Your Own Flying 'Articles'..........

[BRL]

Hi all. Thought I would start this thread as there is talk on another thread about you people writing your own flying related 'articles'.

Write here about anything flying related which you have been involved in. Any kind of flying, fixed wing, helicopters, microlights, balloons, gliders, everything really, share with us your special memories of wonderfull or scary moments, remember your first solo, x-country, first time you broke though cloud, anything in fact that you think other people may find interesting. Pictures can be posted too if you want.

Here is a starter from the recent excellent thread by Cloud69.


Simple but very special

just wanted to share today


There are days when you go for a local bimble just for the hell of it. Sometimes it is a case of just flying around the local area, to then return slightly dissatisfied.

Today was different. Not any different in the way the flight was approached, just in the way it unfolded.

As I do when I have had a hard time of it, I rang the airport and asked them to extract the 152 from the hangar and told them I would be there at around 1700. Taking my hi visibility vest from my rucksack I threw it around my shoulders as I walked airside, the knot in my stomach tightening as usual as I carried out the pre-flight.

All normal, I squeezed into the narrow cockpit, started her up and sat organising myself as the oil warmed slowly. The engine sounded particularly sweet today, the controls light and free running; not for the first time I was grateful for owning a share in this well looked after aeroplane.

Clearance issued to taxi to K1 for Runway 20 I let the 152 amble along at her own pace, running through all the emergency procedures in my head as we went. Power checks done I was given a “Line up” with no delay, immediately followed by “Clear take off, left hand turn out”.

She was feeling sprightly today. In virtually nil wind we were climbing at 800’ per minute. I always approach these local bimbles with a point it and see attitude (having checked notams for the general area of course) and levelled off at 1000’ above the crystal blue sea, the waves coruscating in the late afternoon sunlight. I throttled back and she trimmed smoothly to a gentle 85 knot cruise as I admired the view passing to my left. Brighton always makes a lovely picture postcard view on a day like this and I was not to be disappointed.

As I passed the Marina I turned my attention to the middle distance, searching out my office, which is situated a few metres inland a few miles along the coast. It struck me just how clean everything looked today from up there. A couple walking their dogs waved at me as I slowly passed. A group of children excitedly pointed and frantically waved their arms – I obliged with a wing waggle and could almost hear the cheer.

I usually give the office a cursory overhead look, but today I decided to circle and see if anyone was looking up. No, not everyone does when a ‘plane passes overhead. A friend who lives up the road from there was getting out of his battered yellow pick up; blipping my engine got his attention and he waved back at me cheerfully. Turning towards the cliffs again I lowered the revs and let her sink slowly in a descending turn to run along the cliff tops, before climbing again.

I circled again above the next settlement, admiring how beautiful it looked from up here. Good job I lived there then! Shame it didn’t look this good when ground bound. I dived back down towards the sea and flew along smiling, now below the top of the cliffs. Fishing boats were in the distance, coming back into port after a long day at sea, their captains weary and weathered.

OK enough of this, let’s get some height. Turning northwards I pushed the venerable 152 into a climb. Again she responded with a hearty 750’ per minute climb, all the way to 3700’, skimming between the scattered fluffy clouds, which were now turning a softer white in the gentle light of a late summer afternoon. I played with them, teasing them, and dived in between them, circling, twisting, climbing and diving again.

Clouds still fascinate me, they enthral me, and their soft cuddly appearance delights me. Particularly these soft fluffy cotton wool clouds, nothing of danger, just beauty and a strange type of splendour.

I want to reach out and touch them, jump out and curl myself up in them, sit on their fluffy tops and ride along with them, admiring the view below as they pass silently above farmland, woodland, beautiful old cottages, people on horseback, farmers on their clackety old tractors, children playing and laughing.

All are oblivious to the pilot above them, happy and contented, free as a bird and playing.

Playing with the gentle side of Mother Nature.

Playing with his very own senses.

