#finspottr

The Saturday morning had arrived for our trip to Vancouver, it was humid when we arrived at Hamilton airport and the terminal was sticky. My kids fought over which food they could bring on board the aircraft since no meal service was offered on the flight we were booked on. We were trying out Newleaf for the first time and I had my reservations. Friends told me to pass, to go with one of the other two majors, but saving well over a thousand dollars flying my family of 4 was hard to pass up. Fortune favors the bold they say, well does it? As boarding time drew closer I walked up to the gate to see the bird that would carry us, I gazed on a unassuming 737-400. I checked the Reg and found she was in her 27th year, memories of her birth a long time passed. No winglets, no in-flight entertainment, no wifi. Just a seat and a destination. This would be a flight to endure, not enjoy. The 737-800 owned by Westjet the next gate over looked pretty opulent in comparison. Oh well, let’s get this over with.

Upon boarding we were greeted by one of the most cheerful flight attendants I’ve ever encountered. Chantel (hope I spelled that right) directed us to our seat and even helped us out since we had booked our kids in the exit row and we had to shuffle them to a more appropriate spot. There’s a difference between forced pleasantry and the genuine article, this was real. As the trip progressed we noticed a common theme, a flight crew that actually cared about their jobs, the people they were serving and each other too. I noted the camaraderie between them, it was infectious and engaging. 

At our stopover in Winnipeg to take on passengers, depart a few others and to top off the tanks with Jet-A, we decided to stay on board for the 40 minutes. We cracked open our airport sandwiches (surprisingly good) and fueled up ourselves. My kids, Penelope and Phoenix asked me if they could take a peek in the cockpit, so asking one of the Pilots (Jason?) our kids were rewarded with an awesome tour of the flightdeck. The Captain and First Officer answered the myriad of questions thrown at them and never rushed my kids. These two gentlemen were proud of their profession and plane, and made my daughter and son’s day. Phoenix even got to share his knowledge of aircraft by correctly declaring that this aircraft had CFM-56 engines to the pilots, I think they were impressed, not many 6 year olds can do that. After my kids left the cockpit, more kids came and received the same kind of treatment. Impressive.

So we survived our trip with with Newleaf, Canada’s newest Ultra Low Cost Carrier. We survived no in-flight movies, no wifi, no winglets and paying for a coffee. We survived and had a wonderful time doing it. That 27 year old Boeing flew like a champ, the pilots greased the landings with a surgeon’s hand, we avoided Pearson’s madness and my wallet is $1500 heavier because of it all. So a thank you to Flair Air and Newleaf and its employees, Chantel and Anne and the two other flight attendants whose name I didn’t get, thanks to the gentleman in the cockpit and a shout out to Bryan from Newleaf’s call centre for fixing an issue we had with a reservation the night before we flew out. Keep this up and I see good things in your future. Good job.

 -Finspottr-

Phoenix taking the shot.

The shot Phoenix got.

     I love going to the airport. It's my happy place. The sights and sounds and smells make me at peace no matter how bad my day was before. The same holds true for my son. He's six. We've been heading to airports and basking in the glow of landing lights since before he could walk. For my boy, this is heaven. My little man has his eyes glued permanently to the sky. In our backyard, an hour's drive from Toronto's Pearson Airport, he'll yell at me to come look at the Dreamliner gliding overhead coming in from Vancouver. He'll often grab his Canon SX510 and take some shots. They're not always in focus or the best composition, but they offer a perspective uniquely his. As adults we can often become over-concerned with proper exposure, depth of field and lighting, kids don't care. They just shoot what they like. And that's cool. I don't know where my son's future lies, in the cockpit or designing a new engine or building houses or writing books, that's up to him. But right now, his head is in the clouds like his old man, and his eye is to his camera. 

Great-Grandma feeling like a kid again. 

      On Wednesday January 3rd, 2018, the final Delta Airlines 747 made one final low pass over Pinal Airpark in Arizona. Her Pratt and Whitney engines spooling up as she cheated gravity in a swan-song of mechanical fury that the surrounding desert swallowed up indifferently. Circling back to her fate, the last Delta Queen reluctantly shed her last vestiges of flight and joined the earth that birthed her forever. Becoming spare parts, soda cans and key chains await her and her sisters. An ignominious death unfitting of royalty. The last of her kind. The last of the American Queens.

