A vintage aerobatic plane, apparently a Yak 52, crashed into a fishing lake in Essex (the village of Langford) yesterday. The plane was seen flying in formation with two other aerobatic planes shortly before the accident. All three took off from North Weald airfield, of which I am a member, although the downed plane was apparently not from there. The lead aircraft called in a mayday and a fisherman at the lake contacted emergency services.

The pilot and passenger were found in the wreckage when it was pulled from the bottom of the lake some hours later.

From the incident report:
Incident No: 7930

Reports from the scene confirm that the aircraft has nose dived into the lake. Its tail end is approximately 10 feet underwater with the nose of the plane pointing down.

Assistant Divisional Officer Dave Barritt said: “Fire crews have been working with colleagues from Essex Police to help try and establish what has happened here.

“A crash investigation will be carried out but we have found some debris at the side of the lake and the plane is completely submerged so it appears that the aircraft clipped the trees before ditching into the lake.”

The details of the plane and the identities of the pilot and passenger have not yet been released. The AAIB is investigating.

I am trading in my single-engine aircraft obsession for space ships this weekend at the Illustrious Eastercon 2011. Unfortunately, I don’t have a new post for you; however, I found this piece in my archives discussing “authentic” travel and expectations of foreign resorts. I still feel the same as when I wrote it two years ago, so I thought I would reprint it for further comment. Back next week!

Mark Twain said: “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.” Sometimes, reading travel blogs on the web, it seems like the converse is true.

If I see one more article about how obnoxious holiday makers are and how popular resorts are ruining travel for real adventurers who want to truly experience foreign countries, I might scream. The online definition of true experience varies but the overall litany is the same: tourists who are not travelling the way I travel are wasting their time, should just stay at home, are to be pitied. I understand that as visitors to a foreign place, we’d like to feel special, as if we have a special connection. But honestly, a tourist is a tourist is a tourist – I don’t believe there is a special brand of travel that is somehow elevated from the rest.

And yet, the litany continues that somehow other people are not experiencing the trip the way that they should. Somehow, they are doing it wrong.

I’ve been tempted to comment on these travel pieces, pointing out that the only “real” way to experience authentic travel is to fly yourself. If you’ve flown commercial, you’ve had a layer of red tape between you and the people who live and work in your destination. You are herded from one building to the next. You don’t get the the chance to walk around the plane or see the details of the airport. You are limited by a schedule devised by business men in starched suits who have probably never even made the journey.

And then I take a deep breath and reach for my blood pressure pills.

I live in a resort town – we have beaches and mountains and ancient cities and Moorish forts. We have had a huge influx of tourism over the years and there are times when I shake my head in sadness at the loss of the village that I knew. At the same time, I recognise that the same instinct which drove me here is driving the other tourists. I am not somehow special nor more deserving of the delights of this place. Arriving early isn’t clever, it’s simply presaging the changes to come.

I do understand the frustration of watching people close themselves off from the local experience and ask for home delights. Many visitors – accidentally or on purpose – inform the locals of the items that they think should be made available.

We have the Irish pub and a fish-and-chip shop and an Indian restaurant and, most recently, Turkish kebab to take away. The Andalucians, eager for an income, have always tried to deliver what the tourists expect. In recent years, the tourists themselves have become residents, the ex-pat population swelling and providing for itself. Slowly, my favourite comida casera disappears in favour of fake tapas and international cuisine, my dusky shops are replaced with beach gear and flamenco skirts in toddler sizes.

I sympathise with the people who arrive only to discover this display of tourist kitsch. They complain, “I want to see the real Spain.” My response varies based on mood, a variation of: “If you want to go there, you shouldn’t be starting from here, your real Spain is not where the cheap flights go.”

But really, what, exactly, is fake about this place? Do you mean you want to see what it was like before people like you arrived? It was wasteland with a few fishermen trying to scratch a living. The Spaniards who live here welcomed the tourists for a reason and funnily enough they aren’t interested in staying poor for your viewing pleasure.

I’m not usually that bitchy. I do understand the dilemma and with friends I’ll offer an alternative: – come with me inland. Let’s go to one of the white villages off the coast, in the farming area, and get something to eat and I’ll show you a different Spain. But these authentic restaurants, they may leave something to be desired.

