considered it bad luck to get rid of the ship while the old lady was still around. So it was left at anchor in the lagoon with a skeleton crew aboard to run the generators and pump out sea water. They had no shortage of girl-friends with whom to enjoy the warm nights. This went on for several years when eventually the old lady went to Heaven and the ship was towed to Taiwan and sold for scrap metal.
The islanders who lived on the rich island were grateful when the four pilots who lived on the island refused to join the strike. The government refused to bow to the pilot’s demands and their contracts were terminated, leaving just four pilots and three Boeings. More pilots were recruited this time from India and essential services resumed. Food supplies and other goods were flown from Australia.
Although unpopular with their colleagues in Australia the four remaining pilots who lived on the island were heroes in the eyes of the government and the people. Time passed and these pilots themselves moved on, leaving Bill as the last of the original pilots that manned the airline in 1977.
Perceived by some as eccentric, Bill clashed with the wrong person and was removed from flying in 1992. In a similar position, other expatriate workers on the island would have deported by the government on the first plane out. The turn-over of qualified expatriates had historically been high. Cross the wrong island official and you were out, fast.
Although Bill did not know it, he was regarded by a grateful government as the last of the Mohicians – the band of four pilots who had remained with the airline. It would bring bad luck to sack him. Financially he was secure, living on investments and bank interest made during his airline years. With the island’s natural resources drying up there was no more money coming in and the once rich islanders became poor. The government was broke and so was the bank that had Bill’s money. Despite numerous changes of government, none were game to deport Bill back to Australia. The decision had long been made to let Bill stay as long as he wished. Such is the power of superstition.
In the early 1980’s the airline’s Boeings were landing on islands in Micronesia, the Marshalls, the Carolines and the Solomons. Guam, Saipan, Chuuk (Truk), and Koror in Palau were popular destinations for Japanese tourists in particular. Flight attendants of the airline were recruited from several Pacific islands. Each brought with them individual superstitions common to their own country.
One particular flight attendant from Malaita Island in the Solomons, was feared by her colleagues because Malaita, a mountainous jungle covered island, had an evil reputation for black magic and sorcerers. Playing on their fears, this attractive dark skinned young woman let it be known she possessed certain magic powers and that unless the other flight attendants “volunteered” to do her flights, she would eat their eyeballs while they slept. It worked, because she rarely flew and spent much of her time relaxing on the beach on full pay. Not bad if you can get away with it..
The power of superstitious beliefs, on one island at least, is well illustrated by the two preceding stories. The next story however is about my own clash with superstition and starts on a balmy evening at the bar of the Hilton Hotel in Guam. Our crew had arrived from Hong Kong and were relaxing before resuming duty next day. Some had gone shopping, others were sleeping, and I was reading a book by the pool when I was joined by Henrietta, a air hostess from the Micronesian atoll of Chuuk. In those days it was called Truk and the title of air hostess has been long replaced by the more neutral term Flight Attendant, or FA for short.
Henrietta isn’t her real name, but close enough for the purpose of this story. She was attractive with laid back manner. Where possible the airline rostered the FA’s through their home islands. Some had children there and of course, relatives. In the islands everyone is a cousin. When passing through Truk on previous occasions I had seen two small children waiting for Henrietta behind the airport security fence and as she stepped from the aircraft they would wave and call out to her. The Immigration staff knew her well and allowed the children into the terminal building to greet her.
On the following day we were scheduled to return to our home island via Truk and Ponape and I asked Henrietta about the two children at Truk airport. They belonged to her, she said, and always met the inbound Boeing in the hope their mother would on it. During the Pacific war, Truk was a Japanese military base and the target of constant air attacks by American bombers. After the war Truk Lagoon became a popular destination for dive parties eager to explore the many sunken Japanese ships.
With two children, I assumed therefore that Henrietta was married although she certainly had no shortage of suitors among the airline pilots. When asked for how long she had been married, she replied quite simply that she was still single. I could understand one child for a single mother, but how come two – I asked. She had no choice – it was black magic, she replied.
You must be kidding, I said – You are an intelligent woman, how did you fall for that line? At that Henrietta got quite huffy and scolded me for laughing at her. I was fascinated and after I bought her a drink, she told me this story.
She was sweet sixteen and living with her parents and many sisters and brothers. A local lad was keen on her but she was too naive to know that he only wanted one thing. She told him to get lost. One night, after her parents had retired, she thought she heard a quiet knock on her bedroom window. Unlatching it, she became aware of a strange compelling scent wafting from a figure crouching in the shadows outside. It was the man who had wanted to marry her. The Trukese are a superstitious race and Henrietta had been brought up by her mother to believe in the power of love potions, as well antidotes to dilute their effect if forewarned. But now she had been caught unawares.
She knew immediately her suitor must sailed away to one of the outer islands and from someone dealing in black magic, had obtained a love potion. Her mind in a hypnotic daze, she soon succumbed to his advances, while as far as the suitor was concerned, the canoe trip over rough seas to get the potion was worth every penny – or US dollar. Twice Henrietta fell pregnant before the spell wore off leaving the boyfriend to try his luck elsewhere.
Her story intrigued me and back on base I talked to Pamela, an island lady married to an Australian surveyor. I told her of my conversation with Henrietta. She was not surprised and explained that superstitions had existed all over the Pacific for centuries. She herself believed implicitly in certain events, despite being educated in Australia where magic spells are unheard of. But, she said, when sensing I was more than casually interested in this love potion thing – take my advice and never stuff around with black magic, because it can turn around and bite you. Meaning of course it can bring bad luck as well as good luck.
The potion concerned is gathered in a small phial and rubbed into the skin. Once the object of desire is aware of it’s scent it is only a matter of time before you are in like Flynn – that was according to Freddie our Trukese refueller, when I asked him during my next flight there.
