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THE LONG HAUL
I have a flight to catch at 23:00 tonight. And come this time tomorrow, I'll still be airborne, doubtless bored rigid and not a little alarmed when, upon checking my watch, I'll see that I still have another seven hours to go until landing. This particular assignment has been a long time in the planning and I'm rather looking forward to it. Tonight's flight with Mel, a colleague, will route us to Ascension Island, a British-owned dependency of Saint Helena laying just south of the Equator (the island became a dependency of Saint Helena in 1922 after it transferred from the control of the Admiralty. There's not a great deal there as the island has no idigenous population, but it is home to Wideawake Field, an airport used by the RAF as a bridge to the Falkland Islands, which are our final destination. The U.S maintains missile tracking sites on Ascension and the island served as a refueling station for the Royal Navy during the Falklands War. Although covering an area of just 35 square miles, Ascension is a of great straetgic importance and proved essential to British forces in their efforts to retake the Falklands from from Argentina during the war in 1982. Wideawake airfield became the busiest airport in the world as the RAF flew in supplies to aid the Task Force in the South Atlantic. Early tomorrow morning though, it'll just be two journalists and a plethora of camera gear and equipment which it is routing to Port Stanley, the world's southernmost capital city, I have to say, I'm rather looking forward to the trip. I've long held an interest in the Falklands Conflict and it'll be a privilege to finally see for myself the places I've read so much about. The familar sense of anticipation and adventure which are my constant companions prior to departure on any assignment are back and it'll be nice to finally break the back of this protracted period of working from home and get out into the wider world. I'm only away for a week, but it's going to be a busy one with a full diary of assignments to undertake whilst in-country.
I've been fretting since the turn of the year at the dearth of travel coming my way, but after today, it feels like my feet will barely touch the ground. No sooner do I return from the Falklands than I've another trip to embark upon, one which will take me away from home for three weeks. And when I return from that one in April, I've several others on the horizon, the length and breadth of the globe. Looks like my passport is going to get a good work out, anyway. Still, all that's a way off yet and I've got this one to deal with first. So I'm looking forward to visiting the grave of Lt. Col. 'H' Jones VC, seeing Goose Green, Mt. Tumbledown and Port San Carlos, as well as the local flora and fauna such as the whales and penguins which are indigenous to the waters surrounding the islands. I understand that internet access is widespread too, so time permitting, I'll hopefully keep you updated from there. Could the last one to leave here please turn off the lights? See you all soon. |
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1.3.05 11:05 |
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THE EAGLE HAS LANDED
After 7 days, 16,000 miles in the air (plus another thousand or so whilst on assignment at my destination), over 1,000 images shot and God only knows how much alcohol, I'm back home. Having checked in to the airport at RAF Mount Pleasant, Falkland Islands at 11:00am GMT yesterday, we took off three hours later to the most fantastic farewell from the resident military. Not content with having the movements squadron lined up en masse as we boarded the aircraft, with 'We Gotta Get Out of this Place" piping through the PA system at volume and the air traffic controllers lining the runway threshold to wave us goodbye, we were given a fighter escort off the islands by the resident RAF fighter squadron. And they do this for every single flight out. Seven and a half hours after taking off, we landed at Ascension Island at 21:00 and spent a couple of hours on the ground there last night in eighty degree temperatures. A quick change of crew and some fuel and we were off again for the eight and a half hour flight to RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire. After a tortuous journey back from there, I finally arrived home at 12:00 lunchtime today. My head's still spinning as I write this. It's been a manic week of early starts, back-to-back assignments, late nights in the Officers Mess with a brilliant crowd and a new perspective. What a place! in the scant free time available, I've walked beaches of fine white sand leading down to crystal clear waters, touched penguins and elephant seals and marvelled at colonies of sea lions. I've seen the Southern Cross in night skies like I didn't believe existed, had one of the world's rarest birds of prey land at my feet and forged some fantastic friendships with a wonderful group of people. And this was work?!
