My First Airplane Flight

A few weeks ago I was able to interview my grandfather and hear a couple of his stories. Here is one about his first plane journey, 61 years ago. I hope you enjoy.

               

                After graduation, Bill Young got a job in London at an oil exploration company. He started work in August of ’51. Three months later, Bill was called into the office of the number two man in the company and was told that they had a trip planned for him. Bill, thinking he was off to the science museum or something, agreed. But no, second in command told Bill that he was to go and work in Papua New Guinea. Papua New Guinea? Bill hadn’t even heard of the place.

                So that began Bill’s life in the geophysical world. His first plane trip was first class; the oil business had a fair bit of money. But even first class was cramped in those days, even more so than economy nowadays. The planes were smaller, the food was not as nice, and the trip took longer. But I digress. The trip was from London to Port Moresby. And where today a trip like that would take maximum two trips, back then it took a bit longer. The first stop off was in Rome. While they waited for this four engine piston plane to refuel, the airline put them, at least first class, on a coach, gave them a lovely lunch, a little bottle of Chianti, and gave them a tour of Rome! And this was a regular flight! Then, after the plane refueled, they got on board and flew to Cairo, where the airline put them in the top hotel, the Heliopolis Palace Hotel, and, in the morning, took them to see the pyramids! After seeing the pyramids, they got back on the plane, and flew out to Karachi.

                Upon opening the doors at Karachi, Bill was hit by the smell of the city. But before they could exit, a man came on and sprayed them, just in case they were carrying some disease into Pakistan. After a few hours in Pakistan, they got back on the plane and flew on overnight to Singapore. Once in Singapore, the airline put them in the Raffles Hotel, which was then one of the best hotels in the Far East and now costs about $600 a night… yeah. In the afternoon they were given a tour of Singapore Island and the next morning, flew via Jakarta in Java, on to Darwin in Northern Australia.

                As the plane flew over the equator, the pilot came around and gave each of the passengers a certificate for crossing the equator. 61 years later, Bill still has that certificate. (I, personally, am wondering where my certificate is for when I crossed the equator, but that’s another matter). Again, I digress. In Darwin, they were given a room each to shower, because back then they had no air conditioning. And they stayed there till evening because the only way to fly across Australia, to Sydney, was by using the stars to navigate. Yeah… I know. As they landed in Sydney the pilot had to quickly lift back up and circle around again because he slightly overshot the runway… and the runway ended in the ocean… which would have been messy. Anyways, they circled around, and landed a second time in Sydney. He stayed in Sydney for a few days, on holiday. Which doesn’t really count as part of the plane journey but it still happened. So after two or three days in Sydney, Bill flew on, via Brisbane and Townsville, where the passengers had breakfast, a bucket of eggs, good Australian style. And after that, they flew on, final stop, Port Moresby.

                Remember that first time when you cooked and you switched the oven on, waited for it to warm up, walked over, opened it, and pam! You just got punched by the heat. Right in the kisser. Yeah that’s what it was like for Bill when they opened the plane doors at Port Moresby. It was so hot and humid. After a few days they flew out to the KiKori Delta, where the heat was quite a bit more bearable. The KiKori Delta got an average of 400 inches of rain a year so you can imagine how damp it is. It was so humid there that his leather shoes needed to be polished every day because the fungus would grow on them overnight. (That’s gross). There Bill stayed, in a camp, locally made, that stood on stilts. He had his own room and shower. And there he lived for about a year and a half, flying out on a Catalina flying boat, every six weeks to Port Moresby for a week’s holiday.

                The whole plane journey, excluding the holiday in Australia, took the better part of four days. Why can’t plane journeys today be like that? That would be awesome.

But the story doesn’t end there. It never does when it involved good old Bill Young. Bill met a lot of interesting people when he was there in Papua New Guinea. One man that he met was an Englishman from Kent who was there shooting crocodiles, trust the English. He was there to bring the crocodile’s skins back with him to sell. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal now but it wasn’t then, at least I don’t think so. And this Englishman asked if anyone wanted to come shoot crocodiles with him. Being Bill, Bill said yes. (I know where I get that sense of adventure from). So they went out, Bill, the Englishman, and two of the locals, in the dead of night, hunting the silent reptile. The hunt can only take place at night because you need to pick their eyes with the flashlights. So there they were, on a double canoe in the middle of the river, sweeping the river and its bays for those two shining eyes. After a while they found one, right in the middle of the river. You can’t shoot it in the middle of the river because it’ll sink. They had to spear it. They moved in, readying the five-pronged spear. The boy at the front would throw the spear, which was attached with a rope to his wrist. As they came up close, close enough to spear a crocodile from a boat (which, just my personal opinion, is too close), the boy threw the spear. It hit the crocodile in its shoulder. The crocodile leapt into the air and dove down to the bottom of the river. As it dove, the rope that connected the boy to the crocodiles shoulder broke, saving the boy from a ride to the bottom of the river.