A few weeks later I was in Hong Kong and bought some Brute after-shave. Back again on my island after dropping into Guam and Truk, I hitched a lift to Pamela’s house with goodies from overseas including fruit, veggies and magazines for her husband in return for lunch and a beer. Apart from driving aimlessly around the island clockwise and then counter-clockwise, there was little to do, and to remain sane, pilots would drop in on expatriate friends with goodies and news of the outer world. In turn, the families would welcome the pilots with open arms and something to eat. The local hotel where they stayed had food, but the mice would piddle into the flour and all that sort of thing.
Possessed with an unfortunate warped sense of humour, I had sprinkled after-shave on my arm ( it was good for keeping the mossies away) and when Pamela opened the door I waved my arm in front of her and said in a deep down south voice “Hi Sweetie, what do you think of love potion No.1” All in absolute jest, I might add.
Of course, she was a happily married woman I had known for years and I was practically one of the family. But, she was still a Pacific islander and superstitious. She recoiled in horror and quickly backed away from me. OK, so the Brute aftershave was a bit overpowering, but I was staggered at her response. I tried to explain lamely it was only a joke but it took a while before she calmed down. Even then it was obvious the joke had gone badly wrong. She warned me that islanders never joke about superstition, and that I was playing with fire. This well educated woman who had lived in Australia with her husband and her two attractive daughters, one married to an Australian policeman – clearly still retained deep superstitions from her island culture. Her warning of bad luck was to haunt me within weeks.
It was time of political instability in the government and mutterings in Cabinet about a huge budget deficit. The airline was losing big money and there was ominous rumours of crews being laid off. My seniority in the airline assured my security of tenure – or so I thought at the time.
I was back at Truk a few days later, watching Henrietta cuddle her two adoring children, and I thought maybe the love potion had brought her eventual bundles of joy regardless of the original carnal intent. In those days the internet had not yet arrived so let me fast forward to 2006 and type into Google, the words “Chuuk Love Potions”. Time can play tricks with one’s memory and I confess to sometimes wondering if things really did happen as I remembered it, or was it all the result of my vivid imagination. One site said it all - and I quote:
“Of all the islands scattered throughout the Western Pacific, none is more famous than the Micronesian island of Chuuk for magic spells and potions, especially for potions. The love potions are said to give the powerful attraction needed to attract and hold the object of one’s affection”. So there it was in a nutshell – or maybe a phial?
The last of the passengers were boarding and Heneritta was waving a sad farewell to her offspring. I signed the refueling docket and beckoned slyly to Freddy, the refueller. Slipping him a bottle of duty free from Guam I asked him if it was true that a love potion could guarantee a successful seduction. Of course, captain – he replied. It never fails. Do you want some? Cost you fifty bucks. A swift glance around and I slipped $50 US into his hand and told him I would be back in a couple of weeks. He gave me a wink and said he would have it ready by then.
Now in case you get the wrong idea, my plan was to surprise my ever-loving spouse with the love potion. I can hear you say that you may believe me, but thousands wouldn’t. God’s truth, so help me.
I flew down to Melbourne a few days later. I imagined the love potion was being brewed on some remote outer island of Micronesia and would be carried by outrigger canoe to Truk in time for my next trip. My wife had always hinted she would prefer something of many carats value from overseas as a surprise gift. I had other ideas…
I was having breakfast and reading the paper when there was a phone call from the chief pilot on the island. Fifteen pilots have been retrenched as from today and you are one of them – said the curt voice. Island politics are one thing, but pilot politics can be vicious especially when it comes to who stays and who goes. In short, I was now unemployed. Pamela’s words of warning about playing with the fire of black magic had come to haunt me. I touched wood to break the spell but that didn’t work and I rued the day I talked to Freddie the refueller from Truk.
Two years passed and I drove taxis and became a poorly paid flying instructor. Nearing sixty I was too old for the airlines in Australia. The thought of a career cut short, depressed the hell out of me. Since leaving the airline I had kept in touch with Pamela and her husband and with other islander friends. Perhaps it was out of nostalgia for the good times, rather than anything else. Back on the island the budget was balanced and within a month of being retrenched, the pilots had their jobs back – all except those who had crossed the airline management’s A team.
At home in Melbourne 3000 miles away from the island, the phone rang. It was the island’s Director of Civil Aviation. There had been a change of management and would I like to come back and fly for the airline again? Pamela and her island friends had put in a good word on my behalf and the President of the island had given the nod. It had taken two years for the black cloud of depression to be lifted and I was elated at the prospect of flying a Boeing again.
Within weeks I was back at Truk. Henrietta had long since left the airline and was now happily married to an Australian engineer who welcomed her children as his own. Freddie the refueller was there, connecting the hose as I walked towards him with a bottle of duty free. He was delighted to see me and remembered my name, asking how much fuel I needed. It was dark with lightning on the horizon and I needed enough to get through to my island plus diversion fuel at this time of the year. I had long since forgotten about the love potion that cost me fifty green-backs.
Freddie hadn’t forgotten, though, and asking me where I had been all this time, he added he still had the potion at home waiting to give it to me. I thought of my loving wife and figured giving her carats would be safer. I wasn’t superstitious, I told myself but nevertheless I wanted nothing to do with the bloody love potion. In any case, one could never be sure if bad luck really exists and I wasn’t willing to take the chance. Once burnt, twice shy was my motto.
“ Thanks for the offer Freddie” I said – “Just give me ten tonnes of fuel and hold the potion…. “
Normally I am not superstitious. Well, maybe just a little. OK, I avoid walking under ladders, I am tempted to throw salt over my left shoulder and I certainly touch wood. Yes, I believe rats will leave a sinking ship – but wouldn’t you?
In the Pacific islands superstition is rife. A former airline pilot I know has lived on a tiny Pacific island for 29 years. He is unemployed, does not have citizenship but the government let him stay there with free housing. He keeps fit by running around the island and the locals accept him as one of their own. Let’s call him Bill, although that is not his real name.
