Aviation Anecdotes by Peter Rowlands
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y l F n a C by s g i P Peter Rowlands e Aviation Anecdotes m o S SOME PIGS CAN FLY Aviation Anecdotes by Peter Rowlands Some Pigs Can Fly Aviation Anecdotes by Peter Rowlands for Mom and Dad Designed by Colour Something Creative Printed by Barrie Press www.coloursomethingcreative.com www.barriepress.com ©2018 Peter Edward Rowlands ISBN: 978-1-7752383-1-7 SOME PIGS CAN FLY Foreword Foreword Peter Rowland's compilation of anecdotal vignettes from his 40-year career in military and commercial aviation does not recount a path that was unique, but rather of a kind that has not been described often in writing, and never with more attention to the details that make every such journey unique in its own right. While his career was in aviation, the substance of this story is about far more than just airplanes, airports and airlines. His words reflect keen observations of those things, but also the times, the places, and the interactions between the people with whom he shared his life in aviation. Such interactions are not bound by time, geography or industry, but rather reveal universal truths regarding human nature. Peter has said that he primarily intends this book to "rekindle warm aviation memories for pilots everywhere", and it certainly succeeds in that regard. Many of his contemporaries - a group among which I am counted - worked their way along similar paths from first flight to retirement, and they will be flooded with memories arising from the fog of events thought long-forgotten, even as they enjoy the way in which he leads them through his own recollections of those earlier times. But I think it will be enjoyed every bit as much by those who considered a career in aviation, but went down a different path ... by those who enjoy history as viewed from the inside out ... and by those who simply enjoy stories well-told. Peter is set apart by writing skills equal to those of his professional flying. This is not one man expounding the exploits of his youth, but rather an admission of how the foibles of youth were often survived - if not always overcome - as experience, maturity and understanding replaced mere exuberance. His ability to weave detailed recollections with often self-deprecating humour makes each chapter slide by all too quickly, whetting the reader's appetite for the episodes yet to come. It is a delightful read. Mark H Goodrich iii iii Preface Preface Although the practice of writing has often been part of my life, the idea of compiling written memoirs had always been but a wisp of morning fog evaporating in the heat of day—never gonna happen: my exploits were hardly extraordinary and many of my human failings are too ugly to share. Nevertheless, a 2013 reunion of former employees from our former airline’s beloved BC District sub-region brought me face to face with old friends and old memories that inspired my writing of The District … an attempt to capture the spirit of that time and place as seen through the eyes of one pilot. Of course, as readily seen by the encouraging responses to that article, the true story of the district can only be told through myriad accounts from thousands of people on the ground and in the air … maybe tomorrow. Meantime comes this compulsion to record as many “war stories” as possible before I forget too many more of them. In hopes of creating something more than a monologue about flying airplanes, this retrospective on forty years of military and commercial aviation contains a selection of side-story anecdotes in hopes of increasing its entertainment value. While experienced aviators may discover previously unknown facts about an aircraft’s production history or reconnect with long-forgotten details about its performance envelope, our young grandchildren might be amused to read about our ancient technologies and how they worked … or not. For memory-challenged historians, there are attempts to describe long-gone machines such as the Link Trainer and to depict seldom seen procedures such as inflight operation of a fifteen-man Argus crew. For geographers, there is a winter of charter flying around the Caribbean and a summer of high altitude photography over northwestern Canada. For the uninitiated, there is insight into commercial airline operations and close-up inspections of erstwhile modern jetliners along with in-your-face looks at several classic Canadian aerodromes. The primary aim of this particular writing exercise is to re-ignite old fires and kindle warm aviation memories for pilots everywhere and anywhere. At the same time, there is hope that some members of the youngest generation will read beyond the technical jargon to appreciate a small slice of history while being motivated to pursue their dreams. Although there is