Playing with the clouds, living out for real his childhood dreams.

And happy.

Something so simple, yet so enthralling. Something so few people experience or would ever appreciate. Yet I am here, almost in a dream, playing in the wide open sky. Freedom and happiness. A sense of wellbeing. Calmness and peace, at one with the world. And happy.

The days tribulations melt away as I turn for home, the pain of the last few months of heartache briefly dissipated as the altimeter slowly unwinds and the world becomes closer and closer again until we kiss the tarmac gently, so gently and put her to bed. My key to freedom.

Thank you my little Cessna. You may be old, you may be small and simple, but the simplest flight ensconced in your cockpit has almost bought me tears of joy.

The simplest flight in a long while. Simple, but oh so special. One that will be etched on my memory for eternity.

19th Sept 2005

Over to you.............. :)

[Confabulous]

In Sane Air

You know the drill. You tell a friend you’re a pilot, and wait for the inevitable rejoinder, namely a faintly horrified look, a strangled gasp and a breathy ‘You fly THOSE things? But… but… they’re deathtraps!’ You look out across the apron at the recently deceased Cessna, a rabbit caught in the snare you strung between the main wheels. Dinner for the next three days, you think as you pull out your wallet and tell the cleft-hoofed greasemonkey to help himself. In the meantime, you recite the well thumbed index card of your ‘Why GA flying is so fantastic’ speech to your gibbering friend, remembering to include nuggets on how to revitalise stale biscuits while coaxing the aged Lycoming into life with a few well aimed sledgehammer blows.

But I digress. I was only starting down that turbulent approach path, my first trial flight behind me in a haze of excitement and confusion.

It was a sunny day in August. Cloud screamed overhead, as is the custom where I come from. As the airfield approached from the top of a double decker bus I began to tingle in anticipation. Shortly I would be throwing off the shackles of the ground, slipping the surly bonds of bad poetry and impressing my instructor to be with my cool, calm and dubious knowledge of aerodynamics. Approaching closer the aircraft began to take shape, a tantalising ripple of potential flying form on a dappled-green lawn. ‘Hmmm, not enough fertiliser there,’ I thought. Closer again, and I could make out various types, ‘Cessna, Piper, Cessna, Cessna, Piper…’ My aircraft recognition skills weren’t up to much.

At length I arrived at the clubhouse, to be greeted by a charming lady who, no doubt wishing to help, indulged my enthusiastic yelps and pointed. ‘Wait out there,’ she piped in the manner of a constipated Dalek, ‘your instructor will be along shortly.’ With that, I skipped out the door in the manner of a sheep evading a lustful farmer, looking for an instructor by the name of Shortly. In no time I spied a fellow matching the hurried description ‘Short, smelly and hasn’t killed a student in at least 3 months.’ After a brief moment of confusion about his name, he led me on to the apron, handing me a bright yellow ‘Gay Glow’ jacket as we sauntered. Approaching the forlorn looking Cessna 152 Aerobat, he outlined the flight. ‘Today,’ he enthused, ‘we’re going to be flying from Weston to Trim and back. Along the way I’ll let you take control of the aircraft, and since it’s a nice day we’ll..’ here he looked hard at me ‘…we’ll do some aerobatics if you think your stomach can handle it!’ ‘Great!’ I grinned, thanking the gods he didn’t ask if my bladder could take it.

The funny thing about a Cessna is that the closer you get, the smaller they get. From ten feet it looked like a toy that’s been rejected by the Taiwanese Quality Authority. Aerobatics in THIS heap? Bowels aflutter with excitement amongst other things, I strapped myself in to the deckchair-like seat as the instructor ran through the mystical motions of bringing the beast to life. Suitably awed by the incantations, I perused the myriad of switches and dials just begging to be poked, prodded and flicked, but alas time was short. Reaching across me, the man himself turned a key and brought the ensemble to life. Suddenly the little Cessna was shaking and snorting like someone in the last stages of the plague, ranting to the world and demanding to be let loose. Clipped phrases were spoken to the man in the tower, snippets of which floated to my awareness, ‘Echo India Mike Papa Bravo, cleared…’, reassuring me completely.

