At least I got out of the office

Press, 12 June 1989, Page 16

At least I got out of the office

Wilsons Week...

“Wilson,” I thought, “you’ve done some stupid things in your time, and being here right now proves that you haven’t learned a thing.” With 100 other people I was sitting in a Boeing 737 suspended in the murky cottonwool of a lousy Friday afternoon, theoretically on an instrument approach to Wellington Airport. The cloud ceiling was so low even the seagulls were walking. The lady in the seat beside me was gripping the armrest. Interesting, I noted your knuckles really do go white at such times. Then I noticed mine weren’t pink either.

It shows that even aviation enthusiasts can have moments when they pray, that whoever invented the instrument approach landing system was having a really good day when he patented the idea. I have total confidence in the abilities of Air New Zealand and Ansett’s pilots; the Boeing 737 is also a perfectly reliable and impeccably stable aeroplane. But when you fly into thick fog and Wellington Airport, I resort to doing a rather passable impression of a quivering jelly. I suspect God put the hills around Wellington

Airport to remind man of his mortality. Man put radar systems in place to try and beat the odds.

We came in low. There was nothing on the alti meter but the maker’s name. Then we had to circle, the pilot saying there was a queue for the airport airspace. So we circled. I spotted the airport through a hole in the cloud. So did the pilot. Down we went. Thick cloud enveloped us.

It was then I realised I hated flying in cloud, and just after that realisation I told myself I’d done some stupid things in my time, and being here right now proved I hadn’t learned a thing.

The cabin attendant gave me a boiled lolly to shut me up. Harumph, I pouted. On international flights I’d get a colouring book.

The smoking ban didn’t help. Tobacco was invented for times such as this. I bet if the pilot had a bad day, he’d smoke. Then again, if I saw the pilot smoking, I’d really freak out. So I munched my lolly and maintained the facade of the carefree experienced air traveller.

Moments after the 737 docked with the air bridge, a quivering jelly wobbled into 'the terminal building, cigarette glowing, the walk gaining

in confidence with each step on firm ground.

It was one of those one-day, there-and-back trips, a press conference on Anzac frigates, a fairly ho-hum affair. On reflection, I spent more time waiting around in fogged-in airport terminals than I did at the media briefing. A couple of hours later I was back at Wellington Airport. The sky was a menacing dark grey, and rain, very cold rain, lashed the streets. A foul, bone-chilling wind cut to the heart. Yes, this was the Wellington I knew. "I’m sorry, sir. Your return flight has been delayed,” the ticketing clerk said. “Due to the late arrival of your aircraft,” he added. “Did the pilot get lost?” I inquired.

“Of course not! The weather!” He waved as if the fact of rain could actually slow an aeroplane. Obviously it could, because every flight on the board was delayed.

Wellington Airport’s domestic terminal resembled a refugee clearing station. Hundreds of stranded travellers lolled about watching “Sale of the Century” on television, proof that stranded people can watch anything if sufficiently bored.

The cafeteria had a long queue, lining up to do battle for the last sandwich and several pieces of fried fish that curled at the corners. Good time to begin a diet, I mused. Then I remembered they had a bar here ... The bar was filled with brash young men brag ging about their drinking prowess. Any seasoned air traveller could tell them it is unwise to consume too much, particularly if your flight encounters turbulence. They would find out in their own good time. The public address system in the bar told us my flight to Christchurch was further delayed and they were terribly sorry. They were even more sorry when they announced, this time in the toilet, yet another delay. Eventually, when night cloaked the airport, they announced the aeroplane was ready for us. Unfortunately, when the covered airbridges were being dished out the Mount Cook Hawker

Siddeley 748 allotted to me must have missed out. The aircraft was there — about 50 metres away through a curtain of iced rain sweeping the tarmac.

We passengers sprinted for the aircraft, arrived soaking, chests heaving with the exer-

tion, totally dishevelled. Ninety minutes later, at Christchurch, while being driven into the office, the taxi-driver inquired of my day’s business. I told him.

“Gee, a day out of the office, eh? Some blokes have all the luck.” DAVE WILSON.