“It’s so loud in here,” is the most common complaint – a good Spanish restaurant is one full of people shouting across the table at each other. Not one for passive gestures and gentle smiles, you can spot the “real” Andalucian restaurants by the level of ambient noise. If it is quiet, perhaps with gentle music in the background, then you have gone astray.

“Is there a vegetarian option?” This area is built on agriculture: the Andalucians love their olives and onions and firm salad tomatoes and green peppers. They also love their cured ham and sardines in vinegar and deep-fried delicacies of the sea. You can have a salad if you wish (you may have to ask them to leave off the tuna) but if you have a restricted diet, then a land based on subsistence farming is perhaps not the place for you.

Sometimes it seems that adventurous travellers looking for authenticity are most likely to try to bend local cuisine around their personal dietary requirements. I respect the social decisions that people have made to reduce their impact on the world. And if you have a special diet, your requests will certainly be catered to … but this is not the “real” Andalucia you are tasting, any more than the burger and chips that you sneered at.

And then there’s the accommodation snobbery: staying in a campground is a completely different experience from staying at a four-star hotel but neither is traditional. I have a soft soft for the Paradores, hotels situated in interesting old buildings, castles and monasteries, but they’ve been rebuilt with central heating and en-suite toilets, with restaurants featuring top-quality dishes from all over the country. Life was never like this in the ancient buildings until tourism arrived with a healthy cash infusion. None of this is really Spain.

It does seem sad to a place constructed around the visitors instead of deeper roots. I get frustrated at the local market when I see stall after stall of items aimed for at the weekenders: cheap summer clothes, knock-off perfumes, music CDs. I have to remind myself that this isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

I look at the stall owners, smiling patiently, cracking jokes to one another, always happy for a chat. They greet me, offer me almonds to taste. The toy-stall owners shout at my son like an old friend, “Tío! Come look at this.” They are selling junk, plastic guns and knock-off laser lights but my boy loves the attention, enjoys feeling a valued customer – a feeling he never gets at Toys-R-Us.

And I realise I’m wrong to get wound up at the friendly Spaniards at the market – who am I to tell them not to pander to the tourists? That’s the same implication: that they aren’t being real Spaniards, this is some fake version of their home. What the hell? This is their life.

An authentic destination is like Schroedinger’s Cat, once you’ve arrived, it probably no longer exists. But it’s not a stage set, pulled down as soon as you have boarded your flight and filed away your passport until next year. They are still there, standing at the market, living their life. It’s not just for show.

I like to camp, my best friend likes sheets and a double bed. If staying at a hostel makes him miserable, who am I to tell him what his experience should be? This is a man who talks to everyone, who will get the chef out of the kitchen for a chat and a drink. He’s as happy to talk to the farmer in the hills as the owner of a restaurant chain all along the coast. And not one of them think he’s a fraud for staying at a hotel. His views of comfort don’t interfere with his experience of a place. His refusal to view a particular aspect of a country as “authentic” is much more telling.

A few weeks ago, I posted a video of a near-miss “bird strike” when a frightened emu ran onto the landing strip as the aircraft touched down.

Warning: Entirely Justified Coarse Language is Used in this Video

When I found out the pilot had posted to the Professional Pilots’ Rumour Network, I couldn’t resist getting in touch with him to find out more about the video.

Here’s what he told me:

Every year myself and some mates go for a trip to Queensland to hunt pigs. I grab a plane from work, either an Aerostar or a Chieftain, depending on numbers, and we fly up to a friends farm in central Queensland. Its a 200,000 acre farm (roughly 809 sq kilometres. It takes 2.5 hours to drive from one end to the other) that raises cattle. Wild pigs are all through it, and cause farms all sorts of trouble here. They spread disease, kill young calf and kill native wildlife, so we head up and do our part. The nearest town is 3 hours by road or 1 hour by air so it is quite remote and completely free from artificial light.

Wild Pig by arum_lily76 / Nicole

The station owner has carved out an airstrip next to his house (he used to fly, but now only me and the Royal Flying Doctors use it) that is 1100 metres long and dead flat with hard clay surface. Normally, we radio ahead, someone will go drive down the strip, shoo away any cattle or wildlife that are on it, then we will land. This happened this time, and the guy on the ground shot a pig on the runway and dragged it off to the side. If you look carefully, you can see a black/brown lump on the right hand side just on touch down. That’s fresh bacon!!

