For most pilots, there is usually some seminal moment in their childhood, when they are bitten by the flying bug. In my case it was as simple as flying as a passenger from a very early age. My mother was widowed when I was only six months old, but she was nothing if not hard working, and as we lived in an age when reliance on the state was still looked down upon, she arranged day care for me and went back to work, in the civil service.

Being remarkably adept with money, she saved hard and when I reached the age of about eight, she took us on what were some of the early forays into the package, or inclusive holiday, to Spain. I can remember vividly, the smell of exhaust gases from those inefficient turbofans, the thrilling if polluting noise they made and the glamorous stewardesses, as they were called then. We would also drive down to Prestwick or sometimes Glasgow airports in her Morris minor, to watch the aircraft from the viewing gallery. I was enthralled and it was a fairly natural progression from the Cubs and Boy Scouts, to the Air Training Corps, where as a spotty adolescent, I learned to fly at Kirknewton Gliding School, near Edinburgh, eventually going solo and becoming a staff cadet, flying there at weekends as soon as I could ride a motorcycle and make my own way there.

Those were balmy days, often spent on glorious summer weekends, the whole day waiting turn to fly, or driving landrovers to retrieve the winch cable and generally mucking in and being part of the team effort. I flew in the ubiquitous Slingsby Tandem Tutor. It had an appalling glide ratio and it took   consummate skill and near perfect conditions to get it to soar, but as a trainer for circuits, it was perfect. I loved every second of my time in them: the winch launch with its eye popping acceleration and what felt like an almost vertical ascent at first, to the spellbinding peace and solitude of the short glide circuit, judging the turn onto finals, the effect of wind, keeping an eye out for other gliders and the oh so satisfying feeling of a smooth touchdown. I would also fly as a passenger in the Chipmunks at RAF Turnhouse, attend annual camp at a fully operational RAF Station and fly in real military aircraft, flown by enigmatic, but good natured, professional airmen. So I was hooked you see. I had little choice, and after completing a Flying Scholarship and PPL at age seventeen, there really was only one way I was going to go.

Fast forward 40 years and after an eighteen year career in the Royal Air Force followed by 20 years as a commercial pilot, I can’t get out of the profession fast enough. Why? Because it’s exhausting me. It’s sucking the life out of me so quickly, it will put me in the grave before my time. but for those who have been doing this same job for over 40 years it must be sheer hell by the time retirement comes.

My advice to would be pilots? Think long and hard about it. The days of an easy career of forty to fifty flying hours a month, a salary in excess of 150K, and early retirement on full salary are gone forever. You will have little choice about which airline you will fly for and it is very difficult to steer a pathway of your own making in this profession; companies are not interested in what is best for you, so have a back up plan. Invest cleverly, keep up to date on your degree subject, if you have one, or use your down time to take a distance learning qualification, with which you can lay down the foundations of an exit if the need arises.

By all means have a go; it is a rewarding career, but tiring, and in the ultra long haul environment, damaging to your health. You have been warned!