When is the "right time" to quit flying?
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Mike,
If there are is any more where that came from, I would like to read it.
Reminds me very much of the stories so well written by Centaurus (a prooner and ex 73 driver, IIRC)
If there are is any more where that came from, I would like to read it.
Reminds me very much of the stories so well written by Centaurus (a prooner and ex 73 driver, IIRC)
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I guess we are getting a bit off thread here now, but so be it...
HEINZ 57
It was the middle of the “Cold War”, late summer 1967; I was a very young RAF flight engineer on a Shackleton Mk 3 squadron based at Kinloss in Scotland. Our job was to keep an eye on Russian warships, particularly missile firing submarines and cruisers, and I had been well programmed to think that my squadron was at the sharp end, protecting civilisation against communist hordes.
Although very slow by modern standards, the Shack measured it’s endurance in days not hours, and a 12 hour sortie was regarded as normal. Shack crews ate well, the off duty watch cooking up some amazing meals in the amidships galley. The nautical theme continued with an operating height of 1000 ft, and attack height of below 100 ft. Shacks were fitted with washers to keep the sea spray off the windscreens, and the rest of the RAF believed that Shack crews set their altimeters according to high or low tide. Falling into the ocean was a constant hazard for Shacks, and aircraft on my squadron had returned minus the enormous underslung radar scanner, and / or bent prop tips due to hitting the sea on patrol. My own crew preferred to leave the HF radio trailing aerial extended during operations, as it hung about 50ft below the aircraft. The radio operator left his set on TX calling out “climb” “climb” whenever the meter zeroed meaning the end of the aerial was in the water.
My story begins at the strangest airfield I have ever seen, somewhere beyond the Arctic Circle on the Norwegian coast. The Russian Barents Sea fleet had been active, and my crew had been sent to a Norwegian airforce base from which to operate recce patrols. We had found the base, which consisted of a single runway next to a fjord and surrounded by mountains. There were no houses, no hangars, no control tower, no sign of anything except the long runway, but still the Norwegian controller directed us from somewhere. On landing we were directed to taxi towards a solid rock face at the side of the runway and stop. To my amazement the rock moved and exposed a cavernous interior, from which emerged first a Starfighter jet, and then our ground crew. This was 1967, what must that place be like now?
I refuelled the Shackleton, while the rest of the crew went off for operations briefing and extra rations. They arrived back cool, and refreshed while I as always was hot sweaty and clutching oily rags. (Don’t be horrible to your engineer…we are people just like you!)
It was the Arctic summer so there was no night, the Sun just moves around the horizon, and operations wanted us to get airborne immediately. Risking court-martial I rushed into the cavern to find a loo and washing facility, emerging slightly cleaner and less smelly to do battle with the Russians. We took-off and headed up the coast towards North Cape, a couple of hours later we were patrolling the mouth of the Barents Sea. Slow as it was the Shack had very powerful radar, able to pick out a submarine periscope at great distance, and our radar operator became quite excited at what his equipment was picking up. In those cold war days a convention had emerged between the RAF and the Russian Navy. Patrolling aircraft were allowed two circuits of a warship for photographs, but a third circuit would be considered a hostile action liable to retaliation. However Russians have a good sense of humour, and when encountered would usually send friendly insults to us over the radio. More sinister was their target practice with gun-laying radar, which could be heard on the inter-com as a series of rapid machine gun like popping sounds.
The radar operator homed us onto his contact, which suddenly split into many individual points. Spotting ships ahead, our Skipper called “action stations” and the off duty crew scrambled forward from the galley. We wound the propellers & engines up to fine pitch and combat power, bone-domes on and seat straps tight. Bloody hell! it looked like the whole Russian Navy was out there today. There were two missile cruisers, four destroyers, and lots of support ships. Our Skipper put the aeroplane into a shallow right hand circuit around this impressive fleet, and I remember thinking it odd as I looked out of my window, that I could not see any guns. Then I realised that I was looking down their barrels! On the second circuit it happened!! There was a tremendous bang from amidships, and vapour filled the aircraft. “They’re firing at us,” someone said, and the Skipper banked us away from the fleet, dived towards the sea and we headed for the horizon rapidly. “Sigs send a plain English distress to ops” said the Skipper, and “Eng. go back and check for damage” I grabbed the crash axe and fire extinguisher and headed towards the galley fearing the worst. It was a terrible sight, we had indeed taken a direct hit where it mattered, the galley oven door was off it’s hinges, baked beans were everywhere, SUPPER WAS RUINED. Why can’t some people make a hole in baked bean cans before heating them?