Bill joined the local airline around 1977 and elected to be based there on the island rather than in Australia. It was tax free, accommodation provided and his contract included free medical and hospital services. The money was good and because there was little to spend it on, his bank account grew nicely. In 1988 the airline’s 30 Australian based pilots went on strike over pay and conditions of service and perceived safety issues. At that time, only four pilots lived on the island. Their salary was tax free, the booze plentiful and cheap and it was pleasant life style. The airline flew to exotic destinations such as Hong Kong and Honolulu and the flight attendants who lived on the island were good company.
The government of the island made a lot of money from natural resources and they owned ships and several Boeings. They named these ships and Boeings after island chiefs. One ship was destined for the ship-breakers in Taiwan as it was going to cost a mint to renew the sea-worthy certificate. It had been found un-seaworthy by the local authorities of another island 500 miles away who prevented it from leaving their harbour. The vessel was named after an eminent lady of the rich island who was still alive but very old. The superstitious islanders considered it bad luck to get rid of the ship while the old lady was still around. So it was left at anchor in the lagoon with a skeleton crew aboard to run the generators and pump out sea water. They had no shortage of girl-friends with whom to enjoy the warm nights. This went on for several years when eventually the old lady went to Heaven and the ship was towed to Taiwan and sold for scrap metal.
The islanders who lived on the rich island were grateful when the four pilots who lived on the island refused to join the strike. The government refused to bow to the pilot’s demands and their contracts were terminated, leaving just four pilots and three Boeings. More pilots were recruited this time from India and essential services resumed. Food supplies and other goods were flown from Australia.
Although unpopular with their colleagues in Australia the four remaining pilots who lived on the island were heroes in the eyes of the government and the people. Time passed and these pilots themselves moved on, leaving Bill as the last of the original pilots that manned the airline in 1977.
Perceived by some as eccentric, Bill clashed with the wrong person and was removed from flying in 1992. In a similar position, other expatriate workers on the island would have deported by the government on the first plane out. The turn-over of qualified expatriates had historically been high. Cross the wrong island official and you were out, fast.
Although Bill did not know it, he was regarded by a grateful government as the last of the Mohicians – the band of four pilots who had remained with the airline. It would bring bad luck to sack him. Financially he was secure, living on investments and bank interest made during his airline years. With the island’s natural resources drying up there was no more money coming in and the once rich islanders became poor. The government was broke and so was the bank that had Bill’s money. Despite numerous changes of government, none were game to deport Bill back to Australia. The decision had long been made to let Bill stay as long as he wished. Such is the power of superstition.
In the early 1980’s the airline’s Boeings were landing on islands in Micronesia, the Marshalls, the Carolines and the Solomons. Guam, Saipan, Chuuk (Truk), and Koror in Palau were popular destinations for Japanese tourists in particular. Flight attendants of the airline were recruited from several Pacific islands. Each brought with them individual superstitions common to their own country.
One particular flight attendant from Malaita Island in the Solomons, was feared by her colleagues because Malaita, a mountainous jungle covered island, had an evil reputation for black magic and sorcerers. Playing on their fears, this attractive dark skinned young woman let it be known she possessed certain magic powers and that unless the other flight attendants “volunteered” to do her flights, she would eat their eyeballs while they slept. It worked, because she rarely flew and spent much of her time relaxing on the beach on full pay. Not bad if you can get away with it..
The power of superstitious beliefs, on one island at least, is well illustrated by the two preceding stories. The next story however is about my own clash with superstition and starts on a balmy evening at the bar of the Hilton Hotel in Guam. Our crew had arrived from Hong Kong and were relaxing before resuming duty next day. Some had gone shopping, others were sleeping, and I was reading a book by the pool when I was joined by Henrietta, a air hostess from the Micronesian atoll of Chuuk. In those days it was called Truk and the title of air hostess has been long replaced by the more neutral term Flight Attendant, or FA for short.
Henrietta isn’t her real name, but close enough for the purpose of this story. She was attractive with laid back manner. Where possible the airline rostered the FA’s through their home islands. Some had children there and of course, relatives. In the islands everyone is a cousin. When passing through Truk on previous occasions I had seen two small children waiting for Henrietta behind the airport security fence and as she stepped from the aircraft they would wave and call out to her. The Immigration staff knew her well and allowed the children into the terminal building to greet her.
On the following day we were scheduled to return to our home island via Truk and Ponape and I asked Henrietta about the two children at Truk airport. They belonged to her, she said, and always met the inbound Boeing in the hope their mother would on it. During the Pacific war, Truk was a Japanese military base and the target of constant air attacks by American bombers. After the war Truk Lagoon became a popular destination for dive parties eager to explore the many sunken Japanese ships.
With two children, I assumed therefore that Henrietta was married although she certainly had no shortage of suitors among the airline pilots. When asked for how long she had been married, she replied quite simply that she was still single. I could understand one child for a single mother, but how come two – I asked. She had no choice – it was black magic, she replied.
You must be kidding, I said – You are an intelligent woman, how did you fall for that line? At that Henrietta got quite huffy and scolded me for laughing at her. I was fascinated and after I bought her a drink, she told me this story.
She was sweet sixteen and living with her parents and many sisters and brothers. A local lad was keen on her but she was too naive to know that he only wanted one thing. She told him to get lost. One night, after her parents had retired, she thought she heard a quiet knock on her bedroom window. Unlatching it, she became aware of a strange compelling scent wafting from a figure crouching in the shadows outside. It was the man who had wanted to marry her. The Trukese are a superstitious race and Henrietta had been brought up by her mother to believe in the power of love potions, as well antidotes to dilute their effect if forewarned. But now she had been caught unawares.
