A Beechcraft King Air B90

Slightly Bemused writes:

I spent a few hours discussing flights. Times, seats, options. The usual malarkey that was once an almost daily feature for most regular travelers. Hopefully nothing will go awry.

We spoke about where to sit. In a rare occasion of acceptance that my side of the genetic lottery brought short legs, the realisation that this means legroom is not an issue was cause for some amusement. I do have to buy shoes as a compensation though, and that could help.

So, a little one who has done her research on which seats are statistically most likely to survive wanted to be rearmost. However, experienced curmudgeon was able to say that put you right up against the loos. Farthest back cannot lean, and while smell has never been an issue for me on those flights, the queues can sometimes invade a certain amount of personal space. So, not rearmost, but a few seats ahead.

What time are you flying? Night flights? No point in a window seat. Dark just looks dark even at 30,000 feet, but an aisle seat means that the inner people want to climb over you to head back for the loo queue. But also means that you do not have to.

On the way home, flying through Newark, get a seat on the right hand side so maybe you can see Lady Liberty as you come in to land. Pretty much the only thing Newark airport has to offer. Not a bad airport, and certainly not the worst I have been to, just is is small, and has little to offer. That being said, I have a cousin who is a chief of cabin crew who likes Newark, precisely because it is quiet. I suppose it depends on what side you are coming at it from.

This will be her first transatlantic flight on her own. And it got me to thinking about first flights, which may or may not have involved actual flight. My first flight to the US was after a fire had pretty much destroyed all of my clothes, and a faint air of diesel hung about me. Beyond a bum bag (which I have since been ordered under pain of daughterly ire never to wear again) with my important documents,

I rocked up at a busy Chicago passport control with nothing but me. I was tired, my lady had snuck off to go in through the US citizens’ lane, and it was late, the day before Thanksgiving. There were hundreds behind me, and after a moment the guy used the green stamp and said ‘Welcome to America!’ I forget what I said, but I was not quite prepared for the chill of a Chicago November when we left through those doors.

And it got me thinking of memorable flights of my yore. Not the places I had been to so much as the flights that took me there. And occasionally back. I have been cleaning up my place, and occasionally come across old diaries. For some reason, I thought it would be cool to note every type of aircraft I have flown in. I am not sure why I started, probably the little kid in me trying to get out. Not sure why I stopped.

But this one I remember. A Beechcraft King Air B90 from central Europe to Nairobi. Zagreb to Geneva (day or two holdover) to Heraklion to Luxor to Djibouti to Nairobi. And all for the smile of a girl. What a flight, what a reunion, and what a story. All true, both gladly and sadly.

The plane was going back to base, ultimately to Capetown. I knew the crew well, having worked with them often. So with annual leave coming up and the chance of a hitch of a lift I reached out with both hands.

The pilot who flew from Zagreb to Geneva accidentally left the starter module on for the flight. The module provides a massive spark for the turboprop engine, a little like many lawn mower engines. But leaving it on is not a good idea, and it burned out. So we are lined up for start-up and the pilot tries to start the engine on the first true leg down to Nairobi. And… nothing happened. Bit of a problem. Props are turning, buttons are pushed, but no vroom.

Did you ever take down and rebuild a car engine? There are similarities. I also was, and am, a qualified electronics engineer tech. So I sort of knew what I was looking at. A box with wires in one side was not giving the wires out the other side what the engine needed. My background was in sound engineering, but strangely these connectors were very much the same.

We had at least another day layover and the pilot found someone with the same make (type?) of aircraft, and bargained a replacement starter pack for the new one that had been ordered. I am not sure why, but he wanted to get back to Nairobi So did I, but he seemed more keen. Besides, he knew how to fly the plane, I did not. But I did learn about the gearboxes on propellers: you can actually hold them still before the pilot kicks in the gears. I have never been sure if that is a good thing to know, or not. I prefer to stay well away from rapidly rotating machinery. Call it a life lesson, I had a run-in with a Bell and Howell projector one time. I learn, I remember!

So early of a morning I change out the starter pack under the watchful eye of the pilot, and of the owner of the other plane. I must have done well. The engine started, we got clearance, and away we went.

Did you know small aircraft do not always have ‘facilities’? Thankfully I can hold, and hops are not too long. Heraklion in Crete is a wonderful montage of lights at night and strange toilets. I am glad I was not the pilot – I would likely have landed us in the waterside.

My only time to Luxor, although I had the opportunity another time. Too late, too dark. All I remember is the pilots canteen and a few hours sleep. And as dawn arose, on to Djibouti. We had to refuel, and a number of nice men with a fuel truck turned up, and we started pumping. But then the chat plane arrived, and they all barreled off for the freshest leaves. So we finished fueling, wrote up the sheets, and eventually a manager came back and signed off. We could go without fear of repercussions on return.

And finally last leg to Nairobi. Wilson Airport, almost a home from home for a while. The smile I got was worth all the time. I still have the picture of the day [seen and verified by editor!] I turned up, but I do not have her permission to share it. Sadly, someone else had won the affections. So the journey home had to be memorable to forget that. It was, but that is for another day.

Slightly Bemused‘s column appears here every Wednesday.

Pic via Wikipedia