A few days later, Bill and the others found a crocodile, dead, on the side of the river, with the head of a five-pronged spear imbedded in its shoulder.

                And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, was my grandfather’s first introduction to flying, the tropics, and crocodile hunting. I hope you enjoyed it.

Until next time.

I wonder what it must be like

This is how I imagine it must be.

The Gig

The pebbles shake and the rats scurry away as the subway train roars though the tunnels. Cooped inside, they sit with their heads resting against the metal walls, bags tucked in next to them so as to stop anyone from getting any ideas. They breathe in the smells of the underground, surrounded by strangers, everyone waiting for his or her own stop. Some are reading, some listening to music, like that girl in the corner whose blasting Eminem so load through her headphones that they can hear every lyric. The lights flicker off. Then back on. Everyone leans forward as the train slows to a stop.  They look up on the map of the stations; this is their stop. As the train stops and the doors open, they pick up their bags and go. Navigating through the sea of people heading the other way, bubble gum littering the floor, graffiti on the walls, they make their way onto the escalators. Times is advertising its latest magazine along the side wall. People are rushing past them on the left hand side, obviously late for something, could be anything. As they step off the escalator they look to their right and smile. Cello taped to the wall is a 1 foot high, 2 foot long poster announcing tonight’s event. Starting in a little over two hours a band will be playing at a small time venue, just a few minutes’ walk from the station.

                As they exit the station into the evening of another cloudy day in the center of London, they pray that the rain will hold. There is a nervous, excited feeling inside of each one of them as they walk the busy streets. The big red double-decker, open-top buses full of tourists move slowly by. Cabs containing busy people needing to be somewhere race past. The buzz of London city is growing as this Friday night gets ready to begin. They know where they are going because they memorized each of the street corners from Google Maps. It’s a five minute walk from the station, and they are late. They turn down one final road, and walk in the unmarked back entrance of a small building.

                Inside people are excitedly running around getting ready. The group is quickly ushered away from the doors and into another room where the usherers’ frustration is made apparent on his face as he asks why they are late. But he wants no reason. There is no time for the reason. Things must get moving. The group put down their bags, open them up, and pull out an instrument from each one. Quietly they prepare, fine tuning each and every string. There are four of them. Three of them have guitars, one bass, one acoustic, and one mandolin. The fourth is the drummer. All he’s carrying are the sticks. They are the band that was advertised on that small poster just outside the underground exit. It was their band name that they were smiling at as they recognized the cheapness of their marketing abilities. They really needed a band manager.

After running through the script and making all of the necessary preparations they are ready. It is now 9pm and they are scheduled to be on in 15 minutes. The tech support team gets each of them set up on stage, making sure that the sound of each instrument is just right. By now everyone is there waiting, screaming. It’s a small venue, and the crowd is starting to still out into the street. The lights go down. The crowd goes crazy. They step out on stage. And the show begins.

The Story not Told: Importance in Storytelling

                I once met a lady who recollected the time during the reign of Idi Amin when she had to walk four days and four nights from Uganda to Kenya to sell what she had planted in order to make enough money to survive. She walked this distance with her crop on her back. And she had to do this because Idi Amin made it impossible for her to sell what she had, I believe it was beans and maize, in Uganda. Isn’t that interesting? Doesn’t it give you a small glimpse into the story of her life? Doesn’t it make you understand a little bit more what it was like to live under the rule of Amin?

                Isn’t that interesting?

                If I never told you that story you may never have heard it. And it doesn’t matter if it’s me telling the story or someone else, the only thing that matters is that it was told. You see, we can learn a lot from a story. A story can give us an insight into the life of someone who is suffering, who is rejoicing, who is failing, or who is succeeding. We can learn what not to do. We can learn what to do. And we can learn how to do it. A story itself is so important. And everybody has one. Whether you are walking for miles to sell your crop or whether you are busking on the street corner or whether you are trekking the globe, it doesn’t matter. We can learn something from all of it. Stories can inspire us, scare us, make us cry, make us laugh. They can change us, shape us, make us grow as individuals. They are important. To gain knowledge into other things that are happening or things that have happened or things that have yet to happen shapes us. It makes us grow as individuals. Knowledge makes us grow and one of the ways that we obtain knowledge is through storytelling. You can’t know about the protests that are happening around the world without stories from them. And you can’t help someone without first knowing the story (even if that’s just knowing that they need help). Stories are important.

                So let your be told. Whether that is you telling it or letting someone tell it for you. That is what this blog is for. To tell stories. Some of them may be deep and meaningful and some of them may be just fun stories. They won’t all fall under the same genre. All will be true, unless I state otherwise, but they will come in a variety of shapes and sizes. And some postings may just be like this. Just some thoughts on a certain topic. Who knows? This is an experiment, let’s see what happens.