"If I say Jump Jump Jump! What do you do?" the flight instructor asks me. I am in my Chocs-away green Squadron Flight Suit feeling rather dashing and daring (courageous and caring - just like a Gummy Bear) up until this point.
"Er....open the canopy and jump out?" I ask.
"Hang on a minute," says dad, who has only just cottoned on here. "Do we need a parachute?"
The like-able but necessarily serious member of the crew looks at dad with a sneaky grin on his face.
"It's usually recommended if you are jumping out of the plane..."
In this case. It is definitely not our intention to jettison ourselves out of any plane. Especially not the one we are about to go up in.
We are at Blackpool Airport. Usually, if we were at Blackpool in the past. It would be some ungodly hour of the morning and me and dad would have been well used to suctioning ourselves into a bright yellow rubber wet-suit, strapping a life vest and a small air tank to ourselves and cramming ourselves into a tiny ickle little helicopter with a dozen or so equally bedecked depressed and grizzled looking riggers. Cosy is an understatement. Basically, a bunch of ageing fat Michelin men in a sardine tin with blades.
But today. It's a Sunday. And we are standing next to an incredibly old one-of-a-kind Spitfire. One of a kind - because - A). It's still able to fly (which is a key criteria of any flight) and B). Because it has a place at the front for an actual Pilot and a space in the cockpit behind for a perky civvy with delusions of recreating hair-raising dog fights and C) because Billy Butlin used to fly this plane when he was a bit younger and more importantly, alive.
"So what do you do if I say Jump Jump Jump?" he asks again. I cannot help but sing the Eddie Van Halen song in my head. Which is a major safety distraction during an emergency bail-out safety brief. In my mind, if we start spiraling to the earth from 5000 feet up, my main plan is to heroically battle with the controls and gently glide the fighter to a peaceful halt in some yokel farmers field, where I shall be welcomed by a young farm hand carrying a pint of scrumpy.
I tune back in to reality.
"Er...so I pull the red knob, release the cockpit canopy and get ejected?"
"No. There is no ejector seat." This puts me at ease. I have seen Top Gun and it does not end well for Goose with that piece of supposedly helpful technology.
"First - release your harness." This is good advice. It's difficult to abandon a plane in a death spiral if you are still attached to it.
"Then eject the canopy!" I say. It sounds soooo easy when you are stood on terra firma.
"Then if you could just stand up into your seat in the cockpit...and the best way to say this is....just to lean over and basically fall out," he says.
"Just stand up in a nose-diving ageing Spitfire and just kind of fall out?"
"Yes - you've got it!"
"And the parachute will open?" I ask with trepidation.
"Yes - it should do."
Well this is reassuring. I assume that the parachute is also not vintage and head towards the aircraft. Sarah and the kids are all next to us. Excited but probably wondering if this is the last time they will see dad. They suggest that the family can follow behind in a little support plane but Fintan was out til about 4am, is severely sleep deprived and looks like he may actually vomit on the air crew if he goes in a small light aircraft. So we politely decline.
Glenn Miller is blasting from the speakers and surrounded by all the old world war 2 memorabilia - it does feel quite nostalgic. For some reason, which I put down to stupidity and not having been involved in the risk assessment, I am really looking forward to the adventure. I did however check that my life insurance with work was updated to point to Sarah in case of my accidental death. Apart from that - all good.
I go first. I'm guided to the Spitfire and clamber up the small mobile steps and gingerly cram myself into the cockpit. I feel rather like a fat spacemen as an array of crew appear out of nowhere and start strapping me into my 4 point harness and then my parachute. This is like a well choreographed ballet (for them) but like trying to attach a leotard and ballet pumps to a hippo - in a lift. But eventually we get there.
The engine thrums into life. A magnificent growl. We spin on a six pence and (from checking the video later) - our wheels slightly lift up on one side as we do. And then we are off.
The cheerful pilot (John) asks me through the helmet comms to look out for any passing aircraft on the runway. I am not sure if this is a joke, but judging by the near blind forward-facing view, perhaps it is not. I listen to the jabber of the airport tower giving us the all clear, and we are off.
Before I know it, we are over the sand dunes and slowly banking east and in land. (I say East - as if I am a total navigational pro - but my geographical homing instinct is notoriously shit - I once got lost in the New Forest for an entire day with Jez and only realised we had come full circle when we spotted a tomato I had dropped from sandwich a day earlier, resting half eaten on the ground).
Spitfire fighter ace John takes me under his wing and performs a few banks left and right and some up and downs. I am loving it.
"I am handing the plane over to you now - you now have control..." he says over the mike. On the ground I kinda thought he was just messin'. I mean, you wouldn't really give me control of an antique fighter plane if you'd met me before. But here we are.
"I have control of the plane..." I tell him. Though in reality, I feel like I have absolutely no control of the plane.
"Just try a little nudge of the controls up...and then down..." and then wooooooahhhh....we moved up and down. In many ways - the controls were so simple - it reminded me a little of the car Fred drove in the Flintstones. There was definitely not much between my feet and clean air.
