STILL IMPROVING CHAPTER 3

The narrator is considering a career change and wants to fly around the world. They see an advertisement in Flight Magazine for pilot positions at Britannia Airways and British Airways. They apply to both and receive an invitation from Britannia Airways for a ground course and simulator assessment. They are unsure if they will fit in with the regimented environment at Britannia. Later, they receive an invitation from British Airways and worry about explaining the damaged letter from their dog. They attend the assessment day and are allowed into the assessment room. The day is more friendly and professional compared to Britannia's process. They are then tasked with building a farm as a team. CHAPTER III NO GOING BACK NOW At the beginning of 1987 thoughts of what to do were now at the forefront of my mind. I knew that my time in executive aviation was now coming to an end. I also knew that I did not want to fly around Europe for the rest of my career. I desperately wanted to fly around the world. However, I had no idea how or where I should go to achieve this goal. So as a start I went to the local newsagent and bought a copy of Flight Magazine. Readers of my first book will remember that I had a love-hate relationship with this publication. At the beginning of my flying career I studied this magazine every week, starting as always at the back where the advertisements for job vacancies were published. Despite spending a small fortune I never managed to secure a flying job through the magazine's advertisements. I was, therefore, with very few expectations that I opened it for the first time in many years. True to form I skipped the many articles and stories and went straight to the back pages, to, of course, the advertisements. There, to my surprise, were two full-page advertisements for pilots who joined two of the largest airlines in the UK. The first advertisement was for Britannia Airways, at that time the largest airline in the leisure market. They flew the Boeing 767 to far-flung, exotic places, which really excited me. I felt my heart rate increase as I immediately wrote a letter requesting for an application form. I had the flying experience they required. I felt wildly optimistic as I rushed to the post-box to ensure that my application would be one of the first to reach the airline. Returning home I continued to turn the pages of the magazine. There, to my utmost surprise, was a second full-page advertisement. However, this time the advert read like a wish-list of aircraft that any pilot would climb over hot coals to fly. There, in front of me, were pictures of Concorde, of Tristars, and, of course, the magnificent Boeing 747. I was completely star-struck. I could not believe that British Airways were advertising to recruit pilots for the first time in its history. In the past the airline had regularly trained its new pilots. From the very first day until retirement British Airways had always been a closed shop. Never before had they considered employing a qualified pilot from outside of the airline. Of course they had to invent a new name for these pilots, differentiate them from the home-grown pilots. The abbreviation BEP, which stood for Direct Entry Pilot, was decided upon. Every pilot in the country must have been tempted to apply. The lure of eventually flying Concorde or the Boeing 747 compelled pilots to ignore the dreaded seniority system and apply to join the world's favourite airline. I stared at the page, not quite believing what I was reading. Visions of being seated at the controls of Concorde or a jumbo-jet swam in front of my eyes, until the reality hit home and snatched my dreams away. There was no way British Airways was going to employ a self-improver. A DEP was one thing, but a pilot who taught himself to fly would never get past a security guard at the gate, let alone be allowed to fly one of the most prestigious aircraft in the world. I was, of course, the epitome of a self-improver, having never attended any recognised pilot training school. Although I had all my flying licences, I had achieved them by borrowing textbooks, cleaning aircraft in return for a few minutes of flight time. I had no proven pedigree and no traceable training history. In other words, I had no chance of being employed by British Airways. As the reality dampened my mood, I slowly filled out the application form. I retraced my steps to the post-box to send off my second application in a day. I consoled myself at the thought that I may be an outside chance of a job with Britannia Airways. With both applications posted, I returned to my world of flying the Cessna, and put my dreams of long-haul flying back firmly where they belonged at the back of my mind. Two weeks later I received an invitation for Britannia to attend a one-day ground course. If that was successful, I would be invited to return for a simulator assessment. This would determine if I was capable of offering the Boeing 767. I was delighted. This could be the start of the second phase of my career. My next few flights on the Cessna were a more joyous affair, as there was now a chance to go back to what I loved flying most—jet aircraft. The date was set for my interview. Surprisingly, Britannia wanted to see me the following week. I thought the process would take much longer. Seven days later I arrived at Britannia's training school, with a certain amount of trepidation. There was a huge step up from what I had been used to. Everything looked incredibly professional, and I was awe-inspired at the facilities. From the classroom to the simulator it was impressive, to say the least. The day quickly sped