Soon we found ourselves on the active runway, power checks completed and ready to trundle off in the Morris Minor of the skies. Clearances were received from Clarence, and off we went, sounds crescendo-like as we raced over the tarmac surface, airspeed indicator telling its own tale.

And suddenly we were weightless, suspended, unbelieving in the moment that changes everything. Takeoff. Nothing prepared me for the sudden smoothness, the engine fading to a murmur as I stared out, muted, uncomprehending, stunned into appreciation of a world changed by perspective.

(to be continued)

[AfricanEagle]

Already posted somewhere in the past


The little piper

On the outskirts of Rome, nestled between the highway that circles the eternal city and the international airport of Fiumicino, is a little grass airstrip, known only to a lucky few. 400 metres of unkept grass, bordered on one side by tall trees that help mitigate the wind. In one corner a once proud Fiat G91T jet trainer mounted on a swivel acts as a wind indicator and in the small hangar next to it a little Piper Cub shares protection with a tired Morane and a flashy new RV6.

The little Piper is well worn: her paintwork is flaked, the grease on her cable joints dark, her sticks polished by the many hands that have flown her. She works for a living, flying photographic missions and towing banners over the football stadium and along the beaches. But if you ask nicely she is available for a pleasure flight in the last rays of a sunlit afternoon of early autumn.

You climb aboard and settle down, taking in her smell. You touch all her switches, making yourself at home. You push the starter and she rumbles to life, and taxi slowly down the strip to the far end, checking her brakes and trying to feel her mood. She seems happy and content, but you know her, she might decide to be cheeky and start playing around. Checks completed, no wind, tail straight, one more look to be sure the local dog hasn't decided to take a nap in the middle of the runway and you push the throttle forward.

Tail up, keep her straight, and she decides to test you, darting to the left. Pedal, maybe too much, now she wants to look right, she's in a mischievous mood. You keep her straight and float into the already golden tainted sky.

You climb slowly to 800ft. You don't want to go higher, the big jets are landing just six miles away. You turn downwind: on your right you can see Rome spread below, the sunlit dome of Saint Peters, the green of the parks, the modern districts crowding the ancient part of the city. You fly content, the little Piper purring happily. In flight, as always, she is a darling.

Turn base and final. Flaps down, speed okay, just a touch of power. You keep an eye on the two tall trees at the beginning of the runway, okay, passed them, stick back, little Piper, please be good. Bounce, bounce, bounce, she definitely wants to be cheeky today, left, right, keep her straight, full power, and off we go for another circuit. On final again, this time you'll get it right. But little Piper has other ideas. Bounce, bounce, bounce, she seems to be laughing aloud as you fight to keep her under control. You go around again, and little Piper really enjoys herself, while in a cold sweat you try to keep up with her all over the runaway.

Humbled and disgusted with yourself, you line up for your final landing. Over the trees, stick back, resigned for the final humiliation. And ... she touches soft as a feather, running straight and true, slowing down towards the hangar at the far end.

You can feel her smiling, she has had her fun, but she didn't want to ruin your day. And when you push her back into the hangar, her engine ticking softly, you give her a pat, happy she has chosen to be your friend.

AE

[Shaggy Sheep Driver]

Also posted elsewhere, a couple of years back. Just a memorable but simple midwinter Saturday morning flight:


Well cold at Barton this morning; the Chippy, always a reliable starter, wouldn't. After 40 minutes of priming, swinging, electric start, impulse mag checking, blowing out, priming again - we eventually prevailed upon the Engineers for help, and the chief spanner man said "hold up the tail".

