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Tony Swain, top right, at RAF Officer School Kirton Lindsey in Fall of 1952, just prior to leaving for Canada for flight training. Photo courtesy Tony Swain Collection |
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Avro York Airliner, similar to the one described in this story. Photo courtesy Tony Swain's scrapbook |
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Delta, 1976, New EAAC President Gogi Goguillot presents engraved plate to outgoing president, Herb Cunningham, COPA's current Board Chair. Photo courtesy Tony Swain |
The fog today reminds me of the time I flew the Atlantic.
Sure, Lindbergh, Alcock and Brown, and a bunch of WW 2 Ferry pilots led the way.
Yeah, yeah, you've done it too, visiting the old folks and all, but this was
special. It took 22 hours, plus three overnight stops, London to Montreal. It
was a great adventure, a truth we didn't comprehend at the time. We thought it
all routine. It's like that at 18, when you're full of it.
It was February 1953. We were 22 Brit Super Hero RAF pilots, with 12 hours
actual logged Tiger Moth time. Acting casual and strutting about in our smart
new uniforms. Cream of the crop. Some of us had even soloed! On our way to
Canada for flight training, already we were steeped in fighter pilot lore.
We left our top jacket button undone. The greatest.
We'd spent a couple of days wandering around London, self consciously returning
salutes from other ranks. When we arrived to visit The Tower of London, they
turned out 'The Guard'! This was so unnerving; we saluted, strolled on by, and
gave it a miss, returning to town via a circuitous route to avoid a repeat
performance.
LONDON, FOR POINTS WEST...
Anyway, eventually, at Heathrow airport we were ushered to our transoceanic
conveyance - a magnificent, stately Avro York.
We were impressed. The best of all worlds! The superb modern airliner, a direct
descendant of the famous and redoubtable Lancaster bomber! Best in the world,
stout, reliable, luxurious, and everything.
The RAF, as always economically challenged, had a deal going with Scottish
Airways to deliver personnel around the globe. We were delighted.
Everyone had a window. I grabbed the front starboard seat; because the plane
wasn't full. Even the front seat was removed to save weight, providing extra
luggage stowage, but still left plenty of room for me to stretch out. Always
thinking...
The Captain, Co-pilot, Flight Engineer, Navigator and lovely Stewardess made us
warmly welcome. The Captain grinned through a thick Navy beard.
Soon, we were roaring up, up, and away. The lovely English countryside and
fascinating towns dropped away below as the sturdy York soared to some five
thousand feet for Prestwick, the Last Chance refuelling stop before heading off
across The Pond.
It was late afternoon, and the vista below soon became grey and bleak streaking
with snow. The powerful Merlins drowned out all speech, so when our lovely
Stewardess brought newspapers, tea, and cake, she conversed via a handy chalk
board. We basked in the luxury of it all. Grinning, pointing, and scoffing our
cake.
It got chilly. A stiff breeze blew up through a long joint in the floor. Through
it, we could see the grey countryside drifting by, thousands of feet below.
Smugly, we agreed the cracks must be remnants of old bomb bay doors. We
energetically stuffed the gaps with free Scottish Airways newspapers. Problem
solved!
A ROUTINE FAILURE...
Then, with an agonized wail, the mighty port inner Merlin shuddered to a stop.
We were agog! Saving gas maybe?
Our lovely Stewardess scurried up front, and was soon back with reassuring news
on her little chalkboard. A mere routine failure! A simple magneto change in
Scotland, and our trip to Canada was still on. ...Three Cheers!
At Prestwick , Smile, smile, and smile deftly ushered us to a Grand Hotel, for a
grand chicken dinner, beneath even grander chandeliers - the ultimate luxury.
We would stay the night whilst the mag was fixed, and urged to go out on the
town. My Hero Pilot friend Archie, who just happened to live there, prepped me
for Canada, by taking me ice skating... Sigh! I needed stronger ankles.
Magneto fixed, next morning cum afternoon, we were off, clambering westward over
the outer Hebrides toward a brief refuelling stop on the fabled Iceland. The
cleaners had been in, and our patent crack sealing newspapers meticulously
removed. Soon it was pitch black outside, and cold as a butcher's freezer.
Our comfort blankets were unceremoniously stuffed down the cracks. What to do
now? Can't talk and there was nothing to read.
But trained airplane people get curious about things, and trooped up forward to
peer at the engines. And hey, the old York perceptively headed down and sped up.
How about that! Soon all was level again, and we droned on.
So we trooped aft to visit our favourite Stew. Sure enough, down went the tail,
and, engines noticeably labouring, up went Old York. Way to go. We played this
game for a while.