by as our group of would-be Britannia pilots were quizzed on our knowledge, and desire to fly with the airline. The whole affair seemed to be run on a military-type premise. At times I was even tempted to salute the instructors and assessors. I had to admit that my desire to join Britannia had waned by the end of the day. Maybe, after all, airline flying was not for me. As I arrived home I reflected that I probably would not fit into the regimented set-up at Britannia. I was unlikely to be asked back for assessment on the simulator. I needed to rethink my career goals, and my mood darkened as I pulled up in front of my house that night. Putting the front door, I was bowled over by my canine friend, Roffy. At least someone was pleased to see me. Stepping into the kitchen I noticed a wet, soggy envelope on the floor, slightly worse for wear after obviously losing a fight with Roffy. Before I could retrieve this letter I had to feed the dog and take him for his well-deserved walk. By the time I returned I made a very simple supper and settled myself in front of the television. I had completely forgotten about the partially destroyed letter. Only later, when I was washing up, I noticed the soggy mess on the table. As I bent down to retrieve it my golden retriever saw an excellent opportunity for a game. He immediately snatched the letter away and set off for a run round the house. Following him I could appreciate his amusement at this new adventure. However, I was tired and not really in the mood for a rough-and-tumble with an excited golden retriever. Roffy being Roffy quickly realised that my heart was not in the game, and he released the letter and trotted off to find some new misters to occupy him. Bending down to pick the letter up I noticed a livery on the envelope that I immediately recognised. It was the famous British Airways logo. I immediately assumed it was just a letter of rejection. I quietly thanked my faithful hound for giving it the treatment it so richly deserved. Putting the soggy mess back together I finally managed to read its contents. This was not, after all, a rejection. It was an invitation to attend a selection day at the Holiday Inn at Heathrow in a week's time. The very last line instructed me to bring this letter along to the interview with me. I looked at the bits of chewed-up paper plastered in front of me. How was I going to explain this away? I started a new game with Roffy, but this time I chased him waving bits of the letter. Luckily for him he was faster and more agile than me, so I gave up and went to bed, followed by a very excited dog a few moments later. Maybe he thought that it would be a good idea to attack the post more often if it meant a good chase before bedtime. A week later I found myself in a queue waiting to enrol in the British Airways Assessment Day. There must have been at least fifty candidates all lined up ahead of me awaiting the chance to present their letters of invitation. I stood in the queue and watched each candidate take the letter out of the envelope and show them to the adjudicators. Each letter was carefully unfolded and checked off against a list. This process was repeated until it was my turn to produce the all-important letter. Of course I had no envelope that had passed through my dog's digestive system many days previously. Instead I produced a crumpled piece of paper that I had very inexpertly tried to sellotape together. I placed this offering in front of the adjudicator and stood back to await the inevitable questions. Luckily I had a plan, and after the adjudicator looked up in astonishment I gently placed a picture of Roffy looking his most adorable next to the destroyed letter. I stepped back, shrugged my shoulders, and hoped for the best. Buckedly I had chosen the queue in front of a fellow dog-lover. I received a broad smile and a knowing wink. She then showed my picture and my letter to everybody around her. There were many laughs from the assessors and the candidates alike. Although my pride had been badly dented, at least I had managed to get over the first hurdle. I was allowed into the assessment room. The day itself was very different from my experience with Britannia. The atmosphere was much more friendly. We were treated as professional pilots, not as new recruits, which had been the case with Britannia. Finally we came to the last assessment. The room of fifty candidates was divided up into teams of ten people. We were let out of the main hall into a smaller ante-room. We entered the smaller room and we were seated around a desk. A large box of children's building materials were then emptied into the centre of this desk. With three assessors looking on we were told to pick a leader. This leader would then have to organise the construction of a farm together with animals and outbuildings. We had thirty minutes to complete the project. The assessors withdrew to the side of the room. A whistle was sounded to announce the start of the project. We sat and stared at the assortment of Lego, straws, and Meccano in front of us. Nobody wanted to make the first move or suggestion for the feel of making a fool of themselves. After what seemed an eternity I decided that looking like a fool was preferable to looking like a statue, and so I asked if anyone fancied being the leader. Two hands shot up and their owners put forward the reasons why they would make the best choice as leader. Seven anxious faces then turned to me, and I realised they were still waiting to see who I would choose. One candidate was far more qualified than the other, as he had been a keen model-maker as a child. I therefore chose this candidate as