I've so much to report, but right now all I want to do is spend some quality time with my family, enjoy some fine food with a glass of decent wine and crash out in my own bed. Internet access was widespread and available at MPA, but one thing I didn't have down there was time, hence the lack of commentary on my activities. I'll remedy that before the week is out with a pictorial journal of my time there, but in the meantime, I just wanted to say hello. It was fun being away, but it's good to be back. |
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9.3.05 18:29 |
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SEVEN DAYS in the SOUTH ATLANTIC
The Falkland Islands lie in the South Atlantic approximately 300 miles to the east of the tip of South America. There are two main islands, East and West Falkland, which are divided by Falkland Sound, and approximately 200 smaller islands of varying size of which about 30 are inhabited. After the war in 1982 in which Britain liberated the islands from the occupying forces of Argentina, we have maintained a military presence on the Falklands, based at Mount Pleasant Airport. My visit there last week was to undertake research on our military assets for a series of features in the print media and what follows is a pictorial narrative of my week; seven days in the South Atlantic. Brize Norton is the RAF’s Heathrow Airport, the hub for all its worldwide flights whether transporting people or supplies for all three services. It’s also where the airbridge with Ascension Island and the Falkland Islands starts (or ends up, depending on your perspective), the RAF providing the only flights to and from three times a fortnight. Our flight was fairly typical I guess, a mix of service personnel returning or starting tours of duty, a few islanders returning home and the odd civillian tourist or holiday maker. Tourism to the Falkland Islands has boomed in recent years, with its abundant flora and fauna proving a lure to bird watchers and conservationists. I was delighted to discover that our flights were being taken care of by Air Luxor, making a pleasant change from the norm where RAF flights are concerned. What with the RAF’s Tristar fleet being committed to operations in Iraq, the MoD has subcontracted provision of the Ascension/Falkland Islands Airbridge to the Portugese airline. My relief was two-fold; having flown from RAF Brize Norton as a guest of the military twice last year, my lack of enthusiasm was wedded to the closely packed, rear facing seats on the RAF’s fleet of aging VC-10 and Tri Star airliners. Military flying is the epitome of function over form - Generals want to see as many troops delivered to a theatre as possible in a given time so that means dispensing with the niceties normally found on a commercial flight, and making maximum use of resources. Fare paying passengers choose to fly and expect certain standards for their dollar - soldiers and airmen have no choice and go where they are told. By comparison, Air Luxor’s wide-body Airbus A330-300 jets are a delight; seat pitch and leg room are generous, and the 2-4-2 configuration useful, especially given the less than 100% passenger loads on many flights, which mean travellers can find themselves with two, or even four seats to themselves. The stewardesses have a certain appeal too, especially when compared with the RAF personnel who serve the same function on service flights. Most airlines I’ve flown in recent years have rightfully embraced the concept of service skills and ability over looks when recruiting cabin crew, dispensing with out of date concpets such as looks and attractiveness. Maybe somebody forgot to tell Air Luxor though, because the girls who flew with us on the leg to Ascencion seemed to define 'pretty'.
The departure at 23:00 hrs held a certain appeal; there’s something magical for me about the middle of the night at the best of times, but up there, alone at 40,000ft in a darkened airliner cabin, the sole waking passenger, it was something else. Nature treated me to the most phenomenal lightning show somewhere over the west coast of Africa, the clouds being lit from within like some celestial disco and once I started to watch, I found it difficult to tear my eyes away. That though was as nothing compared to the sunrise I witnessed as we crossed the Equator, God’s colourbox working overtime to paint the sky with the most vivid hues I’ve ever been fortunate to witness; that alone, was worth the journey to see.
Landing at Ascension Island made the journey seem a little easier than perhaps it might have been. After flying across a thousand or so miles of ocean, there it is, alone, rising from the South Atlantic, its 35 square miles of volcanic rock echoing a martian landscape. The radar domes which litter the skyline, plethora of antennas and other epehemera of military and broadcasting dominate. And the lone RAF Tri-Star, sitting at the end of the runway en route from some mission somewhere added to the mystery. The tropical climate there was a shock to the system after the snow and ice and -5 temperature we’d left behind in London, but was no less welcome for that. The ambient temp at 08:30 was around 80 degrees, balmy, humid, but cooled by the tradewinds. The local RAF detachment gave colleague Mel and I a quick tour of the island, but with a one hour 30 turnaround, we were limited with what we could achieve. The place has a certain charm, the sea a deep blue running to turquoise as it laps at the white sandy beaches. An unusual tourist destination, but it’s one more unusual stamp in my passport, anyway.