The country is mostly low scrub with some tall eucalypts, and there are some water courses and grass plains. One such plain was named by the farmer’s daughters when they were younger, calling it Pretty Plain. It is 3 miles from the runway threshold in line with it, and we usually do a fly over it just to have a look at it.

I have been flying there a couple of times a year, since about 2000. Sometimes we get there at night and land in the dark. There is no runway lighting, and no light other than the moon, so the farmer marks the runway for me in the following way.

This is my rendition of the runway at night. Bet you didn't know I was an artist!

I hope I’ve done this right. The squares are cars on a 45 degree angle on on the runway edge threshold with the lights on. The volcanoes are meant to represent paint tins full of rags and petrol, set on fire. This lights up the threshold and the runway, allowing an approach at night. Amazingly, he tells me that they’ve never seen anything run out when landing at night.

But out here, you can’t always have it your own way. I touched down 80 metres from the threshold and was just letting it roll out (save the brakes and undercarriage on the rough strip) and the speed had just dipped below about 90kts. Approach on the PA-601 is about 100. As you can hear, we were discussing the state of strip, which used to be very wide, but the grass is narrowing it further each year. An emu was sitting on the side unseen in the bushes and we obviously startled it, and it bolted from cover in front. One of my passengers yelled out, and I jumped on the brakes, hard, and washed off about 40 knots in about 3 seconds! The emu went in front of us and lost his footing on the loose dust, just as the wing passed harmlessly over him! Cue much celebration!

Emu by "The b@t"

If you found this post interesting you might enjoy the following:

• Tipsy Nipper Crash Video
• How to Drown a Jet

I have in the past complained about the snow in the UK and that my flying was unnecessarily curtailed as a result of the weather.

• UK Snow Day on Webcams
• Snow on the Runway, Ice on the Wings

So on a glorious day like today, it seemed only fair to show the other side of British aviation: the glorious blue skies and clear horizons of a perfect Spring day. It’s 20C and barely a breeze to be seen on the windsocks. The only downside of this set compared to winter is that there are far fewer aircraft to be seen on the webcams. They must all be up in the air!

Here are my screenshots of the webcams (so you see what I saw, this afternoon) with links to the live webcam. Just click on the image or the name if you want to see the live weather conditions.

Bembridge Airport	Cambridge Gliding Centre
Cotswold Airport	Deeside Gliding Club
Enstone Flying Club	Glenforsa
Gloucestershire	Headcorn
Heathrow	Hollym Airfield
Kirkwall Airport	Leicestershire Aero Club
London Gliding Club	Lydd Aero
Milfield Gliding Club	Oxford Airport
Portmoak	Sherburn Aero Club
Shoreham Airport	Shropshire Aero Club
Ulster Flying Club	Wellesbourne Airfield

Where are you right now? Post a link to your local airfield – especially if it has a webcam!

I “met” Joe Colletto through my aunt. He was a pilot, a sailor, a Marine during World War II and an excellent story teller. She worked with him for 25 years and loved to hear about his adventures. When I started posting essays about flying, she told him about Fear of Landing. He said that unfortunately, in his 80s he was relegated to “Hanger Flying” but he loved to share his memories. He had neuropathy in his hands but he didn’t let that stop him: he slowly typed out emails with two pencils.

Two years ago, he allowed me to post A Mexican Adventure, which quickly became one of the most popular stories on my website:

I knew we might have some trouble. There is no VFR night flying in Mexican airspace and we were running late. I was flying a single engine airplane and although the sky was still bright, the sun had officially set. I confirmed to the controller that I intended to continue inbound to Mazatlan.

Mazatlan: Zero 8 Quebec report downwind
Pilot: Zero 8 Quebec turning downwind.

The runway was clear in the dusk but as we turned downwind, every light in the airport – it seemed like every light for miles around – flashed on. My passengers recoiled from the window as I continued the circuit, confirming to the controller that I required fuel upon our arrival.

Mazatlan: Zero 8 Quebec you are cleared to land.

As we touched down, he gave me further instructions.

Mazatlan: Exit your passengers at the administration building, have them wait for the guards, then proceed to the gas pit and they will direct you to parking.
Pilot: Roger, will debark passengers at the administration building and proceed to the gas pit.

I stopped the plane in front of the building where we were surrounded by rifle-bearing troops. The two couples were escorted to a small, stuffy room and told that they must stay there. After fueling up and parking, I was marched into a dusty little office in the main building.

