F is for Flying.

So many small moments, little memories, of flying, of flying…

Of flying into Rio De Janeiro for the first time, Christ The Redeemer standing high, arms outstretched welcoming. As we descend and land, on the plane sound system Frank Sinatra sing’s “Come Fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away…”. It couldn’t be more perfect, the romantic Rio of the 50′s. I smile to myself.

Of flying in Romania in 1990, just months after the revolution. To fly with Tarom was ridiculously cheap. We’d buy tickets for a few dollars, a few hundred Lei, fly to other cities for the day. I flew to Constanta in the morning, went to the beach all day and flew home sunburnt at night. On the plane home, so many people, some stood in the aisle near the cockpit. One person with a huge fake Ming-style vase.

Of flying in Kyrgystan, the plane delayed, then we take off, half way through the journey we bank to the left and return, with no reason given.  At one point a little girl standing a few rows in front and to the right of the aisle, standing between her mother’s knees so as not to have to pay for a ticket, she reaches for the emergency handle on the door beside her. My colleague, Mr. Orange, on my right, already a nervous traveller, out of his seat…

Of landing somewhere in Central Asia, we all sit on the plane. The engines die, we all have to remain seated, as ordered by the Soviet-era air hostess with a peroxide blonde beehive hairdo. The captain and co-pilot emerge from the cockpit and walk down the aisle, in their uniforms and braid, exiting the plane. Everyone claps. Only then can we exit.

Of coming into land in Istanbul, after being in Central Asia, Mr. Orange and I watching ‘Shakespeare In Love’ on the inflight entertainment system. As we descend from the clouds we near the end of the film, we’re eager to see the film’s final moments, we land, still the movie plays, all passengers get off and the movie continues, into the last few minutes, Mr. Orange and I still sitting, watching the movie. Finally the television shuts down, and we reluctantly rise from our seats to leave, the plane mostly empty.

Of flying in the Greenpeace helicopter above the clouds, in the South Atlantic, I look out the door to my right and below us on the clouds is the shadow of the helicopter, and all around the shadow is a perfect rainbow, tracking us across the sky and clouds.

Of flying, again in the South Atlantic, descending out of the sky with the sun at our backs to surprise an Chinese longliner ship illegally fishing for tuna. We swoop down, stills camera and video camera at the ready. And we get a surprise. The ship is stationary. The Chinese crew are all on deck. And they’re all naked. They’re having a ‘swim stop’. We swoop round the ship, we’re surprised, they’re even more surprised. 500 miles from African land and a helicopter is buzzing them whilst they’re diving in and swimming beside the ship. Even pirate fishermen need a day off. We wave goodbye and leave them to it.

Of flying, with Hughie, in the helicopter above icebergs in the Southern Ocean, getting a completely different view of them other than from sea level. Seeing doughnut shaped icebergs, heart shaped icebergs,  stripes of blue ice through icebergs.(Slideshow of helicopter images from Southern Ocean)

Of flying in the heli in Papua New Guinea, seeing huge waterfalls, birds of paradise flying below us, trees as far as you can see,  tracking a rainbow as we move, and landing in small villages, children scattering all around. We see a beautiful lagoon, and beside it an immaculate beach with some small figures on it, Dingo- our pilot, speaks though the headsets into our ears “see that beach, I bought it, what’re those f*ckers doing there ? I’ve got squatters”. We laugh into the whirr of the blades. After that we bought up all of New Britain Island, Dingo got the beaches, Hernan the hills, and I got a beautiful 200 foot waterfall.

Of flying in South Armagh, Ireland, woken in the army hilltop outpost by a red torch in my face, and a gruff voice asking “Are youse the media guys? get up, your transport’s ready”. Moments later we’re in a heli, all lights off, all blacked out, only the green of night vision goggles on the soldiers around us, and the one manning the machine gun at the door, showing us anything. Half-seen figures in a pre-dawn blackness, and we’re up, skimming the trees and hills, away from the border, back to Belfast.

Of flying in the Shetland Isles, Scotland, with the coastguard, making a deal. They’ll fly me over the East European Klondyker fish factory ships for a few minutes, and in exchange they get to lower me onto a ship and then lift me off again for rescue practice. I readily agree, always wanting experiences.

Of flying in an Italian Chinook, double sets of blades thumping through the Albanian midday heat, flying north to the mountains to deliver aid in Operation Pelicano. One the way there heavy with a belly full of flour, on the way back the heli is light and we descend into a river gorge and hug the walls all the way down, swaying to and fro.

Of flying, of flying, of flying…