When I returned from ‘There and Back’, my around Australia flight to raise funds for the Royal Flying Doctor Service I had time to reflect upon a vast array of memories from different perspectives. Having traversed the length and breadth of the country and conducted countless interviews and speaking engagements, certain questions continued to surface. These questions bolster my belief that most folks don’t have an appreciation of what aviation is really about. Unfortunately, many of these enquiries came from educated individuals reporting for the media. These same individuals will be called to report about aviation at some point, be it an incident or community outrage at the nearby airport. We can only hope for an accurate and level account when the time comes.

By far one of the most common and telling questions was, “Don’t you get bored up there?” Now picture this, you’re hand flying a light aircraft like a Jabiru on a trek of around 13,000km. Between waypoints, there can be quite some distance, so managing the aeroplane, its fuel flow and navigation amongst pockets of weather most certainly accounts for some time and that answer was met with understanding nods. However, how do you describe the awe-inspiring vantage point of flight at around 5,000 feet to a layman? It is a height that is significant enough to offer a wonderfully detailed panorama of the land below, but not so great that the detail fades to grey.

This realm is home to the majority of visual pilots, yet to place another metaphorically into the pilot’s seat with justice calls for a mastery of the language that few possess. It is much like describing art and the fact that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Yet inevitably will all try to and are generally met by a blank expression, although occasionally a twinkle of interest creeps into the corner of the eye.

At the other end of the spectrum were those fellow aviators who came out to see the trusty Jabiru and discuss the machine and the mission. Rather than looking at these people, I was more commonly looking in the same direction; at some detail of the aeroplane or to the sky above, assessing the weather. The base-line was a common interest in flight and with that established, the conversation flowed freely.

Aloft once more (and not bored at all), the contrast gave me cause for thought about a simple truth. We are so fortunate in this day and age to be able to take to the skies, either in a two seat monoplane, or at Mach 0.86 and Flight Level 370. The flight celebrated the centenary of powered flight in 100 years in Australia and there is no denying the incredible advancement of aerospace technology in that time. Equally impressive is the accessibility of aviation.

In the early days, aviators were lauded as heroes, both incredibly brave and perhaps a little mad. Regardless, of their motivating traits, they were undisputed pioneers forging a new frontier, not on foreign soil, but in a new dimension. There were no guarantees of success, or even of personal safety. Reliability was not a consideration as most undertakings were sought to be conquered just once. A warring world and brilliant minds saw the novelty of aviation transform from a fledgling hop to global transport in the span of a human life. Few other human endeavours can lay claim to such progress.

Today, flight is truly feasible. I have often said that the most remarkable aspect of flying the Jabiru around Australia was that it was relatively unremarkable. In 1928, Bert Hinkler flew solo from England to Australia in 15 days with his head in the breeze and a Times Atlas on his lap. For my part I had an enclosed cockpit, starter motor, VHF radio, emergency beacon, satellite tracking system, GPS, accurate charts, mobile phone coverage and so on. When Hinkler was lost on the Tuscan Mountains it took months for him to be found and then it was only a fluke. I may have run late for dinner had I put down in a remote area.

And yet, the thought of forced landing is also a relatively rare occurrence in the modern day. Time has dictated that reliability does feature as a major consideration today and technology has evolved to make that a reality. Armed with a modern aircraft, competent training and sound preparation, an ‘adventure’ like mine is in most pilots reach. Burning around 23 litres per hour to attain over 200 km/h is good economy and a number of miles can be travelled in a day at that pace.

We live in an age of accessible aviation and we should probably stop and digest that from time to time. There are obstacles, no doubt. The encroachment upon airfields, the uncertain future of AVGAS and the hurdles associated with modern security measures. Notwithstanding, it is still far easier to capture a slice of sky than could ever have been imagined a century ago. In fact in 1928, Hinkler was bold enough to suggest that, “one day, people will fly by night and use the daylight for sightseeing.” And he was considered an advanced thinker on the topic.

Rather than getting caught up in the frustrations that can limit our enjoyment at times, appreciate the unique experience we share. Stop and smell those roses in the clouds. What we do when our wheels leave the earth is very special, but not out of reach of the masses. Many people have just never had the opportunity, or possess a phobia that could easily be dispelled with a little knowledge. Maybe that is something we should all undertake to do more often and win over some of the ‘nay-sayers’

Flight has transformed our planet, but it has also offered a view of our earth as we could only once have imagined. We are indeed fortunate that our passion for the skies and our birth dates placed us here in the right time and place. We should all enjoy your aviation and celebrate the freedom it offers. And in case you’re still wondering, I never get bored up there.