Is this true tale: genuinely boring, excruciating, embarrassing, and/or should you encourage me to tell more, or join a monastery, or just fade away quietly.
MG
HEINZ 57
It was the middle of the “Cold War”, late summer 1967; I was a very young RAF flight engineer on a Shackleton Mk 3 squadron based at Kinloss in Scotland. Our job was to keep an eye on Russian warships, particularly missile firing submarines and cruisers, and I had been well programmed to think that my squadron was at the sharp end, protecting civilisation against communist hordes.
Although very slow by modern standards, the Shack measured it’s endurance in days not hours, and a 12 hour sortie was regarded as normal. Shack crews ate well, the off duty watch cooking up some amazing meals in the amidships galley. The nautical theme continued with an operating height of 1000 ft, and attack height of below 100 ft. Shacks were fitted with washers to keep the sea spray off the windscreens, and the rest of the RAF believed that Shack crews set their altimeters according to high or low tide. Falling into the ocean was a constant hazard for Shacks, and aircraft on my squadron had returned minus the enormous underslung radar scanner, and / or bent prop tips due to hitting the sea on patrol. My own crew preferred to leave the HF radio trailing aerial extended during operations, as it hung about 50ft below the aircraft. The radio operator left his set on TX calling out “climb” “climb” whenever the meter zeroed meaning the end of the aerial was in the water.
My story begins at the strangest airfield I have ever seen, somewhere beyond the Arctic Circle on the Norwegian coast. The Russian Barents Sea fleet had been active, and my crew had been sent to a Norwegian airforce base from which to operate recce patrols. We had found the base, which consisted of a single runway next to a fjord and surrounded by mountains. There were no houses, no hangars, no control tower, no sign of anything except the long runway, but still the Norwegian controller directed us from somewhere. On landing we were directed to taxi towards a solid rock face at the side of the runway and stop. To my amazement the rock moved and exposed a cavernous interior, from which emerged first a Starfighter jet, and then our ground crew. This was 1967, what must that place be like now?
I refuelled the Shackleton, while the rest of the crew went off for operations briefing and extra rations. They arrived back cool, and refreshed while I as always was hot sweaty and clutching oily rags. (Don’t be horrible to your engineer…we are people just like you!)
It was the Arctic summer so there was no night, the Sun just moves around the horizon, and operations wanted us to get airborne immediately. Risking court-martial I rushed into the cavern to find a loo and washing facility, emerging slightly cleaner and less smelly to do battle with the Russians. We took-off and headed up the coast towards North Cape, a couple of hours later we were patrolling the mouth of the Barents Sea. Slow as it was the Shack had very powerful radar, able to pick out a submarine periscope at great distance, and our radar operator became quite excited at what his equipment was picking up. In those cold war days a convention had emerged between the RAF and the Russian Navy. Patrolling aircraft were allowed two circuits of a warship for photographs, but a third circuit would be considered a hostile action liable to retaliation. However Russians have a good sense of humour, and when encountered would usually send friendly insults to us over the radio. More sinister was their target practice with gun-laying radar, which could be heard on the inter-com as a series of rapid machine gun like popping sounds.
The radar operator homed us onto his contact, which suddenly split into many individual points. Spotting ships ahead, our Skipper called “action stations” and the off duty crew scrambled forward from the galley. We wound the propellers & engines up to fine pitch and combat power, bone-domes on and seat straps tight. Bloody hell! it looked like the whole Russian Navy was out there today. There were two missile cruisers, four destroyers, and lots of support ships. Our Skipper put the aeroplane into a shallow right hand circuit around this impressive fleet, and I remember thinking it odd as I looked out of my window, that I could not see any guns. Then I realised that I was looking down their barrels! On the second circuit it happened!! There was a tremendous bang from amidships, and vapour filled the aircraft. “They’re firing at us,” someone said, and the Skipper banked us away from the fleet, dived towards the sea and we headed for the horizon rapidly. “Sigs send a plain English distress to ops” said the Skipper, and “Eng. go back and check for damage” I grabbed the crash axe and fire extinguisher and headed towards the galley fearing the worst. It was a terrible sight, we had indeed taken a direct hit where it mattered, the galley oven door was off it’s hinges, baked beans were everywhere, SUPPER WAS RUINED. Why can’t some people make a hole in baked bean cans before heating them?
Is this true tale: genuinely boring, excruciating, embarrassing, and/or should you encourage me to tell more, or join a monastery, or just fade away quietly.
MG
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Mike,
Brilliant!
I remember going to RAF Acklington (Northumberland) with my father on an 'open day' (I was about five or six years old) and seeing a superb low level fly past by a Shackleton. The noise was amazing and I can distinctly remember the ground vibrating under my feet as I stood there frozen to the spot with fear and exitement - all at the same time.
