Peter Carr
I am writing these words in the early morning dawn of the first morning after retarding the clocks – a still morning that I suspect will herald a cool day.
One of those mornings when a major decision has to be made. Do I ditch the shorts – several pairs of which have adorned my hips since late September – thus admitting that the cooler days have really arrived? Do I admit autumn has turned that corner where a dive into lower temperatures is not just a blip – but a more fixed downward spiral into the abyss that eventually becomes winter?
I was reminded of the seasonal change only last week when stepping out at Wellington Airport to catch a late afternoon flight northward. A southerly gale suddenly blasted through across the open tarmac carrying with it a horizontal deluge of rain. It happened just prior to leaving the shelter of the airport‘s departure pier so I elected to hold the queue to permit a number of people ahead of me to struggle up the steps into the aircraft, and to then make a dash for the warmth of the plane.
However, a lady struggling with a bright coloured suitcase – clearly far too large for the overhead storage bin provided by the airline – elected to eject me out into the torrent of water. Eventually pushing past me as I splashed through the new lakes that were forming. That action resulted in her taking far too long to struggle with the violent pink rectangular object as the very steep steps were not made for accommodating such stupidity. And it delayed access to the plane for myself and other fellow passengers. The deluge then entrapped us, and we eventually fell like stranded whales dripping with water onto the deck of the plane that was shaking violently – being swept by the overwhelming southerly roaring in from Cook Strait.
Taxiing to the northern end of the runway and turning to face God’s wind-driven wrath, the pilot calmly informed us that it would be a bumpy ride out. And it was, though I noticed we needed less than a third of the runway to gain vertical lift. Everyone on board spent the next 75 minutes steaming quietly and uncomfortably as the moisture from our clothes was slowly sucked up into the air extraction system of the lumbering and bucking aircraft.
It is at times like these that we give thanks to the dexterity and skill of those pilots – aka John Wayne – who can ride the aeronautical equivalent of a bucking bronco under such conditions. The calm voice of the captain later informed us that he added 10 minutes to the trip to ‘work around’ some equally inclement weather so we gave the Almighty a thumbs up.
As we landed my seated neighbour received a text stating that the aircraft set to follow us had been cancelled – and small wonder. Selfishly I did not care for I was back on terra firma, safe in the knowledge that a short road journey and a subsequent malt-laden beverage awaited me to ward off the memories of the appalling weather.