Arriving at Mount Pleasant Airport at 14:00 on a windy, if sunny and warm afternoon was a little different from the norm, two RAF Tornado F3 fighters intercepting us roughly 200 miles out and escorting us in. It's nothing more than a sign of the times, the MoD having written into the contract for airlines flying its personnel into theatre that their airliners may be used for practice intercepts by our fighter pilots. Think about it - where else are they, and their controllers on the ground going to rehearse the finer points of vectoring a £30m fighter jet alongside a fully loaded commercial airliner? Over London? Can you imagine the panic that might provoke amongst civillain passenegers en-route to Heathrow? The first thing I noticed on departing the aircraft on the ground was to be one of the defining characteristics of my visit - the light, or more specifically, the clarity and brightness of it. It was, quite simply, unreal, unlike anything I've ever seen, anywhere. Consider the population of the Falkland Islands, and its popultation - covering a geographical area roughly approximate to Wales, the population is just 2,400, with almost 2,000 of those living in the capital, Stanley (which is also the world's southernmost city). In addition, the islands' location - close to Antarctica and some way distant from any major centres of population - contributes. The net result is a graphic illustration of just how polluted the rest of our planet is. They say you don't know what you've got til it's gone, and in this case, the point is proven; I know that our planet has become dirty, polluted and inefficient by our own hand, but until I arrived in the Falklands and saw how it is when those things are missing, I never appreciated just how bad it was.
Quite simply, the clarity of light down there is breathtaking. With the atmosphere devoid of dust and pollutants, and occupied by so few people, what you have is pure, perfect vision (the FI also sit directly under the hole in the ozone layer meaning you burn five times quicker than anywhere else). Sparkling night skies, unspoilt by light pollution from major connurbations, the naturally bright nights of the southern hemisphere enhanced and improved beyond measure. The Milky Way is painfully bright, a billion stars shouting out their names to even the most uninterested astronomer. The Southern Cross, Orion's Belt, The Plough - they're all there on a cloudless night, incandescent and alive, ready to entrance and awe the unwary. I didn't do much that first night; into the Mess, an early dinner and bed. I was tired.
The next day, we hit the ground running with a visit to the studios of BFBS, the forces' broadcasting service, to interview the station manager and one of its presenters, Hedi Secker. Heidi's great, a really passionate girl and a real asset to the station, which also numbers well known names such as Dave Rodigan and Gareth John amongst its DJs. Chatting to her between soundbites on her Morning Show, I discovered she lived just two miles away from me back in the UK, until her move south!
After that, it was off to the Army's MT section where, after discovering that I held an MoD driving licence (so-called FMT600) in another life some 20 years ago, they issued me with a new, valid one and a Land Rover. Useful, it gave me a bit of autonomy, even if the 'roads' on East Falkland are generally little more than tire tracks across gravel or mud. Enjoyed a useful lunch in the mess when the CO of 1435 flight, (the Islands' resident fighter squadron) sat opposite me at the dining table. He introduced himself and he apologised that he couldn’t get me up in F3 – would have been easy but for the fact that the pax qualified pilot left last week. No matter - been there and done that - surprisingly enough with his parent squadron, 111 at its home base, RAF Leuchars (fighter pilots in the Falklands are transferred on 4 week secondments, squadron commanders for 4 months).
They did have a sortie planned that pm with the station's VC10 for air to air refuelling in support of the F3s though, so would I like to go on that? Just then, OC Flying Ops sat down. Yeah, no problem, sorted. So off we went after lunch with 1312 Squadron's OC on a gorgeous sunny day, sun raining down through a cloudless sky of incredible clarity and hue. This was to be air to air par excellence, at low level (2,000ft instead of 22,000 as in the UK) and with some added fun. The RAF is the only organisation in the world still flying the venerable VC10, an aircraft which, with Concorde's demise, is the fastest, noisiest and thirstiest (and therefore, most expensive) airliner still in service. It has nine of them which it uses in the air to air refuelling role and for transport of service personnel (primarily between Brize Norton and RAF Akrotiri, in Cyprus).
