Letter to Ann

Dunedin traditionally marks the arrival of the first albatross by ringing church bells. The bells of First Church tolled around the city at lunchtime today to welcome the albatross back for the 2014 season.

Dear Ann,

On the 7^th of November I waited.
I waited and scanned the crowd looking out for you. All the team were there, where were you?

I waited and watched for you to breeze in like you always did. Fresh from your latest adventure. Gliding in from some far off port.

Like the guardians at Taiaroa Heads waiting for their Royal Albatross to return each year, I waited in anticipation. I searched the horizon between the scraggy grey clouds.

No sign of our Queen, no sign of our royalty.  

Your arrivals were always heralded with great joy, hugs and instant chatter. You lit up the room, like a sunrise. Your warm greetings and interest in our affairs drawing us into the fold.

When the cathedral emptied on that dreary Friday, it was raining. Even the sky was crying. As the black vehicle departed with your white coffin, I looked up, between the grey clouds I spotted a seabird. She did a slow 360 degree turn and headed out to sea.

They say that an albatross represents the lost soul of a sailor.
Lost to us perhaps but free to soar the wild ocean winds.


Photo Credit: Angus Wilson

Thanks for the happy memories.

Bernice

Ann Barbarich 28th March 1955 - 28th October 2014
787, 747, 737, glider, parachutist and helicopter pilot.
Dearly loved wife, devoted mother and warm loving friend.  

The first time (Flying)

Who’d be without it?

Do you remember the first time? You heard about it, you read about it, you saw it happen or you overheard an adult going on and on about it. It seemed unbelievable, farcical, and even physically impossible.

Then you moved from reading about it to dreaming about it. If you were a child of the 90’s onwards you probably even simulated it, with a joystick.

If you were an early developer, as a young spotty teenager you finally got to have a go yourself. The initial attempts were probably pretty clumsy. A few ham fisted, white knuckled, knee knocking shy touch and goes. Hopefully she was a tolerant creature and put up with your first fumbling attempts.

As you gained experience, you became a little smoother, grew in confidence and improved your approach technique. You would have picked up a few tips from the old boys around the bar. Finally you would have been ready to go all the way.

The first time alone, just you and her you have never forgotten. You would have been in a state of euphoria for days, walking on air, the King of all you purveyed. In short for everyone else you would have been intolerably smarmy.

Eventually after a few partnerships you would have settled down into a solid routine of practicing every Saturday. Sometimes something fancier took your eye and you moved on to bigger, faster, flasher models.

If you were rich enough you brought into a long term relationship that required a lot of maintenance and less frequency of doing it due to other (family) commitments. After a number of years you may have become too complacent. You found on final approach that everything suddenly went pear shaped because you weren’t paying enough attention.

A bit of wake turbulence, a hurried recovery, and a pride sapping go around. Expensive if the creature involved felt at all aggrieved by your handling. If you were wise you learnt from the bad experience and applied more attention to the next new partnership.

Then there are the shows. All blue skies and perfect performances. Beautifully outfitted and ingeniously choreographed. Music, lights, action. An addicts dream.

Too attend these performances you need a hat and sunglasses for disguise (it wouldn’t do your reputation any good being seen at these occasions). Some of the attendees bring scanners to listen in on the backstage gossip. If you’ve money you can bribe certain officials to letting you into privileged seating. If you’re really loaded you can slip some money down the front of the performer’s outfits and they might take you for a ride. The general public has to line the front row and crane their necks to see the best of the performance.

The show of course is an ecstasy of seductive noises and magical tricks. The smell of Avgas is erotic and the taste of pies and waffles overwhelming. The best thing, the thing that gets the body vibrating is the pulsating of the air by the high thrusting creatures of foreign extraction. They demand attention with their sexy lines and their impressive maneuvers. They are flighty and don’t tend to hang around to sign autographs much to the disappointment of their fans. The machines on display leave you weak at the knees and gasping for breath. Awestruck. You’ve never seen the like. As for the vertical dances!!!

 

Knowing that they are too hot for a mere mortal to handle you mossie on home afterwards still a bit star struck and go back to your old girl with renewed vigour. You are feeling revitalized and ready to try something new and exciting.

 
You remember the first time, you remember the bare times, you remember the adventurous times and you wonder at the whole miracle of it. Ah FLIGHT who’d be without it. From your 16^th birthday to your dying breath you live for it. It is your life if you are so afflicted. 

Pick and Mix (Flying)

Pick and Mix

Who remembers Woolworths’ Pick and Mix? For a child of the 1970s it was an Aladdin’s cave of delight. For those who missed the experience, Pick and Mix was an assortment of lolly bins from which you could choose your own. It was about choice, it was about range and it was about the only time I cared about maths. How many lollies could I buy for 50 cents?

I know these days New World has lolly bins, but it’s not the same. It’s not a novelty any more, and besides, what’s with the bran and fruit?

I grew up in small town New Zealand. Te Puke had a tiny Woolworths and therefore a limited pick and mix range. I didn’t know true variety until I visited my grandmother in Auckland. The Auckland Woolworths Pick and Mix was beyond my wildest dreams. The problem arose that no matter how I did the maths, 50 cents couldn’t buy me one of everything. I quickly learned to be selective.

Moving forward a few years, I now have lots more things to make choices about. Aviation events for one.

Wanaka and Omaka are easy choices. The SAA (Sports Aircraft Association) fly in is compulsory attendance. Mandeville I have yet to experience. These are all fun and exciting, but on the world scale they are like the Te Puke Woolworths’ Pick and Mix store, small and cosy.

Going to the EAA AirVenture, at Oshkosh was like walking into the Auckland Woolworths Pick and Mix department. I was a wide eyed child again in a candy store. It is a week-long show of everything that flies, looks like it should fly or looks like it’ll never fly and then does, just to prove you wrong. It is Wanaka on some serious steroids.       

In 2010 (when I went), numbers were down as there were weather issues just prior to the show – three days of torrential rain. A lot of the grounds were too muddy for aircraft parking and camping. The attendees were counted at a mere 535,000 persons obviously give or take a thousand. I am not sure if they counted me seven times because I went every day, or just once. I brought a different T-shirt every day, so perhaps seven times.

Ten thousand aircraft homed in on Wisconsin for the show, 2380 of those being show planes. They can land them three at a time on the main runway, three miles long. Then there is a second runway at right angles to the main one. It’s just crazy to watch. All communication is one way. You just do as you are told. There were an estimated 36,000 campers (on high ground).

Every day in the afternoon there is an air show for about three hours. On Saturday they had the first ever night show which was the chocolate coating to the whole week. Aerobatics, formation flying AND fireworks attached to the aeroplanes!

