#finspottr

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Judge a cover by its book. A trip with Newleaf.

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-

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Alpha and Omega in one day.

Watching her roll up to gate 24 at Narita filled me with a wrenching turmoil of feelings that is hard to explain. The usual ones were there, the awe at her size, the admiration of her presence and the giddy anticipation of being in the air again soon. But there were others too, sadness and despair, that concrete knowledge of the futility of time as it marches ever forward.

Time, like water, flows either with us or against us, it cares not what we wish or do, what we'd like. I find it the height of irony that in the moment I have finally been able to secure a seat in the upper deck of the Queen of the Sky flying with a US airline, is simultaneously the last time I will ever do so.

Finality.

I say it's apropos that it's raining as we depart, goodbyes are always better with curtains of water hitting your face, that way no one can see any tears.

So how does one enjoy a swan song and a virgin moment all at once? How do you say goodbye when you're not ready to? I honestly don't know. But I'm going to try.

Finspottr.

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Kids and Planes, Be One.

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. 

    I love taking kids to the airport, six years old or ninety. Because when we stand under the glide-path and the heavies start rolling in, we're all kids again. There's no difference between a youngster and a grownup when there's hundreds of tons of A380 or 777 sailing just over your head, screaming like a banshee. So if you're feeling down, bored or know someone who is, just head to the airport. Grab a coffee or a juice-box and be a kid again. You won't disappointed. Take a camera or just a lawn-chair. Take someone you love back in time to when flight was magic or show someone new that it really still is. We can't always be in the air, and we can't all be pilots. But we sure as heck can still be kids around planes and feel the magic once again. 

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Why We Failed the 747

      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-

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Better than a teddy bear.

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.

In this day of noise sensitive people who inexplicably decide to live right off the end of runway 08, the reality is that these old birds are dying. Someday soon, it’ll just be those hushed vacuum cleaner sounds coming from jets passing overhead and old guys will wax poetic about how a “real plane” should sound like. That’s progress I guess. Until that day happens I’ll savour every last one of these smokey old birds that made their own thunder, and put me to sleep all those years ago because of it.                                     -James Pindera-

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The Turboprop.

“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.

                                                                                                James Pindera  

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The Window Seat.

     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?

    I have to go now, I think I need my meds.

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Stop Whining and Enjoy the Ride.

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. 

So next time you’re getting that urge to complain about that flight delay, or to whine about how your food wasn’t salty enough, just picture Charles Lindbergh, Wilbur and Orville Wright and Amelia Earhart standing in front of you. They hate your guts right now for being such a wimp, and you deserve it.  

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The Search for a piece of history.

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. 

I just hope I’m not too late and that somehow one of the Gimli Glider’s bones can come home and stay with my family forever. Stories come alive when people can connect with the past in a tactile way. Touch is a powerful thing. I sure hope this works out. I’ll let you know...

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“What’s your flight number?” Running from a hurricane.

     As Hurricane Matthew bares down on the Caribbean, a flood of worried vacationers are heading to airports to escape the incoming fury of what is being called the most powerful tropical storm in nearly a decade. To most, leaving a vacation early and running to the airport to avoid the worst of nature can be frightening to say the least. What if you make it to the airport only to find your flight delayed, or worse yet, cancelled? What if the airport is closed when you arrive? Do you shelter in place or chance a run for the airport with the storm swiftly approaching? This is where a Spotter is your best friend. 

     As Spotters we are blessed with the knowhow of where to find information on all things aviation. We know how to track flights, find weather reports. We talk to fellow Spotters around the world on social media, we have inside contacts and an intimate knowledge of the concert of performers working together to make every flight a success. We help each other out, passing reports to people we’ve never met to lend a helping hand. 