     True, there are still many Boeing 747’s left in the air. Many ply the skies as freighters, and many  in passenger service. British Airways, KLM, Lufthansa and Korean Air come to mind. Yet the tide has turned. The 747 is dying a slow death. Very few of the newest 747-8I passenger Jumbos are in regular service. It’s not looking good for the iconic aircraft.

     And it’s our fault.

     This could easily have been another essay where someone waxes poetic about the heydays of Boeing’s big bird, where we lament the damage done by generic two-engine airliners and speak of efficiency and gallons of fuel per passenger mile on convoluted spreadsheets. We can twist math and blame the bean-counters all we like but it doesn’t focus on the problem.

     Passion. Wonder. Feeling. Glamour. Adventure.

     When was the last time you used any of those words when confronted with the flight choice screen when booking your latest faraway voyage? Did you even ask which plane you’d go on? Did you even notice it when you walked down the jetway? Could you even recall what it was when someone asked you? Or was is irrelevant to you? Could you care less? Was saving $11 per passenger or a shorter layover your prime concern? Was it in-flight wi-fi or a bigger TV screen? Were you more concerned with taking your shoes off at security than taking a picture of that gleaming piece of metal art standing ready at your departure gate? Think about it.

     What I described is the reality of aviation now. The average ticket buyer doesn’t know or care what aircraft they’re going on. They’re unwilling participants in aviation because the magic is gone for them. Jaded, cost conscious, security-weary and often fearful. Who could care less if that bird has RB-211’s or CF-6’s powering it? I want business class legroom and service at economy prices. I don’t care that inflation means that flying is cheaper than ever before. I don’t care.

     As a society we often get what we deserve. We want it all right now and we want it for free. We’re rejecting the 747. Flying is no longer magic. It’s annoying. It’s that thing I have to do to get there. Nothing more. People close their window shades before the plane even pushes back. I’ve seen that before, where’s my drink?

     Airlines are not run by aviation lovers. They can’t be. They’re businesses responding to market pressure and customer desires. The votes are cast with each ticket sold, with each choice to favor one flight over another, one aircraft over another. Empty aircraft lose money and become unprofitable. A full brand new Boeing 747-8I gets 83 mpg(US) per passenger with 467 seats, exactly 1 mpg less than an A350 with 315 passengers, 7 mpg better than 787-9 Dreamliner with 291 souls on board. The 747-8I is cutting edge for fuel efficiency, safety and passenger comfort. No one cares.

     So next time you stand at your gate and look out at a sea of two-engine generic airliners and wonder where all the passion, wonder, feeling, glamour and  adventure went you’ll know. We traded it for 11 bucks, a shorter layover or because we couldn’t even be bothered to find out what we were flying on.

     Rest in Peace 747, we are no longer worthy of you.  

                                                                                      -John James Pindera-

When I was a kid, I was scared of thunderstorms. Really scared. Petrified. I used to follow my mum around the house at less than a step away whenever a violent (or mild) Southern Ontario thunderstorm would pass over our little house. I recall telling myself that I’d never move out when I became a grown-up because I may get caught alone during a storm and positively die. The fear was all-encompassing.

As I grew I developed coping mechanisms to wean myself of the fear. I begged for books on the subject of storms. I learned all I could about what thunder and lightning was, how it formed, and why storms were important and crucial to life on earth. Knowledge conquers fear, it always has. But it takes time.

Back when I was a kid in the early eighties, DC-8’s and 9’s were still numerous in the skies above. Low bypass turbofans were hung under the wings of planes everywhere and a vanilla Boeing 737 could sound like an F-16 if it had JT8D’s making her move. There often times wasn’t a lick of difference between the sound of an approaching thunderstorm and a plane climbing out of Pearson heading two-seven-zero en route to Vancouver. 8 year old me was counting on that. You see, sometime we all lie to ourselves. I’m not saying it’s the right thing or the smart thing, just that we’re all guilty of it. That’s what I did. Laying in my bed on a hot summer night with the window open I’d wait in fear of the next thunderstorm. I’d pray to fall asleep before it arrived so I wouldn’t have to experience it. If I knew one was coming it was over, so I’d keep my eyes clamped shut so I would’t see distant lightning flashing across my ceiling and tell myself that the thunder I heard was nothing more than a jet plane passing overhead. And if I tried hard enough, if held my eyes closed good enough, I’d believe my lie about all the jets flying over and fall asleep before the storm arrived. It’s funny, I never really considered how much my little heart was tied up to those planes in that way until now. Some kids hugged a stuffed toy (I did too), but sometimes it takes a Pratt & Whitney turbofan to get to sleep. So I get very defensive of old iron for this reason. Noise regulations have changed the mighty sounds of jets into the whispers of neutered vacuum cleaners. Yes the new generation of high bypass turbofans are remarkable in the their power and efficency, but just don’t sound as good.