There were 777 commercial exhibitors were you could buy everything from a Lear-jet, to a logbook for your dog. During the day there were seminars, movies, book signings, talks, forums and workshops on everything from fabric and wood to GPS and electric aeroplanes. It didn’t matter if you flew, fixed, built, taught or modelled – there was something for everybody with an aviation bent. (Some of the wives preferred the malls?).

Oshkosh requires good walking shoes, sunblock, a sunhat and a set of spider eyes to see everything. The display aircraft are parked separately in their appropriate categories. Although I was there a week I still had to pick and mix. There’s only so many hours in a week and I wasted some of it sleeping.

Here’s what I managed to see:

Straight up the middle there were the business jets, Honda, Cessna, Lear (Milk-bottles ). In Aeroshell square there were the airliners (Jet planes). On the flight line there were the aerobatic aeroplanes, the Pitts, Viper (Smokers). To the left were the homebuilts, RVs 3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,12, Kitfoxes, and the Rans (Jaffas). Further along to the left were the Warbirds, Seafury, Harvard, Mustang, Corsair, Skyhawk, Glacier Girl, and the Bs (Gumballs). In amongst the warbirds was a Catalina from the islands (Coconut Ice). Just past these were the Chipmunks (Peanuts). Stage left was the GA camping area. Cessna, Beechcraft, Cherokees (Pineapple Lumps). Across the runway was the military: army aircraft (Spearmints), navy aircraft (Peppermints), Air Force (Minties).

It was then advisable to catch a tractor trailer unit to return the miles back to the centre of proceedings, Aeroshell square. Just to the right, were the WW1 multi-winged things, (Liquorice allsorts). Slightly to the right again were the vintage aircraft; the Stearmans, Staggerwings, Curtis Robins, and the odd Tiger Moth, (Fudge). This was also the home of the only real coffee in a 20 mile radius.



Further along to the right were the ultralights, gyrocopters, Trikes, Dominators, and just weird stuff, (Nut mix and Chocolate Coated Cashews). Next the DC-3s in all liveries, (Fruit Balls). One morning, down this end they inflated the balloons (Bubble gum). Right at the very far end of the field they parked the Alaskan aircraft. You know those ones with fat tyres, and huge engines for STOL work (Eskimos). If you then caught a bus you could go out to the seaplanes base and see the Cessnas, Icons, Piper Cubs, Beavers anything really with wings and floats (Jelly Babies).

Back at the main airfield if you travelled down the main drag and over to the museum you could see the airship (Easter egg). Model aeroplanes (Kinder Surprises) were out when the wind was gentle, and the helicopters (Wine gums) took punters for joyrides. There were several ways of seeing the whole lolly shop from above. One being the Ford Trimotor (M&M&M).

I searched high and low, but nowhere did I find a Bolkow Junior (Roses Chocolate), dear little chocolate with a soft centre. Even without them it is still the biggest, brightest, buzziest airshow on earth. Loaded with variety, volume and value for money. Just what a sweet-toothed aviatrix wants in a candy store. 

First published Aviation News October 2010

 

 

Cat a lena and the Ardmore mice (Flying)

Cats and Mice

Pussycat pussycat where have you been

I’ve been to Ardmore to visit the Queen
Pussycat pussycat what did you do there
I chased a mouse from under her chair

Admore has a cat. Probably more than one, but the one I am thinking of is a pure breed, shorthaired, *British blue. Certainly some of her pilots are short on hair. British blues are known for their insatiable appetite, akin to a Labrador in the dog world. They are very tolerant and great with kids. They love company and start to purr when a large crowd gathers. Their claws stay retracted, except when threatened with vacuum cleaners or water. They like water, but only around their feet, not a complete dunking.

British blues have an ability to make even the non feline-lover want to pat them. They have barrel bodies, with short legs, but what makes them really cute is their round open faces with wide-open eyes that look at you like Puss in the movie Sherik. If you’ve got food in your hand they can somehow turn up the charm and move like a spirit to be at your side in seconds.

This British blue, lets call her (Cat-a) Lena, appears to snooze on a favourite patch of lawn in front of the Warbirds clubhouse. She lazes about soaking up the sun (between showers), with a paw draped over her eyes. (She’s not called the Z-cat for nothing). 

Don’t be fooled. She is still a Cat.

All hangars have mice. Two hangars at Ardmore have bigger than normal mice. Shall we call them Foxy Felicity (CJF) and Dame EditH (EDH). They are small innocuous creatures that hardly anybody notices. They are not big on crowds, and they generally scurry from hangar to hangar in the hope that nobody spots them, especially a cat. If they have to venture out they usually poke their noses out into the wind, sniff the breeze, twitch their whiskers and confer with another mouse before making any dangerous forays.

Occasionally traps are set and baited with cheese to catch mice. The cheeses commonly used are; Young Gun yea-ha eeee-damn, Cloudy bay Camembert, Destination Blue vein, Compliancy Colby, and Dry as a bone tank aged Cheddar. I am pleased to say the mice at Ardmore are far too wise to fall for these traps.

Lately one of the said mice, Dame EDitH has been darting around the hangars more than usual. Avionics workshop, paint shop, and the engine shop are some of the places she’s been seen. Then on a Sunday not so long ago, out the taxiways, down the runway and into the sky! Lena is no slouch when there is live food in the offering and she was in hot pursuit. If you listened very carefully you would have heard Dame EDitH taunting Lena with “you can’t catch me” and Lena replying “Can-so” (Which happens to be her middle name) while they chased each other’s tails around the circuit. Thankfully she didn’t and Dame EDitH raced back into her hidey-hole just in the nick of time.

Now if you’re out and about at Ardmore in the near future and you are very observant you might even catch a flash of red from the tail of Foxy Felicity. I hear she is getting brave enough to make a dash out onto the runway. Egged on by Dame EditH of course. If you’re incredibly lucky you could see the green country mouse, Hot Harriet (CJH) too. A handsome trio with 20/20 hindsight.

Cats have always loved to play with mice and mice have always teased cats but there is one other reason why Lena is especially watchful of EditH, she is jealous. There is a certain pilot who shares his affection between both. So if you see said pilot out with EditH keep it to yourself because it’ll all end in tears if they don’t get a head start on Lena. Mouse-kee-tears.

Shall we dance (Flying)

Shall We Dance

The A side

Recently I have had the opportunity to travel in the jump seat in 737’s and ATR72’s. For the purposes of research you understand. I teach at the engineering school in Christchurch and I am afraid talking about IRS systems or VOR systems without some personal experience just doesn’t hold water with the students. If you can give a real life example or situation it is a) easier to be passionate about and b) it is more likely the student will be able to hang that system on a practical example that will aid recall.

 

So what did I learn from my observers seat. Practical things like current policy on the use of the APU. Procedures in an emergency, shut down procedures, traps for young players like disarming the emergency lighting. Anti-icing equipment, different TCAS displays. Talking to pilots about operational quirks.

