They were 'Proctors' and 'Jackaroos' in those days. <br />Single wing aeroplanes, <br />two and four seaters, <br />either open engines, or open under your seat. <br /> <br />Exciting for a seventeen year old. <br /> <br />I went up with the commercial pilots, <br />logging up their flying hours. <br /> <br />Take off! Climb! Spin on one wing! <br />Roll! - 'keep looking forward! ', <br />Stall! - That was the most terrifying thing of all, <br />not knowing whether the engine would start firing up again. <br />There were no parachutes, of course. <br /> <br />Flying along the south coast of England, <br />around the Isle of Wight, <br />looking down on a 'patchwork' of fields, farms, <br />towns and villages, <br />all viewed in 'miniature'. <br /> <br />Those were the days when one felt immortal, <br />and there was something very romantic <br />about pilots who flew beyond the clouds. <br /> <br />That death defying, daredevil image. <br /> <br />Somehow, you didn't seem to suffer from nerves <br />when you were only seventeen, you just had an appetite <br />to sample the great, unknown, blue yonder. <br /> <br />Now I prefer to have my feet planted firmly on terra firma. <br /> <br />But Oh! those times when I was once a 'High Flyer'. <br />What memories! <br /> <br />Chocks away.............! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! <br /> <br />© Ernestine Northover<br /><br />Ernestine Northover<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/high-flyer/