the primary leader, and pacified the other candidate with the task of animal-maker. I asked them to choose who they would like to assist them in their team. After the teams were chosen, unsurprisingly, I was not asked to join either group. I retired to watch their endeavours. I had no skill at model-making, so I was quietly relieved at my exclusion. Three days later a small farm-house sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by animals made out of the straws. It was quite an achievement, and everybody, except me, looked very pleased with themselves. We were then thanked for our efforts and attendance at the selection day, and with that we were dismissed. The three of us, sadly, were never to be seen again. I had a powerful feeling that I would be one of those. Three days later I received a letter asking me to attend a simulator check-ride. I should have been excited beyond belief, but sadly the invitation had come from Britannia, not from British Airways. It was therefore a rather reserved pilot that sat in a Boeing 767 simulator. The briefing before entering the simulator had been long and detailed. There were no reassuring smiles from the instructor. They were there not to help us, but to chop the ones they did not like. Consequently the atmosphere was very unpleasant, definitely a case of us against them, and sadly they held all the cards. The check-ride itself went reasonably well. The aircraft was a delight to fly, much more manageable in fact than the ones I had been flying previously. This was a new technology, and it took a lot of hard work out of the actual flying. At the end of the four-hour session we were thanked for our time and dismissed, with instruction to call next week to find out if we had been successful. Now I am sure that working for Britannia would be an outstanding achievement. It was a first-class airline with an excellent reputation. However, I felt unsure if I would fit in with their military style operation. I was then, and have always been, a very relaxed pilot. I tried to achieve and maintain a high standard, but not through dogmatically following procedures to the letter, but through understanding what was required and achieving a successful outcome through applying a mixture of knowledge, ability and teamwork. I am also a great believer in the adage, if there is nothing to do, do nothing. Sometimes sitting on one's hands and not rushing into a hasty decision was the best way to achieve a safe outcome. This approach seemed at odds with that expected at Britannia Airways. I surmised that we were not a match made in heaven. Once again, I was reticent and reflective on the drive home from Britannia's training facility. I was not sure if I wanted to fly for the airline after all, and to be fair I thought they would probably not want me to fly for them either. And so it was back to flying that I knew best, the executive charter world. I decided to put all my efforts into revitalising our company and exploring new and existing contracts. With Pete running the commercial side of the business, I made sure that the operational side remained competitive and our operator's licence remained valid. We had been operating out of London Gatwick for over three years now. Despite losing our jet aircraft, we still maintained and operated our Cessna out of Gatwick, due to the airport being open all day and night. We often returned from a day trip late in the evening when the smaller airfields had long since closed. This added to our costs, but they could be offset by advertising ourselves as a 24-7 company. This was invaluable, especially if we had a last-minute request for something like an emergency medical flight or to fly spares to an aircraft stranded abroad. Aviation was expanding rapidly at this time, and the majority of airports were approaching their maximum capacity. New airlines and executive jet companies were applying to fly into Gatwick. This situation could not go on for much longer. There were only so many operators that could be based at Gatwick. I was in our office at the Beehive sorting through our regular pile of mail. There were no e-mails in host days. My attention was drawn to a very official-looking letter from British Airports Authority, the operators at Gatwick Airport. With some trepidation I opened the letter, wondering if, being such a small operator, we would be asked to move from Gatwick. Rumours had been circulating that a system of slots was going to be introduced. This would entail each company bidding against each other to buy a slot of time to use the runway. There was absolutely no way we could afford to bid against the major airlines. We were expecting to be asked to leave Gatwick once these slots had been distributed amongst the big boys. This letter would no doubt confirm what we had been expecting all along, and it would probably signal the beginning of the end for our company. I read the letter slowly and carefully. The devil was always in the detail. Instead of being asked to vacate the airport, we had been given the grandfather rights. Not only could we remain at Gatwick, but we had also been invited to attend the official meeting to bid for this new slot system. Well, this was indeed a delightful surprise. Although we could not possibly afford to buy any slots, we could remain at Gatwick. Still, it would be interesting to watch the other major operators at work, and so I accepted the invitation to attend the auction. I put this firmly to the back of my mind as I concentrated on finding new avenues for the company to explore. Whilst all this was going on, I had all but forgotten about joining the airlines. I had yet to