This past February a day after returning from a trip from Prague, I took my 5 year old son Phoenix to say goodbye to an old friend. A 33 year old Boeing 737-200. It has those Pratt & Whitneys on it that lulled me to sleep all those years ago. It was leaving. My local airport had received so many complaints about this plane that the company that flew it decided to leave for good. I watched that bird make her smokey and thunderous climb many times in the early morning light after a night shift and smiled every time. It was like losing a friend. It’s been 9 months since I last saw her. My son still asks where it went.

“Warning, this aircraft is propeller driven.”  Have you seen this while booking a flight? Has it scared you away? Don’t let it. Now if you’re skittish or prone to motion sickness the ride will be a little more, well, spirited, but that’s not a bad thing. Here’s a few reasons why.

1. Turboprops fly lower to the ground than jets. So if you’ve got a window seat and it’s a clear day, you’ll see LOTS more. A recent flight I was on cruised at 12,000 feet. It was a very noisy and old (25 years) Dash-8 300 series. It was awesome. Visceral. Being able to see the Quebec countryside and the Saint Lawrence River from only three and a half kilometres up instead of ten was a nice change. Individual cars could be spied on with ease as their drivers went about their business. Wispy cumulus clouds were our playground for 40 minutes. This was flying at a more personal level.

2. Turboprops are smaller than the average jet. This makes them more nimble or more twitchy depending on your views. (Guess which one I think it is?) I cut my aviation teeth on small cessnas and I honestly feel like most airplanes isolate the passengers too much from the sensations of motion and flight. The smaller the plane, better the (or worse) the fun. So while you may be used to the Cadillac ride of Triple 7, just remember that the back of a pickup truck on a dirt road can be a lot more fun. Unlike the pickup truck though, this ride is neither dangerous nor dusty. Just a bit more fun. The best part is the take off and turns. They actually feel a bit more like flying.

3. They don’t need long runways or huge airports. There’s a good chance you’ll get onboard by walking on the tarmac right up to the plane. If you squint you can imagine you’re Clark Gable or Carole Lombard getting on a DC-3 headed off into the sunset, the music in the air on a rainy night. It’s like the 1930′s again. You’ll see your pilots through the windows and probably get to say hello to them before you depart. It’s just a bit more personal. Jetways aren’t that great anyway.

So next time you’re confronted with a flight on a plane with propellers, just say yes. It’s flying with a bit more personality. You’ll be glad you did, or you’ll puke.

     The window seat. The holy grail of the planespotter. No other place compares except for the cockpit. The view. The take-off. The landing. The flaps and ailerons and spoilers. The wing flexing. The view of the airport during boarding and pushback and landing and arrival. The engines. The thrust reversers, the glorious sight of the ground falling away as the engines sing their song! Oh for mercy help me!

       On my last flight I reluctantly gave up my window seat to my wife. She gets airsick and it was the last leg of our travels. The last plane was a wonderful (and one year old) Q-400, but turbo-props aren’t for everyone and it took its toll. I offered the window to my lovely wife to help with her nausea. It was hell. Not for her (it was too) but for me. It literally made me want to cry not looking out. It was a one hour flight from Montreal to Hamilton at dusk and it nearly killed me. My GPS would’t work that far from the window and no matter how hard I tried I could’t see enough. Melanie looked out occasionally and managed not to vomit, so that was a success, but at what cost? Of course it’s just a seat and the time passed quickly and everyone lived to tell the story.