Thumbing through a folder some years back in another futile attempt to organise my filing cabinet, I came across a carefully stored certificate. It had not seen the light of day for some time, but was instantly recognisable by the wings that adorned its upper edge as my ‘First Solo Certificate’. With a rope-like border and instructors’ signatures penned in across its face, one particular feature leapt out at me; the date. Whilst the day and month were just around the corner, the year was another matter. After some quick arithmetic, the significance of the date became more substantial, it was nearly twenty five years since I had gone ‘solo’.

Could that be right? A quarter of a century? I pondered the concept for a moment. Twenty five years can mean many things to many people. It can be a landmark of marriage to a couple or an inconceivable eon to a school student in their final year. As a parent, it’s a blink. To a pilot it can be just another coincidence of numbers, volumes of which have already been carefully inked into a series of treasured log books.

For some reason this alignment of the calendar had struck a rarely tuned sentimental chord in me. Certificate in hand, I sat at my desk and reflected on where the time might have gone. It wasn’t long before the blanks were filled in with the recollection of a sea of fortunate memories and the trace of a grin gathered at the corner of my mouth.

In my mind’s eye I can still see the ground at Camden Airport falling away from my peripheral vision as the Cessna 152 leapt into the air, unburdened by the absent mentor in the right hand seat. Climbing away from runway 06, squinting into the morning sun as 17 year olds didn’t generally where sunglasses back then. Wheeling ‘Mike Alpha Whisky’ onto downwind and having time to realise that I was all alone. And loving it. With the checks complete, the base turn came too soon and it was time to reconfigure to land. Managing the intricacies of speed, flap, power and trim, I rolled onto final to be greeted by the welcoming runway. The clearance to land crackled through the overhead speaker and I reached down to acknowledge quickly with the hand mike. (Headsets were for airline pilots!) Down to earth again, but my life was changed forever. As a schoolboy, excitement overwhelmed any sense of significance.

Since that clear and calm summer morning, I have been very fortunate to fly a sprinkling of machines and meet an even wider array of interesting people, some of whom have unfortunately not survived the aviator’s journey. Flight offers so much to we mere mortals, from simple pleasures to immense exhilaration and the darkest nights to the most remarkable dawns. Sometimes we take it for granted as complacency walks hand in hand through time with the human condition.

For my part, I was always going to fly. My Dad had flown all manner of machines from Mustangs and Meteors to Cessnas and Super Connies. He’d flown in combat over 200 times and later in life spent numerous midnight hours relaying the sick and injured in the NSW Air Ambulance ‘Queen Airs’. The warbling of out of synch propellers overhead was our signal that Dad would be home soon. As a kid, I would loiter around Bankstown and Sydney Airport at every opportunity, scrounging rides where possible. There was no barbed wire or security fence to stop curious kids like me clambering up onto wing roots and gawking at cockpits through cupped hands. We were hangar rats and the hangars were full of cheese. Back at home, I would perch on our garage roof with binoculars and scan above for all and sundry as they criss-crossed the sky.

When it came my turn to learn to fly, I found a job as an Ambulance Officer that paid relatively well and afforded me enough time off to fly and study. At the time it felt like the Department of Health should simply directly credit my pay to the flying school accounts. Believe it or not, $47/hour private hire for a Tomahawk was still a fair amount. With Dad as my instructor, my first school was the now-defunct Sydney Airways before moving to the now-defunct Royal Aero Club of NSW. Early starts and frost-covered windscreens were preceded by briefings in our garage that doubled as a briefing room. My working week revolved around my flying and when nav exercises came into play, the anticipation was nearly unbearable. Mum would pack us up with sandwiches and a thermos and we would venture to exotic locations like Coolah, Taree or Tamworth, navigating by charts that didn’t cost a cent and landing without incurring an invoice. As I shared a sandwich and Dad his wisdom, I didn’t realise how golden these days were. He would die of cancer within five years.

