WHAT LIES BENEATH
When we fly to Europe, we pilots communicate via
datalink when we’re out over the ocean. If you
don’t know what that means, it works just like
email via satellite. If we need to talk to the
airline we can just shoot them a note. If we
need to talk to air traffic control we do it the
same way.
When we approach Europe, our first voice contact
is usually with Shanwick Oceanic Control, which
is physically located in Scotland. Some of their
controllers read this Update, and a supervisor
there, Brian Pritchard, by now a good friend,
wrote to me that he would be attending a wedding
over the weekend attired in Highland dress. That
is, he would be wearing a kilt as would Paul,
another controller who would be best man at this
wedding. You can meet both Brian and Paul (in
everyday clothes) here along with some of their
colleagues. I’m hoping to add some new photos of
them in their kilts:
Shanwick controllers
I of course prodded Brian to confess what
Scotsmen REALLY wear under those kilts, but he
refused to say.
Recently, some of my readers sent me some series
of “Best Photos” for different years, and in one
of them, wouldn’t you just know it, is a shot of
several men in kilts with their skirts blowing up
in the wind. Because this is a G-Rated
newsletter, I’m going to have to leave it to your
imagination what you think was under their kilts
but let’s put it this way—thank God they were all
facing away from the camera.
This exchange of notes with Brian brought back a
memory flash of something I hadn’t thought of for
years. There’s no catch, no point, no particular
reason for me to tell you about it other than it
was just so unexpected and it’s such a pleasant
memory.
Growing up in San Diego, my brothers and I would
sometimes crew for my Dad on his sailboat. Early
one weekend morning when I was maybe around
eleven or twelve years old, my Dad and I were
alone on his sailboat in a race that was going
noplace because there just wasn’t any wind to
speak of. There would be the tiniest breeze for
just a few moments, but then it would disappear
completely and we just sat there in the glassy
water between Shelter Island and North Island
Naval Air Station, if you happen to be familiar
with the area.
All of a sudden, I could swear I heard bagpipes.
Bagpipes? At 6:00 AM on a Saturday morning in
San Diego Harbor? No way. I had to be imagining
it and shrugged it off. The breeze came up just
a bit, the sails ruffled in the wind and that’s
all I could hear for the next few minutes.
The wind died down again, though, and again I
heard the sound of pipes. “Dad,” I said, “Do you
hear that?”
“Hear what, Honey?” my Dad replied.
“Bagpipes. Dad, I’m sure I hear bagpipes.”
“Bagpipes? Where do you think there would be
bagpipes playing?”
“I don’t know. I just know I hear them. It
doesn’t even make sense, does it?”
“No, Honey, I don’t know what you’re hearing, but
it couldn’t be bag… Wait! I hear it, too!”
We both just assumed we were going nuts, but we
looked around everywhere there was to look and
finally saw what had to be the source, although
it still didn’t make sense.
Looking south toward the harbor entrance we could
see an aircraft carrier just coming into port.
The sound had to be coming from the carrier, but
we still didn’t know why. Eventually, though, it
passed us and as it got closer and closer, the
sound of the pipes got louder and louder.
It turned out to be a Canadian ship and there was
a formal ceremony of some sort in progress on
deck. We had binoculars and could clearly see
the row of pipers (thankfully there was no wind).
There seemed to be awards or citations being
handed out as names were called over a
loudspeaker on the ship.
Not everyone loves pipes, of course. In fact, my
Dad has never been a big fan. But I’m a huge fan
of bagpipes and my mother, who loves them like I
do, used to take me to these grand indoor, and
sometimes outdoor, concerts of pipes, drums and
brass bands. They were wonderful and to this day
the pipes get my heart pounding with excitement.
I even dragged Al The Web Guy to a local Highland
Festival about a year ago, and he enjoyed it,
too. Of course, he also enjoyed all the
shortbread samples being handed out, as did I,
but he insists he loves the pipes and dancing,
too. He’s just not as intense about it as I’ve
always been but then, I suspect many people are
not as intense as I am about a lot of things.
When I was pretty young, maybe about the sixth
grade or even younger, I used to dance the
Highland Fling at the local County Fair in Del
Mar, just north of San Diego, and even wore my
kilt to school on occasion. I had this whole
ethnic thing going on from the time I was about
six. This is when I first discovered my passion
for folk music and dance as my mother took me to
concert after concert. I saw more than one group
later as a teenager when I traveled to Europe,
including the Russian Balalaika Orchestra which I
saw first in San Diego as a little girl and later
in Moscow as a teenager. Some of this musical
influence in my life is even discussed in my
memoirs “The World At My Feet.”