Updating technical information like the phasing out of marker beacons and ADFs. The trailing of GPS systems for bad weather approaches. The comparison of auto pilot systems, seeing a pilot practice a hands on composite ILS approach (i.e. only one screen). Configuration differences i.e. spoilers, yaw damping, reverse thrust, prop brake starts, wild frequency systems verses spilt bus, fuel systems. How much is automated and what is not. etc etc.

I look forward to the left of field questions which I am more confident about being able to answer with a bit more experience under my belt.

That was what I learnt technically but I can’t help looking at underlying themes.

 

The B side

If coming into Auckland is like a Waltz and Wellington is the Quick step then Queenstown has got to be the Tango.

Watching a good dance partnership is poetry in motion. Watching a Captain and Co pilot work seamlessly together is equally easy on the eye and mind.

I say easy on mind because I observed consideration of the customers and equipment by always being smooth in their operation by thinking ahead and avoiding undue and unnecessary altitude changes or directional changes. The Captains although leading by example and obviously in command had the knack of letting information flow backwards and forwards. Passing on experience and acknowledging the co pilots strengths. There is a lesson here for all teachers.

For a dance to be a success you need a) a good partner who knows or can anticipate your moves b) suitable music with a well practiced orchestra c) an ear for that music d) a stable platform e) a passion for the art.

It helps to have set moves or steps but the sign of a good relationship is when the dance steps outside the norm and the partner falls in as if nothing was more natural.

Suitable music or rhythm not too fast and not too slow with a recognisable pattern. The orchestra (read the support staff) are a vital ingredient. Without them the whole experience would not flow as it does. In fact it would be a hollow and colourless. It would detract from the romance of flying.

An engineers ear to listen for changes in the beat and question what does not fit. Engineers to tune that instrument back into harmony.

A suitable platform. The pilots I flew with were comfortable and complimentary about their chosen aircraft and type of flying. The ATR pilots with the more scenic and the 737 pilots with their sports-car speed. The routes these aircraft fly are well suited to their characteristics. Who else but a French gal would you take for a tango in Queenstown, an American lass for a stylish quickstep and the sedate Queen of them all the 747 for a sophisticated waltz in the city of sails.

 
Note: A quickstep has a natty sidestep that I like to think of as a crosswind component which Wellington is so well known for. The Tango has a few dips and swirls which suit the awe inspiring approach around Queenstowns terrain and Auckland is just a long easy glide with an elevated opinion of itself. 

Published Sport Flying Summer 2008

Once in a Blue Moon (Flying)

Once in a Blue Moon

 

I’ve always said going to the Omaka bar on a Sunday night is a profitable experience. You get to hear great stories, deals are done and opportunities arise. Such an occasion occurred a Sunday some years ago. Pat Donavan was passing out invitations to lunch… in Hokitika tomorrow in his Electra. I was dying to say count me in but… tomorrow was a Monday and I’d run out of leave. Then a friend, reminded me of the famous Latin saying “Carpe diem”. I thought about it for a second. My students were in Ohakea doing a parade, I was ready to roll with my next lessons and I was sure the flight sergeant, knowing how plane-o-manic I am and not wanting to see a grown woman cry, would see it my way.    

I arrived in time to help pre-flight just before 1000 hours. Moving 3.5 tonne of aircraft with a 15-metre wingspan is no five-minute exercise. Oh boy, oh boy I was really going to get to fly in her. I was like a kid about to go to the circus for the first time. Pat thought I was bouncing on the balls of my feet to keep warm. About then the rest of the crowd turned up Mr Patchett, Mr Wilkey and Mr Richards. Pat’s lovely ground crew assistant attired in worked jeans and a retro Vincent jersey, was on hand to help refuel.

I’ve found it’s always a good idea to give the kid with too much energy something useful to do. Pat tasked me with door opener/closer, ladder fitter and bungee keeper. He then instructed me to go sit up the front RIGHT. Weight forward I figured. Once seated Pat ran me through the safety procedures and I listened like I’ve never listened to any airline pre-flight brief before because if things went horribly wrong I was in the hot seat. I am sure I would have been quickly relieved of duties by misters Patchett and Wilkey. I was trying not to look back in case the urge to put my thumb on my nose and wriggle my fingers at them took over.

 

Taxiing out Pat called Hayley at Woodbourne tower. Pats quick-fire airline radio calls got no response. Hayley was dealing with a birds vs Herc, coupled with an enthusiastic fire crew. After several tries we got a firm but polite standby.  After five impatient minutes we were off down 30. I had a sudden memory of a story about Amelia Earhart ground looping one of these things. I had no time to dwell on such thoughts, the tail was up the motors were humming and we were rocketing down the runway. Lift off and I had that Cheshire grin I reserve for when I am having extreme fun.120kts and climbing! 3.5 tonnes meant nothing to this girl. In no time at all we were heading up the Wairau valley with not a cloud to be seen or a burble to be felt. As we passed Johnston Peak I spared a thought for the Electra that ended its days abruptly 60 years previously. It only kept me quiet a minute. I was having too much fun.

Rainbow ski field skiers got extra for their bucks on Monday as the Lockheed did a sedate fly-by. Then we tracked direct for the coast. At XX litres/per minute it doesn’t pay to take the long way. It was clear right down to Mount Cook. One of those 1 in a 100 coast days. There wasn’t even any fog in the Murchison valley. About 20nM out from Greymouth we started a slow easy decent for Hokitika from 7,000ft. Having established where the field was, the wind direction and the vectors we started into a gentle right hand for 22. I am sure we must have rattled a few windows in Hokitika on the way around as by the time we were lined up for finals we had an audience at the field. Ray couldn’t help himself anymore and I suddenly had an Ag pilot on my lap telling an airline pilot how to land his plane.

We rang for a taxi. Though I don’t know why because he was on his way anyway. Hokitika is like that. Half way to town the taxi driver asked if we had any small change. Maybe he didn’t trust us, part payment? We turned out our pockets and gathered a few gold coins. The taxi driver duly stopped at the high school and gave his daughter and her friend their lunch money. What the poor girl would have done if we hadn’t turn up goodness only knows. Literally pennies from heaven.

Ray wanted Steak, Pat wanted Sushi and Kevin wanted lots. We managed to find a place that catered to everyone’s tastes. Café Paris has wonderful food, friendly service and deserts to fly to Hokitika for. Whilst talking over lunch Chris mentioned he hadn’t been to Hokitika for a blue moon. It was then I realised he was so right we were having one that night.

