In the terminal building of the Sudbury Airport, my father sits hunched over a telephone on a small desk. With the handset cradled in his shoulder and a pencil poised over a scrap of paper, he listens to the dial tone. A yellowed thumbnail grinds away at the splintering edge of the desk. Eyes flit nervously from the blank paper to the windows overlooking a quiet tarmac and the unsettled soupy haze of an unhappy sky.
A few mumbled words, a pause, and then the right hand begins to work furiously - scratching what, to the inexperienced eye, is gibberish...a mess of letters, numbers and symbols. The paper begins to rumple as it is caught between the pencil's tip and the writer's dragging palm.
All the while, the thumb continues its meaningless mission.
A mumbled thanks, the handset is replaced, notes are consulted and crammed into the pocket of a pair of dirty jeans.
Outside, a blue and white Piper Warrior waits quietly.
Ugly, swirling clouds begin to peek over the western horizon.
"Don't do it," the voice shatters the silence hanging thick in the terminal building. Mid-stride, dad stops, and looks over his shoulder at a man Ernest Gann would have described as "an old pelican." He's sitting in a vinyl chair; twinkling eyes and unruly eyebrows working over the lip of a tattered newspaper.
"It isn't worth going," he reiterates.
"I'll have a look," my dad replies...but the uncertainty and doubt is swelling in the pit of his stomach. He makes for the door.
"Suit yourself," the old pelican replies softly. Eyes and eyebrows disappear behind newsprint once again.
15 minutes later, dad is cocooned in the lonely sanctuary of C-GGDI's cockpit. Having just climbed out of Sudbury, he's taken a heading roughly south. It'll be 50 miles or so before he hits the northern shore of Georgian Bay then another 80 miles over the water to Wiarton. He's considered taking the long way around by skirting the eastern shore of the bay but the weather would be on top of him by then...and his tiny craft wouldn't stand a chance. He left Collingwood for Kapuskasing the afternoon before - stopping to drop off men and gear in Sudbury and Timmins - nearly 4 hours in the air. Today, another 2 hour run from Kapuskasing to Timmins and then Sudbury. Now, Wiarton beckons from across the bay.
Under the wings, the harsh coniferous wilderness of northern Ontario is broken by whitecaps whipped wild by the whirling wind. Georgian Bay stretches out beyond the nose and crystalline arc of the propeller. On either side, clouds billow and broil...building into ugly, cancerous masses choking the horizon.
Rain begins to speckle the windshield. The wind picks up. The whitecaps below get whiter.
Fear in an airplane is a lonely and unforgiving thing. It is cold. You shiver and sweat all at once. The numbing drone of the engine is no longer a comfort...but rather a constant reminder of your isolation and insignificance. Every decision made up until this point becomes both monumental and meaningless. One makes any number of deals and bargains, swears allegiance or fealty to any number of lords...good or otherwise. Fear whispers in your ear, breathes on the back of your neck, promises salvation in exchange for surrender. It is quiet. And desperate. And sickening.
The horizon melts away. Everything is a uniformly damp blue. There is no up, nor down. He may be in cloud, he may not. It doesn't matter. It becomes painfully evident that the bottom is falling out.
Less than 300 hours are set down in his logbook. Another 5, perhaps 10 miles on this unwise course and he'll become the textbook example of a statistic.
My dad lowers his eyes and looks hard at the instruments. His shoulders draw inward as if to steel himself against the onslaught of Fear and Fate. I'm sure he heard Murray Sinton's voice, or Alan Coulson's, Biff Hamilton's...perhaps the more recent Ken Richardson's.
"I was scared," he told me 30 years later. "Really scared. I should have listened to the old man and never tried it."
"What did you do?"
"What I'd been taught," he answered. "Make a 180 degree, rate-one turn and get the hell out of there."
30 awful minutes later, GDI touches down at Sudbury airport with an unsettled bounce. My dad walks through the rain, slowly...as if to wash away Fear's shroud.
Inside the terminal, the old pelican hasn't moved. The newspaper is lowered and the crow's feet reaching out from the corners of his twinkling eyes crease and spread.
"Good to see you again, young fella," he says with an unseen smile.
"Welcome back."
Monday, 27 August 2012
Wednesday, 15 August 2012
Ghosts
Facebook is often a dumping ground of mindless blather and rubbish. It is expanding at a rate that rivals urban sprawl. However, it can also be a tool - quite a remarkable one - shrinking the globe and revealing hidden treasures, stories and memories lost for decades.
So, in July of 2012, I sounded the depths of Mark Zuckerberg's creation for Murray Sinton. I'll admit I took a ridiculously remote shot in the dark, I told this "Murray Sinton" as much, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was on to something.
Then, about a month later, in the dead of night, my blackberry clanged enthusiastically. It rose me from my slumber and as my myopic eyes swam in the murk to find my glowing watch face, I considered rolling over to pluck my phone from the carpeted bedroom floor.
3:24 in the morning. I'm getting up in less than 90 minutes. Forget it.
Six minutes later - another ping shattered the silence.
I felt for my glasses, pushed them on and groped for the phone lying face-down on the carpet and ringed in white light.
When I saw the name staring back at me, my body temperature jumped a few degrees.
It turns out that my absurdly long shot, lobbed through social media clear around the world, was right on target.
Murray Sinton is alive and well, and after a long aviation career, is enjoying his retirement in Perth, Australia.
Over the last few weeks, we've been swapping emails back and forth. I thought I would share one with you.
I must say I am honoured to be held in such high esteem by your late father (sorry to hear of his passing). It was something I always believed in trying to impart throughout my instructing over 30 odd years.
I read the blog from start to finish & found the history of all the air crafts I used to instruct on back when your father was learning very interesting. Sadly most of them, like your father, are no longer with us but live on in our memories.
From what I can remember your dad was a very keen & willing student who completed all his tasks diligently & enthusiastically & had that natural ability of coordination & judgement needed to fly.
If I remember correctly he was one of my first batch of pupils assigned to me by the flying school as a brand new assistant instructor. However, we got on very well throughout his quest to get his PPL which he passed on the first attempt.
Unfortunately, I do not have any photos but of course the early days of my flying career were at Wilken Flying School. The weather in Kenya being very kind to private flying as there were very few days that it kept one grounded.
Of course all of this was over 40 years ago now & I lost count of the number of students I taught since those first ones.
I, in fact, left the flying school after two years with them to further my career & spent a few years flying for a charter company before leaving Kenya for South Africa where I opted for the Corporate environment & ended up my flying days flying the Canadair Challenger series of air crafts.
This took me all over the globe & of course regular visits to Montreal for refresher simulator courses.
I am now happily retired in Perth Australia with all of my family close by.
I have regular contact with a number of those I taught way back then as most of them went on to become airline skippers & so migrated to all corners of the world.
As for the other instructors at Wilken, Mike Amos passed away a few years ago, Paul Lennox was killed in an aircraft bomb explosion on his way back to Nairobi from a visit to the infamous Idi Amin in Uganda. Alan Coulson I am not sure about but heard rumours of his demise. Clive Corner is alive & well & living in UK where he has retired.
I do still have the silver eagle tucked away with other flying memorabilia & had forgotten it was from your dad, thanks for the memory jog.
Do continue to complete this project but I don't know if I can be of any more help but would love to read its conclusion.
Keep up the good work in passing on your knowledge to your students & above all enjoy your flying days to the full.
Regards
Murray
Two things happened as I read Murray's recollections.
I grew up wanting to be a pilot - like my dad - and so, when it came to aviation, he was a giant. The fact that he learned to fly in Africa - in clear, pristine skies over the wild Savannah - only reinforced this feeling. Murray's story, however brief, helped me realize my dad and I had been in the same place, albeit separated by more than 30 years and half a globe. It unearthed a kinship I always knew existed but never fully understood.
And until Murray's note, Amos, Corner, Coulson and Lennox were just names written on the yellowing pages of an old logbook. Now, they had first names, and lives, loved ones, histories, triumphs, and tragedies...heartbeats.
One such heartbeat, that of Paul Lennox, was stopped with such cruelty and senselessness.
On June 27th, 1976, Air France Flight 139 from Tel-Aviv to Paris was hijacked by operatives of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine as well as members of the German Revolutionary Cells. The aircraft was eventually flown to Entebbe Airport near the Ugandan capital of Kampala where the hijackers were supported by the pro-Palestinian forces of President Idi Amin. The hijackers released most of the 260 passengers but kept 106 people - mainly Israelis - captive.
One week later, Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) troops staged a brazen raid. Under the cover of darkness, they landed a force of 100 soldiers at Entebbe Airport and stormed the terminal building where the hijackers were holding their hostages. The commandos killed the hijackers and as many as 45 Ugandan soldiers. Three hostages who were caught in the crossfire also died. The assault force's commander, 30-year-old Lt. Colonel Yonatan Netanyahu (oldest brother of the eventual Israeli Prime Minister) was killed. 103 hostages were saved. Idi Amin was humiliated.
The IDF wedged months of planning into mere hours. The success of the mission hinged on gaining safe passage through the airspace of neighbouring African nations. To do so without permission was considered an act of war. Kenya not only agreed to allow the IDF forces to fly through their airspace but offered Nairobi's international airport as a refueling stop.
Kenya - led by President Jomo Kenyatta - was sympathetic to the plight of the hostages. Jomo Kenyatta's Minister of Agriculture at the time was a man named Bruce MacKenzie. He was a former RAF pilot with deep connections to British Intelligence. He secured right of passage for the Israeli operation.
Idi Amin, it seems, did not forget this.
Two years later, MacKenzie left his ministerial post for business which took him to Uganda and other countries. He was selling radio technology for Wilken Telecommunications - part of the group that owned Wilken Aviation and its flying school. One of his clients was the Ugandan Army - and Idi Amin. He made frequent trips to visit the African dictator.
May 24th 1978 was one such day. MacKenzie and two fellow businessmen - Keith Savage and Gavin Whitelaw - made a trip from Wilson Airport in Nairobi to Entebbe in a Wilken-owned twin engine Piper Aztec registered 5Y-ACS. Paul Lennox was the pilot.
