First flight...

25 years ago today, I took my first flight. I remember that day like it was...well, a quarter of a century ago. I was 14 years old and was visiting my friend in the Netherlands, who lived in Bilthoven, a small town not far from Utrecht.

For reasons that still aren't quite clear (something about good impressions) my parents thought I should wear a three-piece suit for the nine hour flight to Amsterdam. I'm not sure what my friend's parents thought when they first saw me. Maybe they thought every teenager in Canada wears suits all the time.

I had never been to an airport before. I remember saying goodbye to my parents, and then finding Gate 20, a short distance from security. I found a seat and marvelled at the large orange CPAir DC-10. I still like the look of this particular aircraft, but there are few still flying, as the last was built in 1989; however, if you're looking for an adventure, Biman Bangladesh Airlines still operates this type. In fact, for a time they operated a handful of former CPAir DC-1os.

My seat was located in the aft cabin close to the middle of the aircraft. It was an aisle seat (I have now come to appreciate window seats). Next to me on my left was an older lady, and across the aisle was a boy, maybe a year two older than I. Although he had flown before, he was travelling alone as well; on his way to visit family in Poland. A short taxi brought us to the end of what would have been at the time Vancouver's main runway for both take-offs and landings.

"CP 388, cleared for take-off, " the Tower would have directed the flight crew.

Both pilots would have then began pushing the thrust levers forward, while the flight engineer would probably have glanced sideways out the cockpit window, and then back at the control panel in front of him. With the parking brake off, the aircraft started rolling.

In the cabin, the sound of the three General Electric engines--two mounted on each wing and the number three engine sitting impressively atop the rear fuselage, beneath the tail stabilizer--was unmistakable. I remember the exhilaration of being pushed back into my seat, as we picked up speed down the runway.

Back in the cockpit, the co-pilot would have been calling out V-1, V-2 (at this point the aircraft would have been travelling 290 km/h), and finally - Rotate - which is when the nose wheel leaves the ground. At this point, the Captain gently pulled back on the yolk, and the aircraft would have climbed away from Vancouver.

Like an addict taking their first hit of Crack, I was hooked. So, this is what flying is all about.

It would be years later that I would come to appreciate the gift that my parents gave me that day. Growing up, I don't remember us having a lot of money, so for my parents to scramble together the $1,000 for the airline ticket was significant; however, the more important and lasting gift was something less tangible. They gave me the opportunity to see a different part of the world. Sure my Dad saw some of the world "fighting" for his country while in the Navy, but most of that time was probably spent in the bars of Mexico, or Hawaii, or San Diego. Getting on a jet and travelling to the other side of the world was something my parents had never experienced. Yet, they saw beyond that, and gave me opportunities unknown to them.

The movie that evening was James Bond's, Octopussy. A couple of hours into the flight, the young guy next to me asked the flight attendant if we could both visit the cockpit. The Captain obliged, and so we found ourselves on the flight deck, with the co-pilot pointing out Greenland, which looked like a large, white, barren mass of land, and not at all very green.

When we arrived at Amsterdam's Schipol Airport (thanks to Dutch ingenuity, at its lowest point the airport is 11 feet below sea level), I simply followed passengers from my plane to the immigration counter. My friend, Mark, and his father were waiting for me. Interestingly, they had been to the airport the day before thinking I was coming in then.

I remember Bilthoven being a small and charming town. With a population of 17,000, it is located in a forested region of the country. Mark's family lived on Soestdijkseweg, the town's main arterial street, lined with leafy trees.

I spent six weeks with Mark and his family. We spent most of our time riding bicycles--to the little shopping centre for ice cream, or to the town's outdoor swimming pool, or a short distance away to the Soesterberg Air Force Base, where we'd watch fighter jets scream into the air.

Mark taught me to play tennis. We played at the local school with no net. It didn't matter.
The Los Angeles Olympics were on at the time, and we would race around the block--he representing the Netherlands, and I, Canada. I remember Mark winning more of the races. But in the real Olympics that year, Canada won more medals.

During my stay, Mark, his parents, younger brother and I piled into the car for an 11 hour drive to Brissago, in southern Switzerland. We spent two weeks in a beautiful home high above the sunny shores of Lago Maggiore. I learned that palm trees do indeed grow in Switzerland.

When I arrived at the airport for my afternoon flight home, it seemed chaotic around the check-in counters. Looking up at the big board advertising the day’s departures, I noticed my flight:

CP 383 – Vancouver – DELAYED

At the counter, we learned that the flight would be delayed more than 18 hours. Mark’s mother wasn’t able to drive me back to the airport the next day, so like the rest of the passengers on that flight, I was given a voucher for an overnight stay at a hotel near the airport. Mark’s mother, and younger brother, had to return to Bilthoven that afternoon.

Mark, who was 13 at the time, was able to stay with me until the evening, so we boarded the shuttle for the short drive to the hotel. I called my parents, knowing they’d be a little surprised to hear me since I should have been on an airplane flying home. It was still early in the morning when my mother answered. Having woken her up, she didn’t seem too out of sorts. I sounded so unfussed telling her of the delay, and that I would be staying in a hotel for the night, and giving her the new time of my anticipated arrival the following day.

After hanging up the phone, she expressed to my father the kind of worry that any mother would have, knowing that her 14 year old son was spending the night in a hotel by himself on the other side of the world. My father, on the other hand, was more pragmatic about it all. “He’ll be fine,” he muttered, and rolled over and went back to sleep.

The delay didn’t bother me in the slightest. Mark and I took the bus back to the airport, so we could grab some dinner at the airport before he had to take the train home. Schipol is one of those progressive airports, and had a great outside viewing deck. Lost on me at the time was the significance of the EL Al Israeli plane that was parked a distance from the terminal at a remote stand, and guarded by a soldier with a machine gun.

After dinner, I said goodbye to Mark and went back to my hotel. I had purchased a large triangle of Dutch cheese for my father. It seemed to be getting a little soft, and I had no idea if it should have been refrigerated, so I filled up the bathroom sink with cold water and plunked the cheese in to “cool” overnight.

In the morning, I went to the hotel lobby, where others from my plane were waiting. I don’t remember checking in, but I do remember walking a long way to the end of the departures concourse, where a Boeing 747, wearing the bright orange colours of CPAir was waiting. After a stop in Calgary, I arrived back in Vancouver.

When I took that first flight 25 years ago, I would never have thought that one day I would write for the industry, or travel more than 350,000 miles on more 200 flights all over the world.

To my parents. Thanks.