     Two good friends of mine found themselves in the very situation above. I’m guessing since my personal Facebook feed is always littered with aviation posts I was a logical person to ask. I received a text from them asking if I could keep on eye out if their flight would be able to get them out on time. I was all over it. They wanted to know if traveling to the airport was a good idea or futile. Generally speaking getting timely information from airlines isn’t easy. Spotters do it better. I reached out to a spotter group I belong to and asked for help. I was quickly provided with another group to monitor and some information from a airline dispatcher who lent a hand. Using the ever handy Flightradar24 I was able to figure out the flight number of the inbound flight and then able to monitor if it was cancelled or not. Being able to inform my friends that the aircraft inbound to rescue them was on the way was load off their minds. Being able to ensure it did’t divert gave them extra time to make decisions. Using all this I was able to let them know of a flight delay 20 minutes before the airline informed them. The end of the story? Their 737-700 arrived in time, and lept off the runway like a homesick angel carrying a load of very relieved travellers to safety.

     So why does this matter? It’s just another way we can help our friends and those we’ve never met. So do your best to be a good Spotter. Lend a hand and leave wherever you are better for your having been there. Pick up some trash when you’re at the airfield, show a kid how your scanner works so they can hear the pilots, let those new to our world know the best place to see the big birds today and alway always wear your heart on your sleeve when it comes to your love of aviation. You never know, you just might be able to help someone fight a hurricane and win.      

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The 747. Is it better to burn out, or to fade away?

     It’s a bad time to be lover of the venerable 747. On September 5th, 2016 Cathay Pacific released a 30 second clip on YouTube announcing the impending retirement of its 747 fleet (https://youtu.be/3bsxB4uMtIE). Air France retired its 747 fleet on January 14, 2016 with a final loop flight thousands tried to book passage on. Flight name? AF747. Joe Sutter, the father of the Queen of the Skies passed away on August 30, 2016 at the age of 95. His pioneering work on the 747 transformed the way we travel as a species. The sun is setting on the old girl. Despite advances in technology, the 747-8 with her next generation GEnx engines and new wings, the 747 is still a child of the 1960′s with all the legacy and pitfalls that brings with it. Although a thoroughly modern aircraft, the market has changed its attention to long range twins like Boeing’s own 777 and 787 aircraft and Airbus’ A330 and A350. Fuel economy sells planes, so being a 4 engined Jumbo just isn’t in fashion anymore. 

     The Queen is a success story of unlikely origins. Originally conceived as a stop-gap measure to bridge Boeing from aircraft like the 707 to what the world then believed would be a sky filled with supersonic passenger jets, the 747 sprang into existence with the intent of being easily converted into a cargo hauler when needle-like supersonics eventually succeeded it. Although Boeing’s Supersonic Transport (SST) project (Boeing 2707) turned out to be dead end by the early 1970, the Concorde and Tupolev Tu-144 did end up ferrying passengers on flights. The Tu-144 had an ignominious end to passenger service on June 1, 1978 a mere 213 days after its first flight as concerns to its safety stopped its passenger career. The beautiful Concorde on the other hand, soldiered on for over 27 of service and retired in what I believe was still in her prime. 

     And that’s the problem. Is a long slow death preferable to a prize-fighter retiring as the champion? Because that’s how I feel about the Queen. She came from an era where people still regarded air travel as a special occasion (some of us still do), where ladies put on their best dresses, men wore suits and children were expected to be on their best behaviour and look the part. A time where people remembered the awe of seeing such a large beast sitting inert at the gate, a flightdeck alive with dials and switches and breakers, the crew pouring over the preflight checklist and stewardesses welcoming everyone aboard. Times have changed. Air travel is now considered routine and people often make no effort to even figure out what kind of plane will take them to their destination, it’s about cost and comfort. A jet without a personal TV in front of you is a fate worse than death and jogging pants and flip-flops pass for acceptable attire now on a Trans-Atlantic crossing. 

