My stomach was in knots! I could feel my heart pounding in my ears, so loud I thought it'd burst out and dribble down my shoulders. Loop-the-loop, 90 degree turns, rocket-powered ascents, Stukka descents, flying upside-down, stall dives . . . . I went through all this while still in the airdrome carpark! I was a bag of nerves! What had I let myself in for? I had agreed to go up in the air in a tiny tiny plane with a man that was only two days away from his medical . . . to see if he was fit enough to fly! What had I let myself in for?
Roy wheeled the plane out onto the hot tarmac. Plane? I'd built bigger Airfix models when I was a lad. Bigger ones flew around my bedroom suspended from the ceiling on cotton thread, casting shadows on the walls from the light bulb. Roy looked towards me, grinned and said, "Yeah, it is a hot day." This was with reference to my profuse sweating. Hot? No Roy, I'm not hot - this is a cold sweat brought on by fear . . . . cold, primal fear! He opened the (only) door to reveal the cockpit. I was so in-two-minds when he told me that I was to be sitting next to it. One part of me thought, Great, I'll be able to get out quickly when we crash. The other part thought, I'm going to fall out of the door! I asked him how often planes like these crashed; "Only the once." he replied!
It was at this juncture that Roy amazed me. He got into the cockpit! Why did this amaze me? Well, the cockpit is the size of Barbie's plane's cockpit and Roy is a BIG bloke and is easily six foot plenty. Like a piece of human origami he folded himself into a tiny tiny ball and poured himself into the pilot's seat wherein he slowly unfolded his long arms and legs and then watched as I began to enter. Reluctantly.
Eventually I'm in and there's a bank of dials and doodahs in front of me - loads of knobs and levers and foot-pedals - loads of things to go wrong! Roy set about telling me all about what each does and I attentively ignored everything he said except the emergency evacuation drill - I know it off by heart. "To open the door," he said, "Just pull this lever down, and this lever up, and push the door open." This became my mantra as we were hurtling down the runway. Down-Up-Out. Down-Up-Out. Down-Up-Out. The faster the plane skittered down the runway the faster my mantra came out, DownUpOutDownUpOutDownUpOut. The wheels lifted, DownUpOutDownUpOutDownUpOut . . . and then without me even realising it it changed to "Oooh, look at that". Oooh, look at that. Oooh, look at that.
I was flying! I hadn't been sick (yet!) and I was (almost) enjoying it. Roy, ever thoughtful told me he was going to fly out over the sea to practice a few turns. Practice? For God's sake, Roy, you're supposed to know how to do all this malarkey - why do you need to practice???? Of course, it was for my benefit. He was to do a few gentle 10 degree turns to show me the plane can actually bank over without dropping like a stone into the sea. The practice turns were gentle(ish) and thus emboldened we headed over the land. I felt really safe flying over the sea; I mean, it's really soft and crash-landing into water is OK with me - but that land below looked HARD!
We went all over the place (pictures will follow) and I had a great time; most of which I 'relaxed' for. We went over Portimao, we went over Silves castle, we even flew over Sir Cliff Richard's humble villa and tennis courts. We flew over Zoo Marine so that I could "see the dolphins." I had hoped they'd also be at 200 feet but, as Roy went into a steep turn (it felt like 90 degrees but was probably only 88 or so) I had the gut-wrenching sensation of looking directly into the dolphins pool. Did I see them? I don't know, my eyes were closed at the time and I was fighting to keep last night's wine and beer under control! The pictures I took might reveal them.
We then went along the coast again (yippee, nice soft water) and we flew towards Cavoeiro. We buzzed Algar Seco, again banking like mad, a manoeuvre during which (I later learned) Roy was trying to 'suspend' the plane in mid-air by a method of breaking and accelerating at the same time, so that I could take a nice piccy. Again the eyes refused to focus as I was turned to face Algar Seco from an impossible angle.
It was now that I realised that Roy wasn't flying the plane - Roy himself was flying, and he was using the plane to do so. He is so much a part of the plane that a state of symbiosis existed between them. Roy was the plane! He was not only in total control, he was in his element. He is a superb pilot and a companionable guide and raconteur. If he can make someone as yellow-bellied and apprehensive as I was about flying feel relaxed then nobody has a reason not to fly with him.
We then started flying back to Alvor, en route looking for Sharen and Carol (Mrs 4) who were to wave to us from the sea-front. I didn't spot them . . . and still can't on the pictures, which is a pity. I wasn't looking forward to the landing (hard ground coming towards us at great speed) because it was quite a windy day and I had seen Roy's earlier landing prior to this one come in like a butterfly in a hurricane. Down-Up-Out. Down-Up-Out. I needn't have bothered; he landed it as smoothly as a butterfly alights on a flower. What a pilot!
We are continually told by cynics that nothing is free and that everything has to be paid for. Well, they aren't always correct. Roy doesn't take a cent for his flying me or anyone else around the Algarve. All I paid for was the fuel we used and the fees incurred on take-off and landing. Roy does these flights for the sheer pleasure he gets from flying and the pleasure he imparts to his passengers in doing so. His enthusiasm is infectious and impossible to ignore. It's a win-win situation.
What did I let myself in for? A bloody good hour's entertainment, that's what. I fully intend to go again . . . . and I never thought I'd be saying that!
Thank you, Roy.
Extra: With any luck http://s35.photobucket.com/albums/d194/MichaelCrane/Flying%20Tonight/ will take you to all of the pictures.
Let me know of any problems.
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