She knew immediately her suitor must sailed away to one of the outer islands and from someone dealing in black magic, had obtained a love potion. Her mind in a hypnotic daze, she soon succumbed to his advances, while as far as the suitor was concerned, the canoe trip over rough seas to get the potion was worth every penny – or US dollar. Twice Henrietta fell pregnant before the spell wore off leaving the boyfriend to try his luck elsewhere.
Her story intrigued me and back on base I talked to Pamela, an island lady married to an Australian surveyor. I told her of my conversation with Henrietta. She was not surprised and explained that superstitions had existed all over the Pacific for centuries. She herself believed implicitly in certain events, despite being educated in Australia where magic spells are unheard of. But, she said, when sensing I was more than casually interested in this love potion thing – take my advice and never stuff around with black magic, because it can turn around and bite you. Meaning of course it can bring bad luck as well as good luck.
The potion concerned is gathered in a small phial and rubbed into the skin. Once the object of desire is aware of it’s scent it is only a matter of time before you are in like Flynn – that was according to Freddie our Trukese refueller, when I asked him during my next flight there.
A few weeks later I was in Hong Kong and bought some Brute after-shave. Back again on my island after dropping into Guam and Truk, I hitched a lift to Pamela’s house with goodies from overseas including fruit, veggies and magazines for her husband in return for lunch and a beer. Apart from driving aimlessly around the island clockwise and then counter-clockwise, there was little to do, and to remain sane, pilots would drop in on expatriate friends with goodies and news of the outer world. In turn, the families would welcome the pilots with open arms and something to eat. The local hotel where they stayed had food, but the mice would piddle into the flour and all that sort of thing.
Possessed with an unfortunate warped sense of humour, I had sprinkled after-shave on my arm ( it was good for keeping the mossies away) and when Pamela opened the door I waved my arm in front of her and said in a deep down south voice “Hi Sweetie, what do you think of love potion No.1” All in absolute jest, I might add.
Of course, she was a happily married woman I had known for years and I was practically one of the family. But, she was still a Pacific islander and superstitious. She recoiled in horror and quickly backed away from me. OK, so the Brute aftershave was a bit overpowering, but I was staggered at her response. I tried to explain lamely it was only a joke but it took a while before she calmed down. Even then it was obvious the joke had gone badly wrong. She warned me that islanders never joke about superstition, and that I was playing with fire. This well educated woman who had lived in Australia with her husband and her two attractive daughters, one married to an Australian policeman – clearly still retained deep superstitions from her island culture. Her warning of bad luck was to haunt me within weeks.
It was time of political instability in the government and mutterings in Cabinet about a huge budget deficit. The airline was losing big money and there was ominous rumours of crews being laid off. My seniority in the airline assured my security of tenure – or so I thought at the time.
I was back at Truk a few days later, watching Henrietta cuddle her two adoring children, and I thought maybe the love potion had brought her eventual bundles of joy regardless of the original carnal intent. In those days the internet had not yet arrived so let me fast forward to 2006 and type into Google, the words “Chuuk Love Potions”. Time can play tricks with one’s memory and I confess to sometimes wondering if things really did happen as I remembered it, or was it all the result of my vivid imagination. One site said it all - and I quote:
“Of all the islands scattered throughout the Western Pacific, none is more famous than the Micronesian island of Chuuk for magic spells and potions, especially for potions. The love potions are said to give the powerful attraction needed to attract and hold the object of one’s affection”. So there it was in a nutshell – or maybe a phial?
The last of the passengers were boarding and Heneritta was waving a sad farewell to her offspring. I signed the refueling docket and beckoned slyly to Freddy, the refueller. Slipping him a bottle of duty free from Guam I asked him if it was true that a love potion could guarantee a successful seduction. Of course, captain – he replied. It never fails. Do you want some? Cost you fifty bucks. A swift glance around and I slipped $50 US into his hand and told him I would be back in a couple of weeks. He gave me a wink and said he would have it ready by then.
Now in case you get the wrong idea, my plan was to surprise my ever-loving spouse with the love potion. I can hear you say that you may believe me, but thousands wouldn’t. God’s truth, so help me.
I flew down to Melbourne a few days later. I imagined the love potion was being brewed on some remote outer island of Micronesia and would be carried by outrigger canoe to Truk in time for my next trip. My wife had always hinted she would prefer something of many carats value from overseas as a surprise gift. I had other ideas…
I was having breakfast and reading the paper when there was a phone call from the chief pilot on the island. Fifteen pilots have been retrenched as from today and you are one of them – said the curt voice. Island politics are one thing, but pilot politics can be vicious especially when it comes to who stays and who goes. In short, I was now unemployed. Pamela’s words of warning about playing with the fire of black magic had come to haunt me. I touched wood to break the spell but that didn’t work and I rued the day I talked to Freddie the refueller from Truk.
Two years passed and I drove taxis and became a poorly paid flying instructor. Nearing sixty I was too old for the airlines in Australia. The thought of a career cut short, depressed the hell out of me. Since leaving the airline I had kept in touch with Pamela and her husband and with other islander friends. Perhaps it was out of nostalgia for the good times, rather than anything else. Back on the island the budget was balanced and within a month of being retrenched, the pilots had their jobs back – all except those who had crossed the airline management’s A team.
At home in Melbourne 3000 miles away from the island, the phone rang. It was the island’s Director of Civil Aviation. There had been a change of management and would I like to come back and fly for the airline again? Pamela and her island friends had put in a good word on my behalf and the President of the island had given the nod. It had taken two years for the black cloud of depression to be lifted and I was elated at the prospect of flying a Boeing again.
Within weeks I was back at Truk. Henrietta had long since left the airline and was now happily married to an Australian engineer who welcomed her children as his own. Freddie the refueller was there, connecting the hose as I walked towards him with a bottle of duty free. He was delighted to see me and remembered my name, asking how much fuel I needed. It was dark with lightning on the horizon and I needed enough to get through to my island plus diversion fuel at this time of the year. I had long since forgotten about the love potion that cost me fifty green-backs.