Shortly, a grim stewardess marched down the aisle thrusting her board in each of
our faces... "The Captain requests you remain seated to avoid upsetting trim."
...Sigh.
Then, at night, in mid winter, over mid Atlantic, the port inner routinely quit
again! We remained seated. However, not to worry!
This had happened before, there were three to go, and, importantly, all being
pilots, we were instantly available to help when required.
Time for some kip, but Merlins are extremely noisy. Actually they make a huge
racket. No fancy earplugs or headsets those days.
MID ATLANTIC CHICKEN...
Anyway, the crew did a fancy beam letdown on three into Keflavik, through
blowing snow, and half a gale of cross wind. The York's a taildragger you know.
We disembarked into the biting wind about a half mile from the Terminal, a
glowing glass dome away in the gloom.
The knee deep blowing snow flowed by swift as a river, so the ground appeared to
slide by at 20 knots! Wading through it was really disorienting.
We burst thankfully into The Dome from the bitter cold. It was like a moon base
in Star Wars! A futuristic world, peopled by Yankee military police packing
six-guns, just like the Old West. We were totally awed.
The statuesque lady at the candy counter wore a white nylon 'see thru' smock.
Her bra plainly visible! Surely illegal in Britland, but didn't faze the locals
any. However, we bought lots of candy.
Turned out Old York simply needed a routine carburetor change, which being out
in the frigid gale, blowing snow and all, could take a while. However, smile,
smile, "Go relax and get a free chicken dinner."... We bought more candy.
Talking around, we heard the reason we were traveling this safe northern route
in the midwinter, was because the previous flight, taking the longer, but warmer
route, via the Azores and Bermuda, had gone missing. So a change of plan was
thought in order.
Uh - huh! Makes sense.
Eventually we were packed back in our magic flying machine, and winging our way
through the black of a North Atlantic gale toward some big island near America
for gas at the mythical Kingdom of Gander.
We droned on through the night, cruising at about 8,000 feet. The lights dimmed,
we huddled in our unplugged blankets and tried to sleep. Not easy, with the
noise, the icy draft, and the fact that the WHOLE CREW, Captain, Co-pilot,
Engineer, and
Navigator, nodding and smiling, strolled aft to the little snack bar to scoff
cake, sip hot cocoa, and socialize with OUR Stew!
Old York was on George, a magic electric gizmo from WW 2. We were not thrilled.
ICE ANYONE?...
We pilots were on instant Red Alert. Primed for a dash to the cockpit at the
first sign of a bit of wobble.
The crew chatted amiably in the tail. What if? What if? What if! We droned on.
Eventually the crew, one by reluctant one, returned to duty. Smile, smile,
smile. We drank our cocoa and slept. Vroom, rum, rum, room, rum, rum! On and on,
into the enveloping gloom.
BANG!!! BANG!!! I leapt from the floor, eyes a-popping, staring wildly around.
BANG!! BANG!! There it goes again!
Everyone was at a window. My Faithful Merlin still roared away. But, yikes! On
the oil cooler inlet scoop, a huge chunk of ice grew toward the prop as I
watched, then, BLAM!! Was hurled right at my window!
How strong was a flimsy side window? This wasn't good.
Flashlight beams played from the cockpit up and down the wings. They were
covered with ice. Huge ice! My prop suddenly flailed to a halt, then sped right
up again. Then the same on the far side, here, there, everybody pointing and
gesticulating.
The crew were feathering and unfeathering the props to shake off the ice. Not
working!
The smiling chalk board came around, "The Captain will now climb above the ice."
Fat chance. The engines roared for a while in full fine. The nose pointed up,
but we were going down. Change of plan.
The chalk board now smiled, "The Captain will descend to melt the ice."
So down we went into the Stygian night, to level off somewhere below the big
freeze.
We stared into the blackness, intermittent glowing things flashed all around,
someone saw lights. A fishing boat leaping about in the tremendous sea. The
"glowing things" phosphorescence cresting the spectacular storm driven waves, a
mere fifty feet below!
Finally, the ice sloughed off in great sheets. Truly awesome. Three cheers for
the Captain.
The show over, glowing things through windows eventually became tedious, and we
gradually fell asleep.
THE MAGICAL WORLD....
Next thing, we were being unloaded at Gander, through tunnels under the snow, to
a fabulous RCAF meal, into lovely steam heated quarters, two to a room.
Wonderful huge Christmassy snowflakes drifted silently down outside our snug
nest. It was a magical world. A world this teenage English kid grew to love more
than he ever imagined.
Next day, another routine flight to Montreal and from thence, to a years NATO
Training on the Prairies, flying Harvards and T-Birds, at Calgary, Red Deer, and
Gimli.
Magic indeed. Thank you Canada!