      The thing is that the window seat means more to some of us than you may possibly imagine. To many it’s the place to sit to avoid distraction from passengers that like to leave again and again. It’s better that the dreaded middle seat without any doubt, and it’s often a second choice to the aisle seat where getting up easily is king.

       Sometimes despite our best attempts, our booking with care and our overtures to fellow travellers, we at times end up with a non-window seat.

   So if you’re one of those people who end up with the window seat, please for the love of all things sacred, don’t:

1. Close the window shade at ANY time during take-off or climb-out.

2. Close the window shade during decent and landing.

3. Close the window shade while at the gate.

4. Close the window shade during push-back.

5. Close the window shade for any reason whatsoever.

   Just don’t close the window shade. If you don’t like the light, don’t sit there. Seriously, seeing someone close their shade during takeoff almost makes me lose it. I mean REALLY? YOU DON’T WANT TO SEE THIS???!!!??? FOR HEAVEN SAKE! WE CRAWLED OUT OF THE DARK AGES TO TAKE TO SKIES AND YOUR STINKING SHADE IS CLOSED??? WHY? WHHHYYYYYYYYY?

This is going to be a rant. Full stop. I’m sick to death of seeing and hearing the whining about flying on social media every time an airline makes a post about anything. I GET IT. 

So this is for the whiners: 

You’re upset that the seats were too small, or the food wasn’t good enough. You clearly stated CHICKEN! You were appalled by your flight being delayed by a maintenance issue. You were inconvenienced by weather causing your flight to be cancelled, you’re important and you’ve got places to be! How dare they! You endured a long security line and had to throw out your shampoo bottle because it was too large and you can’t read simple instructions. The outrage! They’re after you, aren’t they? Some lady had the gall to bring a baby on YOUR FLIGHT and it cried half the time. Your trip to Cancun was ruined.The sun didn’t come out once. Remember that time when those morons in the cockpit diverted to another airport because of fog? FOG? What were they thinking? You had a connection to make! Don’t forget about that old plane that didn’t have a TV for your 2 hour flight, you had to read a magazine like some kind of neanderthal. The indignity of it all. Flying is the WORST!

After all, you’re only hurtling through the air at 600 miles per hour in a precision built aluminum tube powered by engines that Kings would have traded kingdoms for 100 years ago to learn their secrets. You’re only looking down from 7 miles up at a view our ancestors would have considered nothing less than god-like. You’re only traveling distances in hours that would have taken humans 5000 years ago generations to cross. 

You know what’s the real miracle here? It’s not flying. Bernoulli's principle takes care of that. The real miracle is that people have found a way to turn what is undoubtedly one of the greatest human achievements ever and find a way to get angry about it. To sit like a Greek god in a sky chariot and find a way to hate everything about it. Shut it. 

I love old machines. Old machines with history. Inanimate objects that somehow still breathe with stories and people and lives they touched. Not everyone is sentimental, I get that. Yet some of us attach ourselves to things in ways that can be a strong as family. Your first old car, your grandfather’s pocket knife, a note left from a loved one or a plane you’ve never even touched. 

I was only 5 years old when Captain Bob Pearson made his now famous unpowered decent into the long unused (for aircraft anyway) airport in Gimli Manitoba, Canada. With incredible skill Captain Pearson and First Officer Maurice Quintal saved 69 souls aboard including their own when Air Canada’s new Boeing 767-200 ran out of fuel at 41,000 feet. (Read more here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gimli_Glider)

Over 33 years have passed since that fateful day. After a long career, that old 767-200 Registration C-GAUN now rests in the Mojave Desert, her bones being picked apart for scrap. Keychains have been made out of her skin for sale to collectors (http://planetags.com/). I considered buying one and may still, but somehow it isn’t enough for me. 

So tonight after doing a little digging and emailing, and way to much procrastination I finally sent an email to a keeper of the boneyard in the Mojave. I’m asked about buying a piece of her to keep. Perhaps to sculpt in a personal way in a tribute to piloting skill and aviation history that I feel is better presented than by a key-chain. I guess it’s important for me to get one of her bones that hasn’t been cleaned as it were, not processed and sanitized and stripped of its spirit. I feel connected to this machine and I cannot bear the thought of it becoming beer cans and aluminum siding in its next life. I wish she had stayed in Canada, sent to a museum or displayed proudly to be visited, but that ship has sailed.