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[editorial warning: The next chapter doesn't have much sex in it. (It's a true story, after all. :wink1
]
"Dang", I said, "I have to get that," and as I fished for the phone, raised an eye to Jo and said "I'm a charter pilot, and no, not married, not any more."
I could equally accurately have answered "I'm a nightclub manager," or "I'm an I.T. consultant," or "I'm Maitre-de at a local restaurant." The exaggerations would be on a similar scale, and not really terribly dishonest. (Part time pilot-for-the-jobs-nobody else is available for; part time barman, who is the "go-to guy" whenever the police raid the club, because of apparent seniority; have an ad on the internet for a geeks-to-you sort of home computer service; part time waiter, on call + two fixed nights a week.) Between them all, they sometimes pay the bills, plus sometimes provide a tiny bit of play money. These jobs keep me occupied between twenty and forty-ish hours a week, depending on demand, staff sickness etc.
"Hi, Steve speaking." I answer.
"Steve, it's Mike. We have a family who seem to be Air-star refugees (Air-star= the regional low-cost carrier). They need to be in Auckland by four for an international flight. I've got to stay here for a lesson at three. Can you do it?"
"Yeah. I can be there in half an hour, tops. I'll need to shower - I've been doing dirty stuff outdoors," (private grin) "can you make sure the Aztec is fuelled and get weathers for me? Shortcut things a bit."
"Can do. See you soon-as. Thanks, Steve."
I face Jo and Wendy, genuinely regretful, said "Look, I have to leave, right now. Urgent job. Can we continue this discussion, maybe tomorrow?"
"I think that might be best." Jo said. She glanced at Wendy, got a nod. "Can I have your number?"
I read out the number, Jo pressed some buttons, then my phone rang. "That seems to work," I said, making a mental note to store the number and ascribe a suitable tone, "Hey, I'm real sorry to have to leave. This has been one of the best afternoons for me in a while. I really hope to see you again, soon. You two have a great day."
"Likewise." Said Wendy. Then, as an apparent afterthought "Don't crash into anything."
"OK." I said, seriously, then smiled, quickly semi-dressed, and slogged off down the beach to where my old Toyota was parked.
The Toyota was purchased from a deceased estate twelve years prior. Someone had taken the trouble to purchase and import a Singapore taxi, intending to use it in NZ, got through the paperwork and certification, then had a stroke, the unfortunate guy. Nobody in the family had wanted the car; I got it for a pretty good price and, not really appreciating its character at first, had spent the next 5 years treating it...well, harshly, sometimes, driving it anywhere and everywhere, loading all sorts of crap into it, providing the minimum of servicing and TLC while expecting it to go flat out wherever I needed to be.
Having been unable to kill it, I slowly realised that it was an incredibly solid and reliable beast, and also roomy, comfortable, and not costly to run, so I started to take better care of it. (The gradual realization that it might be a while before I could afford to replace it probably had something to do with that, too.)
It promptly repaid me its first wash and polish by breaking down. Hilarious. It's been utterly reliable since then, possibly because I've refrained from washing it, from that time on.
I keep three suit covers in the back seat; one contains my flight uniform (navy blue trousers, white shirt - no epaulettes, thank God, pale blue tie with a "U-fly" logo) the other two contain bartender and waiter uniforms, which vary...not much. At least all the companies involved pay for dry cleaning.
Pulling up outside the run-down prefab building with the U-fly Aviation sign above it, I grabbed the appropriate uniform, locked the car, and entered the hut.
"Gidday, Mike," I said. Mike Turnbull; part time instructor, office manager, aeroplane cleaner, office cleaner, operations manager, and general good-guy. I liked him from the day we met. He was just...competent. Never gave the impression of being flustered, even when there was a lot of 'fluss' going on. Quite overweight from irregular shifts, junk food, and long hours just sitting around alternating with frenzied activity, he was about my age but had started flying a year or two earlier, and chosen the flight instructor route to gain experience for the Big Career. I'd done quite a bit of training with him.
"Gidday, Steve, thanks for coming in," he said, "this is the Sullivan family. They were supposed to be leaving for Auckland about now on Airstar but there's been a tech issue, and the company can't offer any certainty about a resolution." I reached forward and shook Mr Sullivan's hand. "Hi, I'm Steve. What's your latest check-in at Auckland?"
"Hello, Steve. I'm Gilbert. Giles for short." (About forty five, well dressed, athletic looking, British accent. Just another tired and stressed tourist. We've all been there.) "I think it's four thirty at the latest, we're with LanChile. Airstar are being bloody useless. The story keeps changing. First it was an aircraft breakdown, then a weather problem, then ATC delays, then a sick crew member, it was only going to be half an hour late, nobody kept us informed, and forty minutes later, and only after I asked, turned out they've got to fly a replacement co-pilot in from Christchurch, and we should be underway an hour after that. Well at that point I just spat the dummy and phoned around and came across you guys."
Ahh, the joys of flying a Loco, when things don't go right.
That's not often, but when they do, the delay can be prolonged. One of the tricks of being able to offer low fares, apart from squeezing everyone in and not providing food, is that there aren't reserves of crew or aeroplanes all over the place just in case they're needed. Nor are there any spare staff on the ground to help organize things or keep the customers informed.