Freddie hadn’t forgotten, though, and asking me where I had been all this time, he added he still had the potion at home waiting to give it to me. I thought of my loving wife and figured giving her carats would be safer. I wasn’t superstitious, I told myself but nevertheless I wanted nothing to do with the bloody love potion. In any case, one could never be sure if bad luck really exists and I wasn’t willing to take the chance. Once burnt, twice shy was my motto.
“ Thanks for the offer Freddie” I said – “Just give me ten tonnes of fuel and hold the potion…. “
Thread Starter
A SHAKY FIRST SOLO
This is not about my first solo but about someone I sent on their first solo. His name was Bill. He arrived at the small flying school where I did part time instructing in between teaching airline pilots on a Boeing 737 flight simulator. His first flight was a disaster, Bill being so nervous he would try to hang on to me even on gentle turns. He was convinced he would fall out of the Cessna 150 we were flying. When it came to stalling, he simply refused to do one. I had to inveigle him by asking him to keep an eye out for eagles that I said I had seen near his left wing tip. Of course there were no eagles but at least it distracted his attention while I quietly raised the nose of the Cessna and did an ever so gentle stall. He never noticed it until I explained we had just stalled and recovered while he was looking for eagles. He was happy to practice stalls after that.
A few lessons later we started circuit training. During all our flying Bill was twitchy on the controls with his hands shaking and quivering causing the Cessna to wobble around the circuit. On take off his feet would shake like someone with Parkinsons causing the rudder to oscillate almost uncontrollably. Yet, he always managed to stay in the centre of the strip on take off using the law of averages. In other words plus or minus six feet either side of the centreline. It was quite mesmerising to watch. For all this however, Bill did safe landings and judged the flare and hold off perfectly with no twitch. But as soon as all wheels were on the ground his rudder would flap all the way to when we stopped.
After just 8 hours I thought it was time to let him go solo. Bill immediately became alarmed and tried to stop me from leaving the aircraft. We had been already lined up with pre-take off drills completed. I was ready for him this time and said “Bill, I am busting for a piss – so I can’t argue with you, so off you go for just one circuit and pick me up back here after you land because I don’t want to walk half a mile back to the club house”. He looked at me stunned and opened his mouth to say something. I slammed my door shut, gave him a thumbs up and walked away not looking back. It must have shocked him into reality and I watched from directly behind as he started his take off run.
Well, it was the funniest thing I ever saw as the Cessna took off with its rudder furiously flapping left to right and I watched as it lifted off with ailerons and rudder furiously wobbling. His approach to land was steady and sure and I was mightily relieved to see a smooth touch down. As expected the rudder flapping started during his landing roll. Bill had forgotten all about me in his excitement on going solo and left me to walk the half mile back to the aero club. It was only then that I felt the real need to have a nervous one and the windsock was handy.
I congratulated Bill on a perfect first solo and added I was expecting him to have a lot of trouble learning to land. He told me landing never worried him because he flew radio controlled model aircraft and knew all about flare technique and smooth hold off’s. No wonder his first solo was so confident.
This is not about my first solo but about someone I sent on their first solo. His name was Bill. He arrived at the small flying school where I did part time instructing in between teaching airline pilots on a Boeing 737 flight simulator. His first flight was a disaster, Bill being so nervous he would try to hang on to me even on gentle turns. He was convinced he would fall out of the Cessna 150 we were flying. When it came to stalling, he simply refused to do one. I had to inveigle him by asking him to keep an eye out for eagles that I said I had seen near his left wing tip. Of course there were no eagles but at least it distracted his attention while I quietly raised the nose of the Cessna and did an ever so gentle stall. He never noticed it until I explained we had just stalled and recovered while he was looking for eagles. He was happy to practice stalls after that.
A few lessons later we started circuit training. During all our flying Bill was twitchy on the controls with his hands shaking and quivering causing the Cessna to wobble around the circuit. On take off his feet would shake like someone with Parkinsons causing the rudder to oscillate almost uncontrollably. Yet, he always managed to stay in the centre of the strip on take off using the law of averages. In other words plus or minus six feet either side of the centreline. It was quite mesmerising to watch. For all this however, Bill did safe landings and judged the flare and hold off perfectly with no twitch. But as soon as all wheels were on the ground his rudder would flap all the way to when we stopped.
After just 8 hours I thought it was time to let him go solo. Bill immediately became alarmed and tried to stop me from leaving the aircraft. We had been already lined up with pre-take off drills completed. I was ready for him this time and said “Bill, I am busting for a piss – so I can’t argue with you, so off you go for just one circuit and pick me up back here after you land because I don’t want to walk half a mile back to the club house”. He looked at me stunned and opened his mouth to say something. I slammed my door shut, gave him a thumbs up and walked away not looking back. It must have shocked him into reality and I watched from directly behind as he started his take off run.
Well, it was the funniest thing I ever saw as the Cessna took off with its rudder furiously flapping left to right and I watched as it lifted off with ailerons and rudder furiously wobbling. His approach to land was steady and sure and I was mightily relieved to see a smooth touch down. As expected the rudder flapping started during his landing roll. Bill had forgotten all about me in his excitement on going solo and left me to walk the half mile back to the aero club. It was only then that I felt the real need to have a nervous one and the windsock was handy.
I congratulated Bill on a perfect first solo and added I was expecting him to have a lot of trouble learning to land. He told me landing never worried him because he flew radio controlled model aircraft and knew all about flare technique and smooth hold off’s. No wonder his first solo was so confident.
Thread Starter
THE KID GLOVE TREATMENT
New recruits to the so called "hospitality" industry are taught that in all things, the customer is always right. Obnoxious fools that complain unfairly about the standard of food or service, are to be treated with the utmost politeness and servility according to management instructions. I envy the patience and fortitude that is often displayed by shop assistants, waitresses, hotel staff towards customers who are rude and insulting and who should be thrown out on their ear. Yet it is ultimately the customer who pays the money that keeps the employee in a job, and puts food on the table. This applies from the manager of a business right down the line to the newest employee. Keep the customer happy and you eat - it is as simple as that.