You are obviously incredibly passionate about your flying and that is clear for all to see.
Please keep them coming.
Thank you
Brilliant!
I remember going to RAF Acklington (Northumberland) with my father on an 'open day' (I was about five or six years old) and seeing a superb low level fly past by a Shackleton. The noise was amazing and I can distinctly remember the ground vibrating under my feet as I stood there frozen to the spot with fear and exitement - all at the same time.
You are obviously incredibly passionate about your flying and that is clear for all to see.
Please keep them coming.
Thank you
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Excellent, Mike!
Yes, do tell us more: these are good.
Once again, perhaps there is a lesson to be learned here. I remember one of the Bell X1 pilots (was it Everest or Scott Crossfield) wrote that when an emergency breaks out our first impulse is always to take instant action, when for best outcome we ought to take just a bit more time to assess the situation before taking action. In this case, the assumption of being hit when the true cause of the emergency was exploding rations.
In regard to the Shackleton, I remember, as a child of about 14 attending (probably the last) airshow at Liverpool Speke airport. An RAF Shackelton staged a mock attack on an imaginary submarine apparently sailing across the middle of the aerodrome.
What an impressive sight. Suddenly those big engines revved to combat power, rising from a deep, throaty drone to a howl and that huge aeroplane (a Lancaster derivative after all), began to kick imaginary hell out of the imaginary submarine, banking steeply after each run to come back and have another go.
Very best wishes,
Broomstick.
Yes, do tell us more: these are good.
Once again, perhaps there is a lesson to be learned here. I remember one of the Bell X1 pilots (was it Everest or Scott Crossfield) wrote that when an emergency breaks out our first impulse is always to take instant action, when for best outcome we ought to take just a bit more time to assess the situation before taking action. In this case, the assumption of being hit when the true cause of the emergency was exploding rations.
In regard to the Shackleton, I remember, as a child of about 14 attending (probably the last) airshow at Liverpool Speke airport. An RAF Shackelton staged a mock attack on an imaginary submarine apparently sailing across the middle of the aerodrome.
What an impressive sight. Suddenly those big engines revved to combat power, rising from a deep, throaty drone to a howl and that huge aeroplane (a Lancaster derivative after all), began to kick imaginary hell out of the imaginary submarine, banking steeply after each run to come back and have another go.
Very best wishes,
Broomstick.
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Wow…I am going to duck out of this for a while. Too many undeserved compliments, and besides I need to keep a few stories to pay for my beer!
This thread started with my query on when is the right time to quit aviation, and I guess many of us never do. Even if you dine out on “old aviators war stories” it’s still keeping in touch.
In the 747 Incident my company was generous to me, but the outcome could have been much worse for a lot of innocent people.
That is the lesson for me if I keep on flying aeroplanes for fun, the people flying with me are precious, are innocent, have priority for their safety over all other things.
A friend phoned me today asking for a trip around the Welsh mountains, and we will do it, but not before an instructor has checked me out and I have made up for last years crap summer and lack of flying.
MG
This thread started with my query on when is the right time to quit aviation, and I guess many of us never do. Even if you dine out on “old aviators war stories” it’s still keeping in touch.
In the 747 Incident my company was generous to me, but the outcome could have been much worse for a lot of innocent people.
That is the lesson for me if I keep on flying aeroplanes for fun, the people flying with me are precious, are innocent, have priority for their safety over all other things.
A friend phoned me today asking for a trip around the Welsh mountains, and we will do it, but not before an instructor has checked me out and I have made up for last years crap summer and lack of flying.
MG
Last edited by BRL; 6th Apr 2005 at 13:57.
Mike,
The day that you fly and you learn nothing is the day to give up!
From your wonderful stories, you learnt a lot on those days and hence are justifiably still flying. Let us know what you learn going around the Welsh mountains.
Best rgds
L
The day that you fly and you learn nothing is the day to give up!
From your wonderful stories, you learnt a lot on those days and hence are justifiably still flying. Let us know what you learn going around the Welsh mountains.
Best rgds
L
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Mike,
Brilliant! Try and get the checkride booked and just take it from there...................at your own pace.
I did my revalidation five weeks ago with a gentleman that I hold in very high regard, in fact had it not been for him I may never have made a return to flying at all. I admit to being nervous and apprehensive about flying but I'm not convinced that it's flying that makes me nervous and apprehensive - if that makes sense?
As a younger chap my motorbike was my trusty steed taking me on adventures and generally being bloody good fun to boot. I renewed my relationship with two-wheels last year but something is different, very different. I seem to worry more about what might happen when I'm riding my bike than I used to, which is a little strange given that I travel much slower than I ever did and my journies are way shorter.