After finding a present for Louise (Ray’s wife) we hailed the taxi again. It didn’t take long. Such is the service of the locals that he ran us back to the airport via the local tourist sights with a running commentary, supplemented by some of Mr Patchetts stories. Whilst sitting out at the bar hearing the history of wrecked ships and other misfortunes the taxi driver got a call for a fare from the supermarket. Could he run some dear old lady home with her weekly groceries? He confidently told them he’d be 15minutes. What was she going to do ring another taxi company? I just hope her ice cream didn’t melt on our account. The highlight of the tour was the oxidation pond. I am not making it up he especially ran us out there to relay a story about some Japanese cycle tourists who thought it was a swimming pool. For this executive service Chris paid $10 because he didn’t have change for $20. It’s a long way from Auckland.

We happily all piled back in the plane still chortling about characters of the coast. I was happy to do the tourist thing and try out a new camera from the luxury of the rear cabin. Back in the 1930’s they really cared about passenger comfort.

Sitting down the back I had time to reflect on the day, the scenery, the aircraft and my companions. It was an awesome combination. I felt extremely privileged and spoilt. One of those lifetime experiences that feeds the soul.

We had a lovely trip home with a slight tailwind. At the top end of the Wairau valley we encountered a bit of rougher air. Nothing you’d notice in a Lockheed. Woodbourne was just too big and empty to fly by so we paid a visit using our own executive runway, refuelled (man those dials click over fast) and hopped the last leg home to Omaka.

 
Driving home from the aerodrome I turned onto New Renwick road and there she was our lady of the night big, round and full just lifting off the horizon. Neither her nor I were in the least bit blue.

*A blue moon is when you get two full moons in the same calendar month.

Refocusing (Akaroa 2005)

Refocusing

 

Do you remember those 3D pictures that were all the rage about ten years ago? I worked on a science road show at the time and we had a couple of large pictures for exhibition. They drove me crazy. I was convinced it was a conspiracy. I couldn’t for the life of me see anything but a mosaic of colours. Time after time I’d be walking across the hall to see a group of children suddenly collectively gasp, point and titter on about fish then move on to the next exhibit. It was infuriating, it was a have. One day a student feeling sorry for me told me the trick. You’ve got to focus beyond the pictures surface. It helps to focus on light reflected in the picture. My mind still refused to see.

Then the next day at the end of a particularly tiring day I stopped in front of one of the images.  My lazy eyes fell on a reflection from an overhead spotlight. The image just leapt out at me, I gasped and stood mesmerised for a full minute. It was there all the time I just needed to look at it with the right focal length to see it’s full depth.

 

This memory came back last weekend while I was staying in Akaroa it seems a fitting assimilation. The first time I went to Akaroa I was showing around an overseas tourist. We went to the lighthouse looked back at the village and drove out of town again. The next time I was with a group of motorbike friends and we raced over for an afternoon ice cream from Christchurch. The next time I took my mother to see the Herb Garden. I almost saw it then but the light wasn’t quite right. Only bits of it were coming into focus.

Last Friday I was feeling a bit dragged down by the ho hum life stuff so I decided to run away. I rang up the first Motel I found in the yellow pages La Rochelle and booked a night. I threw my stuff in the car. My camera, my togs, my raincoat, some walking shoes and some going out clothes.
 
Upon arrival my host convinced me I should stay two nights. Something about room allocations. It wasn’t a hard decision. Once I’d rattled all the cupboards and eaten the free biscuits I headed into the village, camera in hand. Something about the sea has always unwound me and I strolled along shoreline breathing in the scenery and the fresh sea smell. I walked the wharf and noted some new buildings since last I visited. A bit juty because of their newness. I chose to sit at a café and ordered Oysters just to poke my tongue at protocol. I don’t see why lovers should get the worlds supply of oysters. I had an enjoyable hour people watching.

The tourist writing in his diary, the businessman on his cell phone whilst his dinner got cold, the local girls getting together for Friday drinks, a few lovers and a few x lovers. None of them had oysters. As yet I’d taken no pictures, it was getting dark, I walked back to my accommodation.

The next day I grabbed something at the bakery and set out on a walk to redeem myself of three months of inactivity. I took my camera. At the far end of the track I sat down on edge of a very steep slope and watched the dolphins swimming with the humans. They were too far away to focus my camera on but I was beginning to build a picture. That was the catalyst, that was the spot light that made me start to see.

After a full day of walking I rewarded myself by hobbling down to “The French Restaurant” C’est La Vie. I was seated with a group from such far fling places as Singapore, Aussie and New York. The lady from New York had been working in Sydney for the week and decided to come to Akaroa for the weekend and I thought I was being impetuous! Someone has done a fantastic job of promoting the little village. Certainly Magdalena’s seamless hospitality that evening made one feel at home with friends. Perhaps my New York friend had heard about the fudge. I read on the packet that it had 3 months shelf life. They should be weary of false advertising claims, mine lasted 12 hours and that included 8 hours of sleep. Yes mum I ate Fudge for breakfast but I brushed my teeth afterwards.

Going to both the Akaroa and Okains Bay Museums brought the place into sharper focus.

Having opted for the two nights I finally had time to visit the NE Bays of Le Bons, Okains, and Little Akaloa. Roads I wouldn’t want my mother driving on but worth the winding mileage. I think Little Akaloa brought it all together. The delightful church built in a European style outside, inside is adorned with Maori motifs. Carved and sculptured in wood, limestone and glass. Situated on a small headland overlooking a long deep safe harbour.  

What was it about Akaroa that was so enchanting. It wasn’t just the old buildings, it wasn’t just the harbour, and it wasn’t just the food. It was the whole mosaic. The history, the people it attracted to live there, the spirit, le essence (as the petrol station is named). It is the quirky nature. Its not something you can see at a glance you have to sit awhile and catch the right light to see the reflections of what it was and what it has become.

 
And the image in that 3D picture all those years ago…was of course of Dolphins. They are the extra magic.

Published The Akaroa Mail December 2005

Oceans and Forests (Akaroa 2013)

Oceans and Forests

I have a picture of myself at about six months old in a wash tub at little Waihi beach. It is Christmas. I have another picture of a slightly older me with my brothers in a cow trough which doubled for a spa pool at the same beach. As soon as we became more mobile our holidays went bush. So my childhood memories of family holidays are a mixture of oceans and forests. Nowadays I find that if I return to similar environments I tend to relax and unwind. Like water quenching a thirst I didn’t know I had.

Wood and water would be common holiday memory triggers for a large majority of New Zealand adults brought up in the 60’s and 70’s. Beaches and forests were the cheap and cheerful places of choice for the Christmas break. This is back before the proximity to a mall, connectivity to the internet and lack of cellphone coverage had any bearing on a holiday destination.

Blue penguins are not unlike us in many ways when it comes to their summer vacations. They return to the same bay, same beach, even the same nesting box year after year. Often with the same partner (but not always). The older more established residents own the prime waterfront locations. The younger ones are forced to set up camp further up the hillside. Better views but further to walk.