With some difficulty, two of us raised the tail to the flying (level)
attitude, Tom primed the engine, we put the tail down, and she started first swing. "Prime was only reaching the back cylinder" said Spannerman as he walked off. I was too gob smacked to ask what this had to do with sub-zero temperatures. I presume that when the air is warmer, the pooled fuel at the back of the tail-down inlet manifold vaporises and the front 3 cylinders get
a whiff. In cold air, it just sits there unvaporised and may just give the back cylinder a small whiff.

Runway 27R in use, so off I went west, then down the LLR noting the high groundspeed readout on the Pilot111 once southbound. Out over Shropshire into a very bright low sun and up to 4000 feet to catch the tailwind and do a few loops and rolls - magic! Shawbury unmanned, so no hassle of vectors around military helos - just keep a good lookout and enjoy! North of Telford
let the height bleed off, down to 1500, call Sherlowe Strip. Bob answers on the handheld. Feather off the power for a nimby-friendly steepish glide from wide downwind around the farms and scattered houses (Bob's got anti-flyer problems in the vicinity) to a silky touchdown onto 33, then power on to keep it rolling up the grass slope to the clubhouse. Swing around, switches off, prop clanks around a few revolutions flickering in the glare of the
sun. Then silence; just the whining of the gyros and the tinking and plinking of cooling metal.

A warm welcome from Bob. A cup of tea in the clubhouse and a chat about his campaign for survival of this glorious rural haven in the shadow of the Wrekin - and then we're roaring up 33 again, airborne before the level section of the runway and immediate neighbour-friendly steepish left turnout over the western boundary, waving to Bob by the clubhouse. Up to 3000 feet past Sleap, then some more aeros, letting it come down low by Rednal to see if anyone is there (they aren't) to cruise home on a low level sight-seeing tour.

From 800 feet and looking downsun the beech woods cast long shadows across frosty-white Shropshire fields. Every hill and undulation is side-lit and picked out in relief in the golden winter sun - even the sheep each cast a giant elongated shadow onto the bright-lit frost. Sleeping villages with golden stone churches, flashes and meres, the lonely remote Whixal Moss, secret pools in the middle of a wood, grand country houses and estates, lonely farms, occasional main roads with beetling traffic, white finger posts at remote country lane junctions all sweep under the Chippy's wings.

Around the Peckforton hills and past the castle with a couple of sightseers looking up at this graceful red aeroplane. Around the end of Beeston hill with its castle, across to Oulton Park racing circuit, its cars no doubt roaring and squealing their way around the track but looking ludicrously slow and confined from the freedom of SL's speeding cockpit. A familiar voice from Manch Approach as we enter the LLR a clearance direct from Northwich to Barton gives us some unfamiliar countryside to look at from
above. Left base join for 32 at Barton, taxy in for fuel, then a nice hot cuppa and some all-day breakfast in the clubhouse (first food of the day) to thaw out. I love that Chippy - but a heater would be nice.

SSD

[mazzy1026]

Still writing mine :=

[MikeJeff]

What is it that makes pilots think they're good at creative writing?? :uhoh: :zzz:

[mazzy1026]

They don't, it's a creative writer, who happens to be a pilot ;)

[Whirlybird]

The trip to Manchester that I mentioned vaguely on another thread...happened last week....

I really, really wanted to fly into Manchester. But despite having read all about it in a Today's Pilot article, and discussed it with one of their instructors, I was still a bit nervous about the whole thing. One of the reporting points is a building with a yellow roof...was I going to even find it? Anyway, I met this chap who learned to fly at Manchester, and I asked him nicely if he'd drive to Sleap and come with me. He agreed, so we phoned up, got a slot for 11 am, and I said I'd have G-ATKF, our ancient C150, preflighted by the time he arrived.