EAST IS WEST...
We will soon be looking to a new generation to take the reins of advocacy from
those of us who've been struggling away at this watchdog game for a long time.
I'm coming up seventy, and whilst still young at heart, I do admit feeling
somewhat creaky these days.
Who next will step up to the bar?
A well known politician recently said that Ottawa must get away from the notion
that a regional problem in Central Canada be treated as a National crisis,
whilst a
National crisis in The West be treated as a regional problem.
Those who follow us must not lose that clarity.
Time and again, we in The West hesitate to bring our concerns forward with
vigour for fear of the "You people again" response.
"Speak with your government." This leads to frustrating notions about the power
of national government and the role of the bureaucracy that serve it. Who do
they serve? The hilarious British TV series YES MINISTER described the situation
exactly. Not that any of us know how to solve it. But we try.
I've been involved in COPA type flying advocacy politics since about 1972, first
with the local EAA chapter at Delta, then Nationally with EAA Canada,
Internationally with the Western Warbirds and Warbirds of America, and for the
last decade with COPA - which has been really serious stuff.
The original intent of this column was to bring the concerns of recreational
aviation people on the West Coast to the attention of those who make the rules
at the center of the universe, Ottawa. And this has been modestly successful.
The Prairies have their own subtly different concerns, as have the Maritimes.We
are a diverse and politically difficult country. However, we do have many common
concerns, and whoever takes on the task when the present workers eventually move
on, must not let things slide back to the old ways.
It is not easy on a volunteer part-time basis, to take on National causes, from
a regional position. The government guys work full time, five days a week, and
more. So should you want to tummy up to the desk, remember, it's a very serious
job.
BOOM, WE'RE IT!...
I recall years ago, in 1976, a group of concerned guys at Delta on the West
Coast were astounded to find they had elected themselves to head up the National
EAA of Canada. Who would have thought?
We did our best, put our input in, agitated for things to be done, and BOOM!
We were it.
Only when outgoing EAAC President Herb Cunningham actually took the trouble to
come out to the coast to hand over all the administrative stuff did we realize
the immense responsibility we had taken on and how difficult it was for ordinary
working guys to run a national organization from Vancouver.
We gave it a good shot, and I believe in the long run it was a good thing. We
learned very fast, and lost much of our awe of things "Ottawa." However, the
reins eventually returned to Ontario, because THAT is where the regulatory
action is.
And that's why the COPA Head Office is in Ottawa. And why we must be very
thankful for the COPA Staff and the incredible work they do on our behalf,
regardless of our location within Canada.
The contacts made those early days with EAAC made working for COPA a far more
comprehensive thing than might otherwise have been. This is why our different
enthusiast groups must work together on mutual problems as much as possible. We
all benefit from inter communication.
COPA does its part by encouraging the various groups to provide articles for our
newspaper. We also need people to consider dual memberships in the specific, and
general Aviation advocacy groups within Canada.
For politicians, it's increasingly a numbers game, the more members we all have,
the more influence we can bring to bear. And remember, it's not just the COPA
member who votes. It's all of the extended family and friends, and such groups
often think alike on pressing issues. Like Parks access!
Our Chairman Herb and I go back a long way, and his bemused confidence in my
friends long ago, made my recent efforts for COPA that much more meaningful.
Thanks Herb. Now let's all keep on working together! We're making a difference!
LANGLEY YOUNG EAGLES...
What a great day Delta COPA Flight 5 had at their Young Eagles Day at Langley
last month.
They flew over 175 enthusiastic kids. What excitement. About nine pilots donated
their time and it all went very smoothly. I must admit, I was concerned that the
logistics were a bit much, but I was wrong.
Captain Al and Barb Fielder run a tight ship! Already people are calling me
about when is the next one. Well, it won't be till next year, weather being what
it is.
An event this size would be a bit ambitious for Delta. We will aim for a modest
number of kids, maybe 20 or 30, using pilots who regularly fly from the field,
and familiar with our procedures.
Again, congratulations to all who helped make such a great day. I parked cars.
PACIFIC THINGS & STUFF...
At the Board meeting, we'll discuss the implications of the new National Parks
which just appeared in the Southern Gulf Islands. Floatplanes are now being
asked to leave these new parks.
There will need to be more coordination between the Floatplane Association and
the Yachting people, who also feel threatened. With national political change
expected in the new year, it's difficult to know who to talk to. But there's no
doubt that some letters will need to go out from all members, not just the
directors.
Stay tuned.
That's all for now.... Fly Safe.
Tony Swain has been a COPA member for over 20 years and has been an active
participant in many aviation groups. He flies many types of aircraft and is
concerned about the rights of sport pilots.