Blue penguins are social by day but private at night. In the late afternoon they join up in rafts, floating out in the bay. I image they are exchanging fishy tales. Humans do something very similar. Gathering around a selected caravan, beer in hand, exchanging tall tales about the fish that got away. Then just before dark/dinner time they torpedo into shore, hop up onto the rocks and waddle home to the partner smelling decidedly fishy/beery.

Penguins spend the spring/summer at their holiday homes producing and rearing the next generation. Not unlike humans, think about it, when is the peak of birthdays in New Zealand, September. Pohatu, on the eastern side of banks peninsula, is a place fixed in the penguin memory banks. They have found a sheltered haven here for generations. The name Pohatu roughly translates to the use of sun soaked rocks to warm up the kumara pits. The warmth seems to suit the penguins too.      

In a way Akaroa, on the inside of banks peninsula, mirrors the penguin colony at Pohatu. Nesting boxes stack up the hillside. The older more established families on the waterfront. The nouveau residents in the newer boxes behind. Sometimes an older box beside the waterfront becomes vacant and it is quickly snapped up by a keen eyed individual or more likely someone with the right family connections.

For me the charm of Akaroa is the familiarity of wood (Hinewai) and water. I love its quaintness, the late afternoon sun and I most definitely appreciate the fine cuisine.

Penguins come to Pohatu because they always have. The food is good and the locals friendly. The Helps, Shireen and Francis are everything a penguin could hope for in a camp ground caretaker. They keep the camp maintained, funded, build new facilities, care for the delicate souls and chase away the pests. They even cater for the lucky few humans that wish to soak up a bit of the Pohatu sunshine, unwind to the sound of the lapping waves, the babbling brook, whoosing wood pigeons and tuneful bellbirds. During the evening the sounds of nature continues. If you are light sleeper don’t forget your earplugs. Blue penguins like humans can be noisy neighbours.

Perhaps I’ll take my grand-nieces out there for a summer holiday. I am sure I saw an outdoor bath, the bush reserve is only a quick stroll away and then we can head back to Akaroa for some lovely fish and fudge.

Maniototo (NZ Landscape)

Big Big Sky

I reckon Kate Bush has been to Maniototo, in Central Otago. That’s where she got her inspiration for Big Big Sky. Janet Frame wrote passionately about the place and Graham Sydney has brought it alive on his canvases. Giving us an audio, visual and bookish insight into the big wide-open country.

Late afternoon.

From my vantage point I have ineptly tried to capture it in digital pixels. I will fail. I can use the full memory card in my camera and still not get that sky in. A photo misses the quality of the air, the fine definition, and its emptiness. The vast 3 dimensionalness is beyond my limited vocabulary. Perhaps this is why the Health Board built this Sanatorium here for TB patients. To give them lots of fresh air and something vast to look at. The complex we are staying at is perched on the Southern foothills of the Maniototo plain. It has an awesome panorama, 270 degrees of it. I know why I am having trouble capturing this view. It’s because I haven’t anything I can compare it to. It is so different, that’s its weird beauty.

I look across a wide-open plain. A patchwork of greens and browns. Dotted with miniature trees like a model railway. Somewhere down there beyond my eyesight is the old path of the railway. Snaking its way across the flat. It used to be a pathway for trains now it is a main vein for tourism. The mountain bikes pulse along it like red blood cells. Replenishing the cafes, pubs and B and Bs with valuable gold. It was a stroke of genius to take an old disused line and turn it into a rail trail. The main artery supplies from the heart. Clyde, all the way down to another major organ, Middlemarch. I noticed vehicles in Maniototo don’t carry spare tyres they carry spare bikes just in case you run out of fuel I suppose. It’s very likely because it’s a long way between stations.

A tiny dot races across a backcountry road leaving a rooster tail of dust. The sun is creeping across the plain illuminating the paddocks one by one. Like the last of a wave sneaking up the beach to your bare feet… knees, whilst you’ve got your back turned. In the centre of the Plain is a gathering of English trees sprinkled with a cluster of houses. Their windows and metal parts reflect the suns intensity, star like. In fact at night they make their own constellation against the total darkness of the black velvet plain.

In the middle distance the foothills are rounded and smooth. As the sun sets they are a study of contrast. Dark and light, a fawn silk sheet crumpled and exhausted, lying peaceful after a frantic day of high-energy sun. The foothills are a gentle introduction to the jagged range of bare rocks trying unsuccessfully to hold up the Big Big sky. The Mountains are steely gunmetal grey. Now in Summer sprinkled only at the very tops with the merest hint of snow. The grey against the blue defines the crisp skyline. More impressive than any cityscape man could try to imitate.

Then there is just Sky. A full two thirds of my view is filled in with Big blue sky at first a pastel starling egg blue leading up to a darker azure highland blue. The sort of blue that speaks of clarity and pureness. Heavenly.

This morning.

Scattered through the big sky is only a handful of clouds. None of them look like Ireland today. Today they are pristine white wispy stringy high-speed stuff. Lower down they are clumpy browny grey threatening but not really meaning to rain. Unlike yesterdays curtain sheets that ran across the plain gobbling up the landscape then spitting it out the other side, washed, rinsed and sparkling.

The quality of the light is amazing. A new sort of focus like getting new glasses. The light plays games. It falls and creeps across the plain like a slow rolling wave or it punches through clouds and acts like God's spotlight. Or it hides in the folds of the foothills only revealing little bits at a time.

It is entirely that quality that makes this place so attractive to poets, writers, painters and dreamers. Kate knows but even she fails to catch the essence, Graham knows but he is stuck with 2D. You’ve got to come see and feel for yourself. Bring your bike and Kate's CD it’ll get you in the right frame of mind.

 

Big Big Sky by Kate Bush

They look down

At the ground,
Missing.
But I never go in now.
I am looking at the Big Sky.
I'm looking at the Big Sky now.
I'm looking at the Big Sky.
You never really understood me.
You never really tried.
That cloud, that cloud--
Looks like Ireland.
C'mon and blow it a kiss now,
But quick,
'Cause it's changing in the Big Sky,
It's changing in the Big Sky now.
We're looking at the Big Sky.
You never understood me.
You never really tried.
This cloud, this cloud--
Says "Noah,
C'mon and build me an Ark."
And if you're coming, jump,
'Cause
We're leaving with the Big Sky.
We're leaving with the Big Sky.
And we pause for the jets--
hup! hup!--in the Big Sky!
You want my reply?
What was the question?
I was looking at the Big Sky.
Tell 'em, sisters!
"Rolling over like a great big cloud,
Rolling over with the Big Sky!
Rolling over like a great big cloud,
Rolling over with the Big Sky!"