I arrived early at Sleap, did the walk-around, got in and prepared to taxi to the fuel bay. I pressed the starter. Nothing. It was early in the morning; had I forgotten something? I checked the master switch was on, and tried again. Still nothing. I got out my mobile and phoned maintenance. The young lad there assured me it was the battery. I said the lights etc worked fine, and maybe it was the starter motor. Certain he was right, he drove over and tried another battery. I pressed the starter, and still nothing happened. So I was right, but I wasn't pleased about it. I phoned Dave, my Manchester-flying friend, who had nearly arrived by then. He said he might as well come over anyway. So we both drove down to the clubhouse and tried to borrow a club C152, but they were all booked up for the day. What to do? I hate cancelling flights, especially ones we've planned as much as this, and on a lovely sunny day too. We called maintenance again, and Pete, who runs the show, had arrived. We all drove over to KF again, and Peter fiddled with some wires. I pressed the starter, and it came to life. Oh, wow! There is a God after all! I asked Pete what he'd done. He shrugged; "I've no idea; it's all a bit chaotic back there, so I don't know what I did".

So Dave and I refuelled, then phoned Manchester in the hope of getting a new slot. They said 12.30 would be OK, but we'd have to leave at 3pm. We weren't about to argue about that; we got coffee, checked the route, then got ready to go. KF started beautifully, and we taxied out and took off. All was well, wasn't it? But no, it wasn't. On the climb-out the generator light came on...and stayed on. Well, I might do a local flight with it on, especially as by now I was becoming really frustrated, but we couldn't really go to Manchester, and Dave agreed. We thought about landing and giving up, but I had an idea. I vaguely remembered someone saying if you threw the aircraft around a little, reduced power, then used full power, if it was just a loose relay or something, the light would go out. Well, there was an obvious way of doing all that - a touch and go. So back we came, and did that. And lo and behold, the light went out!

Scarcely daring to breathe, we set heading for Manchester. We were now late for our 12.30 slot of course, but maybe they wouldn't mind. Anyway, at least we were airborne.

The flight was actually amazingly easy. We routed directly to Congleton, then followed the railway line to Macclesfield. We called Manchester Approach five minutes or so before Congleton, and they didn't actually tell us to go away, so we hoped it would be OK. After Macclesfield we were routed to the VRP at Hillside, and Dave pointed out the yellow-roofed building. Then we were told to hold over some tower blocks on base leg. So we orbited, and orbited, and orbited. Well, we'd missed our slot, hadn't we? And there was an almost constant stream of airliners landing, and they had to fit us in, somehow.

Eventually, we got told to follow a 737, phew! I finally got a chance to actually appreciate the view of Manchester Airport from final...then I remembered; I ought to keep well behind this 737, wake vortex and all that. "Just land long", said Dave, "Vortices sink". So I did...but not long enough. We got told to expedite as there was another airliner behind us, and we had what seemed like miles and miles to taxi to Manchester Flying School. Luckily Dave had a map and knew where all the taxiways were; I just repeated back Manchester Ground's instructions, and looked at this vast wilderness of taxiways in utter confusion. But finally we got there, shut down, and went for lunch.

At 2.30pm we returned, booked out, and were ready to taxi just before our 3pm departure slot. but it was not to be. "Hold there", said Ground. They had a queue at the hold already. We waited, and waited. Then we taxied a few more miles through a vast wilderness of yellow lines, and waited some more. Then we got to cross the right hand runway between two landing airliners, and taxi some more, and wait some more. We'd already changed frequency four times, and it looked like we'd be taxiing and talking to different people for ever. Finally we got told to line up....and wait. Then we were cleared for take-off - at last. A short breather, then we had to report turning left - on to the crosswind leg. And then we were told, "Report Congleton". What? I didn't believe it. They were going to leave us alone, all the way to Congleton! I was free...except that Dave assured me I had to go via Macclesfield and the railway line etc. But I finally got a chance to look at the airport and realise I'd just flown into a major airport and mixed it with the big boys; not a big deal for some, but a first for me.