     Somehow I feel like this Old Lady deserves more than to fade into the night without notice. A slow relegation to freighter service or into the boneyard for eternity makes me sad. The Concorde I visited at Le Bourget Airport in Paris still had the ghosts of its passengers in it. It seemed almost proud to me as I walked down its length and imagined the people enjoying their voyage to the city of lights in a different time. A 747 ripped from passenger service where it spent its final years as an unpreferred conveyance because of its age or hauling boxes has had its purpose stolen from it. The cabin is no longer haunted by passengers past. 

     I wish somehow this would end better, and perhaps it will. People often don’t remember things until it’s too late. After all, it’s just a plane. It’s just metal and wires and windows and cloth. I do hope that as the 747 nears its final days that people seek out one final flight on her and pay their respects to the Queen of the Skies. She changed how we view distance and how we view flight. It’s the least we can do for the Lady.    

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From fear to tranquility.

From my earliest memories I can always recall a love of airplanes. I always looked up at them when they passed overhead. When I went to my first airshow as a small boy with my Grandfather and Mom I loved the high-speed pass the fighter jet made with its slightly delayed thunderous sound. My mother recoiled in fear at the sound, yet my grandfather just smiled in a sly way at me as I grinned ear to ear. You see I grew up in a family that did not travel. Making a simple 2 hour car trip to the beach once a year was viewed as a major undertaking fraught with peril and trepidation. So as I grew up I accepted these notions that travel was something only done by those with a death wish and that certainly made flying out of the question. I figured it was the domain of the daredevil and rich person, and from the feelings I got from my well-meaning mother, you’d have to be mad to board one of those aluminum beasts. Surely that poor plane had only a 50/50 chance of becoming flaming wreckage at the end of the runway. So I continued in this manner until my early 20′s until I met the girl of my dreams and got married. My wife is in many ways the opposite of me, fearless to a fault, willing to try new things at the drop of a hat, and most of all, a seasoned traveller from a young age. At the beginning of our life together I held her love of travel as an annoyance at best to a menace at worst. I honestly had no idea why someone would choose to travel when they could spend the money on good durable goods instead, a big TV or car or whatever. Despite my overtures to her about getting this travelling business out of her head and focusing on more safe (boring) things, she persisted in proclaiming her love of travel. About a year after getting married I got a new job. Now at this time I had started using Microsoft Flight Simulator and was really having quite a bit of fun learning to fly on a simulator. With that bug in my head I learned that one of the guys I worked with had his private pilot licence. I found that very interesting and when one day he asked me if I’d like to go for a flight with him, at my wife’s insistence, I said yes. I was absolutely terrified. So shortly after 4:00pm on Thursday April 15th, 2004, a 1978 Cessna 172 with me sitting in the right seat, lifted off from Waterloo Regional Airport and I tasted flight for my first time. It was noisy, it was cramped and the little plane shook like it may fly apart at the seams. It was visceral and overwhelming and terrifying. I LOVED IT. When Johnny asked me if I’d like to try flying it I reluctantly took the yoke in my hands. Then it happened, I knew from then on my life would never be quite the same. A sleeping giant had awoken in my soul and its fire would not be quenched. It’s funny how in a few moments you can reboot your life. How one small act gathers momentum and power and moves you to make a paradigm shift in your entire perception of life. As the distance of time separated me from that moment I slowly put away my prejudices about travel. I began to value the experience more than the thing. Through the monumental use of coercion and guilt for my own good, I followed my wife to Colombia on an Air Canada 767 on what I figured would be my end, and survived. More momentum, and more discovery. Slowly planes became metamorphosized from a fear to a thrill. I studied everything I could about them and erased my fears. Armed with knowledge, I can sleep like a baby now even during turbulence, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. Someday I will overcome the last few hurdles and earn my licence as well and hopefully start the cycle again on another timid soul just a ground-glued as I was. Fear is a product of ignorance and doubt, but knowledge can smash fear forever. So thank you Melanie, thank you Johnny and thank you Tango Lima Yankee for giving me a shove toward new horizons. I’m never happier now than when I’m up. I used to say that not doing something would prevent you from missing it, that ignorance is bliss and things are better than moments. I was wrong. So chase your next fear and slay it, who knows what lays ahead and when you leave safe harbour behind. 