Open Air Concert (Flying)

I wrote this after a trip to Omarama to watch gliders. The music that is mentioned in the text is supposed to fit with the action taking place at that time. If you don't know the music try listening to a few of the pieces and you should get the flavour.     

 

Open Air Concert

 

Some people just take to classical music. Others prefer rock and roll or country or Jazz. I have always admired classical music and I have gone to the odd concert or two. I usually embarrass myself by clapping in all the pauses rather than recognising the end of the piece. I can name popular pieces that advertising companies hammer to death but to date my CD/MP3 collection has only about 10% of its music that dates back earlier than 1960.

Classical music involves hard work, it is more complex and more three dimensional than modern music. It certainly needs a team effort. I have a huge respect for anyone that can play a musical instrument having made a dismal attempt in my youth and given it up for the sake of humanity.

 

Several years ago I was at a Christmas picnic at Omaka when the late Ray Lynskey preformed a glider demonstration to a piece of classical music. It was awesome. I didn’t know gliders did anything but float back down to earth like sycamore seeds. The display was fluid and moving. It was a wonderful example of conservation of momentum. I was impressed with what could be done without a motor. Rays flying talent, perfect choreography and a well chosen piece of classical music made for a jaw dropping experience that I can still visualise in my minds eye today.

Some people get bitten by the gliding bug and yet others prefer powered flight or helicopters or ballooning. I tried gliding once but was most disappointed by the lack of excitement, speed and noise. Back then I preferred Pat Benatar. We got a tow up circled the local rubbish dump a few times and landed again. It was more a pop for your buck rather than bang. Then my bucks got diverted into fuel for powered flight. Four bangs per buck.

 

I went to Omarama this Christmas. The first attraction to gliding was the late starts. Glider pilots go to a briefing at 10am to suss out the weather and therefore the activities for the day. This suits me far better than balloon pilots who I see landing while I am munching my way through breakfast still in my dressing gown. The second thing I liked was the community feel to the campsite. Achievements were recognised and applauded, sometimes with a surprise bucket of water to boot. There was an extended family feel, especially in the kitchen. With the international guests and cooks hovering over a communal stove it felt like a cross between the three tenors and the Muppets Swedish cook. Yes Chaos. New years eve was a combined BBQ and an ooh-aarh display of fireworks (1812^th).     

 

Glider pilots are constantly reading the sky like musicians read sheet music. Interrupting the notes/clouds for the tune of the day. The key clouds giving them a clue to the frequency and tone of the wind. It is said that old pilots can read the weather like a newspaper. Lennie, the weather guru, was a master. Lennie started 10am sharp and watching glider pilots trying to get breakfasted and showered in time was funny William Tells overture, Rossini. I think of Lennie as the conductor giving guidance and order. Some cloud shapes seemed to get great excitement out of the glider pilots, lenticular wave cloud was a favourite. I suppose musicians prefer some musical pieces to others. 

 

Once the weather was right all hell would break loose on the start grid with everybody wanting to get into the air at once. “The flight of the bumblebee” by Rimsky-Korsakov. The tow planes, Pawnees, would set a rhythm. Up, drop their glider and back in to collect another glider in around seven minutes. Like a metronome constantly ticking in the background.

Then the gliders would all collect over a ridge, turning around and around to gain height like circling vultures. Once enough height was gained they’d swoop for the next up draught. Arrival of the Queen of Sheba, Handel. I’ve always found Handel uplifting. They use thermals like steps to get up to, if they are lucky the wave. The climaxal piece, O Fortuna Carmina Burana Orff. If they get too high and start getting ice on their wings “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, The Nutcracker by Tchaikovsky”

its time to start descending. Dance of the Hours, Ponchielli. (Yes I see a toilet roll ad, it should be outlawed).

Sometimes there are out landings. A powered pilot would call it a forced landing. Pilots run out of lift and have to land in a paddock away from their home field. Glider pilots seem unfazed by this inconvenience. I imagine them serenely listening to “sheep may safely graze” by Bach while they are waiting for their pick up crew. They may have to put the ipod on repeat it could take awhile. I’ve heard some pilots chose to adjourn to the local pub until said crew turn up. Hungarian Dance No5 Brahns 

Then there are the soloists. The stand out performers. Vanessa Mae, Warm Air, Nigel Kennedy L’estate (Four seasons, Summer). Kiri Te Kanawa soprano, Pavarotti tenor, They are recognised for their skill and stamina. They play long solitary pieces and make records that capture the attention of the public bringing fame, fortune and recognition to the classical sport.

 

At the end of the day if we were lucky we got treated to a fitting finale by Terry Delore in his majestic glider showing once again what can be done with momentum. Ravels Bolero.

 
This summer I was content to sit on the ground enjoying the performances, admiring the talent needed to fly these plastic pterodactyls. Next year I might take my ipod for a fitting musical cues to the visuals. Vangelis 1492, Conquest of Paradise perhaps, though it’s sort of been done to death by some rugby team. If I get lucky enough to be taken aloft I think perhaps Piano Concerto No.21 by Mozart would keep me calm about not having a motor. If we make it to Mount Cook I’ll switch to Ave Maria Schubert I figure I’ll be soaring with the angels by then.

Published Sport Flying Spring 2010

Master class (Flying)

Early (January/February) each year the Marlborough Aero club run a STOL competition. This is my write up on the event in 2013.

Master Class

Charles Blomfield was my great great Granduncle. Charles was a landscape painter probably best known for his paintings of the pink and white terraces before they got blown to smithereens by Mount Tawawera. I have a print of the terraces and another less known picture of a grove of kauri trees titled “Natures Cathedral”. The original is enormous and lives somewhere in the dungeons of the Auckland war memorial museum.

Charles painted this masterpiece for a competition near the end of his painting career. It was apparently loved by the public and won the peoples choice award. The judges unfortunately were looking to promote more modern styles and passed it over. This broke Charles heart who had poured his soul into the work. The picture was taken home and hung at the foot of the stairs and all the family and friends delighted in the illusion of walking into the forest through this portal. A little like a Cessna180 can transport a pilot into another world.

The healthy bastards bush pilots competition was similarly entered by masters in the art of precision, short takeoffs and landings. The entrants were a who’s who of outback flying. The aircraft ranged from DMF, the Marlborough Aero Clubs faithful Tomahawk to Sounds Airs Cessna Caravan.

To a casual spectator it was entertainment up there with a Red Bull air-race. Constant action, pilots verses gravity, conveniently right in front of our eyes. Like an artist going to an exhibition the devil is in the detail. Pilots will critic far more rigorously than the general public. The styles were numerous. There were the fast and furious, the low and slow (stalkers), the throttle fiddlers, the dumpers, the skidders, the ground kisses, the arrivals, the under-cookers (short), the over-cookers (long), the wheelers, the flap bouncers, the tail smackers, the glide-slopers and the bounders. The winners didn’t necessarily present the prettiest flying techniques but I now know who I’d trust to get me in and out of a bush strip with all my organs still in place.