"Ok, Giles, I just have to have a real quick cleanup, then we'll be underway. Give us ten minutes." And then, to Mike "Can you do us a fave? Weights and stuff?"
"Already done, mate. The paperwork is all right here. All you need is to put in the plan. I've drafted one out."
"You're a genius. I owe you."
The shower at U-fly is accessed via a sliding door and through a room the size of a phone booth, into which somehow has been crammed a toilet and the smallest hand-baisin in the country. It's like a dolls house, but without the bright colours. The shower consists of a triangular corner of the room that had the required plumbing, with a plastic curtain across it. The water pressure and temperature is surprisingly good considering the appearance, and I felt ready to go after two minutes of vigorous soaping and rinsing. Getting dried and dressed is tricky in the space available. Anyone who has washed and changed in an airliner toilet will have an idea of what it was like, but I actually looked (more or less) the part when I stepped out.
Checked the paperwork,all good. Made a balance calculation, entered the flight details on line, and got the family on board. The mother (Kate, it turned out) looked a bit nervous.
The Aztec was in good condition, fairly clean, but like any six seater, small, with a small "s". The kids were about ten and twelve. The boy looked excited; wanted to sit in the front, I had to explain the aircraft balance would be better if a heavier person sat in the front, and with the amount of luggage on board, that was true.
Got them seated, run through a familiarization and safety briefing, which is only a little more involved than an airline safety briefing, then got it fired up and under way. The old Aztec rumbled to life on the first attempt, both sides.
Back in the sixties, when the design was new, it could have been considered the bees-knees. One of the personal twin aircraft being produced at the time by one of the "big three" -Cessna, Piper and Beech - all competing for sales, it was purchased by flight schools, charter operations, and people like a successful race-car driver, and a round-the-world voyager. It rapidly gained a reputation for being solid and able to haul good loads. Roomy and fairly comfortable, but not quite as fast nor perhaps as sleek-looking as the offerings from it's direct competitors, it still achieved a production run of almost thirty years, and many examples were still flying, mainly as trainers, or lugging freight around, and some, like this one, used for charters. I like it a lot. It shares certain traits with my old Toyota and is, in a way, a sort-of mechanical caricature of how I view myself.
It's not exactly what the average person of the millennial generation picture in their minds eye when the words "charter flight" are mentioned, though, and I had a little bit of reassuring to do - something I've become accustomed to, and gotten good at. (I just tell people it was "the Lear-jet of its day." It hardly ever works, but raises a smile.)
"Dang", I said, "I have to get that," and as I fished for the phone, raised an eye to Jo and said "I'm a charter pilot, and no, not married, not any more."
I could equally accurately have answered "I'm a nightclub manager," or "I'm an I.T. consultant," or "I'm Maitre-de at a local restaurant." The exaggerations would be on a similar scale, and not really terribly dishonest. (Part time pilot-for-the-jobs-nobody else is available for; part time barman, who is the "go-to guy" whenever the police raid the club, because of apparent seniority; have an ad on the internet for a geeks-to-you sort of home computer service; part time waiter, on call + two fixed nights a week.) Between them all, they sometimes pay the bills, plus sometimes provide a tiny bit of play money. These jobs keep me occupied between twenty and forty-ish hours a week, depending on demand, staff sickness etc.
"Hi, Steve speaking." I answer.
"Steve, it's Mike. We have a family who seem to be Air-star refugees (Air-star= the regional low-cost carrier). They need to be in Auckland by four for an international flight. I've got to stay here for a lesson at three. Can you do it?"
"Yeah. I can be there in half an hour, tops. I'll need to shower - I've been doing dirty stuff outdoors," (private grin) "can you make sure the Aztec is fuelled and get weathers for me? Shortcut things a bit."
"Can do. See you soon-as. Thanks, Steve."
I face Jo and Wendy, genuinely regretful, said "Look, I have to leave, right now. Urgent job. Can we continue this discussion, maybe tomorrow?"
"I think that might be best." Jo said. She glanced at Wendy, got a nod. "Can I have your number?"
I read out the number, Jo pressed some buttons, then my phone rang. "That seems to work," I said, making a mental note to store the number and ascribe a suitable tone, "Hey, I'm real sorry to have to leave. This has been one of the best afternoons for me in a while. I really hope to see you again, soon. You two have a great day."
"Likewise." Said Wendy. Then, as an apparent afterthought "Don't crash into anything."
"OK." I said, seriously, then smiled, quickly semi-dressed, and slogged off down the beach to where my old Toyota was parked.
The Toyota was purchased from a deceased estate twelve years prior. Someone had taken the trouble to purchase and import a Singapore taxi, intending to use it in NZ, got through the paperwork and certification, then had a stroke, the unfortunate guy. Nobody in the family had wanted the car; I got it for a pretty good price and, not really appreciating its character at first, had spent the next 5 years treating it...well, harshly, sometimes, driving it anywhere and everywhere, loading all sorts of crap into it, providing the minimum of servicing and TLC while expecting it to go flat out wherever I needed to be.
