Jennifer:Aren’t you even a little bit curious?
Pippa:I suppose I am, but school wasn’t exactly a high point in my life, as you know.
Jennifer:And look at you now – a masters in aviation management and an air traffic controller on track to becoming a junior supervisor faster than anyone else because you flew through your training, doing one of the most stressful jobs in the world and already a legend in your field. First day on the job and you successfully navigated an emergency landing!
I wiggled in my chair. Compliments made me uneasy.
Pippa:I’d better get back to the screen if I don’t want another emergency landing.
Jennifer:Come on, take the compliment, just a little bit . . .
Pippa:Fine. Taken. Thank you.
Pippa:Have to work.
Jennifer:Chat sometime then.
I turned my phone off and looked at the other screen in front of me. I loved this screen. I loved arriving at work and casting my eyes over it as if it were some great work of art. Which, to me, it was. My own personalMona Lisa. Shapes and numbers, greens, blues and oranges. Identification, altitude, data tags, maps. Speed, origin, destination. All the information you need in order to track planes through the air combined together on one screen.
To the untrained eye, it might look like chaos. But to me it’s a beautiful, intricate web of patterns. I’ve always seen patterns in things: licence plates, house numbers and streets – even in road maps. So this I could handle, but I wasn’t sure I could handle a ten-year school reunion. I studied the screen until my eyes found my favorite plane. I waited eagerly for the familiar voice. I didn’t have to wait long.
‘Good morning, City Tower, this is Flightbird Six Zero Zero.’
I smiled at the sound. This was by far my favorite voice. It had an easy timbre to it. The pitch and tone were warm while the resonance was deep and full. The rhythm and pacing of his words were also pleasing. Not too fast, and not too slow.
‘Good morning, Flightbird Six Zero Zero. How’s the view today?’
‘Beautiful sunrise from up here, City Tower. We are inbound to Johannesburg Airport, heading over the golf course. Request vectors for ILS, please. Flightbird Six Zero Zero.’
‘Fightbird Six Zero Zero, turn left heading two niner zero.’
‘Copy, City Tower, turn left heading two niner zero. Flightbird Six Zero Zero.’
I waited with a sense of anticipation to hear his voice again. And as soon as I did I straightened in my chair.
‘City Tower, this is Flightbird Six Zero Zero. Established ILS, runway zero seven left. My favorite runway.’
I smiled to myself. I’d learned that pilots were very superstitious creatures, and Captain Boyce-Jones was no exception. For him, his lucky charm seemed to be runway zero seven. I’d never understood superstitions. Especially when you looked at the word’s synonyms,irrationalityandfalse beliefbeing just two of them. I’d noticed too that superstition wasn’t just reserved for those airy-fairy, hippie types: very rational people, like pilots and my father – a surgeon – were superstitious. My father only ever wore blue socks when performing surgery. I have no idea why but he has an entire drawer at home dedicated to his ‘operating socks’. In my opinion, there’s simply no correlation between a color and your ability to perform surgery. That was down to your training and experience.
‘Flightbird Six Zero Zero, you are cleared to land on runway zero seven left.’
I looked out of the tower window as his plane came into view. I knew so much about his aircraft – first developed in 1967, the bestselling commercial airliner in the world, 30 meters long, 28-meter wing span, fuselage height of 4 meters and maximum take-off weight of 115,000 lbs – but I knew nothing about the man who piloted it, even though we’d spoken almost every day for the past six months.
‘How’s the weather down there? Flightbird Six Zero Zero.’
‘Flightbird Six Zero Zero, wind two fifty at ten knots. Should make for a smooth landing.’
‘Copy, City Tower, wind two fifty at ten knots. My landings are always smooth. Flightbird Six Zero Zero.’
I wasn’t going to admit that he was right but, of course, his landings were always smooth. I watched out the window as he glided the plane down to the runway. This is always a magical moment for me, to see a plane – an enormous, complicated piece of engineering and machinery – float effortlessly down from the sky. Rate of descent, reduction of speed and thrust. All these elements coming together perfectly like a well-conducted orchestra, enabling something so large to simply touch down elegantly and gently.
‘Flightbird Six Zero Zero, this is City Tower, please vacate left onto Alpha taxiway and contact Ground Control on zero two zero point six.’
‘Copy, and vacating left onto Alpha taxiway, contact Ground Control on zero two zero point six. Flightbird Six Zero Zero.’
This was the part of our conversations I hated. Despite not being a fan of small talk in general, I liked talking to Captain Boyce-Jones, and when he had to change frequency for Ground Control I always felt a little inexplicable pang in the pit of my stomach.
‘Have a great day, City Tower. And happy spring day.’