In Kampala, they met with Amin. When the business of the day was concluded, Amin saw them off at the airport. As Lennox fired up the engines at 4:19 in the afternoon, an Amin aide rushed to the side of the plane with a parcel.
He explained it was a lion's head carved from a block of wood - a gift from Amin to MacKenzie. The former Minister tried to turn it down but the aide insisted. MacKenzie relented, accepted the package, slammed the door shut and Lennox taxied for departure.
Inside the guts of the parcel, deep within the lion's head, beat a heart of explosives and a timer...ticking away the seconds each man had to live.
At 5:58 that evening, the Aztec was nearing Nairobi. Lennox keyed his microphone.
"Escarpment position, 20 miles from Wilson," the pilot reported.
Minutes later, Maasai herdsman heard a loud pop and turned their eyes upwards. Pieces of the Aztec were twirling lazily to earth in flames - like falling leaves glinting in the African sun. The four men were dead.
Idi Amin was immediately implicated. He denied the allegations and called MacKenzie one of his best friends. When Amin tumbled from power in 1979, his "special advisor", 56-year-old British born Bob Astles, was detained in Kenya - suspected as the perpetrator of the bombing and sent to Uganda to face charges. He was acquitted but served 6 and a half years in Luzira Prison. In 1985, he was released and returned to Britain where he lives now. He continues to deny the allegations.
The whispers of Idi Amin's involvement - and that of his associates - persist.
Paul Lennox, the man who signed off on my dad's first solo, just showed up for work that May day in 1978 - to do something he loved.
He paid with his life.
So, in July of 2012, I sounded the depths of Mark Zuckerberg's creation for Murray Sinton. I'll admit I took a ridiculously remote shot in the dark, I told this "Murray Sinton" as much, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was on to something.
Then, about a month later, in the dead of night, my blackberry clanged enthusiastically. It rose me from my slumber and as my myopic eyes swam in the murk to find my glowing watch face, I considered rolling over to pluck my phone from the carpeted bedroom floor.
3:24 in the morning. I'm getting up in less than 90 minutes. Forget it.
Six minutes later - another ping shattered the silence.
I felt for my glasses, pushed them on and groped for the phone lying face-down on the carpet and ringed in white light.
When I saw the name staring back at me, my body temperature jumped a few degrees.
It turns out that my absurdly long shot, lobbed through social media clear around the world, was right on target.
Murray Sinton is alive and well, and after a long aviation career, is enjoying his retirement in Perth, Australia.
Over the last few weeks, we've been swapping emails back and forth. I thought I would share one with you.
I must say I am honoured to be held in such high esteem by your late father (sorry to hear of his passing). It was something I always believed in trying to impart throughout my instructing over 30 odd years.
I read the blog from start to finish & found the history of all the air crafts I used to instruct on back when your father was learning very interesting. Sadly most of them, like your father, are no longer with us but live on in our memories.
From what I can remember your dad was a very keen & willing student who completed all his tasks diligently & enthusiastically & had that natural ability of coordination & judgement needed to fly.
If I remember correctly he was one of my first batch of pupils assigned to me by the flying school as a brand new assistant instructor. However, we got on very well throughout his quest to get his PPL which he passed on the first attempt.
Unfortunately, I do not have any photos but of course the early days of my flying career were at Wilken Flying School. The weather in Kenya being very kind to private flying as there were very few days that it kept one grounded.
Of course all of this was over 40 years ago now & I lost count of the number of students I taught since those first ones.
I, in fact, left the flying school after two years with them to further my career & spent a few years flying for a charter company before leaving Kenya for South Africa where I opted for the Corporate environment & ended up my flying days flying the Canadair Challenger series of air crafts.
This took me all over the globe & of course regular visits to Montreal for refresher simulator courses.
I am now happily retired in Perth Australia with all of my family close by.
I have regular contact with a number of those I taught way back then as most of them went on to become airline skippers & so migrated to all corners of the world.
As for the other instructors at Wilken, Mike Amos passed away a few years ago, Paul Lennox was killed in an aircraft bomb explosion on his way back to Nairobi from a visit to the infamous Idi Amin in Uganda. Alan Coulson I am not sure about but heard rumours of his demise. Clive Corner is alive & well & living in UK where he has retired.
I do still have the silver eagle tucked away with other flying memorabilia & had forgotten it was from your dad, thanks for the memory jog.
Do continue to complete this project but I don't know if I can be of any more help but would love to read its conclusion.
Keep up the good work in passing on your knowledge to your students & above all enjoy your flying days to the full.
Regards
Murray
Two things happened as I read Murray's recollections.
I grew up wanting to be a pilot - like my dad - and so, when it came to aviation, he was a giant. The fact that he learned to fly in Africa - in clear, pristine skies over the wild Savannah - only reinforced this feeling. Murray's story, however brief, helped me realize my dad and I had been in the same place, albeit separated by more than 30 years and half a globe. It unearthed a kinship I always knew existed but never fully understood.
And until Murray's note, Amos, Corner, Coulson and Lennox were just names written on the yellowing pages of an old logbook. Now, they had first names, and lives, loved ones, histories, triumphs, and tragedies...heartbeats.
One such heartbeat, that of Paul Lennox, was stopped with such cruelty and senselessness.
On June 27th, 1976, Air France Flight 139 from Tel-Aviv to Paris was hijacked by operatives of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine as well as members of the German Revolutionary Cells. The aircraft was eventually flown to Entebbe Airport near the Ugandan capital of Kampala where the hijackers were supported by the pro-Palestinian forces of President Idi Amin. The hijackers released most of the 260 passengers but kept 106 people - mainly Israelis - captive.
One week later, Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) troops staged a brazen raid. Under the cover of darkness, they landed a force of 100 soldiers at Entebbe Airport and stormed the terminal building where the hijackers were holding their hostages. The commandos killed the hijackers and as many as 45 Ugandan soldiers. Three hostages who were caught in the crossfire also died. The assault force's commander, 30-year-old Lt. Colonel Yonatan Netanyahu (oldest brother of the eventual Israeli Prime Minister) was killed. 103 hostages were saved. Idi Amin was humiliated.
The IDF wedged months of planning into mere hours. The success of the mission hinged on gaining safe passage through the airspace of neighbouring African nations. To do so without permission was considered an act of war. Kenya not only agreed to allow the IDF forces to fly through their airspace but offered Nairobi's international airport as a refueling stop.
 |
| Bruce MacKenzie - Kenyan Minister for Agriculture, former RAF pilot, British Intelligence Operative, businessman, victim of a terrorist bombing. He was 58 when he died. |
Kenya - led by President Jomo Kenyatta - was sympathetic to the plight of the hostages. Jomo Kenyatta's Minister of Agriculture at the time was a man named Bruce MacKenzie. He was a former RAF pilot with deep connections to British Intelligence. He secured right of passage for the Israeli operation.
Idi Amin, it seems, did not forget this.
Two years later, MacKenzie left his ministerial post for business which took him to Uganda and other countries. He was selling radio technology for Wilken Telecommunications - part of the group that owned Wilken Aviation and its flying school. One of his clients was the Ugandan Army - and Idi Amin. He made frequent trips to visit the African dictator.
May 24th 1978 was one such day. MacKenzie and two fellow businessmen - Keith Savage and Gavin Whitelaw - made a trip from Wilson Airport in Nairobi to Entebbe in a Wilken-owned twin engine Piper Aztec registered 5Y-ACS. Paul Lennox was the pilot.
In Kampala, they met with Amin. When the business of the day was concluded, Amin saw them off at the airport. As Lennox fired up the engines at 4:19 in the afternoon, an Amin aide rushed to the side of the plane with a parcel.
He explained it was a lion's head carved from a block of wood - a gift from Amin to MacKenzie. The former Minister tried to turn it down but the aide insisted. MacKenzie relented, accepted the package, slammed the door shut and Lennox taxied for departure.
Inside the guts of the parcel, deep within the lion's head, beat a heart of explosives and a timer...ticking away the seconds each man had to live.
At 5:58 that evening, the Aztec was nearing Nairobi. Lennox keyed his microphone.
"Escarpment position, 20 miles from Wilson," the pilot reported.
Minutes later, Maasai herdsman heard a loud pop and turned their eyes upwards. Pieces of the Aztec were twirling lazily to earth in flames - like falling leaves glinting in the African sun. The four men were dead.
Idi Amin was immediately implicated. He denied the allegations and called MacKenzie one of his best friends. When Amin tumbled from power in 1979, his "special advisor", 56-year-old British born Bob Astles, was detained in Kenya - suspected as the perpetrator of the bombing and sent to Uganda to face charges. He was acquitted but served 6 and a half years in Luzira Prison. In 1985, he was released and returned to Britain where he lives now. He continues to deny the allegations.
The whispers of Idi Amin's involvement - and that of his associates - persist.
Paul Lennox, the man who signed off on my dad's first solo, just showed up for work that May day in 1978 - to do something he loved.
He paid with his life.
Monday, 13 August 2012
Bloodlines
Nestled on the shores of Georgian Bay's southern point, is the town of Collingwood. It was founded in 1858 - well before the birth of this nation - and named for Admiral Lord Cuthbert Collingwood, the naval commander who took charge of the British fleet at Trafalgar after Lord Nelson fell. Built on the shores of the Great Lakes system and linked to Canada's commercial centres by railroad, it rapidly became an important port and shipbuilding town. From Collingwood, commerce could reach other southern ports like Port Arthur-Fort William (Thunder Bay) and Chicago. In 1901, Huronic, Canada's first steel-hulled vessel, was launched at Collingwood - heralding an industry that would endure for more than eight decades. In the years that followed, Collingwood Shipyards churned out Lakers and Corvettes for service in the Second World War with the Royal Canadian Navy.
In the fall of 1975, my father made the drive north from Toronto, pulled into the parking lot at Collingwood Airport and walked into the offices of Collingwood Aviation Academy.