call Britannia to inquire if I had passed a simulator check-ride. Unsurprisingly, British Airways had not sent me a letter begging me to join their illustrious ranks. Maybe, just maybe, I should stay where I was and try to make the most of our new situation, and also we are now a confirmed Gatwick operator. Airlines were queuing up to fly from Gatwick, and here we were, already a Gatwick company. I could see a possible commercial advantage in our new position. I picked up my mail as I rushed out of the front door that morning, at the same time trying to eat the last of my bacon sandwich. I now retrieved my slightly greasy mail and went through the variety of bills and advertisements. At the bottom of the pile I again noticed an envelope with a British Airways logo. Ignoring everything else, I snatched up the letter and tore it open. At least this time Roffey had not managed to get there first, so I did not have to reconstruct the letter before reading it. My heart rate soared as I read, then re-read the letter. Instead of being rejected, I was being asked to attend a check-ride in the simulator. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. How on earth had I managed to get through that assessment day, especially as I had not even participated in the building exercise? Still, I was not complaining, although after the initial excitement the memory of the Britannia simulator ride quickly brought me back to earth. If Britannia were that regimented, what on earth would British Airways be like? Still, that was a problem I would have to face at a later date. For now I needed to prepare for our future at Gatwick. As for Britannia Railways, I decided that I didn't want to fly for them. I never made that telephone call to find out the result of my check-ride. It was not that I didn't want to know. It was the complete opposite. In the very unlikely event they offered me a job, then I was pretty sure that I would accept their offer. Sometimes it's best not to know. That way you don't have to make a difficult decision. A week later Pete and I attended the Gatwick Runway slot meeting. Although we looked the part, dressed in our finest executive suits, we knew that we were just basically frauds. We had barely enough money to buy a meal at lunch-time, let alone afford a landing-slot at Gatwick. True to form, as the meeting adjoined for lunch, while the rest of the participants went to their various local restaurants, Pete and I made our way to the local fast-food outlet for a burger and chips. Pretty much summed up our existence at that time, and we both chuckled at the thought of the other people seeing us now. We returned from our executive meal. We spent the rest of the day watching the prime-time slots being distributed around our fellow operators. By the time we were thinking of leaving empty-handed, there were only a few other people left in the room. All the significant slots had now been sold. There was nothing left except for two weekly take-off and landing slots at two o'clock in the morning. The large airlines were not interested, as that was during the ban for jet aircraft. Nobody else seemed to be interested, and so these slots would remain unsold. Pete and I looked at each other. We had saved a considerable amount of money on our lunch, so we thought let's spend that money on these slots instead. We knew the chances of us using these slots were remote, to say the least. However, we both had a gut feeling that this could be an opportunity that was too good to miss. Being a Gatwick operator with slots just sounded a whole lot better than being one without, and so we bought both the slots for around the cost of a second-hand car—probably the best business decision either of us would ever make. However, at the time, we both blamed the other for making such a stupid mistake. What on earth would we do with these unflyable slots? It was a quiet drive home that night. Whilst all this was going on, the date for my British Airways simulator check grew closer. Bolstered by the new impetus for our company, we had managed to secure a lucrative contract. The desire, I felt, for flying for an airline had slightly diminished. I was enjoying a new wave of enthusiasm for my present position. Maybe I should just stay where I was, after all. Then again, this was an invite to fly a British Airways simulator. It would perhaps be concord for a Boeing 747. Just to fly either simulator would be such an experience that I could never turn it down. The outcome was not as important as a chance to fly something so extraordinary. This was the reason I accepted the offer in the first place. A few weeks later I found myself parking outside Crane Bank, the British Airways training complex at Heathrow. This was on a different scale than anything I had seen before. This was far more than a training facility. It was more like a university. I was more than a little intimidated as I approached the main reception hall. After the registration process I was shown into a waiting room, clutching my temporary pass as if my life depended on it. Without this pass we would be unable to access the vast simulator block which stood proudly on the opposite side of the campus. There were about twenty of us sitting nervously in this small room. We had no idea who our simulator partner would be or which type of simulator we would be flying or attempting to fly. I found out later that this was a deliberate tactic to prevent candidates from getting an unfair advantage by practising on the simulator ahead of the assessment. Names were called in pairs and the two victims would duly stand up, heads slightly bowed, and shuffle off to meet their