IDEA OF FLIGHT

Throttle full open in your hands, wind screaming in your ears, and the steep climbing angle defying the gravity, the overpowering yet scintillating odour of grease and engine oil, the thrust produced by the twin engines, the speeding air trying to knock you out of the seat – this is my idea of  a perfect flight.

“Who do you want to be in the future?” every teacher asks this staple question to every young child, and I was no exception, I too, got this staple question directed at me and my answer was another staple stuff – Flying. Have I flown? Yes, thanks to the job that I have, it includes frequent travel all over the country. But every time the jet engine revs up, you feel claustrophobic; you are enclosed in a metal tube and is being hurled out into the stratosphere at amazing speeds. You know that you are at 20,000 feet, yet you feel like you are bound and enclosed. You feel the sweet fragrance of the perfumed interiors and the constant attention of the beautiful attendants. Still flying like this holds no fun for me.

A WWII single seater with open canopy with a skimpy windshield in front to shield you from the air stream is my idea of a perfect flight. The cable wires that connect the control column to the rudder and the ailerons, the non retractable landing gears, the propeller constantly humming in your ears, and the sudden spats of oil and grease from the engines flying by your ears make flying an exhilarating experience. As soon as the magnetos are switched on, and the propeller catches up, you are in another world. The vibration from the props ripples through your body. You are a constant and unstoppable Brownian molecule in the cosmos of flying, zigzagging in the constricted space available in the open cock pit. You feel the tremendous power threatening to pulverize the available bones in your system. As soon as your hand closes over the control column you feel that you are the master of the universe. Suddenly the crackle from the radio wakens you up from this subtle subconscious. You scream into the mike that Alpha Bravo Charlie 1 is ready to take off. As soon as you get the go ahead, you disengage the brakes and opens the throttle, and the beast starts to roll down the tarmac. Every passing minute the thrust builds up, and you are ready to be catapulted into the orbit. I gently push the control column back and the climb starts. The props bite into the air and the beast climbs in no time to 3000 feet. I level off and settle into a steady 140 knots, ground speed and give a cursory glance over my oil, fuel gauges and the gyros.

I do not have a destination; the vast expanse is my journey. I can see trivia, way down, the houses looking like match boxes, the high-rises looking childishly similar to the Lego blocks, the rivers snaking its way between the Blue Mountains and the shocking lock of green inviting you to take a deceptive dive into them. The urge to push the throttle further open is very tantalizing; I decide to give the little beauty a spin. I push the control column back and give her a little air, she climbs further up into the sky, the propellers bite into the thin air without much purchase and my air speed goes down. My stall indicator gives the shrill beep and I am ready for the spin. I turn the engines off, and the props suddenly stop spinning. An eerie silence engulfs me as I nose dive into the nothingness below me. The struts, the control wires and the fabric covering the wings scream and threaten to collapse with every minute of my nose dive. The g-force acting on me stretches my belly like a water bag, I feel the bile rising in my throat as the crushing g – force pulls me into an impending and perilous embrace, inevitably to meet with the rusty landscape sliding beneath me. Every passing second the pernicious danger closes on me and the altimeter warns me that enough is enough; you have to pull up or risk being dusty spaghetti. I decide the fun has to be over. I pull the control column back and pull her up, sliding into the smooth orbit and give the magnetos the much awaited twist and the propellers, the spin. The engine coughs and catches up, the thrust driving me forward. “What a heck of a spin!” I said to no one in particular, and for a fleeting second I had the very ethereal and pearly image of Leonardo Di Caprio in Aviator swimming before my eyes. I shook my self up from that impulsive and momentary revelation of purpose and bring her down for her final run before landing. The runway looms under far behind at 9'0 Clock. I give her the left aileron and she banks obediently to left. I pull back the throttle and bring down the rev. The growl subsides and the twin props just input the necessary power to keep her afloat. I pull down the flaps and give her the extra lift and align my self to the runway. The precision approach path indicator shows white – White – Red – Red. I am as usual on my regular glide slope of 3.0°. The smooth tarmac receives me without a glitch and the beast eats up the runway pretty fast. I pull the brake levers and the air break slows me down rapidly. I take the right turn and enter the taxiway. I remove my goggles and open the canopy, and jump down to see my instructor, as red and ripe as a tomato, fuming and smothering me with his standard glare “On your first solo and the stall spin!?” You are so f*#$%^& lucky to be alive!”