Falklands airspace is like a playground for the RAF; uncontrolled, and with no air traffic except for its own, pilots seconded to serve down there have a unique opportunity, free to fly without the restrictions imposed in every other inch of the world's skies.
We were briefed that we'd have 'trade' with the two F3s twice over; given that, at low level and on full combat reheat, an F3's fuel capacity limits it to under an hour's flying, the rationale behind air to air refuelling is obvious. The pair were vectored to us without mishap after an hour or so and after completing the transfer of fuel, we descended down to 500ft over Queen Charlotte Bay where we'd received reports from the crew of 1312's Hercules C130 that they'd spotted pods of whales swimming. We spotted three, with a couple of dolphins for good measure and as we flew a circuit over them at low level, it came home to me just how privileged I felt. Here I was, 8,000 miles from home, flying in an airliner in a manner I never dreamed it was capable of, seeing whales and dolphins in their natural habitat. It's the stuff of dreams. For someone who earns a living from writing, I find myself in the embarrassing position of being unable to find words to do justice what I saw on that sortie. Whoever described the Falklands as cold, wet and God forsaken had surely never seen them from 500ft on a balmy 70 degree day in late summer, with the South Atlantic mirror flat and deep, deep blue. Big Sky? Doesn’t even come close. It’s unutterably beautiful.
After the second refuelling sortie, one of the eagles (F3s) had to return to base with an engine problem, leaving the other of the battle pair without a target. No matter; in open airspce, even an airliner like the VC10 can fly some pretty interesting manouvres that you won't find any comercial pilot indulging in. So we became the F3's play thing. Our mission profile was as a bomber en route to drop some ordnance on Pebble Island where the F3 had established a CAP (Combat Air Patrol where a fighter pilot flies in a defensive or offensive role at various altitudes and configurations to counter an enemy attack) at 2000ft. We approached from Queen Charlotte Bay at 3,000ft, climbing to 8,000ft in a feint designed to draw him off, looping through Saunders Island and around Byron Sound in an attempt to preclude visual or radar contact from the F3. Fighter control vectored the F3 around on us, but placed him away from his CAP area leaving us a clear run to target. However, the F3 came up on us from below and got missile lock. Our crew flew all over the sky exacting every drop of performance from the VC10's well, trying to shake him off. Climbing, turning, banking and descending at speed and through impossible angles of attack, we fought well but it was fruitless; with its superior speed and manouvrability, the F3 was always in a position of dominance. As the pilot's helmet speakers growled an acquisiton tone, he got the drop on us, loosing an AIM-9 Sidewinder and calling ‘Fox two’.
Game Over. The follwing day, I'd been scheduled to fly a Maritime Radar Reconaissance patrol in the Hercules but in the event, the crosswind on the runway was gusting at 50 knots, way outside the allowable maxima for any of the aircraft based in the FI. That day, nothing flew, so I made myself busy interviewing the OC of 1435 flight over at the squadron crewroom. His flight were on Quick Reaction Alert (QRA), ready to scramble at 15 minutes notice for a 24 hour period. QRA is a 24/7, 365 day alert and it's no paper tiger; the night before I flew home, I was awoken at 04:00 as two F3s climbed out on reheat to intercept an Argentine Navy landing craft that was entering the protected zone. It's a regular occurrence, with the Argentine navy playing a game of cat and mouse with our forces down there (in practice, the F3 crews will drop to low level and fire off chaff and flares, harrassing the craft to turn about).
Went to a party thrown by 1312 squadron on the Friday night. I'd forged quite a friendship with Argie, one of the crew, and a group of us went on to a bar afterwards so it was a late night! The following morning, the wind was still gusting at up to 50knots but it was down the runway meaning we were within limits. I breakfasted in the mess with the crew and after briefing at 10:00, we walked out to the line where 'Albert', the Herc sat waiting.