At Congleton, Manchester said goodbye to us, and we headed back to Sleap. It seemed to be a day for radio use; Shawbury refused to let me change frequency to Sleap until I was almost in the overhead, and even then their parting comment included lots of traffic information. It's not that I mind using the radio or anything. But I do prefer my flights to be a little quieter and more peaceful, usually.

That was that. Except that a few days later, I drove over to put some fuel in KF so that we could leave early for Helitech this week. I pressed the starter...and nothing happened. So I tightened all the fuses, and fiddled with everything I could see that looked fiddleable with...and she started. I guess you could say I learn from experience, or something....

[Shaggy Sheep Driver]

Whirls - Last time I went into Manchester was in the Chippy from Barton. Inbound, we were holding at Sale Water Park but had no transponder, so on being handed over to 'Tower' the guy said "Sierra Lima I know you're out there somewhere, do you see a 757 on a 2 mile final?"

"Affirm".

"OK, he's your traffic. Follow him in".

On departure, the clearance was" VFR to Barton off 24R, early right turn". I'd used 24R (the original runway) loads of times, and fancied getting the new runway in the logbook, so replied "any chance of a 24L departure for Sierra Lima?". "24L departure it is. Other details the same", said the man, and gave us taxy instructions for the 24L hold.

On being cleared I lined up and took off, but despite the instruction 'other details the same' decided an early right turn off 24L might not be a good idea. I'd no idea if there was landing traffic on 24R (it's a different Tower frequency for each runway), but if there was and it went around I'd be somewhat in the way. But almost immediately came the instruction "Sierra Lima, maintain runway heading until instructed". Which I did. On being cleared to turn right, I executed the usual Chippy-style 'wings vertical and pull' (none of your jessie rate one stuff for us ;) ), and sure enough, there was a 747 rolling out on 24R. :eek:

Many years ago I used to fly a based 172 from Manch for meat bombing at Burscough. Often, coming back in on a Sunday evening, a particular controller would be on (long since retired) who had a very laid-back style.

"Tango Sierra, can you see a Trident just coming over Stockport?"

"Affirmative, Tango Sierra".

"Ok then. He's your traffic. Just nip in behind him". ;)

And in those days we could turn base for 24 over the terminal buildings, final about half way down the runway, and land just in time to vacate at the Fantail for the South Side.

Happy days!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------


On a different note, here's an amusing little tale about an experience a friend and I had a couple of years back care of the UK rail system at weekends.......


Here's a true one that happened to me a friend (Chris) a few years back. We were flying back from Kemble (G-VFWE, so that dates it ) to our then base at Barton in the Chippy. There had been occasional showers most of the day, but the met man on site at G-VFWE told us they'd be long gone by the time we left. He was wrong. We scraped along in intermittent drizzle under a 1500 foot cloudbase until in the Wolverhampton area it got very much worse. Cloud almost down to the ground, and no way round it apart from a few 'sucker breaks' which might have got us into real trouble had we used them and it'd closed in behind us. So we diverted into the by then closed Halfpenny Green and parked on the apron.

A local pilot had landed before us, but otherwise the airfield was pretty well deserted. We got chatting and he said he'd offer us a lift to Wolverhampton rail station but he only had a 2-seat car, and had to take his mother home (she'd been flying with him). But he phoned his father, who volunteered to collect us. A short while later a BMW estate nosed in through the gates - our transport to Wolverhampton.

This good Samaritan would accept no thanks or payment for fuel, saying "we're all PPLs. If the same thing happens to me I'd hope someone would do the same". What a gent! Anyone who knows HG will know it's a fair way from there to Wolverhampton rail station, and I was checking train times on my phone, and found there was a direct Manchester train which called at Wilmslow (where I live) at 19:30 - we might just be in time for it. From there my wife could drive us across to Barton to pick up our cars.