In the mid-70s, "Collingwood Air" was a thriving flight school that went out of its way to provide a home for hobby pilots and fledgling professional aviators alike. The school ran a varied fleet of nearly brand new Piper Cherokees for basic to advanced training, a Cessna 150 Aerobat and Bellanca Decathlon for aerobatic and upset training and also had access to a variety of aircraft for specialised work. The airport was isolated enough to provide ample airspace for training with very little transit time...yet close enough to the busiest airspace in Canada. There were trailers available for rent if a student wished to stay the night and the main building was equipped with a shower and small kitchen. My dad quickly set himself up and began his commercial pilot training under Chief Flight Instructor Ken Richardson and a group of dedicated instructors.
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PA-28-140 C-FUYL now based in Indian River, On and owned by Charles Brown. This was one of the first Canadian registered aircraft my dad flew at Collingwood. In this aircraft, he and Ken Richardson made a cross country flight from Collingwood to Goderich to Waterloo and back on October 16th, 1975. (Photo Courtesy: International Cherokee Pilots Directory)
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PA-28-140 C-GNEG - the aircraft my dad flew when he passed his license conversion flight test on October 27th, 1975. J. Worts was the pilot-in-command. (Photo Courtesy: Apex Used Aircraft Sales)
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| My dad's view that day. (Photo Courtesy: Apex Used Aircraft Sales) |
Since he was so familiar with the Cherokee, his license conversion and training went well and it wasn't long before he was looking for some specialised experience. The RF-5 had shown him that flying was not limited to straight and level, point "A" to point "B" fixed altitude plodding. Beagle Pups and Chipmunks hammered the point home. Flying could be as pure and passionate as a Shakespearean sonnet or as graceful, light and melodic as a skilled pianist tickling the ivory keys. And so, inevitably, in the spring of '76, he found Bellanca Decathlon CF-ZUR and convinced Ken Richardson to go for a spin - quite literally. They likely added a few hammerheads, some Cuban 8 work and an avalanche or two for good measure.
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| Bellanca Decathlon N329J (formerly CF-ZUR) pictured for sale at Lakeland-Linder Regional in Florida on April 18th, 2010 - 34 years and 2 days after the Richardson-Rotondo dual flight out of Collingwood. (Photo Courtesy: Ray Barber) |
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| Chipmunk N280RD (formerly CF-CYM) captured at Tulsa, OK in November 2006. (Photo Courtesy: Danny Fitsche) |
At 6:30 on August 24th, 1976, dad took off from Maple Airport in Piper Cherokee C-GPBW with Department of Transport Examiner D. Delap in the right seat. When they landed two hours later, Tony Rotondo was issued license number YZC-164741 and became Canada's newest commercial pilot.
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| Commercial Pilot License YZC-164741. (Photo Courtesy: Family Collection) |
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| A bill for the rental of PBW for August 1976 showing 2 hours dual and .8 ground briefing. It cost a grand total of $47.20. I believe this is the bill for his commercial flight test. It was found crammed into the sleeve of his logbook. Saving all manner of receipts was an unfortunate habit we shared. (Family Collection) |
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Piper Cherokee C-GPBW, built in 1974 and my dad's commercial flight test mount, pictured here at the St-Lazare Fly-in in 2007. It is based at Lachute and still registered.
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| Pre-flighting Grob G115C C-FYMP at Ottawa soon after completing my commercial pilot training. (Photo Courtesy: Megan Harrison) |
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| Royal Canadian Air Cadet Flight Sergeant Michael Rotondo with Piper Tomahawk C-GTZY at Windsor. (Photo courtesy: Michael Rotondo) |
36 years after that August evening, once again, almost to the day, his youngest nephew would win his wings in Piper Tomahawk C-GTZY.
Wednesday, 1 August 2012
Miller Time
By August of 1978, Ernst Muller, in his words, "had another airplane on the go" and sold CF-FAM to Charles Miller for $6,000.
Muller flew the airplane from its operating base at King City to Brampton on August 6th, 1978. Miller took possession of FAM on the following day - reporting the aircraft to be in very good condition.
He made first flight - a 15 minute local trip - 6 days later and immediately set out to make the little biplane his own.
At 190 pounds, Miller was a bigger man than his predecessor, so he moved the seat down and back slightly to accommodate his larger frame. Miller removed the canopy and turtle deck - replacing them with a single curved Plexiglas windshield and a streamlined headrest.
He then gave it the paint job it would wear for the bulk of its life.
Miller had Muller's blue and white coat stripped off and replaced with a base of bright cherry red. To the the top of each wing, six ice white lines were applied - spreading out from the centre line like the rays of a rising sun. Four smaller ones graced the top of the horizontal stabiliser while a broad white band was painted down each side from the end of the engine cowling to the tip of the tail. The aircraft's wheel pants were similarly adorned.
FAM's slick new paint job gave it the air of a smallish Pitts Special. He typically flew the airplane on weekends and, from the frequency of his logbook entries, one can assume he had a ball doing so. The 14 pages chronicling Miller's 340 hours at the Smith's controls are crowded with entries outlining several flights a day. On some days, Miller would do 2 or 3 quick jaunts around Brampton. On others, he would embark on cross country flights - dropping into any of the dozens upon dozens of small airports that littered the patchwork fields of south-western Ontario in those days. His snappy little biplane turned heads wherever it went.
He apparently had so much fun flying the little machine that he forgot to log, and lost, flights between March and July of '79. These flights accounted for 70 hours...and were eventually found and logged by the pilot along with a sheepish notation.
The aircraft's journey log highlights one stark difference between the airplane's first two pilots. Muller's logbook entries were complete but spartan. They outlined the particulars of the flight but nothing more. If Muller was Hemingway, then Miller was Dickens. His entries leap off the rough pages of FAM's journey log with the same enthusiasm and descriptiveness as when they were set down more than 30 years ago.
On September 24th, 1978, Miller participated in a United Way Air Day from Brampton to Guelph and then did a little formation flying with the Experimental Aircraft Association (EAA) during the return trip. In March of 1979, he replaced the aircraft's spinner, nosebowl, cowling, fairings, rudder cables, landing gear bolts and seatbelt.
In June of that year, CF-FAM's registration was changed to C-FFAM to bring it in line with the Department of Transport's new registration convention. Miller dutifully advised the ministry.
August and September of 1979 were a challenge for plane and pilot. On August 25th, Miller lost power on take-off from Guelph. It happened again in Erin on September 1st prompting the pilot to wonder aloud in the logbook if the cause was the fuel surge Muller had likely warned him about or carburetor ice. He rerouted the fuel line to troubleshoot the problem. In King City the next day, he aborted a take-off run after losing power and it seems he had had enough. The following morning, he made a fuel flow check, installed new fuel lines, cleaned the tank and carburetor. Outside of a partial power loss in-flight near Guelph nearly three weeks later which Miller attributed to carb ice, FAM had no further engine issues.
Muller flew the airplane from its operating base at King City to Brampton on August 6th, 1978. Miller took possession of FAM on the following day - reporting the aircraft to be in very good condition.
He made first flight - a 15 minute local trip - 6 days later and immediately set out to make the little biplane his own.
At 190 pounds, Miller was a bigger man than his predecessor, so he moved the seat down and back slightly to accommodate his larger frame. Miller removed the canopy and turtle deck - replacing them with a single curved Plexiglas windshield and a streamlined headrest.
He then gave it the paint job it would wear for the bulk of its life.
Miller had Muller's blue and white coat stripped off and replaced with a base of bright cherry red. To the the top of each wing, six ice white lines were applied - spreading out from the centre line like the rays of a rising sun. Four smaller ones graced the top of the horizontal stabiliser while a broad white band was painted down each side from the end of the engine cowling to the tip of the tail. The aircraft's wheel pants were similarly adorned.
FAM's slick new paint job gave it the air of a smallish Pitts Special. He typically flew the airplane on weekends and, from the frequency of his logbook entries, one can assume he had a ball doing so. The 14 pages chronicling Miller's 340 hours at the Smith's controls are crowded with entries outlining several flights a day. On some days, Miller would do 2 or 3 quick jaunts around Brampton. On others, he would embark on cross country flights - dropping into any of the dozens upon dozens of small airports that littered the patchwork fields of south-western Ontario in those days. His snappy little biplane turned heads wherever it went.
He apparently had so much fun flying the little machine that he forgot to log, and lost, flights between March and July of '79. These flights accounted for 70 hours...and were eventually found and logged by the pilot along with a sheepish notation.
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| A page from FAM's logbook while Charles Miller owned and flew it. (Family Collection) |
The aircraft's journey log highlights one stark difference between the airplane's first two pilots. Muller's logbook entries were complete but spartan. They outlined the particulars of the flight but nothing more. If Muller was Hemingway, then Miller was Dickens. His entries leap off the rough pages of FAM's journey log with the same enthusiasm and descriptiveness as when they were set down more than 30 years ago.
On September 24th, 1978, Miller participated in a United Way Air Day from Brampton to Guelph and then did a little formation flying with the Experimental Aircraft Association (EAA) during the return trip. In March of 1979, he replaced the aircraft's spinner, nosebowl, cowling, fairings, rudder cables, landing gear bolts and seatbelt.
In June of that year, CF-FAM's registration was changed to C-FFAM to bring it in line with the Department of Transport's new registration convention. Miller dutifully advised the ministry.
August and September of 1979 were a challenge for plane and pilot. On August 25th, Miller lost power on take-off from Guelph. It happened again in Erin on September 1st prompting the pilot to wonder aloud in the logbook if the cause was the fuel surge Muller had likely warned him about or carburetor ice. He rerouted the fuel line to troubleshoot the problem. In King City the next day, he aborted a take-off run after losing power and it seems he had had enough. The following morning, he made a fuel flow check, installed new fuel lines, cleaned the tank and carburetor. Outside of a partial power loss in-flight near Guelph nearly three weeks later which Miller attributed to carb ice, FAM had no further engine issues.
In late July of this year, my mom uncovered a nondescript beige envelope while packing up my childhood home. On the front, scrawled in pencil in my father's easily recognisable hand was the following note addressed to me:
Jona -
Please keep this envelope for me - this (is) the biplane log book.
Thanks
Dad!
Thanks
Dad!