In the airline industry it is usually the cabin crew who come face to face with the loud mouths, the drunks, the ungrateful, and sometimes the dangerous. One written complaint and invariably the flight attendant is before the Management court with his or her job on the line. There is no grilling of the customer, but the flight attendant will be interrogated with the view of guilty of upsetting a passenger unless irrevocably proven innocent. Membership of a strong trade union will sometimes balance the scales of justice.
Occasionally a nasty passenger will get just deserts. Like the groping Kiribati seaman in seat 75A of the Air Nauru Boeing 727 which was en-route from Hong Kong to Tarawa via stops at Taipei, Guam, Ponape and Nauru. With other members from the crew of a cargo ship, he had been paid off after the vessel had completed its voyage to Hong Kong. His six month contract completed, the seaman was returning to his island home. The sight and close proximity of a cabin crew of beautiful Pacific Islands air hostesses was all too much for him after the hardened whores in Hong Kong.
A few beers, and the seaman became bolder in his advances towards the No.4 junior air hostess working in the rear of the cabin. Her training had briefly covered the handling of cranky customers and crying children, but she was ill prepared for the groping hand of a leering seaman. She snapped back which caused much loud laughter from the rest of the seamen in adjoining seats. The culprit grew angry at the lack of interest from the young air hostess who was from his own island, and renewed his passes at her. Eventually she complained to the captain who decided to personally sort out the chap in 75A.
Leaving the first officer at the controls, the captain entered the cabin and ordered the seamen to keep his hands to himself. He also instructed the cabin staff not to serve any more alcohol to the man.
The seaman was unimpressed by the presence of the captain wearing four gold bars on his epaulettes, but agreed to behave. Shortly after the captain had returned to the flight deck however, the seaman made a drunken pass at another of the air hostesses, and it became obvious that the situation was deteriorating with the junior hostesses fearful of continuing with cabin service at the rear of the aircraft.
The aircraft had just started to descend toward Taipei, when the captain again appeared in the cabin and shirt fronting the seaman threatened to have him put off the aircraft on arrival at Taipei. The seaman considered himself somewhat of a bush lawyer and argued with the captain over his rights as a fare paying passenger.
The captain calmly played his trump card and told the passenger that unless he promised not to make a further nuisance of himself, not only would the captain have him arrested by the airport police on arrival at Taipei, but that arrangements would be made to have him tortured in prison. This threat had the immediate desired effect, and to twist the knife a little further, the captain ordered the seaman to apologize to each of the cabin crew individually. The remainder of the flight was uneventful, with the seaman and his ship mates being model passengers all the way to Kiribati. There were no complaints made to the airline management..
UP YOURS
A few years later I was in command of G-BKMS a British Paramount Airways Boeing 737 operating a holiday charter flight from Berlin to Tel Aviv and return. We had a full load of passengers for the return trip, which meant we could not take enough fuel in the tanks to get to Berlin with normal reserves. The problem was exacerbated by strong forecast headwinds and poor weather for the arrival.
We contacted our company agent by radio who advised that approval had been received to land en-route for fuel at Linz in Austria.
After take off from Tel Aviv, I made a PA to the passengers that our arrival into Berlin would be behind schedule due to a requirement to refuel at Linz. Most of them were Germans nationals returning from sight seeing tours of the Holy Land. An hour into the flight, a German cabin attendant reported that one of the passengers, who was a journalist for a Berlin newspaper, was being generally rude and unpleasant to the cabin staff and making pointed criticism of the decision to stop at Linz.
Now German female cabin attendants are invariably tall, blonde and beautiful. Our crew were no exception, and certainly they are no shrinking violets when it comes to handling prickly passengers. I was surprised therefore when a little later the senior hostess appeared on the flight deck with tears in her eyes. She said that the journalist passenger had been complaining to all around that the service was poor and that in his opinion there was no reason for the aircraft to land at Linz.
I made another PA apologizing for the delay into Berlin due to the intermediate landing, and stated a requirement for passengers to remain on board at Linz while refuelling took place. The senior flight attendant repeated the message in German. Apparently this did not satisfy the journalist, and he continued to annoy the staff with continuous pressing of his service call button.
I felt very sorry for the hostesses who had had a long and arduous flight from Berlin, because by the end of the day they would have been on duty for 14 hours, and this clown had really upset their routine. I decided to have a chat with him during the stop-over at Linz. At this stage I was unsure of the ramifications of tackling a recalcitrant German passenger on the ground in Austria in a British registered aircraft leased by a Berlin tour operator!
Nevertheless, as the captain of the flight, I had a legal responsibility for its safe conduct.
After landing at Linz, the first officer took care of the refuelling and paperwork, while I jammed my uniform cap on my head to make me look taller, and went down the back amongst the sea of passengers to find my man. Fortunately he was a short-arse too, and he spoke excellent English.
He told me that he had done the trip several times with a German airline and had always flown direct Tel Aviv to Berlin without a stop. I tried to explain patiently that the hot temperatures at Tel Aviv coupled with strong return headwinds dictated that a landing was essential at Linz. He began to argue and at that point I blew up, and suggested somewhat incautiously that he fly the bloody aircraft himself. Our relationship deteriorated immediately, and I told him to stop hassling the cabin crew and to sit down and shut up. To my amazement there was loud hand-clapping and cheers from the rest of the passengers who had also been annoyed at his boorish behaviour towards the cabin crew.
I pondered my limited future with this airline if the journalist went to print, and decided reluctantly to write a short note of apology to him. I gave a brief listing of the weight of the aircraft, its payload, and the fuel requirements, stating that these figures would prove that an en-route landing was necessary. The note was delivered to the passenger just before landing. He tore it up in front of the air hostess who had given to him.