Having been unable to kill it, I slowly realised that it was an incredibly solid and reliable beast, and also roomy, comfortable, and not costly to run, so I started to take better care of it. (The gradual realization that it might be a while before I could afford to replace it probably had something to do with that, too.)
It promptly repaid me its first wash and polish by breaking down. Hilarious. It's been utterly reliable since then, possibly because I've refrained from washing it, from that time on.
I keep three suit covers in the back seat; one contains my flight uniform (navy blue trousers, white shirt - no epaulettes, thank God, pale blue tie with a "U-fly" logo) the other two contain bartender and waiter uniforms, which vary...not much. At least all the companies involved pay for dry cleaning.
Pulling up outside the run-down prefab building with the U-fly Aviation sign above it, I grabbed the appropriate uniform, locked the car, and entered the hut.
"Gidday, Mike," I said. Mike Turnbull; part time instructor, office manager, aeroplane cleaner, office cleaner, operations manager, and general good-guy. I liked him from the day we met. He was just...competent. Never gave the impression of being flustered, even when there was a lot of 'fluss' going on. Quite overweight from irregular shifts, junk food, and long hours just sitting around alternating with frenzied activity, he was about my age but had started flying a year or two earlier, and chosen the flight instructor route to gain experience for the Big Career. I'd done quite a bit of training with him.
"Gidday, Steve, thanks for coming in," he said, "this is the Sullivan family. They were supposed to be leaving for Auckland about now on Airstar but there's been a tech issue, and the company can't offer any certainty about a resolution." I reached forward and shook Mr Sullivan's hand. "Hi, I'm Steve. What's your latest check-in at Auckland?"
"Hello, Steve. I'm Gilbert. Giles for short." (About forty five, well dressed, athletic looking, British accent. Just another tired and stressed tourist. We've all been there.) "I think it's four thirty at the latest, we're with LanChile. Airstar are being bloody useless. The story keeps changing. First it was an aircraft breakdown, then a weather problem, then ATC delays, then a sick crew member, it was only going to be half an hour late, nobody kept us informed, and forty minutes later, and only after I asked, turned out they've got to fly a replacement co-pilot in from Christchurch, and we should be underway an hour after that. Well at that point I just spat the dummy and phoned around and came across you guys."
Ahh, the joys of flying a Loco, when things don't go right.
That's not often, but when they do, the delay can be prolonged. One of the tricks of being able to offer low fares, apart from squeezing everyone in and not providing food, is that there aren't reserves of crew or aeroplanes all over the place just in case they're needed. Nor are there any spare staff on the ground to help organize things or keep the customers informed.
"Ok, Giles, I just have to have a real quick cleanup, then we'll be underway. Give us ten minutes." And then, to Mike "Can you do us a fave? Weights and stuff?"
"Already done, mate. The paperwork is all right here. All you need is to put in the plan. I've drafted one out."
"You're a genius. I owe you."
The shower at U-fly is accessed via a sliding door and through a room the size of a phone booth, into which somehow has been crammed a toilet and the smallest hand-baisin in the country. It's like a dolls house, but without the bright colours. The shower consists of a triangular corner of the room that had the required plumbing, with a plastic curtain across it. The water pressure and temperature is surprisingly good considering the appearance, and I felt ready to go after two minutes of vigorous soaping and rinsing. Getting dried and dressed is tricky in the space available. Anyone who has washed and changed in an airliner toilet will have an idea of what it was like, but I actually looked (more or less) the part when I stepped out.
Checked the paperwork,all good. Made a balance calculation, entered the flight details on line, and got the family on board. The mother (Kate, it turned out) looked a bit nervous.
The Aztec was in good condition, fairly clean, but like any six seater, small, with a small "s". The kids were about ten and twelve. The boy looked excited; wanted to sit in the front, I had to explain the aircraft balance would be better if a heavier person sat in the front, and with the amount of luggage on board, that was true.
Got them seated, run through a familiarization and safety briefing, which is only a little more involved than an airline safety briefing, then got it fired up and under way. The old Aztec rumbled to life on the first attempt, both sides.
Back in the sixties, when the design was new, it could have been considered the bees-knees. One of the personal twin aircraft being produced at the time by one of the "big three" -Cessna, Piper and Beech - all competing for sales, it was purchased by flight schools, charter operations, and people like a successful race-car driver, and a round-the-world voyager. It rapidly gained a reputation for being solid and able to haul good loads. Roomy and fairly comfortable, but not quite as fast nor perhaps as sleek-looking as the offerings from it's direct competitors, it still achieved a production run of almost thirty years, and many examples were still flying, mainly as trainers, or lugging freight around, and some, like this one, used for charters. I like it a lot. It shares certain traits with my old Toyota and is, in a way, a sort-of mechanical caricature of how I view myself.
It's not exactly what the average person of the millennial generation picture in their minds eye when the words "charter flight" are mentioned, though, and I had a little bit of reassuring to do - something I've become accustomed to, and gotten good at. (I just tell people it was "the Lear-jet of its day." It hardly ever works, but raises a smile.)