Inside, as advertised, were full sized copies of FAM's logbook - but they were incomplete. The entries only covered the time Miller owned the airplane. After leafing through, I soon discovered why. Tucked into the spine of the photocopies was a neatly folded piece of thin stationary - a letter addressed to my dad and written by Charlie Miller more than 25 years before.
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| Charlie Miller's letter to my father requesting copies of FAM's logbook. The letter was written June 8th, 1987. I'm not sure my dad ever replied. (Family Collection) |
It's a short note - and obviously a follow-up - asking if my father had sent copies of the aircraft's logbook. Given I found the letter with the requested copies and my dad's impressive ability to not bother with this sort of thing (more a product of inattention than malice, I might add) , I'm almost positive Miller never received the documents. I considered the discovery a windfall, given this project's juncture, and called the number for Miller that I found scrawled on the back of one of the copies. Not surprisingly, the number had been disconnected. Internet searches failed to reveal any likely contact information and since Charles Miller is about as common as John Smith, calling them all would require a robot dialer. The two contradicting addresses on the photocopies and the letter led to nowhere. The last certain record of Miller comes from Transport Canada and a 1941 Fairchild 24 registered as C-FFUH. It was deleted from the civil aircraft register on October 3rd, 1991.
As I've been unable to reach FAM's second owner and pilot, his meticulously maintained logbook entries are my only source to tell the aircraft's story during the time he owned and flew it.
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
Intermission 2
Five months before Ernst Muller made his first flight in CF-FAM, my father was getting ready to leave the African plains for destinations unknown.
Work had either dried up in the equatorial sun or grown too stale and boring for his lofty tastes. In a pattern that would be re-exhibited several times over his life, my dad went on to something else.
His last flight in Africa was on April 19th, 1973 - a half hour, lunch time aerobatic jaunt in the RF-5.
He spent two weeks in Germany, in the Hesse town of Bottenhorn in the foothills of the Westerwald mountain range. He logged 46 minutes in ASK 13 gliders, did a dual flight in a Scheibe Falke motor glider and then ferried a Cessna 172 back from Breitscheid before continuing "home" to San Giacomo.
After three months, there were still no suitable job offers - at least nothing that piqued his interest.
 |
| My dad's glider logbook and an appropriately stern Hessian gaze in the accompanying photograph. (Family Collection) |
 |
| The 1st page of his glider logbook showing a dozen flights - 9 dual, 3 solo - for a total of 46 minutes. (Family Collection) |
After three months, there were still no suitable job offers - at least nothing that piqued his interest.
Then, one day in August, came a knock at the door.
Instead of the postman and a job offer, there were two carabinieri, Italian State Police, with orders to take Antonio F. Rotondo to the nearest military depot to be drafted into the Esercito Italiano.
And with that, my father became a 28-year-old private in the Italian Army. |
| Dad in his full dress uniform, 1974. (Family Collection) |
Until very recently, all Italian citizens were required by law to serve the nation - many of them through terms in the armed forces. My father had left Italy before being drafted and could return as long as he didn't stay longer than 3 months. He had overstayed his welcome by a week.
At 28, he was at least 5 years older than the oldest of his draftee class and not well suited to the typical barracks tomfoolery. The Italian Army hadn't won a battle since the height of the Roman Empire...and running around a field wantonly firing a sub-machine gun for enough money to buy a Coke and two slices of pizza wasn't his idea of a good time.He immediately made an appeal to his commanding officer to be transferred to the Air Force given he was an educated man with pilot training - not a hoodlum or a kid straight out of high school. His captain did the best he could - sending him to Naples in February to take a six-month course in becoming a wireless operator.
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| Stamps and signatures from flying clubs in Bottenhorn Germany & Naples Italy. (Family Collection). |
 |
| Aero Club Di Napoli's fleet. I-MISE is first from the left in the middle row, I-POSI is second from the left in the back row and I-MERG is second from the right in the middle row. (Photo Courtesy: Aero Club di Napoli) |
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| P.66 I-POSI pictured in December 2008. This was the first P.66 my dad flew and the one he did most of his Naples flying in. (Photo Courtesy: Aero Club di Napoli) |
In June of 1974, he returned to his unit as a Marconista (wireless operator) and participated in manoeuvres where he rode around in a Armoured Personnel Carrier festooned with antennae in order to signal the other APCs and tanks in the battallion. He and his fellow wireless ops thought this was great fun until they realized, should their unit ever be sent into battle, their APC would be the first to be targeted.
 |
With his mates outside their barracks near Bari, 1974 or 1975. My dad is 2nd from the left. (Family Collection)
|
Despite the forced nature of their employment and the futility of their actions, these were happy times. My dad recalled that they had little to worry about except to ensure that their boots were shined and pants pressed. Gags like exploding shaving cream canisters and swapping out tapes of Morse code signals for the chart topper of the day were common. They were well fed, well equipped and well respected. In those days, a soldier in uniform could hitchhike home and often did.
 |
| Two Italian Army wireless operators in full dress uniform. My dad is on the left. (Family Collection) |
My father was discharged from the army in the winter of 1975 after 18 months of service.
Sunday, 8 July 2012
A Biplane is Born
At a small airfield north of Toronto, the low hum of an 85 horsepower Continental engine grows to a buzz.
A small, blue and white biplane rolls down the paved runway, tail low, propeller thrashing the autumn air at high revolutions.
The tail rises, both sets of wings begin to fly under the rush of air. There's a slight swing of the button nose and the rudder flicks right, right, left, right to compensate.
Galloping down the 2650 foot asphalt runway, wings begging for flight, flying wires flexed, the rigid gear grows fidgety and impatient with the pilot who chooses to hold his brave little ship back just a moment more.
Boots dance on rudder pedals.
There is no romance here, no style, no grace...only a point two thousand feet beyond where the runway vanishes at the intersection of emerald fields and sapphire skies.
A light, barely perceptible bit of aft pressure on the stick, the runway falls away and CF-FAM bounds into the air.
The day is October 20th, 1973. The time 5:45pm. Ernst Muller has just left the ground in CF-FAM for the very first time. Maple Airport was his Kittyhawk.
"It kept your feet busy," he recalls, almost 40 years later. His voice is firm but far away on the other end of the line.
"It was squirrely on the ground," a pause, a hint of fondness in recalling a distance memory."But in the air, it was just perfect...really light on the controls...you flew it with two fingers."
His first test flight lasted 20 minutes. Muller landed at Maple just after 6:00pm.
"It was a challenge to land on asphalt," he remembers. "It sat very nose high so you couldn't see well over the nose."
That first flight was the culmination of a year of work for Muller - he finished the airplane in the garage of his Rexdale, Ontario home - but FAM's story begins years before.
Thanks to a stranger's generosity, I am now in possession of the aircraft's manufacturer's plate. On the front, are all the particulars identifying FAM as an Ernst Muller build.
On the reverse however, hidden for the entirety of the aircraft's service life, a mystery. The plate had been heavily filed down, obscuring previous engravings. Stamped onto the shiny surface is the following:
"Does the name Fred A. McGregor mean anything to you?" I ask Muller.
"Who?"
"Fred A. McGregor."
"Oh, yes," the 76-year-old replies. "He's the fellow I bought it from - but he wasn't the first to work on it."
This would explain the earlier date, the difference in serial numbers...the file marks.
"At least 3 others worked on the airplane before he did," Muller explains. "You see, it was a very unique airplane...and no matter where I took it, someone would tell me stories of how they tried to get it flying."
Before Muller, McGregor had come the closest. He went as far as applying to the Civil Aviation Branch of the Department of Transport for a customised registration.
"I liked the look of it," Muller remembers. "A single seat biplane, it was very unique...but it was a challenge to get it flying."
Muller spent a year finishing McGregor's project. He remembers satisfaction at finally getting it into the air...but little else. No pictures survive, no documents...nothing but memories.
He tells me that he painted it blue and white, that he put a canopy on it after flying around in the rain, that he did some basic aerobatics in it and that it spun sweetly. He remembers that, due to the angle of the fuel tank, the aircraft was prone to power loss during take-off if the tank was less than one-third full.
His tone is matter of fact and distant but not unfriendly.
You see, there are, in basic terms, two sorts of pilots. The first group regards their machines as living, breathing aerial companions that understand and empathise, reward and punish, give and take life...but always poetically, heroically, rich in grace and with a certain measure of mechanical humanity. The second group means to fly them - and that's it.
It becomes obvious to me that Muller is of the latter persuasion. If I needed more proof, the evidence is plainly set out in the aircraft's journey log.
Muller flew FAM for 5 years less 3 months. He filled 14 pages and logged 509.5 hours. The furthest east he took it was St. Lazare. The furthest west: Gore Bay on Manitoulin Island. Every flight is meticulously logged: date, nature of flight, pilot's name, times up and down, air and flight time, aircraft total time, etc...
In all that time, he didn't see the need to set anything down in the remarks section. It is entirely devoid of any insight...except the words "test flite"...on September 17th, 1977.
Our phone conversation of June 28th, 2012 lasted about 12 minutes. We spoke of other things I will reveal as this story develops. The entire time, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was on a train to some faraway, unknown place...and that my ticket would only take me so far.
I am, as you can well imagine, overjoyed to speak to him. I prattle on excitedly about my inspiration for this project, my research, those I've talked to, who owned the airplane, where it had been, where it is now...
He listens patiently...but when I ask him if he'd be interested in my sending him all this information, he politely declines.
"Some people get attached to airplanes," he says in a slight Swiss accent. "I don't."
"I've had other ones, you go on to other things..."
I've heard similar words before. There's some finality to this conversation.
He thanks me again and wishes me good luck. I scarcely have time to thank him before a click and the drone of the dial tone.
I hear so much promise in that "F" note.
A small, blue and white biplane rolls down the paved runway, tail low, propeller thrashing the autumn air at high revolutions.
The tail rises, both sets of wings begin to fly under the rush of air. There's a slight swing of the button nose and the rudder flicks right, right, left, right to compensate.
Galloping down the 2650 foot asphalt runway, wings begging for flight, flying wires flexed, the rigid gear grows fidgety and impatient with the pilot who chooses to hold his brave little ship back just a moment more.
Boots dance on rudder pedals.