no real moral to this story, its underlying theme can usually be found flying in formation with time-tested truisms. Although sometimes you have to be good to be lucky, it’s often better to be lucky than good. iv iv PIG ONE PIG ONE 1 1 TheThe Cub Flying was not in my blood as it was in many colleagues who were born into families with pilot heritage. However, although none of my ancestors was known to have piloted an airplane, there was some aviation history in my immediate family: during WWII, my mother Teresa had served with the RAF and my father Edward had served with the RCAF. Being an independently minded young English woman, Teresa escaped factory work by back-dating her birth certificate to the required age for driving military vehicles around her native country; meanwhile over in Canada, Edward was watching his long-cherished aviation career fly out the window with eyes recently proven to be incapable of satisfactorily discerning colours in the visual spectrum. Dispatched to England as an Intelligence Officer with Bomber Command, he found Tess shuttling people and bombs for the squadron that soon became known as the Dam Busters. Ed and Tess married soon thereafter and they brought me to Canada at war’s end. Growing up in Stratford, Ontario, during the 1950s, despite numerous war stories that did inspire youthful fantasies of flight, playing hockey was usually considered more fun than building model airplanes. However, when my cousin Robert—himself the son of a former WWII-era RCAF Wireless Air Gunner living in Guelph—earned an Air Cadet scholarship and a private pilot’s licence, he took me up in a Fleet Canuck … my first ever airplane ride … a couple of stalls and an incipient spin … what fun! When graduating from high school in Goderich several years later, good fortune offered me summer employment with Sky Harbour Air Services at the local aerodrome, a former British Commonwealth Air Training Plan facility then being operated by one of its former administrators Keith “Hoppy” Hopkinson. It was almost too good to be true: a well- maintained grass strip with an air charter business and a flight training school amid numerous aircraft of assorted types including home-builds and experimentals, all being supported by an experienced maintenance crew, a first-class radio shop, and a world-renowned paint shop. My entry-level reward for sweeping floors, pumping gas, and stripping paint was twenty (20) dollars plus one (1) free flying lesson per week. (Ancient memory suggests airplanes then rented for about $10/hour and a private pilot licence cost about $400.) The work was fairly easy and the flying lessons were fun. The affable maestro of the paint shop, Don Fisher, was also the flight instructor who introduced me to the “Rules of the Air” in a J-3 Piper Cub known as CF-EFD. Along with Meteorology and other subjects of ground school came the hands-on training that in due course led to the ever-anticipated first solo and to one of those satori- like moments never to be forgotten: feeling the airflow over the wings while slipping softly onto familiar blades of grass in near silence … time standing still at 30 miles per hour … aah. 1 For reasons mostly academic, my application to enroll in the Canadian military’s Regular Officers Training Plan (ROTP) did not make the cut of that summer’s recruitment seminar at nearby Centralia air force base. However, a follow-up letter advised that “although they wished not to discourage further education, this applicant did fit their parameters for a direct-entry, five-year short-service commission as a pilot/navigator.” For reasons far from academic, my response was a letter suggesting the deletion of their reference to navigator as a prerequisite to any further consideration. Lo and behold, back came a copy of their original type-written letter with the navigator option obliterated by an overlay of xxxxxxxxx. Having no other career aspirations and seeing no university courses of particular interest (or affordability), the decision was an immediately easy one. Although further formal education at Royal Military College had slipped out of reach, a direct-entry officer selection program was readily available. Done deal: the eighteen-year-old high-school grad would report for duty at RCAF Station Centralia in November of that year 1962 to commence training as a pilot/xxxxxxxxx. Good fortune continued: for reasons most directly related to human kindness, the decision makers at Sky Harbour saw fit to accelerate completion of my private pilot’s training program before expiration of extended summer employment. To compensate for diminishing daylight in late September, instructor Don decided to use a decidedly faster Piper Colt for the dual cross-country exercise from Goderich to Kitchener (Waterloo-Wellington) to Wiarton to Goderich.