We arrived just on 19:30, and shouting our heartfelt thanks we legged it for thr platform. Being a Saturday, the rail system was not running smoothly, and the 19:30 to Manchester was at least half an hour late. Which gave us time to buy tickets.

The station indicator board advertised the next train to be the one we wanted - Manchester via Stafford, Crewe, and Wilmslow. And a couple of minutes later, a 3-coach local train rolled in and we climbed aboard. When the guard came round checking tickets, I asked him "what time do we get to Wilmslow?". "This train doesn't go to Wilmslow", he replied. "During the week it does, but at weekends it routes via Stoke and Macclesfield. But not to worry - the train you want will be right behind us. Next stop is Stafford, just jump off there, ask the Virgin man in the red jacket for the Wilmslow train to ensure you get to the right platform, and it should be in shortly after us".

So at Stafford we got off, and sure enough there was the Virgin man in his red jacket. "When is the next train to Wilmslow?" I asked. He looked at me a little strangely and replied "you've just got off it". A little knot of passengers had gathered, since there was obviously some confusion about which train was going where. Our guard turned up, and the Virgin man said "you're going to Wilmslow, aren't you?" "Na mate. Stoke Macclesfield for us". "Not according to my schedule" says Mr Virgin.

"I'll ask the driver", I said, and walked to the front of the train and knocked on his window, which he lowered. "Are you going via Crewe or via Stoke?" I asked. "Good question", he replied. "My schedule says Crewe, the guards says Stoke. I'll phone 'control' and check". With that he picked up a handset in the cab, and on putting it down turned to me and said "via Crewe, definately". Chris, a Scouser, immediately piped up "would you like to phone a friend?"

So we re-boarded, but I didn't relax until we'd passed Norton Bridge, where we'd have turned off if we'd been going via Stoke.

The Chipmunk? It was the following Wednesday before the weather relented enough for Chris to bring her home.

SSD

[bletchleytugie]

22000’ and no engine.


Aboyne, Scotland, September 2003.

Aboyne, arguably the best site in the UK for the wave flying, is located alongside the river Dee, just to the East of Cairngorms in the lee of hill called Morven It has a pair of parallel tarmac runways, 600 meters by 8 feet (yes feet) wide, with a diagonal grass runway as a reserve. Depending on the wind direction, launch of the Northerly recover onto the Southerly, roll to the end over the yellow line or it costs a lot in the bar that evening.


The purpose of the trip was to take some of our University Club members to Scotland and present them with something more challenging than the acres of space we have at Bicester, with the hope that some would come back having gained some experience and perhaps also added Gold or perhaps Diamond Height to their gliding qualifications. I’ve going to Aboyne since the early eighties – only twice had I got near Diamond Height (a gain of 16405’) – the times I’ve heard “Oh you should have been here last week”


We were well into the second week, most of my time, apart from an 8 hour epic which saw me get to 18000’ and still not manage to get high enough to qualify for my last diamond, had been spent in the back of the two seater giving site checks and showing our willing but perhaps under-confident students how to do it.


September 24th 2003 did not appear from the ground to be a classic wave day, nevertheless having breakfasted on the excellent bacon rolls in the Club House and having been taken for my morning walk down to the river by the site CFI (a chocolate Labrador) we rigged three single seat gliders and waited.


The local club two seater launched and reported a wave gap was opening up in the lee of Morven, his next call was that he was passing through 7000’ so something was happening. We quickly launched two of our students of and I waited unconvinced that a Diamond Height was on. There was too much cover, one couldn’t see the bars where were forming – not much wind on the surface it didn’t make sense, and I’d got the wrong the shoes on.


I should have listened to the Soaring Gods. When I completed my Gold Badge – I did my Gold distance (180 kms) and my Gold Height (gain of 10000) within six weeks. On 9 August 2003 I had flown my Diamond Distance (500km) so the clock way ticking.

Sceptically I got into my glider (still wearing the wrong shoes).