The framework (rules) were clear. Anything before the line was disqualified. As it should be. If you misjudged your landing during the real thing and ended up in a tree it would be game over. Bounces of more than 10 metres (horizontally) were taken from the second bounce. The touchdown point was judged on the main wheels. The STOL (short takeoff and landing) was the combined length of takeoff and landing. All competitors got two shots. I am pleased to say no aircraft was harmed in the name of competition by nosing over under brakes and falling out of the sky due to zero airspeed. Overall ALL of the landings I saw were amazing. Most of the landings I would have been mighty proud to have called my own. All credit to those willing to front up and strut their stuff. I certainly wasn’t game to fly my colours. In saying that a Bolkow would have had just as good chance as a Piper cub in the precision landing. A lot of pilots landed very close but just short of the mark, disqualifying themselves. Perhaps I’ll enter next year (yeah right!).

The competition was run with military precision. With 67 aircraft entered and the typical pilot time adverse behaviours it was a credit to MAC personnel that it just seemed to flow. There was the usual compulsory coffee caravan, food and ice cream trolley. The commentators Ray Patchett, Willie Sage and, Craig Anderson were informative and funny keeping us entertained throughout proceedings. Rays hospitality extended into the evening with the dinner, prize giving and dancing being held in his hangar. He reckons it’s a great deal. Once a year all these people turn up and help him clean up his hangar. A party at Rays is never complete without music. He excelled again in his selection. We had music with actual words and real instruments.

The necessary swop of runways at lunchtime was filled in with radial entertainment in the form of a fleet, a beautifully restored Cessna 195 and the rumble of Bill Reids Anson. Fittingly the main sponsor Doc Dave was taken for a fly in her. Other sponsors included, Sounds Air, Spy valley Wines, Simply Avionics (lets not go spreading at rumour Lester) and the Marlborough Aero Club.

 

My peoples choice vote goes to the Bearhawk for looking like the business. The aeroplane was so new the paint still looked wet and the pilot didn’t look much older. Despite low time in the aircraft Jonathon Battson came a very respectable third in the STOL heavies category. If I was a betting woman I’d put my money on him for next year. First and second in the heavies went to the 180s. John Richards in BKG and Micheal Tapper in BJU.

The microlight category was dominated by Zeniths who took out the two top places. Deane Philips first in JUG. Second went to Jock Struthers in ZMX. The fit for purpose Carbon cub CSS with Robert Gray was a very close third. The light touring class was dominated by the PA-18 cubs. BOY (Nigel Griffith), BTX (Bruce Coulter) and ERB (Innes Bint) in that order.

The standout pilot performance to age ratio has to go to Jack Griffith. A pre-PPL 17 year old lad who would put 80% of NZs CPLs to shame. He reckoned he cheated by practicing! What does he think all the old boys have been doing for the last 50 years?

There were a few salubrious shelia’s competing in the precision landing. Jan Chisum in her mini-cab RJK and Karen MacDonald in a Tomahawk DMF. 

 

The pilots and machines were as varied as pictures in an art galley. Like art, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. A judgement on style, colour, strokes, depth, subject matter can all be made by the observer. At the end of the day none of that actually matters. To the artist or pilot it is all about them. Most pilots outwardly were competing with each other (and for the prize money) but inwardly their harshest judge and biggest competitor was themselves. Putting their heart into a project either on canvas or into fabric and metal.

The competition was called the healthy bastards bush pilots champs. It was where the bush pilots came to town to show us townies how it’s done backcountry style. It’s given me a new respect for short dumpy planes with large wheels and big capacity engines. I have this image of them in their campsite cuppa in hand, freshly caught fish frying on the open fire, their object of desire parked on the only patch of flat dirt for miles, living temporarily in their own bubble of serenity. New Zealand is famous for this spaciousness. Long may it be available for all to enjoy. Weather it be tramper, mountainbiker, jetboater or pilot. Who knows one or two may even take up painting a masterpiece.

Published Aviation News March 2014

The Mistress (Flying)

SAA (Sports Aircraft Association) have a fly-in every Waitangi weekend (February). It alternates between the North Island and South Island each year. The southern event is held in Ashburton and is called the Great Plains fly-in which is appropriate as Ashburton is on the Canterbury plains. I attended the 2007 event and this piece came to mind. 

The Mistress

There is a curious thing that happens to men when they realise age is catching up on them. In order to recapture their long gone youth they find someone much younger and prettier than themselves to compensate. Makes them feel young and virile again. Its not new it’s an age-old phenomenon.

Normally sensible, conservative, quiet men start giggling like teenagers. Set up secret bank accounts. Slip out after dinner for a couple of hours “to the shed” and are gone until 2am. They suddenly have business meetings in out of the way towns all weekend. They get secretive and cagey about where they’ve been and who with. They come home with odd smells, fibres and substances on their clothing.  Worst of all is the constantly grinning like Cheshire cats.

Normally this activity takes place with just two parties involved at a secluded low-key location where they are not likely to be caught by anybody who knows them. This weekend I’ve uncovered a whole swarm of them brazenly throwing caution to the wind and openly flaunting their mistresses for all to see. What’s worse they are exposing the good people of Ashburton to this flagrant behaviour. If we are not careful it will catch on and more men will take up this activity.

It’s a kind of temporary insanity where they will spend hours planning the get away. Looking anxiously at the weather, booking a motel under Mr and Mrs Smith, coming up with excuses why this weekend isn’t a good weekend to mow the lawn (because the lawnmower is broken), fix the lawnmower (because they have to get a special part from the States), putting up that new trellis or going to the mother-in-laws for Sunday lunch.

My observations at Ashburton were nearly more than I could bear. When they thought nobody was watching PDA (public displays of affection) occurred. Constant massaging with essential oils until their mistresses skin simply shone. Much touching and stroking of the prop, gently running the fingers over the instruments and almost audible cooing. Some of these men tried to make other men jealous by removing coverings and exposing prominent parts of their mistress’s physique.   

I noticed that they basically fell into two camps. Those that threw a cover over their object of desire and pretended they just happened to have business in Ashburton and those that took to the skies and unashamedly showed off their new toy. Some would sneak away for an hour at a time and come back looking just a bit too pleased with themselves. Bit like a seventeen year old who thinks he’s got away with having his girlfriend over for the weekend while his parents where in Queenstown.

If this wasn’t enough there was a certain COW who hardly appeared in public only to vanish again into the skies. This had to be their first weekend away. One fella had his maiden mistress out for her first outing. A bit shy staying well out of sight for most of her showing. One churlish girl threw her cheap ring away and demanded a new more expensive one. A Starlet was duly dispatched to Cust and a brand new glossy rubber ring was placed on a delicate appendage within the hour. See what I mean they’ll do anything to impress.  