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Memphis Morning

Working for living at a job that isn’t your passion can drag you down. No matter how good the job, the pay, the benefits, the hours or the people you work with, a job without the joy that comes from loving what you do is still only a job and therefore cannot stir the soul. As many of us push through with this routine or ones like it to make ends meet we must try to find moments in our day that lift us, since to live without that spark is hardly an existence. My passion is aviation. I’m happiest around planes, watching them, being in them and once in a blue moon, flying them for fleeting moments. I work a three shift rotation, and for the one week out of three that I find myself working during the daytime, I look forward to my morning meetup with my friend from Memphis. Like clockwork, at around 6:25am almost every morning Fedex flight FX148 sails over the parking lot at my work on its way to Toronto. When it’s overhead I need to get walking or I’ll be late. I’ve been caught more than once staring upwards as the solitary MD-11F or DC-10F makes its low rumble as it decends to land 35 nautical miles away. It’s my morning ritual and it makes me happy. Knowing that the days are numbered on these old tri-jets moves me to savor these moments all the more, since soon enough they’ll just be memories too. Coffee for me is a necessity to start the day right, but the icing on top is seeing FX148 before the day begins. As much as we’d all like to, we can’t spot every day. We can’t put aside responsibilities and park ourselves at the airfield and watch the birds with impunity. There’s work to be done, and unless your job is watching planes all day (ATC I’m looking at you!) the best we can do is take the chances we have to do what we love, and work toward making what you love to do into what it is you do. I hope you too have your own “Memphis Morning” like I do, that morning smile that keeps you going until flight lifts your spirits once more. Tomorrow morning at 6:25am you’ll know where I’ll be, I’ll be waiting for my signal to head inside to work by that very reliable alarm clock in the sky, FX148. It’s funny how Fedex’s tagline is very apropos for this situation, “The World on Time.” Happy Spotting.

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Why am I a spotter?

     Why do I spot? Why do you spot? What is it that pushes you to the airport, or makes your head pitch upward at the sound of an engine? Perhaps it’s the same reason our ancestors in the millennia before us peered at the birds as they sored overhead, effortless in cool breezes just out of reach above us, untouchable. The momentary suspension of disbelief and dalliances with imaginings that we too could share the sky with them. Children seem to invariably cast their eyes heavenward when the humblest little Cessna hums overhead. Most adults outgrow this habit, although I feel that the word “outgrow” explains what happens to us as we age in a way that does us no justice. Perhaps the passing of time clouds our original childhood wonder and ties our thoughts and eyes more groundward. Although the realities of life are many and varied, to the spotter, casual or devoted, the point in time of watching an aircraft overhead gives pause for the childlike wonder to permeate us for a few fleeting moments. You’re a kid again, in the wonder of it all.

     I’ve met and talked to spotters and aviation enthusiasts from all over the globe. Sometimes in person in seemingly forgotten museums next to unrecalled aircraft or in the busiest of air shows or airport departure lounges. In the shadows of landing light towers or on top of decaying parking garages overlooking heat shimmering runways. They’re all different. Some are solitary and some are most definitely not. Some are long in years, and some are not yet even able to walk. Some are women and some are men. Some outgoing, some shy and quiet. Their skin colours as diverse as the liveries of the planes we spot, with backgrounds and nationalities and beliefs as varied as the shades of the sky as the sun sets. They’re all different, yet we’re all the same. We spotters park ourselves where the planes will be because we’ve chosen not to “outgrow” looking up in wonder. We’ve chosen to still cast imagination and reaching for the sky outward, whether we will ever get there or not. To me a spotter is someone who unabashedly does what they love and refuses to grow up in at least that one small way. Since when was it bad to grin ear to ear at the sound of takeoff thrust, or pump your fist in the air after finally spotting a plane you’ve wanted to catch for years? 