There is no romance here, no style, no grace...only a point two thousand feet beyond where the runway vanishes at the intersection of emerald fields and sapphire skies.
A light, barely perceptible bit of aft pressure on the stick, the runway falls away and CF-FAM bounds into the air.
The day is October 20th, 1973. The time 5:45pm. Ernst Muller has just left the ground in CF-FAM for the very first time. Maple Airport was his Kittyhawk.
 |
| An aerial shot of the construction of Canada's Wonderland in 1980 - which my dad and godfather worked on. Maple Airport is pictured at top right. (Photo Courtesy Canada's Wonderland) |
"It kept your feet busy," he recalls, almost 40 years later. His voice is firm but far away on the other end of the line.
"It was squirrely on the ground," a pause, a hint of fondness in recalling a distance memory."But in the air, it was just perfect...really light on the controls...you flew it with two fingers."
His first test flight lasted 20 minutes. Muller landed at Maple just after 6:00pm.
"It was a challenge to land on asphalt," he remembers. "It sat very nose high so you couldn't see well over the nose."
That first flight was the culmination of a year of work for Muller - he finished the airplane in the garage of his Rexdale, Ontario home - but FAM's story begins years before.
Thanks to a stranger's generosity, I am now in possession of the aircraft's manufacturer's plate. On the front, are all the particulars identifying FAM as an Ernst Muller build.
 |
| CF-FAM's manufacturer's plate. (Family Collection). |
SMITH DSA-1
REG. CF-FAM
SERIAL - 8730
1971
FRED A. MCGREGOR
 |
| The reverse of CF-FAM's manufacturer's plate. (Family Collection) |
"Does the name Fred A. McGregor mean anything to you?" I ask Muller.
"Who?"
"Fred A. McGregor."
"Oh, yes," the 76-year-old replies. "He's the fellow I bought it from - but he wasn't the first to work on it."
This would explain the earlier date, the difference in serial numbers...the file marks.
"At least 3 others worked on the airplane before he did," Muller explains. "You see, it was a very unique airplane...and no matter where I took it, someone would tell me stories of how they tried to get it flying."
Before Muller, McGregor had come the closest. He went as far as applying to the Civil Aviation Branch of the Department of Transport for a customised registration.
Fred A. McGregor
FAM
"I liked the look of it," Muller remembers. "A single seat biplane, it was very unique...but it was a challenge to get it flying."
Muller spent a year finishing McGregor's project. He remembers satisfaction at finally getting it into the air...but little else. No pictures survive, no documents...nothing but memories.
 |
| Sketches of N90P - the Smith Miniplane prototype. |
He tells me that he painted it blue and white, that he put a canopy on it after flying around in the rain, that he did some basic aerobatics in it and that it spun sweetly. He remembers that, due to the angle of the fuel tank, the aircraft was prone to power loss during take-off if the tank was less than one-third full.
His tone is matter of fact and distant but not unfriendly.
You see, there are, in basic terms, two sorts of pilots. The first group regards their machines as living, breathing aerial companions that understand and empathise, reward and punish, give and take life...but always poetically, heroically, rich in grace and with a certain measure of mechanical humanity. The second group means to fly them - and that's it.
It becomes obvious to me that Muller is of the latter persuasion. If I needed more proof, the evidence is plainly set out in the aircraft's journey log.
Muller flew FAM for 5 years less 3 months. He filled 14 pages and logged 509.5 hours. The furthest east he took it was St. Lazare. The furthest west: Gore Bay on Manitoulin Island. Every flight is meticulously logged: date, nature of flight, pilot's name, times up and down, air and flight time, aircraft total time, etc...
In all that time, he didn't see the need to set anything down in the remarks section. It is entirely devoid of any insight...except the words "test flite"...on September 17th, 1977.
Our phone conversation of June 28th, 2012 lasted about 12 minutes. We spoke of other things I will reveal as this story develops. The entire time, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was on a train to some faraway, unknown place...and that my ticket would only take me so far.
I am, as you can well imagine, overjoyed to speak to him. I prattle on excitedly about my inspiration for this project, my research, those I've talked to, who owned the airplane, where it had been, where it is now...
He listens patiently...but when I ask him if he'd be interested in my sending him all this information, he politely declines.
"Some people get attached to airplanes," he says in a slight Swiss accent. "I don't."
"I've had other ones, you go on to other things..."
I've heard similar words before. There's some finality to this conversation.
He thanks me again and wishes me good luck. I scarcely have time to thank him before a click and the drone of the dial tone.
I hear so much promise in that "F" note.
Wednesday, 4 July 2012
Confessions
March 19th, 2012 - about 5 miles north-east of Gatineau.
I'm sitting in the back of a newish Super Decathlon, slowing down through 90 knots.
Then, a deep breath.
Stick full back, a swift push of my left foot against the rudder pedal and the horizon vanishes under the nose.
A shudder, the left wing drops sharply - a little aileron now to help the roll but we're rotating quickly as it is.
The horizon now dissecting my limited view forward, now revolving madly, now over my head...
Stick forward now, full opposite rudder and some measure of normalcy returns with straight and level flight.
A snap roll in the Super Decathlon takes roughly two seconds. It is the fastest roll the airplane will do.
My student, riding up front, is impressed.
"Awesome!" he shrieks. He's a grown man - married with two kids. I love his enthusiasm. "Do another?"
I oblige.
"Again!" Les gets younger with every manoeuvre.
I shrug. We whip around a third time.
"Okay, I'm done," says Les from the front seat. I turn over control of the aircraft and I hear him talking to the terminal controller as we start a sweeping right turn for home.
I'm gazing forlornly at the Gatineau Airport crawling by under our wings.
I wish I could tell my dad about the snap rolls. He'd want to hear about it.
My father and I enjoyed a good relationship although it was one that grew difficult as we aged.
We certainly shared the passion of flying and a voracious appetite for literature - but little else.
In fact, in the last few years, we only ever spoke of flying, reading, hockey and work. More often than not, we clashed - and that thanks to radically different personalities. One of his favourite things to say to me was "you sound/talk/act/think/behave like your mother." It was and still is true.
My sister inherited many more traits from my father than I did and he apparently always believed she would become the pilot and not I. Ironically and in a cruel twist, those very same traits assured she would never take to the skies as he did. In fact, my sister had very little interest in aviation. I spent most of my childhood sitting in airplanes. Vanessa spent the bulk of hers standing next to them striking a pretty pose.
My dad was a gentle and beautiful soul that suffered from bad timing and unfortunate luck. A series of personal catastrophes changed him over time. He withdrew into his work - it kept him anywhere but at home - and became more of an obsession than an occupation.
I had the happy fortune of spending many summers with my dad working on construction sites from North Bay to Niagara Falls. We would work Monday to Saturday and, after I received my pilot's license, find an airport to fly out of on Sundays. Aviation was, without a doubt, our strongest bond...and the one we spoke about the most.
FAM, however, was a ghost - talked about rarely yet fondly and existing in the pristine and endless skies of my father's memory. After he sold the plane, he had no interest in knowing where it was or what it was doing or who had the fortune of flying it. He cared only for where it had been, what it had been like to fly it and how it made him feel.
As he deteriorated, the old flying stories remained sharp albeit repetitive. At the time, hearing him prattle on about Murray Sinton and Alan Coulson, Biff Hamilton and Ken Richardson, the RF-5 and how the Chipmunk spun could be mildly irritating - only in that I'd heard the stories a million times before.
Now, I'd give anything to hear one again.
And perhaps that is why I'm so bent on seeing this project through...so haunted by the spectre of a red biplane and its one-time pilot.
Obviously, I can no longer consult my chief source on the matter. Finding and speaking to those who knew the aircraft intimately is a quest in history and archaeology. Snapshots and snippets of the story rise from the pages of logbook entries set down decades ago or from hastily scribbled notes on scraps of yellowing paper. Internet searches reveal little more than phone numbers that, if still connected, sometime lead to new information, new voices and old memories relived. One avenue uncovered inevitably leads to several more which branch out like the strands of a spider's web...and one can find themselves easily entangled in it. Chronology, as you can well imagine, becomes entirely useless and hopelessly ineffective. And so, the story takes on an organic feel...one that changes and evolves with each new scrap of information that comes to light.
There's a squeak, a shimmy and then I feel the weight transfer from my backside to my thighs. I'm prodded back to reality by the trundling of rubber on runway.
Les has the aircraft rolling on the main wheels down Runway 09 at Rockcliffe. The wind is not severe enough to make the wheel landing necessary but Les likes to practice...and I'm happiest when I can see where we're going. As we taxi off the runway at the end, we make two left turns and proceed down the taxiway towards the fuel pumps. We roll slowly, tail down, past an empty tie down; the familiar plot of land where the Mini-plane resided 25 years ago.
I gaze at the grass swaying ever so delicately in the early evening breeze.
I swear I hear the biplane's engine humming in the wind's breath.
I'm sitting in the back of a newish Super Decathlon, slowing down through 90 knots.
Then, a deep breath.
Stick full back, a swift push of my left foot against the rudder pedal and the horizon vanishes under the nose.
A shudder, the left wing drops sharply - a little aileron now to help the roll but we're rotating quickly as it is.
The horizon now dissecting my limited view forward, now revolving madly, now over my head...
Stick forward now, full opposite rudder and some measure of normalcy returns with straight and level flight.
A snap roll in the Super Decathlon takes roughly two seconds. It is the fastest roll the airplane will do.
My student, riding up front, is impressed.
"Awesome!" he shrieks. He's a grown man - married with two kids. I love his enthusiasm. "Do another?"
I oblige.
"Again!" Les gets younger with every manoeuvre.
I shrug. We whip around a third time.
"Okay, I'm done," says Les from the front seat. I turn over control of the aircraft and I hear him talking to the terminal controller as we start a sweeping right turn for home.
I'm gazing forlornly at the Gatineau Airport crawling by under our wings.
I wish I could tell my dad about the snap rolls. He'd want to hear about it.
My father and I enjoyed a good relationship although it was one that grew difficult as we aged.
We certainly shared the passion of flying and a voracious appetite for literature - but little else.