Martitime Reconnaissance Patrols are a vital function of the Hercules in the FI. The waters around the islands are a rich source of fish and squid and the government issues licences to ships wishing to fish them at a rate of £100,000 per ship, per season. It's a lucrative source of income for the islands and has to be rigorously enforced. So an average sortie, such as the one we flew will take in 1800 sq miles. We felw at 2,000ft, using radar to intercept contacts, dropping to 500ft for a flypast whereby each ship's details are recorded and photographed and compared against a list of licenced vessels. With the squid moving south, it was a busy sortie, with us recording 11 contacts in a 90 minute patrol over the waters north west of the Islands.
On our way back, we dropped to low level for a tactical run in, flying along A4 alley, so-called because that was the route the Argentine fighter bombers took to attack the fleet in San Carlos water during the 1982 conflict. There is a rock ridge that runs for miles that the aircraft could hide behind for the approach, avoiding British radar and below visual range for the fleet. We dropped low over San Carlos, flew over the War Graves Commission cemetry there, and over Goose Green before simulating a low level drop on the runway at MPA. With the wind still gusting at 50 knots, our approach speed, with the rear ramp open, was over 300knots, causing some comment from the control tower!
After landing, myself and Mike, the copilot hopped in to my Land Rover for the drive to San Carlos where I wanted to visit the cemetery. The wind had dropped, and the sky was cloudless as we made our way along the rocky track to our destination.
On the way, we stopped at the Argentine Cemetery built by the British near to Goose Green. It's a beautiful place, tranquil and serene, a fitting resting place for soldiers who were killed prosecuting a war they had no desire to fight.
It took almost 90 minutes to cover the 40 miles to San Carlos, over tracks, through a river and along some steep inclines, but it was worth it for the gorgeous golden hue the setting sun cast over the cemetery where Colonel H Jones VC was interred.
On the way back, we detoured via Goose Green and the actual spot in the gorse gully where H Jones was killed in the action for which he reveived the Victoria Cross. With the sun having dropped below the horizon and a gorgeous array of colours in the dusk sky, I stopped to consider the act which Jones had performed to lead his men to victory, sacrificing himself in the process. Foolhardy or brave, his action had a profound effect on the Argentine forces who held the superior ground and were pinning down 2 Para with machine gun fire. His lone attack galvanised the men under his command and saw the surrender of 1,200 Argentine soldiers who vastly outnumbered the British in the attack.
Back in the Mess that night over beer and pizza, I learned that Mike had been out in Iraq at the same time I was last year and we ascertained that he'd flown me into Baghdad on at least one occasion, even if we didn't know it at the time. The following day, Sunday, saw us off on a visit with Julia, the MoD's Conservation Protection Officer in the FI to Sea Lion Island, a 40 minute helicopter ride away. the Falkland Islands are famed for their birdlife and sea mammals, and nowhere is this more apparent than on Sea Lion. In every direction there were penguins, geese, ducks, gulls and moorland birds by the thousand, with the beaches full of hundreds of sealions and huge elephant seals. We were met by Tom, who drove us in a Land Rover to Rockhopper Point on the southern coast of the small island. This is the site of the memorial to those who lost their lives in HMS Sheffield, a simple, but touching affair which looks across the vast waters of the South Atlantic.
Alighting our Land Rover, I noticed a pair of Striated Caracara, one of the world's rarest birds of prey.
They landed upon the Land Rover and sat watching us as we walked the 20 yards or so to Rockhopper Point, a stunning series of cliffs some 150 feet above a sheer drop to the crashing waters of the South Atlantic and home to a colony of Rockhopper Penguins on one side, King Cormorants on the other.
Here, we sat on the rocks amongst the penguins who moved around us, unconcerned.
The beauty and majesty of the place was awesome.
From here, we drove to see the Southern Sea Lions just along the coast. Around 55 pups are born each year to these rare creatures, and groups of five or six females, with one male produce pups in December and January. The sealions are fierce mammals, who eat penguins, and frequently attack humans, particularly if the human is between them and the sea so we made sure to stay a safe distance from them; sometimes a 300mm lens can by quite useful!
After lunch, we walked down to the beach at Elephant Corner which is absolutely chock full of Elephant Seals. These huge creatures can reach up to 20 feet and weigh in at up to 3.5 tonnes. They lay in the sun and heave around to find a comfortable spot, flipping sand over themselves in an attempt to keep cool.