Once on aerotow I knew that Diamond was on – you could feel it. Still no blue sky visible but grey damp lenticulars were stacking themselves up in the classic inverted dinner plate fashion. The two students quickly found themselves at Gold height, one asked what she should do next – “Keep going” was the short reply.

At 2000’ the air became silky smooth and our rate of climb increase dramatically – I hung onto the tug for an extra 1000 feet just to make sure. Once I released I orientated myself and tracked along the wave bar, down below another glider had released from the 2nd tug. I enquired of his height and was he climbing – 2500 in 3 three knots. I pulled out my airbrakes and descended to get a good low point on the data logger. I worked my way along the first wave bar, treating it like a ridge and very quickly found myself passing through 10000’, on with the oxygen mask.


Through 14000’ and a Jetstream went passed slightly higher than me, probably out of Inverness and heading for Dundee or Edinburgh. Now came the difficult bit, the best looking wave appeared to be south of us the Airway P600 was there. Where to go – I just couldn’t see where the next bar was. Was it going to be a repeat of last week? 15500’ rate of climb less than 1kt. Patient I’m not – until I turned North. There it was – biggest, best lenticular a lad could ever ask for – it almost had “Get your “Diamond Height Here” engraved on it. I called the flock together and we worked our respective ways towards this area of lift.


I checked that both the students were still happy, asked them what their low points were and confirmed the math’s with the ground team – once we all passed 19500’ Diamonds were in the bag. The lift improved to between 3 and 4 knots. Nineteen thousand feet – it all stopped! DON’T PANIC, look around the sky, work where you are – I literally moved the glider 20 yards back into the lift - 4 knots. The students quickly reached the required height and began their descent back through the gaps in the clouds but I thought I ‘d hang around for a bit after all I’d put a lot of effort in over the years trying to get this high. Might as well enjoy the limited view.


With 22000’ on the altimeter and the audio vario now nearly silent I decided that would do for today and began to work my way slowly downwards. As I looked down on the airfield from 7000’ I could see one of the gliders being towed back to the launch point to be launched off with another pilot, whilst the other was having its oxygen kit replenished – so I hung on and slowly descended into to circuit.


I arrived at the end of the runway wearing the largest of grins, during my descent news of our collective success had been text to various club members and syndicate partners down South. I handed over my logger to an Official Observer who walked off towards the clubhouse to print out the data. I waited. It wouldn’t be the first time that a logger had failed because the battery had got cold at height.

Then reality caught up with me – my cold feet – never dear reader go to 22000’ in two pairs of socks and a pair of brown brogues. We ended the day with 3 confirmed Diamond Heights and a Gold Height , that’s some 60’000 ft of gained height – the normal working enviroment for a U2 pilot, and not a lot of Red Cullin beer left behind the bar – university students – don’t you just love ‘em


And that is the tale from my logbook of launch number 3640. The total flight time – 3 hours 8 minutes. Do I regret not doing it years ago – no because then I wouldn’t have had the need to go back to Aboyne time after time.

I’ve been since - it rained for a fortnight – will I go again, now where did I put the dairy………………

I was once told that Diamond Height was easy – if you were in the right place on the right day

[Sans Anoraque]

Sometimes brevity is best. Here's an aviation poem for you.....

I,
Fly.

;)

[FullyFlapped]

I was one of three pilots who helped out at an RAF station's "fun day" by flying multiple short hops, each time with two disabled kids and a "helper". First time I'd ever done this, and the man said "you'll be surprised - you'll really enjoy it".

I think it was the third trip when they brought out the little girl, completely wheelchair bound, badly disabled in so many ways. She looked petrified (had perhaps seen my previous landings!), so I made a big effort to reassure her as they strapped her in, and all was fine.

The look on that kid's face when the wheels left the ground is something I will never, ever forget.

Flying. Fantastic.

FF :ok:

PS : and to those who might want to call this gut-wrenching smoltz - just let me say in advance, I don't really give a toss ...