I do however think that this may be part of just getting older, and viewing life a little more preciously than I did before? But who knows?
PD
Brilliant! Try and get the checkride booked and just take it from there...................at your own pace.
I did my revalidation five weeks ago with a gentleman that I hold in very high regard, in fact had it not been for him I may never have made a return to flying at all. I admit to being nervous and apprehensive about flying but I'm not convinced that it's flying that makes me nervous and apprehensive - if that makes sense?
As a younger chap my motorbike was my trusty steed taking me on adventures and generally being bloody good fun to boot. I renewed my relationship with two-wheels last year but something is different, very different. I seem to worry more about what might happen when I'm riding my bike than I used to, which is a little strange given that I travel much slower than I ever did and my journies are way shorter.
I do however think that this may be part of just getting older, and viewing life a little more preciously than I did before? But who knows?
PD
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The day that you fly and you learn nothing is the day to give up!
The Original Whirly
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But if all you learn is that you are not as sharp as you were does that count as a reason to continue?
John,
An interesting philosophical point! One could say that we are not discussing reasons to continue but reasons to stop flying. If one learns that one is not as sharp as one used to be, that is a useful lesson learnt that may keep one safe and thus justify not quitting. On the other hand, it may be the impetus to "quit whilst you're ahead".
Second thoughts, I think that is what Whirlybird said, but she said it in English!
Rgds
L
An interesting philosophical point! One could say that we are not discussing reasons to continue but reasons to stop flying. If one learns that one is not as sharp as one used to be, that is a useful lesson learnt that may keep one safe and thus justify not quitting. On the other hand, it may be the impetus to "quit whilst you're ahead".
Second thoughts, I think that is what Whirlybird said, but she said it in English!
Rgds
L
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Listen to what a dinosaur has to say
I have recently returned to flying after a break of forty years. (Yes, it does get into the blood: the break in my flying career has been longer than most people's flying careers, yet here I am back again)!
Thus, I am in prime position to compare the flying skill of '20 year old me' directly with '60 odd year old me'.
In terms of actual skill in handling the aircraft, I definitely do not think I am quite as good a pilot as I used to be, although the decrement in performance is not great.
At the same time, I am much less vane about my own ability and I am very much more cautious and risk averse than I used to be. I try to be professional about my flying, even though I'm only a PPL.
So Paris Dakar is right. Yes, you do become much more risk averse with age because you are much more conscious than the young person about the physical, legal and financial consequences of accident, and you no longer consider yourself indestructible.
To reply (with great respect) to John Farley. I believe that finding you are not as sharp as you were is only a reason for giving up if the extent of the decrement in your performance is such that your judgement leads you to believe that you are no longer either competent or safe flying whatever aircraft it is you fly. If you really feel you are no longer up to flying your current type, (for example if you fly some kind of 'hot ship') you might be OK flying something slower. Short of that, I feel it is a reason to continue, if that is what you choose to do, but with an additional increment of caution.
To recall the old addage, 'the superior pilot flies in such a way thay there is a reduced possibility that he/she will have to demonstrate his/her superior flying skills'; a perfect description of the flying style of the older aviator.
Broomstick.
Thus, I am in prime position to compare the flying skill of '20 year old me' directly with '60 odd year old me'.
In terms of actual skill in handling the aircraft, I definitely do not think I am quite as good a pilot as I used to be, although the decrement in performance is not great.
At the same time, I am much less vane about my own ability and I am very much more cautious and risk averse than I used to be. I try to be professional about my flying, even though I'm only a PPL.
So Paris Dakar is right. Yes, you do become much more risk averse with age because you are much more conscious than the young person about the physical, legal and financial consequences of accident, and you no longer consider yourself indestructible.
To reply (with great respect) to John Farley. I believe that finding you are not as sharp as you were is only a reason for giving up if the extent of the decrement in your performance is such that your judgement leads you to believe that you are no longer either competent or safe flying whatever aircraft it is you fly. If you really feel you are no longer up to flying your current type, (for example if you fly some kind of 'hot ship') you might be OK flying something slower. Short of that, I feel it is a reason to continue, if that is what you choose to do, but with an additional increment of caution.
To recall the old addage, 'the superior pilot flies in such a way thay there is a reduced possibility that he/she will have to demonstrate his/her superior flying skills'; a perfect description of the flying style of the older aviator.
Broomstick.
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In the 2/03 issue of Free Flight, there is an article entitled "Hanging Up One's Wings", which may perhaps be of interest.
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