At Berlin the wind and rain lashed the aircraft, and as we landed my mood was as foul as the weather. The passengers disembarked and climbed aboard waiting buses while our company agent came into the flight deck to collect the paperwork. His name was Klaus, and he asked did we have a pleasant trip. The senior hostess had already mentioned the troublesome passenger to him, and as we talked I had a glimpse of the journalist stepping into a bus. I pointed to him through the cockpit window and told Klaus that this bloke had been a problem to us all, and could he perhaps take the passenger aside and have a word in his pink ear.
Klaus then said that he recognized the passenger as a regular traveller who was known to airline staff as complaining type. Meanwhile he promised to have a chat with the journalist in the airport terminal.
Twenty minutes later, and as we boarded the crew bus to go to our hotel, a smiling Klaus appeared in the doorway. He said that he had had a word with his colleagues at Customs and Immigration at the airport, and explained that a certain passenger had been a real pain in the neck to the crew, and could they suggest a remedy. They certainly could apparently, and the passenger was quickly separated from the rest and taken to a special room. There he was told politely to strip off and a full body search was carried out. When the passenger protested, a rubber gloved finger was unceremoniously shoved up his posterior and carefully rotated a few times. He was then left to shiver in the cold room, until his clothes were returned. Klaus said that the chap had definitely got the message, and doubted that he would cause any more trouble in the future..
So yes Virginia, there really is a Santa Klaus, and he lives in Berlin...
New recruits to the so called "hospitality" industry are taught that in all things, the customer is always right. Obnoxious fools that complain unfairly about the standard of food or service, are to be treated with the utmost politeness and servility according to management instructions. I envy the patience and fortitude that is often displayed by shop assistants, waitresses, hotel staff towards customers who are rude and insulting and who should be thrown out on their ear. Yet it is ultimately the customer who pays the money that keeps the employee in a job, and puts food on the table. This applies from the manager of a business right down the line to the newest employee. Keep the customer happy and you eat - it is as simple as that.
In the airline industry it is usually the cabin crew who come face to face with the loud mouths, the drunks, the ungrateful, and sometimes the dangerous. One written complaint and invariably the flight attendant is before the Management court with his or her job on the line. There is no grilling of the customer, but the flight attendant will be interrogated with the view of guilty of upsetting a passenger unless irrevocably proven innocent. Membership of a strong trade union will sometimes balance the scales of justice.
Occasionally a nasty passenger will get just deserts. Like the groping Kiribati seaman in seat 75A of the Air Nauru Boeing 727 which was en-route from Hong Kong to Tarawa via stops at Taipei, Guam, Ponape and Nauru. With other members from the crew of a cargo ship, he had been paid off after the vessel had completed its voyage to Hong Kong. His six month contract completed, the seaman was returning to his island home. The sight and close proximity of a cabin crew of beautiful Pacific Islands air hostesses was all too much for him after the hardened whores in Hong Kong.
A few beers, and the seaman became bolder in his advances towards the No.4 junior air hostess working in the rear of the cabin. Her training had briefly covered the handling of cranky customers and crying children, but she was ill prepared for the groping hand of a leering seaman. She snapped back which caused much loud laughter from the rest of the seamen in adjoining seats. The culprit grew angry at the lack of interest from the young air hostess who was from his own island, and renewed his passes at her. Eventually she complained to the captain who decided to personally sort out the chap in 75A.
Leaving the first officer at the controls, the captain entered the cabin and ordered the seamen to keep his hands to himself. He also instructed the cabin staff not to serve any more alcohol to the man.
The seaman was unimpressed by the presence of the captain wearing four gold bars on his epaulettes, but agreed to behave. Shortly after the captain had returned to the flight deck however, the seaman made a drunken pass at another of the air hostesses, and it became obvious that the situation was deteriorating with the junior hostesses fearful of continuing with cabin service at the rear of the aircraft.
The aircraft had just started to descend toward Taipei, when the captain again appeared in the cabin and shirt fronting the seaman threatened to have him put off the aircraft on arrival at Taipei. The seaman considered himself somewhat of a bush lawyer and argued with the captain over his rights as a fare paying passenger.
The captain calmly played his trump card and told the passenger that unless he promised not to make a further nuisance of himself, not only would the captain have him arrested by the airport police on arrival at Taipei, but that arrangements would be made to have him tortured in prison. This threat had the immediate desired effect, and to twist the knife a little further, the captain ordered the seaman to apologize to each of the cabin crew individually. The remainder of the flight was uneventful, with the seaman and his ship mates being model passengers all the way to Kiribati. There were no complaints made to the airline management..
UP YOURS
A few years later I was in command of G-BKMS a British Paramount Airways Boeing 737 operating a holiday charter flight from Berlin to Tel Aviv and return. We had a full load of passengers for the return trip, which meant we could not take enough fuel in the tanks to get to Berlin with normal reserves. The problem was exacerbated by strong forecast headwinds and poor weather for the arrival.
We contacted our company agent by radio who advised that approval had been received to land en-route for fuel at Linz in Austria.
After take off from Tel Aviv, I made a PA to the passengers that our arrival into Berlin would be behind schedule due to a requirement to refuel at Linz. Most of them were Germans nationals returning from sight seeing tours of the Holy Land. An hour into the flight, a German cabin attendant reported that one of the passengers, who was a journalist for a Berlin newspaper, was being generally rude and unpleasant to the cabin staff and making pointed criticism of the decision to stop at Linz.
Now German female cabin attendants are invariably tall, blonde and beautiful. Our crew were no exception, and certainly they are no shrinking violets when it comes to handling prickly passengers. I was surprised therefore when a little later the senior hostess appeared on the flight deck with tears in her eyes. She said that the journalist passenger had been complaining to all around that the service was poor and that in his opinion there was no reason for the aircraft to land at Linz.