fate. For almost everyone in the room this was a life-defining moment. Never again would they get a chance to fly for one of the world's great airlines. This was the pinnacle of most pilots' careers, and we were all within touching distance of achieving our dream. I looked around at the anxious faces. I don't recall ever seeing so much apprehension manifest itself in one room. I calmed my nerves by reckoning that I was undoubtedly the only one here to have wasted a lot of money on buying two useless landing-slots. Suddenly I heard my name called, and I immediately returned to the matter at hand. Who was going to be my partner, and what simulator would we be flying? My assistant passed several briefing-rooms with the names of the aircraft. I had only ever dreamed of flying in an aircraft as a passenger, let alone as a pilot. We passed the TriStar rooms, the Boeing 757 and the Boeing 767 rooms. We slowed down as we approached the Boeing 747 simulators. Surely we were not going to be this lucky. We were asked to wait outside the 747 briefing-rooms, and the assistant left us there. We looked at each other in sheer wonderment. We were going to fly Jumbo, a Boeing 747. A huge grin spread across both our faces. A minute later our examiner appeared and beckoned for us to follow him. Whatever the final outcome, this was going to be an experience never to be forgotten. The examiner set off at quite a pace, and we hurried to keep up with him. To our confusion he walked straight past the 747 simulators and began walking down a wooden ramp into a wooden shed. This made no sense at all. He had obviously mistaken us for something else—cabin crew, maybe, or even maybe engineering. As he asked us to take seats in this wooden hut, I thought I had better point this out to him before he wasted any more of his and our valuable time. I politely explained that we were awaiting a 747 pilot to test our flying skills, that we were both pilots, not ground staff. He looked at me with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. Looking at his clipboard he read out our names and asked us to confirm that we were indeed who he thought we were. I was tempted to deny my identity and just walk out. Such was my embarrassment. Luckily for me he saw the funny side and explained that we were in temporary accommodation due to the current expansion of the new simulator block. So informed us that we would be flying a British Aircraft Corporation, a BAC-111 aircraft, and not a Boeing 747. I could see the disappointment on my partner's face, and I tried to mimic his expression. I was in fact incredibly believed that we were going to fly the 111. I had flown this aircraft before and was actually an authorised examiner on it. Still, best keep this little secret to myself, I thought. Can't give away all of my secrets too early on. After a comprehensive briefing about what we could expect from the simulator check and how to fly the 111, we were asked if we had any questions. I had assumed that we would be asked if either of us had flown the 111 before. I did not know that, just as he had not told us which simulator we would be flying, the examiners were not informed about our previous flying experience. In this way an unbiased evaluation could be made. I would not have felt so smug at being able to maintain my secret had I known this. However, true to form, I would soon reveal my secret, albeit inadvertently. We were asked if there was a preference in who would sit in the captain's seat, or who would be the co-pilot. Almost exclusively all the candidates were co-pilots from other airlines. Very few captains change seat to fly for a rival airline. So I was happy to operate from either seat. An examiner has to be able to fly from both seats. Magnanimously I offered my partner the choice. He immediately chose the right-hand seat, the one he was used to flying from. This decided we were invited to take our seats. The examiner would sit behind us to assess our abilities. We both duly strapped ourselves in, whilst the examiner turned round to close the simulator door. As he turned round to face us once again he looked at us both with an expression of confusion. In the right-hand seat there was a pilot struggling to find the three levers that would position his seat at the correct height and distance from the controls, whilst in the left-hand seat the pilot, me, had miraculously not only found the levers but had fully adjusted himself and started to carry out the pre-flight scan. I felt a heavy hand lay on my right shoulder, and as I looked round I was met by a stern face asking me why I had not informed him that I had flown this type of aircraft before. I was astonished that he had discovered my secret so quickly. I had rather hoped that he may have asked the question after a dazzling display of aviation perfection. However, I had not even started and so obviously given myself away. I reluctantly had to admit that I may once or twice have had the pleasure of flying the 111. I also could not help but ask how he knew my secret. What had given me away so early? Looking across at the pilot in the right-hand seat, still pulling and pushing seat levers, he informed me that only a qualified 111 pilot knew the secret of the seat adjustment. Damn, I thought to myself, that would teach me a lesson, especially as I was now informed that I would be judged as a current 111 pilot, not as a general candidate. This, of course, made the whole exercise a lot more difficult for the occupant of the captain's seat, me. At the end of the day we were given the usual thanks for attending, and told that they would be in touch with us with our results. At