A short distance from here are the Gentoo Penguins, my favourite. There are 2,800 breeding pairs of these here situated in peaty mounds and when you sit near them, their curiosity leads them to approacah and surround you.
We became so engrossed in these, we almost missed the pick up by the helo which we heard approaching in the distance. Running for the last helicopter to take us off of an ininhabited island in the middle of the South Atlantic with 6 kilos of photographic equipment is not something I reccommend! When we got back to MPA, Julia suggested we drive into Stanley so we loaded up into my Landy and drove across the substandard rock road for the 35 mile trip to the world's southernmost capital. It's a funny place, Stanley. Home to just 1,900 people or so, it's smaller than the average English hamlet, yet capital to a country with a landmass approximate to that of Wales'. I walked past the Governor's house and the white picket fence made infamous by the Argentine's miscalculated decision to humiliate the resident Royal Marines detachment - it's the scene of that picture, the one showing them laying face down upon the road which prompted such outrage in Britain and proved the catalyst for the war that launched a thousand ships.
Further along the far end of Stanley is Gypsy Cove. Did you the know the Falkland Islands have beaches that are the match of any found in the ffice:smarttags" />
Developed a puncture in the Landy's rear tyre, an inevitable consequence of driving across such rocky terrain. It concentrated the mind somewhat, too. On a Sunday, miles from anywhere, in a country with no mobile phone coverage and a vehicle with no radio. Fortunately, the spare was good to go, so I managed to manhandle it on to solid ground, jack the rear up and effect a qucik change that Schumacher would have been pleased with. After that, it was a race against time to get back to the base for an rendevous with 8 others and a drive to Darwin for dinner at Darwin House.
The following day was our final day before flying home and it was spent with 78 Squadron, MPA's resident RAF helicopter squadron and the only one in the RAF to fly two separate types, the Chinook and the venerable Sea King. I'd already done an assignment with the RAF on Search and Rescue, so Mel went off to join the Sea King crew whilst I joined the crew of the Chinook for a briefing.
After being kitted out with full flying kit and immersion suit, I walked out to the line and took my place in the jump seat behind the pilots in the cockpit. We were carrying three sections of soldiers from the resident infantry company who we had to drop off at three separate locations across West Falkland.
That done, we landed at a refuelling site and after tanking up, took off on an ultra low level sortie along what is known locally as the Cresta Run. For this, I joined the crew at the rear of the aircraft and took my place on the open ramp, my legs dangling over the edge as the pilots displayed superlative skill, ducking, weaving and dodging crests, gullies and turns 150ft above the deck. It was exhilarating. Back up to a radar site after that to pick up a 9 ton container which we flew back to MPA as an underslung load.
That night was my last in the Falklands, and what a night it was. Joined in the bar by the crew of 1312 Squadron and the OC of 1435, I felt touched to have been so warmly embraced by such a fantastic bunch who just a week previously had been strangers.
I've returned with an unending fascination for somewhere that had previously been a mystery to me. And an implicit understanding of just what value the place adds to our soldiers and airmen posted there. Here, when fighter jets undertake low flying exercises, the MoD receive complaints and claims for compensation from the public. In the Falklands, the base gets a call from residents in Stanley if they haven't had a scream past at low level for more than two days. In the Falklands, the jets are welcomed as a sign of reassurance to the local population, proud and grateful for what we did for them 20 years ago. Consider too that on the Falkland Islands, the military has in one place all of the assets which in the UK are spread the length and breadth of the country.We have around 1,500 personnel at MPA, but at the front line, the numbers are relatively small so the crews know and understand one another. Where else can the F3s practice intercepts with airliners, and slow moving targets like helicopters and discuss the results with their crews and the fighter controllers who vectored them together over a beer in the mess afterwards? I spent a week there, but I could have spent a month and still not covered everything. There's a wonderful sense of esprit de corps amongst the personnel stationed there, as evidenced by the send off each departing airliner gets.