In fact, in the last few years, we only ever spoke of flying, reading, hockey and work. More often than not, we clashed - and that thanks to radically different personalities. One of his favourite things to say to me was "you sound/talk/act/think/behave like your mother." It was and still is true.
 |
| Sitting in a Cessna 172 at Carp, I think. This would be 1988 or 1989. (Family Collection) |
My sister inherited many more traits from my father than I did and he apparently always believed she would become the pilot and not I. Ironically and in a cruel twist, those very same traits assured she would never take to the skies as he did. In fact, my sister had very little interest in aviation. I spent most of my childhood sitting in airplanes. Vanessa spent the bulk of hers standing next to them striking a pretty pose.
My dad was a gentle and beautiful soul that suffered from bad timing and unfortunate luck. A series of personal catastrophes changed him over time. He withdrew into his work - it kept him anywhere but at home - and became more of an obsession than an occupation.
 |
| Dad and I at the St. Catharines Airport in the summer of 2003 with PA-28-151 C-GQXP. This is right after the alternator regulator failed on take-off - my first in-flight "emergency." (Family Collection) |
I had the happy fortune of spending many summers with my dad working on construction sites from North Bay to Niagara Falls. We would work Monday to Saturday and, after I received my pilot's license, find an airport to fly out of on Sundays. Aviation was, without a doubt, our strongest bond...and the one we spoke about the most.
FAM, however, was a ghost - talked about rarely yet fondly and existing in the pristine and endless skies of my father's memory. After he sold the plane, he had no interest in knowing where it was or what it was doing or who had the fortune of flying it. He cared only for where it had been, what it had been like to fly it and how it made him feel.
As he deteriorated, the old flying stories remained sharp albeit repetitive. At the time, hearing him prattle on about Murray Sinton and Alan Coulson, Biff Hamilton and Ken Richardson, the RF-5 and how the Chipmunk spun could be mildly irritating - only in that I'd heard the stories a million times before.
Now, I'd give anything to hear one again.
And perhaps that is why I'm so bent on seeing this project through...so haunted by the spectre of a red biplane and its one-time pilot.
Obviously, I can no longer consult my chief source on the matter. Finding and speaking to those who knew the aircraft intimately is a quest in history and archaeology. Snapshots and snippets of the story rise from the pages of logbook entries set down decades ago or from hastily scribbled notes on scraps of yellowing paper. Internet searches reveal little more than phone numbers that, if still connected, sometime lead to new information, new voices and old memories relived. One avenue uncovered inevitably leads to several more which branch out like the strands of a spider's web...and one can find themselves easily entangled in it. Chronology, as you can well imagine, becomes entirely useless and hopelessly ineffective. And so, the story takes on an organic feel...one that changes and evolves with each new scrap of information that comes to light.
There's a squeak, a shimmy and then I feel the weight transfer from my backside to my thighs. I'm prodded back to reality by the trundling of rubber on runway.
Les has the aircraft rolling on the main wheels down Runway 09 at Rockcliffe. The wind is not severe enough to make the wheel landing necessary but Les likes to practice...and I'm happiest when I can see where we're going. As we taxi off the runway at the end, we make two left turns and proceed down the taxiway towards the fuel pumps. We roll slowly, tail down, past an empty tie down; the familiar plot of land where the Mini-plane resided 25 years ago.
I gaze at the grass swaying ever so delicately in the early evening breeze.
I swear I hear the biplane's engine humming in the wind's breath.
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
Escape Velocity
"Oscar-Zulu - Wilson Tower," a faraway voice crackled in his headset, "you may begin your manoeuvres at your discretion."
High above the stout tower building, white wings circled lazily overhead like a giant vulture drifting in rising columns of Savannah air.
"Roger, Tower," came the reply over the radio.
The right hand moves smoothly forward, taking the control column with it as the left hand comes back slightly on the throttle. The whisper of the slipstream sliding by the long canopy builds its breath to a dull moan. On the instrument panel, one needle creeps up as another unwinds madly. Suddenly, the sunlight streaming into the cockpit is eclipsed by shadow.
Eyes turn upwards, a smile creases sunburned skin.
A cloud - as soft and pure as driven snow.
"Beautiful," says the pilot.
A rattle passes through the airframe.
The pilot mutters an airspeed, barely audible over the hum of the engine and the rising crescendo of the slipstream.
Then, a smooth pull on the stick, wings flexing and the earth falls away underneath the propeller's disc.
Arms heavy, that intoxicating feeling in the pit of the stomach...and Oscar-Zulu bounds upwards with vigour and grace.
Up, up and up - lean on the right rudder as the sound of the slipstream fades and gravity begins to excise its inevitable toll. The RF-5 continues its upwards arc, cresting the top where up is down and down is up, and the pilot feels light in his seat and in his heart.
A quick glance down reveals the billowing top of the cloud...and Wilson Airport below and beyond.
Now, sweeping elegantly down the arc's reverse, the engine's hum grows to a moan, life returns to the stick, both man and machine brace as they hurtle downwards.
The needles do their familiar dance.
A rush of speed and Oscar-Zulu sweeps under the cloud's skirt and out the other end, clawing skywards in a vertical climb.
As the craft hurtles upwards, the pilot falls victim to the dream that perhaps they will never stop accelerating, never stop climbing.
Maybe, just maybe and only this once, they might reach escape velocity and break the bonds of gravity.
Alas, not yet and not this time. The airspeed begins to decay. The breath of the slipstream fades. A more absolute silence has never been heard. There is a mechanical clap as the pilot's left foot moves the rudder pedal to full deflection. Some 20 feet behind him, the rudder responds and the nose is forced left through the pivot. Muscle memory faithfully applies opposite aileron to hold the wing down and Oscar-Zulu slices cleanly through the horizon.
As the aviator hangs in his straps, once again falling towards earth, the flanks of the cloud slide by only inches above his head...the wispy tendrils caressing the aircraft's wooden frame.
The day is December 14th, 1972. My father has fallen madly in love with aerobatics. The notation in his logbook: "21 - loop, stall turn, chandelle."
The very next afternoon, my dad returns to the airport and calls on "Biff" Hamilton and his Chipmunk.
A dozen flights would follow in Chipmunk KLY, Beagle Pup AKG and Cessna 150 Aerobat ARG. The notations in his logbook provide a poor picture of the joy these flights inspired.
In September 1983, two months before I was born, "Biff" Hamilton won the intermediate category in an aerobatics competition at the Gatineau Airport.
It is very likely that my dad was at that meet as a spectator.
An Ottawa Citizen reporter named Doug Kelly interviewed Hamilton after his win. Hamilton called aerobatics "the purest form of flying."
"Some people play golf for their kicks, I fly aerobatics," Hamilton is quoted as saying. "Does that seem so odd?"
At the time, "Biff" had left the African plains for his home in Stratford. He told Kelly he had learned to fly 40 years ago.
"Biff" would be nearing 90 now.
5Y-KLY ended up in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) as VP-WEV in the early 1980s. It then surfaced some time later in South Africa under the registration ZS-VYU. In 2005, it was acquired by a preservation organisation.
5Y-AOZ met a crueler fate. She was sold to an owner in Germany as D-KCIQ before being registered in the UK as G-BDOZ in December of 1975.
And then on August 30th, 1981, during take-off from Fenland Aerodrome, Holbeach St. Johns, Lincolnshire with pilot and passenger on board, Oscar-Zulu dropped a wing, descended sharply and struck the ground, tearing off the right wing and cartwheeling to its destruction.
The pilot was hurt. His passenger escaped injury.
The post-crash investigation revealed no mechanical reason for the crash. The investigators concluded that, during the right turn following departure, the aircraft passed over a field of burning pea stubble. They believed the thermal instability caused by the burning brush may have led to the crash.
The insurance company sold the wreck to a chap in High Wycombe who stripped out the avionics the sold the rest to a J. Hassell. Mr. Hassell wanted to rebuild the RF-5 but, in his words, "ran out of money and inclination." In 1982, he sold "Oscar-Zulu's" carcass to a man at Southend Airport who broke it up for spare parts.
AKG and ARG have faded from memory. They now live only in the sinews and synapses of those pilots lucky enough to have flung them about the sky with skill and abandon.
Aerobatics, however, is alive and well...and is perhaps, my father's most enduring gift to me.
High above the stout tower building, white wings circled lazily overhead like a giant vulture drifting in rising columns of Savannah air.
"Roger, Tower," came the reply over the radio.
The right hand moves smoothly forward, taking the control column with it as the left hand comes back slightly on the throttle. The whisper of the slipstream sliding by the long canopy builds its breath to a dull moan. On the instrument panel, one needle creeps up as another unwinds madly. Suddenly, the sunlight streaming into the cockpit is eclipsed by shadow.
Eyes turn upwards, a smile creases sunburned skin.
A cloud - as soft and pure as driven snow.
"Beautiful," says the pilot.
A rattle passes through the airframe.
The pilot mutters an airspeed, barely audible over the hum of the engine and the rising crescendo of the slipstream.
Then, a smooth pull on the stick, wings flexing and the earth falls away underneath the propeller's disc.
Arms heavy, that intoxicating feeling in the pit of the stomach...and Oscar-Zulu bounds upwards with vigour and grace.
Up, up and up - lean on the right rudder as the sound of the slipstream fades and gravity begins to excise its inevitable toll. The RF-5 continues its upwards arc, cresting the top where up is down and down is up, and the pilot feels light in his seat and in his heart.
A quick glance down reveals the billowing top of the cloud...and Wilson Airport below and beyond.
Now, sweeping elegantly down the arc's reverse, the engine's hum grows to a moan, life returns to the stick, both man and machine brace as they hurtle downwards.
The needles do their familiar dance.
A rush of speed and Oscar-Zulu sweeps under the cloud's skirt and out the other end, clawing skywards in a vertical climb.
As the craft hurtles upwards, the pilot falls victim to the dream that perhaps they will never stop accelerating, never stop climbing.
Maybe, just maybe and only this once, they might reach escape velocity and break the bonds of gravity.