least this time we did not have to call them. They would write to us. The one thing we were all asked is what aircraft we would accept if we were offered a position with the airline. The majority of the candidates were not concerned what type of airplane they would fly. They just wanted a job with British Airways. Others were already flying short-haul aircraft, and were only willing to accept a position on long-haul aircraft. As always I wanted to be different. In reflection it was a ridiculous request, borne out of my ignorance and my arrogance. Before I could stop myself I announced that I would only accept a position on the Boeing 747. Astonished, Faces turned to look at this little upstart, trying to dictate terms to the world's favourite airline. I was offered the opportunity to change my mind and expand my choice, which would increase my chances of being accepted. Unbelievably, I declined the offer, and officially duly wrote down that I would only consider a job if it meant I could fly the Boeing 747. With my British Airways career seemingly over before it had begun, we were all sent on our way. Almost immediately I regretted being so stupid and stubborn, but consoled myself with the fact that I had two worthless landing slots at Gatwick. British Airways obviously did not know who they were dealing with. A week later the third and final letter arrived. This one I actually managed to open at home without Roffy being able to intercept it. I had already guessed the outcome of my application before I opened the letter. As I started to read the words, we are sorry to inform you, I was not in the least surprised at its contents. I put the letter down and went to make myself a coffee. To read the letter in full, I skimmed through the rest of the paragraph, sipping my hot drink reflectively as the disappointment really began to strike home. I had been busy trying to convince myself that I really was not so bothered about working for British Airways anyway. After all, I still had a job and a company that most people would envy. Deep down, though, I ached to be able to fly for this terrific airline. I had thrown it all away with a ridiculous request to only accept a position on the Boeing 747. What on earth had I been thinking? I began to re-read the letter. After the first sentence I had only skimmed through what was remaining, not really noticing what was written, not until I read the letter for the third time that I understood what was on offer. I was being turned down as a pilot on a 747. They regretted that. However, they were offering me a position as a First Officer on the much smaller Boeing 737 based at Heathrow. I could not believe that I was being offered a job at all. The ultimate self-improver was being offered an appointment with the world's favourite airline. Unbelievable! The dream had finally come true. All of my ships had come in at once. All those doubters who had written me off, most especially my father, could now eat their words. My initial failed medical—all of it, all the doubters—I was now vindicated. So what did I do? Of course I turned British Airways down. To this day I am not really sure what I was thinking, and when I wrote, very politely thanking them for the offer of a job, I explained that, as I indicated at the interview, I would only be interested in a position on the 747, and sadly, therefore, thank you for the offer, but I was not interested in flying the 737. Therefore I would not be attending the induction calls starting in March, only a few weeks away. Roffy and I walked to the post-box, and I ended my chances of ever flying for British Airways with the simple act of dropping my letter into the mouth of the box. There was a feeling of finality when Roffy cocked his leg on the post-box, and with that we both made our way home. Back to what I knew best. Those slots had better be worth dumping now. I had put all my eggs into their basket. Three days later British Airways rang me. It was early morning, and I was due to fly to Paris later that day. I was enjoying a quiet breakfast before setting off. I found myself apparently speaking to the Head of Recruitment. This charming chap just wanted to be the first person to speak to somebody who had ever turned down British Airways. The novelty-factor obviously amused him, although I could tell that he was also interested in why I had made my decision. I explained that I wanted to fly the 747, and I made it clear I would only accept that aircraft. I could hear him rustling through some papers. Eventually he informed me that they were not offering me any positions directly on to the jumbo. It was simply not possible that I had been offered that choice. I very politely informed him that the 747 was, in fact, one of the options I had been offered at the interview. With a heavy dofus of scepticism he informed me that he would check this and get back to me. An hour later another call came through that changed my life. I was indeed correct in the fact that I had been offered the 747. There were no 747 courses available at the moment, so I had three choices. I could accept the 737 course, and I would start in two weeks' time. If I declined that, I could wait for a 747 course, which would be on the 9th of September. He was wrong. There was no decision to be made. I grabbed my 747 course before he changed his mind. Neither of us could possibly have measured at that time that this would be the start of a career that would eventually result in me becoming the longest-serving pilot on the Boeing 747. I was about to start my journey, and the next thirty-four years on that beautiful aircraft. There was indeed no turning back now.