     Spotting transcends so many hobbies and pastimes because of its inclusiveness. You don’t need the best camera or lens to spot. You don’t need a camera at all. You don’t need all the apps on your latest smartphone to track what’s coming next, or an expensive scanner to listen in to the chatter of ATC. You don’t have to be able to tell the difference from an A330 to 767. You don’t have to be a pilot, or know what ILS, VFR, ATIS, TO/GA, METAR of IFR is. You just have to love being around planes and the rest of it will come, because one of those friendly faces spotting nearby will happily answer your questions.

     So why do I spot? Because I love the smell of jet exhaust. Because I love standing under hundreds of tons of metal as it screams over my head. Because the best song in the world is sung by turbines. Because flying has never stopped being magic to me. Because I love planes. Because I love being around people who love flight as much as I do. Because when I spot, I’m still a kid. 

That’s why I’m a spotter.

Why are you a spotter?   

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A hard day’s night.

As I get ready for bed after working a night shift, I’m thinking about all the activity happening at airports around the world as morning arrives at each of them. A flurry of activity for passengers and ground crew, taxis and food service, for pilots and air traffic controllers and everyone else in those little cities that airports can be. Amidst all the bustle and confusion that modern air travel can present it’s nice to know that there exist moments of calm if we can just look for them. So whether you find yourself running off to work this morning or playing referee to a young family or heading out on a grand adventure across the sky or just simply going to bed after a long night shift, take a second to enjoy the little moments that make life grand. Happy spotting!

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The First Time Spotter

The following was written by my wife Melanie, who over the years has tolerated my spotting problem and continues to love me despite this grievous disease. 

1st time spotter

      My husband James is an aviation enthusiast, I am not.  I once in a while come along when he picks up his camera and heads to the airport. I'll walk around or sit in the car, sure I look up and watch these mechanical birds fly over but I don't share the same awe he does. What is it that makes him come back to the 'nest?      On a particularly stressful summer day, with school out and having had kids around me for an entire month, my mind is dying for a break from the ongoing fight of who's toy belongs to whom...anyway...James comes home from work and I know he is exhausted, but he mentions how a rare plane is coming to Pearson with the beautiful livery of the Aurora Borealis. "Do you want to see it?", I ask. So I think why the heck not. I call up mom, she says yes to babysit and we are on Highway 401 to Pearson International AIrport for a much needed break. Honestly, just seeing James happy doing what he loves makes me happy. James picked up his camera and I thought maybe this time I'd pick one up too.  I thought maybe I'll get something he'll be proud of, but then I found myself focusing elsewhere, not to the airplanes but the people that admired them. The airplane spotters, the av-geeks, the people who can watch these machines take off and land all day long. They were friendly, happy and excited to be doing what they were doing. It was all kinds of people; men, woman, entire families, friends, dates, old, young, even babies. When we first arrived I noticed a bunch of gray haired men sitting on chairs talking and watching airplanes, 3 hours later they were still there. I saw a mother have dinner with her son who was excited to finish eating so as not to be distracted or miss any big planes coming in. I saw a young couple snuggle close together and wait for the planes to come, I thought the guy must be the spotter but then she pulled out her camera too. I also met a bunch of good guys that over time had become friends by coming to these spots and communicating on aviation groups on Facebook. Everyone seemed to know someone or at least introduced themselves for future meetings. They chatted and laughed and even respectfully paused in silence so another could take their photo and/or record the sound of the jet engines. I have to say it was a delight watching them in their element, with people that understood the joy that airplanes, jets and flight did for them. I realized this wasn't just a hobby, it's a social event, it's a community. A community of aviation spotters and their families that support them. So I enjoyed my first actual spotting experience, and I even took some pictures of airplanes too. Have I caught the spotting bug?

Melanie