A severe-looking mustached administrator sitting at a dented metal desk asked me for every piece of paper that he could think of: passport, clearance into Mexico, proof of ownership of the plane. He stared at my license for a few moments and then cleared his throat.

He handed me my paperwork piece by piece as he spoke. “Señor, the lights, they is very expensive.”

I breathed a sigh of relief now that I knew what was going to happen. “The least I could do is to help to pay for them,” I told him with a smile.

The man nodded. “Señor, more or less 2,500 pesos for the lights,” about U.S. $10 at the time. He paused and then spoke again. “And the guards, Señor, they must be paid also.”

“How much for the guards,” I said, pulling out my wallet.

“2,500 pesos. But also, Señor, the man upstairs. He is tough guy.” He pointed straight up. Did I need to bribe God as well? Or perhaps he just meant the controller.

I tried to look stern. “OK, how much for the guy upstairs?”

“Señor, 2,500 pesos.”

I peeled off the required amount and handed to the man who nodded seriously as he counted it. I grinned at him and he smiled back; we were friends now. “And for you, Señor,” I asked him. “How much for all your help?”

He gave me a shocked look and threw out his chest. “For me is nothing, Señor! Is my job!”

He ordered us a taxi and led me to the tiny waiting room where my passengers waited nervously, surrounded by the guards still clutching their rifles. I leant in close and whispered to the two couples that we were in serious trouble. I told them that I had failed to contact the American embassy and that we were probably going to have to spend the night in jail.

“They’ve arranged for a taxi to take us to the hotel, to pick up our personal belongings in case that we don’t get out tomorrow.” We drove to the hotel in silence, where I asked them to pack their cases and meet me in the bar in 20 minutes to wait for the taxi driver to pick us up and take us to the jail.

Once at the bar, I ordered a variety of snacks and a pitcher of margaritas: a final fling. The passengers returned from the rooms one by one, pale-faced and unhappy, and bolted down their margaritas. One of the women had tears in her eyes.

The taxi driver walked up to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Ready to go?”

The woman burst into sobs: “I don’t want to go to jail!”

The taxi driver looked stunned. “Jail? Oh no! Mr Joe fix everything good. You no going to jail, you going to dinner.”

That was the final straw: I started laughing and could not stop. No one else in my party seemed to think it was quite so funny.

Here’s something of a learning experience that he wrote out last year:

I had a few really blessed events …blessings from above.

I was flying to Mexico with the San Francisco Sheriff’s Squadron. It was a 4:30am departure from Fresno in the light rain. We were heading south. Bakerfield reported 7,500 feet overcast, LAX reported 13,000 overcast, so heading south looked good.

50 miles from Bakersfield, we entered the overcast. I thought I might try to get between the layers of clouds but there was no in between.

By Porteville at 6,500 feet I was in trouble. I ran into a thunderhead building up and it tumbled me to 16,000 feet. I hit hail in the center of that thunderhead, it chipped paint off all the leading edges of the wings and the engine cowl.

The Bonanza is such a clean airplane, if I ended up pointing down the airspeed could have built up and torn the wings straight off. I remember trying to put down the wheels and flaps, but with the centrifical forces, I couldn’t reach the flaps or gear switches.

After about 30-40 seconds of tumbling, I was tossed out of the cloud build-up … into crystal clear, smooth air at 16,000 feet.

That’s as close as I ever wanted to become a statistic.

Joe Colleto passed away peacefully on the 20th of March at the age of 84. I wanted to say something about this man whom I only knew from afar but in the end, his own words from one of the emails was more appropriate than anything I could add:

I am not a particularly religious person, however every flight returning safely from the “wild-blue-yonder,” includes skill, knowledge, understanding, an appreciation of what could happen, and a bit of God’s intervention (Sometimes way…more than others). When you see an aircraft engine taken apart for overhaul laid out on a table, and realize all of the pieces and parts your staying aloft is dependent upon, and which you have absolutely no control over – especially at IFR, night or flying over the mountains – when you do the final tie down, you have to simply look skyward and say “THANKS”….

Thanks for letting me share your stories, Joe, and I hope that you’re watching out for us now.

Joseph Colletto’s Obituary by Marin Independent Journal

If you enjoyed this post, you’ll probably like these:

• A Mexican Adventure
• The Last Flight
• FAA Approved?
• Cross Country Solo
• Drunk steals plane at airshow
• A Close Encounter with an Emu