I made another PA apologizing for the delay into Berlin due to the intermediate landing, and stated a requirement for passengers to remain on board at Linz while refuelling took place. The senior flight attendant repeated the message in German. Apparently this did not satisfy the journalist, and he continued to annoy the staff with continuous pressing of his service call button.
I felt very sorry for the hostesses who had had a long and arduous flight from Berlin, because by the end of the day they would have been on duty for 14 hours, and this clown had really upset their routine. I decided to have a chat with him during the stop-over at Linz. At this stage I was unsure of the ramifications of tackling a recalcitrant German passenger on the ground in Austria in a British registered aircraft leased by a Berlin tour operator!
Nevertheless, as the captain of the flight, I had a legal responsibility for its safe conduct.
After landing at Linz, the first officer took care of the refuelling and paperwork, while I jammed my uniform cap on my head to make me look taller, and went down the back amongst the sea of passengers to find my man. Fortunately he was a short-arse too, and he spoke excellent English.
He told me that he had done the trip several times with a German airline and had always flown direct Tel Aviv to Berlin without a stop. I tried to explain patiently that the hot temperatures at Tel Aviv coupled with strong return headwinds dictated that a landing was essential at Linz. He began to argue and at that point I blew up, and suggested somewhat incautiously that he fly the bloody aircraft himself. Our relationship deteriorated immediately, and I told him to stop hassling the cabin crew and to sit down and shut up. To my amazement there was loud hand-clapping and cheers from the rest of the passengers who had also been annoyed at his boorish behaviour towards the cabin crew.
I pondered my limited future with this airline if the journalist went to print, and decided reluctantly to write a short note of apology to him. I gave a brief listing of the weight of the aircraft, its payload, and the fuel requirements, stating that these figures would prove that an en-route landing was necessary. The note was delivered to the passenger just before landing. He tore it up in front of the air hostess who had given to him.
At Berlin the wind and rain lashed the aircraft, and as we landed my mood was as foul as the weather. The passengers disembarked and climbed aboard waiting buses while our company agent came into the flight deck to collect the paperwork. His name was Klaus, and he asked did we have a pleasant trip. The senior hostess had already mentioned the troublesome passenger to him, and as we talked I had a glimpse of the journalist stepping into a bus. I pointed to him through the cockpit window and told Klaus that this bloke had been a problem to us all, and could he perhaps take the passenger aside and have a word in his pink ear.
Klaus then said that he recognized the passenger as a regular traveller who was known to airline staff as complaining type. Meanwhile he promised to have a chat with the journalist in the airport terminal.
Twenty minutes later, and as we boarded the crew bus to go to our hotel, a smiling Klaus appeared in the doorway. He said that he had had a word with his colleagues at Customs and Immigration at the airport, and explained that a certain passenger had been a real pain in the neck to the crew, and could they suggest a remedy. They certainly could apparently, and the passenger was quickly separated from the rest and taken to a special room. There he was told politely to strip off and a full body search was carried out. When the passenger protested, a rubber gloved finger was unceremoniously shoved up his posterior and carefully rotated a few times. He was then left to shiver in the cold room, until his clothes were returned. Klaus said that the chap had definitely got the message, and doubted that he would cause any more trouble in the future..
So yes Virginia, there really is a Santa Klaus, and he lives in Berlin...
A propos the impossible passenger, the one described so well by Centaurus, that is the Berliner who got the finger, another of that man's ilk was boarding his flight in Frankfurt, bound Luxembourg. This fellow was dressed all in black, with the head gear that proclaimed his faith, along with his general demeanour. As the flight attendant, an Australian fluent in several European languages, greeted him in the doorway he pushed up one sleeve of his coat revealing on his wrist a tattooed string of numerals. He snarled venomously, "You will you know never in a thousand years be forgiven", to which she replied - "Ah sir, you are mistaken. I am an Australian. We were, for your information, on the other side." The man, unplacated, muttered an oath in a language unfamiliar to the FA, though it's import was to her quite obvious, to which she coolly suggested he take his seat, adding softly in the pleasantest tones, "If you are hungry later, during our cabin service, I would be pleased to see if we can't rustle up a nice little ham sandwich for you. Specially."
Yes, she was carpeted. And yes, she was cautioned against ever uttering a racist slur.
That good woman's initials are LC. She may be known to some long-serving QF hands as she later came back to Australia, flying for many years with the national carrier. Incidentally, her dad who flew with the army and later for airlines, is an entertaining repository of numerous well spun tales of a flying life, but unlike Centaurus is uninclined to share them with a wider audience. What a shame.
Centaurus says he thought splashing a bit of the old Brute about might be good for a laugh. Now these sort of potions are not all they're cracked up to be. They can also be so bad that just a faint whiff is enough to cause women to gag. Many's the silly fool who thinks he's irresistible drenched in Old Spice, aka Old Yuck, a powerful repellant, especially when it's turned rancid.
"Ah . .. . but the smell of the bloom was a failure."
It is recorded that Josephine wanted Bonaparte on his return from fighting wars, for weeks, and often months, unwashed, just as is.
But all such aromatics or pheromones are left for dead by the ultimate aphrodisiac - money. Just picture Scrooge McDuck, if he is of your vintage.
Last edited by Fantome; 14th Sep 2012 at 08:12.
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Kodachrome. It is a great read. Send a PM to Centaurus - I'm sure he'll be happy to organise a personally authographed copy for you!!! 
Prof. Airport Engineer
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I gave a couple of copies as Christmas presents last year - absolutely perfect for males aged from 35 to 70 IMHO. I'll give a couple more next Christmas.
And I gave a copy to myself
Lulu.com have it:
Tall Tails of The South Pacific by John Laming (Paperback) - Lulu
And I gave a copy to myself
Lulu.com have it:
Tall Tails of The South Pacific by John Laming (Paperback) - Lulu