Alas, not yet and not this time. The airspeed begins to decay. The breath of the slipstream fades. A more absolute silence has never been heard. There is a mechanical clap as the pilot's left foot moves the rudder pedal to full deflection. Some 20 feet behind him, the rudder responds and the nose is forced left through the pivot. Muscle memory faithfully applies opposite aileron to hold the wing down and Oscar-Zulu slices cleanly through the horizon.
As the aviator hangs in his straps, once again falling towards earth, the flanks of the cloud slide by only inches above his head...the wispy tendrils caressing the aircraft's wooden frame.
The day is December 14th, 1972. My father has fallen madly in love with aerobatics. The notation in his logbook: "21 - loop, stall turn, chandelle."
 |
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| The front cover and first page of my dad's copy of 5Y-AOZ's pilot'soperating handbook. (Family Collection) |
A dozen flights would follow in Chipmunk KLY, Beagle Pup AKG and Cessna 150 Aerobat ARG. The notations in his logbook provide a poor picture of the joy these flights inspired.
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| The pages of my dad's logbook from December '72 and January '73. (Family Collection) |
In September 1983, two months before I was born, "Biff" Hamilton won the intermediate category in an aerobatics competition at the Gatineau Airport.
It is very likely that my dad was at that meet as a spectator.
An Ottawa Citizen reporter named Doug Kelly interviewed Hamilton after his win. Hamilton called aerobatics "the purest form of flying."
"Some people play golf for their kicks, I fly aerobatics," Hamilton is quoted as saying. "Does that seem so odd?"
At the time, "Biff" had left the African plains for his home in Stratford. He told Kelly he had learned to fly 40 years ago.
"Biff" would be nearing 90 now.
5Y-KLY ended up in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) as VP-WEV in the early 1980s. It then surfaced some time later in South Africa under the registration ZS-VYU. In 2005, it was acquired by a preservation organisation.
 |
| EX RAF WG-315, 5Y-KLY, & VP-WEV now registered as ZS-VYU. The aircraft is pictured at Rand Airport in Germiston, South Africa (Photo Courtesy S. Geer) |
 |
| A newspaper article reporting the emergency landing of 5Y-AOZ near Wilson. Wilken CFI Alan Coulson is crouching by the nose gear. The Fournier is incorrectly identified as a "Cessna". (Family Collection) |
5Y-AOZ met a crueler fate. She was sold to an owner in Germany as D-KCIQ before being registered in the UK as G-BDOZ in December of 1975.
 |
| G-BDOZ at Leicester, UK on July 5th, 1981 - less than 2 months later, it would be destroyed. (Photo Courtesy: Dave Mangham) |
And then on August 30th, 1981, during take-off from Fenland Aerodrome, Holbeach St. Johns, Lincolnshire with pilot and passenger on board, Oscar-Zulu dropped a wing, descended sharply and struck the ground, tearing off the right wing and cartwheeling to its destruction.
The pilot was hurt. His passenger escaped injury.
The post-crash investigation revealed no mechanical reason for the crash. The investigators concluded that, during the right turn following departure, the aircraft passed over a field of burning pea stubble. They believed the thermal instability caused by the burning brush may have led to the crash.
The insurance company sold the wreck to a chap in High Wycombe who stripped out the avionics the sold the rest to a J. Hassell. Mr. Hassell wanted to rebuild the RF-5 but, in his words, "ran out of money and inclination." In 1982, he sold "Oscar-Zulu's" carcass to a man at Southend Airport who broke it up for spare parts.
AKG and ARG have faded from memory. They now live only in the sinews and synapses of those pilots lucky enough to have flung them about the sky with skill and abandon.
Aerobatics, however, is alive and well...and is perhaps, my father's most enduring gift to me.
Monday, 18 June 2012
Intermission 1
In the early 1950s, the skies over Europe had been quiet and free of bloodshed for several years. The Commonwealth no longer had such a desperate need for eager young men to bravely take to the skies in defense of life and liberty. Airfields across the United Kingdom were clogged with Dehavilland DHC-1 Chipmunk trainers...and the Royal Air Force decided to get rid of them.
The famed trainers, the mounts upon which post-war aviators had cut their teeth less than a decade ago, were scattered to the winds...an aviation diaspora.
A dozen found their way to Kenya. At Wilson Airport, the Aero Club of East Africa saw the demobbed British aircraft as cheap and readily available alternatives to new trainers. The Aero Club bought at least three. It may have purchased as many as six.
With the "new" airplanes, came at least one heart-sick aviator looking for a job and a chance to keep flying his beloved "Chippie."
On September 12th, 1947, Flight Lieutenant J.N. "Biff" Hamilton relinquished his Queen's commission in the Royal Air Force. He had served as an instructor pilot and was old enough to have served during the second world war.
In June 1972, "Biff" Hamilton would have been 49 or 50 years old. Now a flight instructor at the Aero Club of East Africa, the Canadian was far from home but happy to be playing with the airplanes he knew so well.
Across the ramp at Wilken Aviation, my father was growing tired of the Cherokee 140. So tired in fact, that he had been tinkering in a hangar for some time building, of all things, an airplane. His intent was to fly it north to San Giacomo and land on a patch of grass carved into the sunflower choked fields of his hometown. He would return home sooner than he thought.
To keep his hand in flying, he ventured across the ramp to the Aero Club and its small fleet of ex-military trainers. He did 5 flights under the greenhouse canopy of Chipmunk 5Y-KLY with "Biff" riding in the back.
And then, on June 27th, one day after his 5th flight in the Chipmunk, my grandfather died.
Instead of returning home a conqueror atop the aircraft he had built, my father bought a plane ticket to Rome and rented a car. Then he made the lonely three hour drive east to mourn.
When he returned in September, a little older and still grieving, not much had changed at Wilson.
"Biff" was still at it.
The Chipmunks sat in a neat little row, their highly polished aluminium skin simmering in the heat and shimmering in the golden sunlight...beckoning.
However, another siren's song soared higher.
In my dad's absence, Wilken had acquired a brand new Sportavia RF-5.
The RF-5 was a light sport motor glider. In layman's terms, the pilot could take off and fly under the power of the engine but, due to the aircraft's glider pedigree, had the option of shutting down the engine and gliding to earth.
Over the next few weeks, my dad learned to fly the unique craft with gorgeous lines...finding unconditional comfort and promise in its gull-like grace.
The famed trainers, the mounts upon which post-war aviators had cut their teeth less than a decade ago, were scattered to the winds...an aviation diaspora.
A dozen found their way to Kenya. At Wilson Airport, the Aero Club of East Africa saw the demobbed British aircraft as cheap and readily available alternatives to new trainers. The Aero Club bought at least three. It may have purchased as many as six.
 |
| Chipmunk VP-KLW (before change over to 5Y) at Wilson Airport on March 11th, 1956. (Photo Courtesy: Joe Barr) |
 |
| Chipmunk 5Y-KLS equipped with the rudder from sister ship KLW captured at Wilson in August 1971. (Photo Courtesy: Dave Welch) |
With the "new" airplanes, came at least one heart-sick aviator looking for a job and a chance to keep flying his beloved "Chippie."
On September 12th, 1947, Flight Lieutenant J.N. "Biff" Hamilton relinquished his Queen's commission in the Royal Air Force. He had served as an instructor pilot and was old enough to have served during the second world war.
In June 1972, "Biff" Hamilton would have been 49 or 50 years old. Now a flight instructor at the Aero Club of East Africa, the Canadian was far from home but happy to be playing with the airplanes he knew so well.
Across the ramp at Wilken Aviation, my father was growing tired of the Cherokee 140. So tired in fact, that he had been tinkering in a hangar for some time building, of all things, an airplane. His intent was to fly it north to San Giacomo and land on a patch of grass carved into the sunflower choked fields of his hometown. He would return home sooner than he thought.
To keep his hand in flying, he ventured across the ramp to the Aero Club and its small fleet of ex-military trainers. He did 5 flights under the greenhouse canopy of Chipmunk 5Y-KLY with "Biff" riding in the back.
And then, on June 27th, one day after his 5th flight in the Chipmunk, my grandfather died.
Instead of returning home a conqueror atop the aircraft he had built, my father bought a plane ticket to Rome and rented a car. Then he made the lonely three hour drive east to mourn.
When he returned in September, a little older and still grieving, not much had changed at Wilson.
"Biff" was still at it.
The Chipmunks sat in a neat little row, their highly polished aluminium skin simmering in the heat and shimmering in the golden sunlight...beckoning.
However, another siren's song soared higher.
In my dad's absence, Wilken had acquired a brand new Sportavia RF-5.
 |
| RF-5 5Y-AOZ in March 1974 at Wilson. (Photo Courtesy: Terry Murphy) |
Over the next few weeks, my dad learned to fly the unique craft with gorgeous lines...finding unconditional comfort and promise in its gull-like grace.
Thursday, 7 June 2012
Wings
My dad earned his wings on May 6th, 1971 after passing the private flight test on his first attempt.
He had used 9 pages of his logbook and logged 62 hours and 5 minutes of flight time - nearly 12 of which was solo.
A man named McAuliffe signed him off. His mount for the flight was 5Y-AJI - the same aircraft he took up solo for the first time.
His private flight training was done exclusively on Wilken's fleet of Piper Cherokee 140s.
The men who sat next to him were Sinton, Lennox, Amos, Corner, and Coulson.
Each man had a hand in shaping my father as a pilot.
Sinton, by far, made the greatest impression.
My dad spoke fondly and often of Coulson.
He characterised Amos as "mean" because he was known to rap his students on the knees with a bony fist if they made a mistake.
Either Lennox or Corner carried a pen knife - reportedly as a way to swiftly and painfully bring a student back to reality in the event they ever froze on the controls and thus lessened the instructor's chances of dying peacefully in bed as an old man.
These men have all receded slowly into the crawling abyss of the past but not before leaving an indelible mark.
The aircraft too are likely gone...
In the best case scenario, they are still flying - tended to lovingly by a pilot who has no idea of the role they played in this story.
Some are rotting in the African sun, pushed up behind a Quonset hangar in the corner of an overgrown field, the once shiny aluminium skin pockmarked and bleeding rivulets of reddish brown rust; registrations worn off, vinyl seats cracked and vomiting yellowish padding, windshields chipped, yellowed and cobwebbed.
