Damien Owens was pleased the aircraft he'd be learning to fly in was yellow - a great colour for rescuers to spot
At Christmas my wife gave me an hour-long flying lesson. The voucher was valid until the end of last month. It says a lot about my attitude to mechanised flight that I finally took to the skies a couple of Saturdays ago, on September 30th. Still, I can see why she thought it would make a good present. Every time we'd flown together, she'd spent the entire time mopping my brow, squeezing my hand and, on one sorry occasion, hearing my confession (a task for which she is, frankly, unqualified).
Then, as soon as we were back on the ground, I'd tell her that it was a control thing and that I'd be fine if I was the one doing the flying. But it was just something to say, something to mask my embarrassment. I didn't mean it literally. Or even figuratively. I didn't mean it at all. The upshot, in any event, was that I (eventually) found myself sitting in a prefab at Weston Executive Airport, in Co Kildare, while a nice man called Brian took me through the basics of flying.
First, he explained how an aircraft gets off the ground. Apparently it's because the difference in the speed of the air flowing over the curved top of the wing and the speed of the air flowing over its flat underside causes a disparity in air pressures and, therefore, lift. This made sense and was certainly an improvement on my old explanation, which was "magic".
With the physics out of the way, Brian produced a fancy model aircraft and set about describing the location and function of the elevator, flaps, ailerons and what have you. Trying to sound as if I was only casually interested in the answer, I asked how long an aircraft would be able to glide if its engine blew up or fell out. Brian's answer must have horrified me, because I have completely blocked it from my memory. All I can remember is that it was considerably less than the "several days" I'd been hoping for.
The next thing I knew, I had left the classroom behind and was climbing into a Grob 115A (which was only slightly bigger than the model). It was bright yellow, which I found reassuring: it would be easy to spot from the air if we crashed in, say, the Andes. The interior was less comforting. No offence to the fine people at Grob Aerospace, but it reminded me of an old van. The crucial difference, of course, is that when an old van breaks down it trundles to a halt at the side of the road, as opposed to burying itself up to its armpits in a field.
After he had satisfied himself that everything on the outside of the aircraft was firmly attached, Brian hopped in alongside me and began tapping and poking at various incomprehensible dials.
"Ah," he said. "Look at that." One of the dials - it turned out to be the artificial horizon - was spinning wildly, even though we hadn't moved an inch. "Not to worry," Brian said cheerily. "I'm sure it'll calm down in a minute." It did, but not before my heart, which until then had been merely pounding, tried to escape through my throat. By the time I had willed it back into position we were trundling down the runway - and then, with remarkably little fanfare, apart from a small squeak on my part, we were airborne.
The flight is a bit of a blur. Once I took control - although control is hardly the word - I experienced it as a series of newspaper headlines. When Brian pointed out the Co Meath town of Trim and its lovely castle, for example, the 135-point text appeared in my mind immediately: "IDIOT CRASHES PLANE INTO TRIM CASTLE - LOCALS RAGING."
I wasn't really flying the aircraft, of course; I was simply aiming it at different parts of the sky. (Brian did all the technical stuff.) My main task was to keep us level at 1,500ft, something I singularly failed to do. Despite all my best efforts, the thing kept climbing.
I realised only afterwards that I was subconsciously trying to point it towards the clouds, which are nice and soft, and away from the ground, which is notoriously hard. When I did try to lower the nose (as we pilots call the pointy end), I was immediately put off by the engine's throaty nyerrrr, a sound I couldn't help but associate with phrases such as "Mayday, Mayday!", "We're going down!" and "Tell Becky I love her!"
Still, I have to admit I was sorry when my hour was up. I may not have done it with any style, and I certainly didn't do it with skill, but, dammit, I made an aircraft go in a direction it wouldn't have gone in had I not been there. It was easily the most fun I've had while believing that my remaining life could be measured in minutes.
Best of all, I am now greatly looking forward to my next commercial flight. If the pilot and copilot both drop dead, I'll be able to step up and put the aircraft into a steep climb, thus very slightly prolonging the life of every passenger on board.
Damien Owens is the author of Dead Cat Bounce and Peter & Mary Have a Row