[dropcap]P[/dropcap]eople sometimes refer to events in their lives as ‘life-changing moments’ but I suspect their lives never really changed, for the better or the worse, from that point on; they just continued down the same old path. In my life I have experienced several moments that have affected my everyday behaviour, my enjoyment of life, my family life and my career. Here’s one of them.
In Sweden, in the old days when I was a mere 30 years old, married with two small children, I had a much older friend who happened to be a Rotarian. He was forever trying to persuade me to join the Club, which I eventually did, but that is not the point of this story; he was also a private pilot, which at the time was totally irrelevant because I did not have the slightest interest in his so-called sport. Gunnar was his name. He owned a factory that made furniture. He was also an enthusiastic pilot who nagged me incessantly about joining his club. Months on, I finally succumbed and agreed to join him at the local grass strip that passed for an airfield even though it was only a little over 400 metres long with an approach over a steep, densely wooded slope from one end and a field full of cows from the other.
I remember how inept I felt as I tried to assist him in dragging the plane from the hangar that also housed a tractor and various other agricultural machines. He did his pre-flight inspection of the plane, muttering the whole time about how important each step was: flaps, pitot tube, oil, draining water in the fuel, propeller blades for nicks—all quite incomprehensible; nothing made sense. All I wanted was for it to be over. Then we climbed on to the wings, opened the hatch, got into the plane, closed it, strapped ourselves in, and Gunnar fired up the engine and the plane began to waddle over the uneven grass like some pregnant duck. I knew that this was not going to end well.
There was no one else around. The field was deserted, yet Gunnar chatted away on the radio as if we were at Heathrow: “Sierra, Echo, India, Mike, Charlie [which was the plane’s registration number, SEIMC] taxying to runway 21, holding at 21, departing 21.” And suddenly, within seconds of starting our take-off roll, we were in the air and my life changed forever.
The very next day, I travelled to the nearest big airport, about 40 miles away, and enrolled in a flying school. My wife was dead-set against it: it was dangerous; it took time from the family; it was a waste of money. You name it – she said it.
I arranged for the instructor to come to our field for my lessons. Eventually, my wife brought coffee up to the field to observe my progress. The dashing young instructor persuaded to her to join him on a trial spin. She, too, started flying the next day and learned to fly in both good and bad weather. Our daughter, who went on to live in the States, became a flight instructor and partly financed her studies that way. Our son gained his pilot’s license in England at the age of 17 in only two weeks because he had been flying as co-pilot since he was 12. He was not old enough for a Swedish driver’s license—for that he had to be 18—so he rode his bike to the field whenever he wanted to go flying. Flying became the ‘family thing’ and for me it was my passion—but more of that another day.