In the worst case scenario, they've been melted down into kettles or garbage tins.
I know the certain fates of only two...and a tantalizing detail regarding two others.
5Y-AGE was sold to the Seychelles Aero Club. It crashed on the African island nation December 11th 1973 after running out of fuel during a cross country flight from Mahe to Praslin. The pilot and lone occupant was killed.
5Y-ALG is the subject of a cryptic article in the Kenya Gazette from November 5th, 1974. In it, D.C. Stewart, Chief Inspector of Accidents, solicits anyone with information regarding an accident at Savani Air Strip near Nandi two days prior to come forward.
5Y-AJI also appears in the accident investigations section of Kenya Gazette. On February 27th, 1975, it was involved in an accident 500 yards from a private strip owned by A. Roote. The government made the same appeal as it did in ALG's case.
5Y-AIB crashed into Tanzania's Rufiji River on September 11th 1985. The pilot, a 43-year-old man named Herring, was practising a forced approach into Mtemere Airstrip when he deliberately shut down the engine. The aircraft was destroyed. Herring lived.
It had been less than 70 years since Orville and Wilbur Wright gave up on bicycles to build flying machines and despite the soaring heights the industry had attained, flying could be dangerous. Aviators lived, and often died, in spectacular fashion.
Three of my dad's friends starred death in the face - and two blinked.
The first flew into power lines while on a pleasure flight with his pregnant wife.
The other taxied into a small ditch while on a solo cross country stop at a remote dirt strip. He tried to free the aircraft by pulling on the propeller...but he had left the magnetos on. The engine caught - decapitating the pilot. They found him two days later - the aircraft standing silent guard over its former master. Her tanks had run dry.
Despite the obvious risks, my dad took to flying with a voracious appetite. As soon as he finished his private licence, he embarked on finding and mastering new airplanes.
He started with the venerable Piper Super Cub.
Then came the stalwart Chipmunk trainer and finally the graceful Fournier RF-5.
These experiences would be his first tastes of tail-draggers and aerobatics...which would, in turn, lead him to C-FFAM ten years later.
He had used 9 pages of his logbook and logged 62 hours and 5 minutes of flight time - nearly 12 of which was solo.
A man named McAuliffe signed him off. His mount for the flight was 5Y-AJI - the same aircraft he took up solo for the first time.
 |
| East African Private Pilot Licence (Aeroplanes) No 2110 (K.1964) issued May 10th, 1971. (Family Collection) |
His private flight training was done exclusively on Wilken's fleet of Piper Cherokee 140s.
The men who sat next to him were Sinton, Lennox, Amos, Corner, and Coulson.
Each man had a hand in shaping my father as a pilot.
Sinton, by far, made the greatest impression.
My dad spoke fondly and often of Coulson.
He characterised Amos as "mean" because he was known to rap his students on the knees with a bony fist if they made a mistake.
Either Lennox or Corner carried a pen knife - reportedly as a way to swiftly and painfully bring a student back to reality in the event they ever froze on the controls and thus lessened the instructor's chances of dying peacefully in bed as an old man.
These men have all receded slowly into the crawling abyss of the past but not before leaving an indelible mark.
The aircraft too are likely gone...
In the best case scenario, they are still flying - tended to lovingly by a pilot who has no idea of the role they played in this story.
Some are rotting in the African sun, pushed up behind a Quonset hangar in the corner of an overgrown field, the once shiny aluminium skin pockmarked and bleeding rivulets of reddish brown rust; registrations worn off, vinyl seats cracked and vomiting yellowish padding, windshields chipped, yellowed and cobwebbed.
In the worst case scenario, they've been melted down into kettles or garbage tins.
I know the certain fates of only two...and a tantalizing detail regarding two others.
 |
| PA-28-140 5Y-ALG breaking formation near Nairobi, 1970 or 1971. Murray Sinton is likely riding right seat. ALG was involved in an accident of an unknown nature on November 3rd, 1974. (Family Collection) |
5Y-AGE was sold to the Seychelles Aero Club. It crashed on the African island nation December 11th 1973 after running out of fuel during a cross country flight from Mahe to Praslin. The pilot and lone occupant was killed.
5Y-ALG is the subject of a cryptic article in the Kenya Gazette from November 5th, 1974. In it, D.C. Stewart, Chief Inspector of Accidents, solicits anyone with information regarding an accident at Savani Air Strip near Nandi two days prior to come forward.
5Y-AJI also appears in the accident investigations section of Kenya Gazette. On February 27th, 1975, it was involved in an accident 500 yards from a private strip owned by A. Roote. The government made the same appeal as it did in ALG's case.
5Y-AIB crashed into Tanzania's Rufiji River on September 11th 1985. The pilot, a 43-year-old man named Herring, was practising a forced approach into Mtemere Airstrip when he deliberately shut down the engine. The aircraft was destroyed. Herring lived.
It had been less than 70 years since Orville and Wilbur Wright gave up on bicycles to build flying machines and despite the soaring heights the industry had attained, flying could be dangerous. Aviators lived, and often died, in spectacular fashion.
Three of my dad's friends starred death in the face - and two blinked.
The first flew into power lines while on a pleasure flight with his pregnant wife.
The other taxied into a small ditch while on a solo cross country stop at a remote dirt strip. He tried to free the aircraft by pulling on the propeller...but he had left the magnetos on. The engine caught - decapitating the pilot. They found him two days later - the aircraft standing silent guard over its former master. Her tanks had run dry.
 |
| My dad, a friend and his sister with a Cessna 172 (likely 5Y-ALW) at an unidentified airfield. ALW crashed in September 2001 - killing two. (Family Collection) |
 |
| Dad riding back seat. (Family Collection) |
Despite the obvious risks, my dad took to flying with a voracious appetite. As soon as he finished his private licence, he embarked on finding and mastering new airplanes.
He started with the venerable Piper Super Cub.
Then came the stalwart Chipmunk trainer and finally the graceful Fournier RF-5.
These experiences would be his first tastes of tail-draggers and aerobatics...which would, in turn, lead him to C-FFAM ten years later.
Monday, 4 June 2012
First Solo
September 2nd, 1970.
Today's lesson is the circuit. The last 15 lessons - roughly 13 hours in the air - have been the circuit. My father has the racetrack patterns around each of Wilson's two runways etched in his mind. He could, if he wished and was devoid of any common sense, fly the circuit with his eyes closed. For exactly one month, all he has been doing is take-offs and landings, downwind and pre-landing checks, rotations and round-outs. For most of that time, Murray Sinton has been sitting next to him, helping to hone a ham-handed student into one that stands a reasonable chance of leaving the earth in an airplane...and returning to it in one piece.
C-FFAM is still in paper form - sketches on the ruled pages of a black notebook. Her registration is still unclaimed - one of thousands on the Department of Transport books.
It would be months before someone picked up the notebook with any real intent.
It would be years before the red and white Mini-Plane would spring off the pages of that tiny notebook - its 85 horsepower engine breaking the silence of an Ontario airport.
Thousands of miles away, across one ocean, three continents and the heavy heat and thick haze of the equator, my dad is driving his Landrover to Wilson Airport.
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| Dad and a colleague with the company Land Rover near Nairobi, 1969 or 1970. (Family Collection) |
The red dust churned up by his tires catches the rising sun in gritty flashes of tawny golds and browns. The air of this September dawn in pleasantly crisp and cool. The sun's newborn rays have yet to tease the Kenyan plains with their warmth.
In the distance, an airplane's engine coughs and catches.
Today is my dad's 25th birthday. He woke at the ungodly hour of four in the morning.
 |
| The Kenyan uniform: T-shirt, khaki shorts, flip flops...and a Land Rover in Nairobi, 1970. (Family Collection) |
Today's lesson is the circuit. The last 15 lessons - roughly 13 hours in the air - have been the circuit. My father has the racetrack patterns around each of Wilson's two runways etched in his mind. He could, if he wished and was devoid of any common sense, fly the circuit with his eyes closed. For exactly one month, all he has been doing is take-offs and landings, downwind and pre-landing checks, rotations and round-outs. For most of that time, Murray Sinton has been sitting next to him, helping to hone a ham-handed student into one that stands a reasonable chance of leaving the earth in an airplane...and returning to it in one piece.
Today is different.
When my father yells "clear" and cranks the engine on 5Y-AJI, the instructor is Lennox. Lennox is checking Sinton's work.
The time is 6:15 when Juliet-India climbs away from Wilson Airport. The horizon is beginning to boil under the east African sun.
Half an hour and four circuits later, the Cherokee returns to earth and taxis slowly to the Wilken ramp. The door is shoved open against the propeller's idle breath and Lennix slides out onto the wing. He turns back, crouches behind the shield of the door, cups his hand to his mouth and shouts a few words to the pilot. A curt nod and the door is pushed closed. Lennox claps his right hand on the top of the Piper's cabin and steps off the wing's trailing edge to the ground. He walks backwards for a few feet as the Cherokee's engine picks up and the plane taxis for the runway.
At 6:45, Alpha-Juliet rattles into the air with my dad at the controls solo for the first time. It is every pilot's first test and every pilot's most private feat of accomplishment. It is a rite of passage...for when one returns to earth, they do so changed, older, with a hint of swagger in their step and a heart swelling with pride.
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| The page for September 1970 from my dad's logbook. His first solo is on the 3rd line. (Family Collection) |
I can only imagine what happened inside the sanctum of the cockpit since my dad never spoke of his first solo - at least not in any detail. About the most I ever garnered only came on the heels of my own first solo some thirty-two years after his.
"I soloed today," I'm speaking into the handset of an ancient, mildewed and rusting payphone in the anteroom of an equally ancient, mildewed and rusting mess hall of a little used, sand-choked scout camp near Les Cedres, Quebec.
"Beautiful," came the muffled reply. "How was it?"
"Awesome," seemed to be a fitting answer.
"Did they splash you with water?"
"Yeah."
"Hot or cold?"
"Hot," I said. "Then cold."
"Mine was cold."
I could almost hear the twinkle in his eyes.
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