"Now a bank left, again but harder over..." and whoooooosh....we arced hard left. Such a buzz. Fun for me - but imagine being a young kid up here with bullets whizzing past your head and no one in the world but your own skill to keep you alive.
"You fancy a barrel roll?" John asked.
"Bring it on!" I said and gave a massive thumbs up for the mirror through which we had vague eye contact.
And then up up up we soared through the clouds before looping the loop and rolling over.
I hear myself roaring..."I saw the shot....there was no danger..." as if I am actually a poor man's fat version of Maverick. But I don't care. This is fantastic.
"Again?"
"Damn right!" I bellow and away we go again as we barrel roll past Blackpool Tower and roar down the promenade and back home.
One of the most exhilarating joyful experiences of my life (up there with Gazza scoring THAT goal at Wembley and being in the stands with dad to see it; the kids being born; that time an elephant charged us when we were kids in South Africa and the winter of 86 when we sledged down Corkscrew Hill and somehow didn't die when we hit the railings).
We land. I hug the kids and then off dad goes. A total blast.
An hour later we are devouring Fish and Chips by the Tower and marvelling at the day we just had.
This is all in aid of celebrating my 50th year on planet earth (only vaguely tethered to it mentally - but I do try).
In this year I have had the deep joy of seeing all my friends and family together at various points. This mainly involved dressing up in 1970s fancy dress, walking the moors north of Manchester and sinking the odd bottle of IPA and bubbly. In between - I have managed to stalk Dwight from the Office with Caitlin at Liverpool Comic Con and watch a bloke in a Deadpool Princess Leia hybrid costume gyrate provocatively on stage (think Jabba the Hutt era costume); we have marveled at ancient neolithic temples in Malta - clearly built by some very clever neolithic goatherds; leapt about like a madman to Wunderhorse on a number of occasions, been to the most amazing out of this world wedding of my Niece in Dublin; travelled to hockey matches far and wide; carried amps and guitars back and forth for the boys as chief roadie; sat in on the first recordings in the studio for their first single and E.P and crashed a speedboat repeatedly. The latter event may require more context.
"So - we should practice braking..." I suggest. We are on a pristine lake near Ojai. It provides drinking water to the good citizens of Los Angeles and does not allow humans to swim in it. However, you can drive your petrol guzzling speedboat all over it. That's ok.
Dec is more of a dab hand at gunning the boat than either me or my sister. My sister Sarah is like, a crazed speed merchant who leaves the jetty at a million miles and hour and then performs the equivalent of a handbrake turn at top speed.
We cut the engine. The whole point of this was to go on the lake and pay a tribute to Lianne. My friend. An amazing, inspiring, wonderful friend. I have picked a flower. A really beautiful pink flower.
"Tell me something funny and amazing about Lianne..." my sister asks. So I recount endless stories of how much we laughed together and all the stupid silly pranks we got into in and out of work. Me, Jon and Lianne. A super silly gang of three.
And then I lift up her flower. And release it onto the wind. It catches the breeze, wafts away and then gently lands in the clear beautiful Lake Casitas. It really is a powerful moment for me. One I will never forget. But - I expect Lianne would find the next bit funny as hell...none of us actually know how to restart the engine.
So here we are...floating graciously but slowly towards an uninhabited island in the middle of the lake.
Sis and Declan are way too embarrassed but I have no fear of embarrassment. After about ten attempts to reboot the engine (technical term), we google it and watch a you tube video. This helps a bit. But in the end I call the guys on the beach and they come out...just as I finally catch the engine and we are good to go.
Declan takes over the driving and we cruise about the lake. Lost in our thoughts.
"I'll take over for the landing bit..." I suggest to Dec. But secretly I am bricking it. I am no good at driving with four wheels let alone with a rudder.
The test brake goes well. We slow to a gentle halt. This buoys me with a false sense of my own abilities.
I speed up and aim for the jetty.
"Dad slow down...dad SLOW DOWN!" Declan warns me.
"Shit..." Sis yelps.
"I got this..." I say and promptly smash the boat at top speed into the jetty. But we are in. It is technically "parked".
The young hick on the jetty then breaks the bad news.
"This ain't your jetty. You need to reverse and dock over there," he points a few docking bays down.
"Do you want to park it mate?" I ask. He looks at me with total disgust for this pathetic British Landlubber.
Taking this as a firm "no" I attempt to reverse out. At this point, I had forgotten that in reverse - it - unsurprisingly means you have to move the tiller in the opposite direction.
So instead, I slam us at full speed into the jetty again and maybe again just for good measure.
Sis and Dec are now wishing they could dig their way through the hull of the ship and slowly sink to the bottom. To reside forever with Davey Jones, contemplating their public humiliation.
On I blunder, reversing back out and over to the new spot. The deck hand isn't looking so cock-sure this time round. And nor should he be, for I gun the engine by mistake and charge at the jetty like Donald Campbell on Bluebird. THIS IS MY CONISTON WATER MOMENT.
The impact dents both the boat and my pride. "Oh God!" wail my sister and Declan. Mortified beyond any more words.
We gingerly disembark from the boat and decide to not look back. Just keep on walking.
I like to think this gave Lianne a good little giggle looking down on it all. 💖
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