To be paid to fly was unfathomable, yet that’s just what the Royal Aero Club did for me as a lowly Grade 3 Instructor. Pulling out six Piper Tomahawks in early morning darkness and fuelling them one by one was a small price to pay to be allowed to fly for a living. Paid an award salary and flying around ninety hours a month of one hour ab-initio lessons, my fellow Grade 3, Roland Parker, and I thought we’d died and gone to heaven. To simply get a slot in the circuit, you’d await the tower to call the office and advise you when to start up and taxi, before shutting down in the run-up bay and awaiting the green light from the tower. Finally, you’d get in the air. To see the veritable ghost town that Bankstown has become borders on heart-breaking. Today we drive around a cyclone-fenced perimeter and where a sea of aeroplanes once sat, now only grass grows. The social hub of the old Aero Club where engineers and pilots would gather has been demolished. These are indeed very different times.

From instructing at Bankstown I went wandering along a path that led me to the Kimberleys and the beautiful land that is the Australian outback. There were scenic flight swarms past the Bungle Bungles and lone charters to all corners of the Northern Territory and Western Australia. Pre-dawn pre-flights were performed to the amazing backdrop of vast electrical storms over the Timor Sea and torrential downpours that changed the face of the scenery from wasteland to waterfalls in minutes. Along with a group of other young pilots, we made mistakes and learnt valuable lessons each day before retiring to the Argyle Tavern; it was G.A. paradise.

The beautiful Australian outback is only one of nature’s canvases that I’ve been privileged to experience. New Guinea’s lush highlands and interesting strips, some still covered in World War II pierced steel, planking made up only part of the challenge; the rapidly changing weather being the other. Drinking from coconuts and boiling rice and fresh eel on the water’s edge near Balimo. Ferrying a BN2 Islander to tiny Yap Island in Micronesia and passing the numerous shallow atolls with wrecked and rusting vessels caught on their barbs. Clambering over bullet-riddled Japanese Zeros and ferreting out an inverted Grumman Hellcat, now overgrown by vines.

From the flight levels there has been the rugged, war-torn landscape of Afghanistan and the frozen earth around Stalingrad where farmers somehow eke out a harvest each year. At 60 degrees south, icebergs float by day and the Southern Lights dance by night like an electric green curtain. Descending over Europe at dawn to break clear over the Thames and the city of London cannot help but remind one of those brave crews who limped home along the same route over sixty years ago with no Flight Management System to guide them. The lava flows of the Hawaiian Islands glowing by night and the US west coast illuminated by the spectacular efflux of a rocket launched out of Vandenberg.

There have been less than picturesque moments too. A magneto blowing off my Cessna 310 and diverting into Meekatharra, a cylinder separating on a C210 and limping home to Kununurra, a forced landing near Kanangra Walls in the Blue Mountains and a free ride home in the Careflight chopper. Watching the demise of institutions like the Royal Aero Club of NSW and Ansett, whose wings and memories I still treasure. These hurdles along the way are just the pot-holes on what is predominantly a great road and have added character to the journey. They are also reminders that the road should be driven with due respect. That degree of respect should always be the same, be it a Beechcraft or a Boeing.

It’s a small price to pay to get the best seat in the house. Excitedly watching the world rocket by below on my first sector in a 737, or the world spin around through the bubble canopy of a dual-control Mustang. Thoughtfully waltzing my Tiger Moth around the Glasshouse Mountains enroute to Toowoomba, my Dad’s hometown and final resting place. Flight can be as diverse as the scenery we gaze down upon.

Twenty five years may sound like an eon; but it’s a snapshot. There is still so much to see and do and there is no vantage point superior to that of the cockpit. It is a viewpoint for all of us to treasure. In the years to come it is a world I will share with my children, as my father did with me.

So how did I celebrate the anniversary? I went flying. Away from home, I dawdled into a nearby flying school at Redcliffe in Queensland and became the student once more. My competency on the Piper Tomahawk was checked out over the scenic Sunshine Coast and in the rather gusty circuit. The instructor beside me wasn’t born when my aviation trek began at Camden, but his youth offered a sense of continuity to the whole process. It was all ahead of him still and I envied that a little. As he climbed out, locked the door and gave me the ‘thumbs up’, it was reminiscent of a scene I had been lucky enough to offer my students over the years.

Solo once again, I lapped the circuit and looked at the world with eyes of that eager 17 year-old, briefly pondering the 25 years still to come. The crackle of the headset, the crazed windsock and the welcoming strip of asphalt blend into the challenge that has not faded with time. A challenge that is relished by those who fly.

The joy of flying has lost none of its charm. The sights, sounds and sense of freedom; it is hard imagining life without it. We who aviate are very fortunate and flight is something we should always share and treasure. It doesn’t matter which aircraft, weather or setting, when the earth falls away from the wheels, life is good.