The love of this music is still very much with me
and I think I feel another Highland Festival
coming on. Let’s hope Al The Web Guy is in the
mood for more shortbread.
http://www.flyingfearless.com
datalink when we’re out over the ocean. If you
don’t know what that means, it works just like
email via satellite. If we need to talk to the
airline we can just shoot them a note. If we
need to talk to air traffic control we do it the
same way.
When we approach Europe, our first voice contact
is usually with Shanwick Oceanic Control, which
is physically located in Scotland. Some of their
controllers read this Update, and a supervisor
there, Brian Pritchard, by now a good friend,
wrote to me that he would be attending a wedding
over the weekend attired in Highland dress. That
is, he would be wearing a kilt as would Paul,
another controller who would be best man at this
wedding. You can meet both Brian and Paul (in
everyday clothes) here along with some of their
colleagues. I’m hoping to add some new photos of
them in their kilts:
Shanwick controllers
I of course prodded Brian to confess what
Scotsmen REALLY wear under those kilts, but he
refused to say.
Recently, some of my readers sent me some series
of “Best Photos” for different years, and in one
of them, wouldn’t you just know it, is a shot of
several men in kilts with their skirts blowing up
in the wind. Because this is a G-Rated
newsletter, I’m going to have to leave it to your
imagination what you think was under their kilts
but let’s put it this way—thank God they were all
facing away from the camera.
This exchange of notes with Brian brought back a
memory flash of something I hadn’t thought of for
years. There’s no catch, no point, no particular
reason for me to tell you about it other than it
was just so unexpected and it’s such a pleasant
memory.
Growing up in San Diego, my brothers and I would
sometimes crew for my Dad on his sailboat. Early
one weekend morning when I was maybe around
eleven or twelve years old, my Dad and I were
alone on his sailboat in a race that was going
noplace because there just wasn’t any wind to
speak of. There would be the tiniest breeze for
just a few moments, but then it would disappear
completely and we just sat there in the glassy
water between Shelter Island and North Island
Naval Air Station, if you happen to be familiar
with the area.
All of a sudden, I could swear I heard bagpipes.
Bagpipes? At 6:00 AM on a Saturday morning in
San Diego Harbor? No way. I had to be imagining
it and shrugged it off. The breeze came up just
a bit, the sails ruffled in the wind and that’s
all I could hear for the next few minutes.
The wind died down again, though, and again I
heard the sound of pipes. “Dad,” I said, “Do you
hear that?”
“Hear what, Honey?” my Dad replied.
“Bagpipes. Dad, I’m sure I hear bagpipes.”
“Bagpipes? Where do you think there would be
bagpipes playing?”
“I don’t know. I just know I hear them. It
doesn’t even make sense, does it?”
“No, Honey, I don’t know what you’re hearing, but
it couldn’t be bag… Wait! I hear it, too!”
We both just assumed we were going nuts, but we
looked around everywhere there was to look and
finally saw what had to be the source, although
it still didn’t make sense.
Looking south toward the harbor entrance we could
see an aircraft carrier just coming into port.
The sound had to be coming from the carrier, but
we still didn’t know why. Eventually, though, it
passed us and as it got closer and closer, the
sound of the pipes got louder and louder.
It turned out to be a Canadian ship and there was
a formal ceremony of some sort in progress on
deck. We had binoculars and could clearly see
the row of pipers (thankfully there was no wind).
There seemed to be awards or citations being
handed out as names were called over a
loudspeaker on the ship.
Not everyone loves pipes, of course. In fact, my
Dad has never been a big fan. But I’m a huge fan
of bagpipes and my mother, who loves them like I
do, used to take me to these grand indoor, and
sometimes outdoor, concerts of pipes, drums and
brass bands. They were wonderful and to this day
the pipes get my heart pounding with excitement.
I even dragged Al The Web Guy to a local Highland
Festival about a year ago, and he enjoyed it,
too. Of course, he also enjoyed all the
shortbread samples being handed out, as did I,
but he insists he loves the pipes and dancing,
too. He’s just not as intense about it as I’ve
always been but then, I suspect many people are
not as intense as I am about a lot of things.
When I was pretty young, maybe about the sixth
grade or even younger, I used to dance the
Highland Fling at the local County Fair in Del
Mar, just north of San Diego, and even wore my
kilt to school on occasion. I had this whole
ethnic thing going on from the time I was about
six. This is when I first discovered my passion
for folk music and dance as my mother took me to
concert after concert. I saw more than one group
later as a teenager when I traveled to Europe,
including the Russian Balalaika Orchestra which I
saw first in San Diego as a little girl and later
in Moscow as a teenager. Some of this musical
influence in my life is even discussed in my
memoirs “The World At My Feet.”
The love of this music is still very much with me
and I think I feel another Highland Festival
coming on. Let’s hope Al The Web Guy is in the
mood for more shortbread.
http://www.flyingfearless.com