It brought a lump to my throat seeing the massed ranks of the movers standing to attention as we walked to our flight home, "We Gotta Get Outta This Place" ringing out across the pan. And again too as we lined up on the threshold for takeoff to be waved out by the ground crew and air traffic controllers. The flight home passed in a blur. I read Mary Roach's book, 'Stiff' on the flight to Ascension Island and I can't reccommed it highly enough. She tackles a difficult subject - about what happens to our physical bodies when we die - in a thoughtful but humorous manner that had me laughing out loud throughout the flight. If you only read one book this year, buy this one - it's a revelation. Another manic weekend ahead for me as I prepare for departure again on Tuesday for another trip to another continent. Just my luck too that as I leave these shores for three weeks, we're midway through the return of two brilliant TV series, "Life Begins' and 'Fat Friends', with Channel 4 just about to launch the return of the the fab 'No Angels'. Arse. Whatever you're doing this weekend, enjoy it - and if you've taken the time to wade through this lengthy entry, thank you. If you can take the time to leave a comment, please do. |
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11.3.05 12:45 |
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MOTHER'S PRIDE
Your life always turns when you least expect it. You ever noticed that? You don't sit there preparing for those people you meet, those events that become a part of your existence, you can't. You wander along absent mindedly, thinking about how you're late for a meeting, or overdue on the insurance, and Bam, your life turns on a sixpence. He was only eight years old. Smartly dressed for a kid of that age, too. Not your usual urban kit so beloved of kids, sartorially, he was what I suppose you could term 'smart casual'. I thought it strange that he wasn't at school on a Monday, but then, what with inset days - the odd days given over to training for teachers which account for several seemingly random days off each term - I didn't think any more of it. And he was with his dad. Father and son; unusual enough to warrant a second look I guess but then, it's a sign of contemorary life isn't it? The world's full of Saturday Dads for whom the relationship with the fruit of their loins has been reduced to a McDonalds lunch and an afternoon at the park. Still, this was a Monday morning -must be an exceptional dad, putting his kid first like that. They were waiting outside Nick's when I arrived at 09:00. Nick's my barber; still early days, but we struck up an easy rapport when I first found him a few months ago, and good barbers are hard to find, so you stick with a good one. He's local, but he's damn good, and by some bizarre twist, it turns out he trained at one of those old school barber shops in the west end; not just any one though - the same one I used to use when I lived in W1 eighteen years ago. That kind of made my mind up for me. Usually, if I get there at 9, I'm straight in. Nick makes a coffee and we enjoy a chat. Not today though. Father and son were pacing about anxiously outside the salon waiting for Nick to open even as I was parking the car. Nick opened the door just as I walked up so I walked in and made myself comfortable in one of the huge leather sofas along the back wall. The kid hopped into the chair. "Make him look funky, Nick, it's his big day" the father said. "Needs to last until at least two; make it last". That was when I noticed him. He was athletically built, tall; white haired, but handsome in a clean-cut kind of way. He can't have been more than forty, but the lines on his face told their own story. He was smart; forty-something, successful-on-a-day-off smart, anyway. But he looked fragile, like he might blow away in the breeze should Nick's next client open the door too smartly. Buttoned up, but ready to come undone. "Still waters run deep", ran through my mind. He'd been on his mobile. "Maybe the kid's got a show or something?" I thought to myself. "Big day? No school? Having his hair done?" Don't ask me why, but my subconscious threw Fame Academy at me to consider. Yeah, like, that's likely. "I'll use wax and spray it, should hold no problem" Nick told him. "C'mon big guy, that good for you?" he said to the kid. The kid grinned at me in the mirror as he nodded. Ten minutes and he was done. Funky was about it; spiky on top, full on, just what an eight year old boy would want. Nick looked at the father. "Go on, hop in, I'll do yours too" he said. The father hesitated, but Nick's a charmer. Coax, flatter, done. The father sat. Ten minutes and he too was done. No spikes for him - and no wax either. A quick tidy up with a cut throat razor on his hairline and neck, a bit of gel through is hair to hold it. Sorted. The father dug around in his pocket for some notes, but Nick pushed his hand away. "No charge, fella" he told him. "Forget it" On any other day, the father looked like he would have argued his corner. He didn't seem to be the sort of guy who'd owe anyone anything, even if the bargain seemed to impart no obligation on him. Today though, he just smiled and gripped Nick's hand. "Thank you" he said, and I saw the pain on his face then. He was like a shell and within was nothing but an ache, threatening to seep out like water rising on a flood plain. He was fighting a battle with it, but the effort was draining him; it seemed an effort just to function. From a distance, he looked accomplished, flushed with self belief. Close up though, the cracks were beginning to widen and his very self looked ready to rush out and leave him stranded. Like I said, buttoned up, but he was on the verge of coming undone. "Good luck mate" Nick said as he thanked him and left. Nick looked at me. "Poor, poor boy. His mum died last week; cancer. Thought she'd beaten it, but it came back and took her. The funeral's at two today". I felt that kid's loss. I only came out to get my hair trimmed. I hadn't even had breakfast yet. But as Nick told me the story, the years fell away and I was a kid again. A kid with a loving family, a stable background, a happy home. And just for an instant, I imagined the pain that was losing the most influential role model in that boy's young life. My heart went out to that brave little fella, for the love that he'd lost, the hole in his young life. For the man he'd become that his mum would never know and all that went with it.