Some brave blokes think they have a handle on this game and dare to bring both wife and mistress. Juggling the affections of both. Sometimes blokes will let their wives have a mistress and  things gets really confusing when their real mistress brings the other mistress.

Most sensible wives see this mistress phenomenon coming and recognise there is no winning. They   over vital issues (like where the lawnmower key is) and she knows his friends will make sure he doesn’t make a complete fool of himself. Besides they come back in much better moods.
either join in or take up golf. They also are rather pleased because as one wife said in blokes and their sheds “saves him coming in and lifting the lids of the pots in my kitchen”. Generally fly-in locations are well advertised, cell phones mean instant communication

 
Generally women who fly to these events are far more grounded and don’t need to prove virility or youth so we can just sit back and watch knowingly, laughing at the strutting peacocks and admiring their young beauties.

Published Sport Flying Autumn 2007

Yellow Duckies (Flying)

In April 2007 I attended the Australian Women Pilots conference in Mudgee. It was a real eye opener. The conference had lots of interesting speakers, delicious food and ran like clockwork. The one outstandingly memorable event I took part in was the ditching practice in the pool. I'll let you read on.
  

Yellow Rubber Duckies

The programme for Thursday said ditching procedures. I always thought the procedure for ditching was joining the nearest religion when the engine starts to cough over water. I figure any religion will do as long as it has satellite coverage for your present location. A yellow lifejacket, an axe and if your over more than a puddle a life raft will probably assist as well.

 

We were told to bring togs (bathers) so maybe we were going to start with a baptism. John started the session off with a series of slides showing that miracles do happen. Good news stories of people that have ditched and had a God on their side. He pointed out that a large majority of people survive the actual ditching only to die in the water. The lesson, conserve energy and don’t lose the faith. Easier said than done, as I was about to discover. John made a roomful of friends by also suggesting that a bit of body mass was also advantageous.

Next it was too the pulloo (pool). The idea of public displays of flesh may be fine when all the participants are 20 and 50kg but in my older wiser years I wasn’t so keen to have spectators or photographic evidence. Having the local newspaper reporter was pushing my exposure boundaries. I would have hidden but having a bright yellow collar around your neck kind of makes you stand out.

Once standing on the edge of the pulloo we were instructed to pull the ripcord. This went against the norm. I usually put my life jacket on to cross Cook Strait then try not to pull the ripcord. Flying in a cockpit smaller than a 152 there just isn’t room for an inflated lifejacket and a voluptuous pilot. Pulling the ripcord gave me a bit of a start. With a sudden gush of air my neck was encircled by a yellow brace that would have made a bullfrog jealous. Pulling the second ripcord only amplified the problem. Now looking like a yellow bullfrog in togs and completely blinkers from seeing behind me and mostly deaf from ears enfolded in yellow I turned to watch John indicate how to enter the water without torpedoing to the bottom by stepping in legs apart. I watched a formation of ducks land on a pond the next day and they were much more graceful.

 

Thirty odd women with yellow neck braces doing the ministry of funny walks leaping into a small pulloo started a wave of laughter as well as proving Archimedes theory about displacement of water. Some spectators who’d listened at school retreated to higher ground.

 

Now we had to float on our backs and pull our legs up into a foetal position (to conserve the body core heat) and hold that for two minutes. Two minutes was long enough I was starting to get a picture of how hard it would be to stay in that position for hours not minutes. Then we were instructed to form a huddle. We collected together all the yellow floating duckies and formed a circle. A small circle was easy enough but to include the whole group complete with injured people wrapped in large plastic rubbish bags in the centre of the circle just brought on another round of riotous laughter. The process was a bit like forming a Congo line. Being only able to see forward 100 degrees also made collecting everyone difficult. Eventually the frayed ends joined up and we held the circle for a couple of minutes.

 

So now you have a mental image of thirty or so yellow duckies floating about in a small swimming pulloo making as much noise as a bunch of bullfrogs on a rainy night. Add in a few whistles and the noise of the spectators who were falling about in hysteria as well.

With the aid of a megaphone John added the toys into the bath and tried to get our attention. The toys where life rafts, four and ten person rafts. 4 + 10 ¹ 30. John gave us the instruction to enter the life rafts he gave us no clues or hints as to the procedure so there was just a free for all. Arms and legs everywhere. A mass stranding comes to mind with bodies half in half out of the water and the rest in shallow water about to risk a similar fate.

After a lot of splashing John called a halt and told us how it is supposed to be done. Two of us per raft got in with someone holding the opposite side of the raft to stop it flipping.

Then we sat astride the pontoon and dragged someone in. Easier said than done. The two per raft got ourselves in looking like four ducks fishing the bottom of the pulloo floor for duckweed, arses pointing skyward. Once in we grabbed a victim by the arms bounced them three times then pulled them in. Unfortunately some of us were a bit over zealous with the dunkings I don’t think the idea was to completely submerge our victims. I was going for the baptism thing.

With the first person we pulled in one of Newtons law came into play. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. As our victim got pulled into the raft and I exited back into the water. The other law of physics is that when an object is moving it wants to continue moving in that direction. So having got over the edge of the raft it was very hard not to exit out the other end. Only the wall of people already in the raft stopped the forward flow. Getting back in backwards I was just over the edge when someone gave my legs a helpful flick I went in with an unladylike back flip nearly drowning in the water in the bottom of the raft. John finally had us shift from one raft to another. By now we had a handle on the fluid stability. Things were going well until we had six in the four person raft and four in the ten person raft. The smaller raft was about to sink to the bottom when John called a halt. Either his training aids was about to be trashed or he was about to loss one of us to drowning through ingesting water whilst laughing so hard.   

The whole session was hilariously funny. If you missed it find a kid and twenty yellow duckies throw them into a bath together add some yellow whistling bullfrogs and you’ve got half the picture.

 
Much as this was the most fun I’ve had semi-clothed for a long time and the spectators said what they would have done for a video camera. It was a very sobering lesson to think that this was done in a controlled environment. Flat heated swimming pool where we could always reach the side. We were in the company of friends, no broken bones, no unconscious persons, no sharks, and no panic. We used typical GA type rafts, which we spent ten minutes in max. The real thing would not be such child’s play. I for one will be better prepared and in a more positive frame of mind if I ever do ditch my plane.

I am thinking of adding a yellow rubber duckie to my survival kit just to remind me of the ditching procedures session at Mudgee. When they find me they will think I’ve lost my mind but it’ll just be that I am remembering and laughing at how thirty women can dress up in yellow jackets and become instant comedians.

Published Sport Flying Winter 2007