We go about our days so wrapped up in our own thoughts, so concerned with the minutiae and detritus of life that it shields us from the reality of living. The palpable hurt of that father and son was all around them and it completely changed the path of my day. I don't know who they were and I didn't know the woman who was the boy's mum and the father's wife. Safe to say, they probably never even noticed me. But those twenty minutes when our paths crossed this morning mean that there's a little part of me that will always think about them, wonder how they're faring. Say a word for them in your prayers tonight. I don't know, but I suspect that father and son are going to need all the help they can get at the moment and...well, every little helps. God bless you two, whoever you are. |
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14.3.05 20:02 |
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DESTINATION USA
This time last year, I was preparing for my departure to Baghdad. By coincidence, it's fallen that this year too, I'm once again packing for an extended trip away from home and those I love. This time however, the cause of my flight isn't work, it's play. And it's not east I'm flying this time, but west. Having just readjusted to UK time from the jet lag of my marathon 17,000 mile round trip to the Falkland Islands last week, I'm about to embark on a trip to the US and a six hour time difference which should see my sleep pattern nicely confused for a few days at least. Time zones seem to play a major role in my life at the moment. The plus three hour time difference in Baghdad for example caused me the odd hiccup last year whenever I called my wife each evening. At that time, the infrastructure within the Green Zone was relatively limited so all there was to do after work at 17:00 each day was head to the mess for dinner and then to the bar where alcohol was plentiful and cheap. So it was that by 22:00 each night when I called my wife, my speech was, shall we say, a little less than articlulate. I wasn't exactly Mr Popular with my nightly telephone calls spoken in fluent drunkenese against a background of noisy revellry from similarly incapacitated army officers and FCO staff. Hopefully, this year's jaunt should prove a little less, er...alcohol fuelled! It feels like we've been in a state of flux for an age now. We haven't of course; it just feels that way. What with my wife's trip to South Africa in February, followed by my trip to the South Atlantic and now this, we're not going to be back to anything remotely approaching normality until mid April when I return.
I can't complain though. I'm off to the US, a country I've visited extensively through both work and holiday trips previously, to a place that is going to become a little more familar to me in the future. A flight tomorrow morning with the world's favourite airline will deliver me to Houston and from there, to stay with my parents at the house they bought in Louisiana, and to see my little brother who emigrated a little further north two and a half years ago and who I haven't seen since. I can't wait - it'll be good to enjoy a rest. In fact, if it wasn't for the fact that my wife is unable to join us because of pressure of work, it'd be damn near perfect. Still, when I return, spring should be firmly established here with a nice long summer stretching ahead of us - always a plus in my world. Feel free to drop me an email if any of my U.S readers are within driving distance of mid-Lousiana and fancy meeting up. I shall be frequenting my blog and yours whenever I can though, so unless apathy reigns supreme or the cooler needs emptying of beer, expect to see me around. Until then, play nicely and I'll see you all soon. |
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15.3.05 12:09 |
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