Fate Comes Calling
May 30, 2024
Highway 400 connects Toronto with the smaller towns, cities and cottage country to the north. As you leave the big city heading north, just past the King-Vaughn road the freeway heads down as it crosses a ravine. If you happen to glance to the right you might notice a large pile of gravel. It was somewhere between that ravine and that pile of gravel that in May of 1983 I ended the career of a good man.
Back in 1983, that pile of gravel didn’t exist. Instead that was the location of the King City Airport which has since been closed down. In 1983 it was the home of a bustling flight training school. It was here that I started to take flying lessons. There were a number of flight training schools in the area but somehow I was drawn to this one. Compared to the more professional schools over at Buttonville and Brampton, King City had a downhome folksy feel. The clubhouse was a bit shabby and the runway rather short. The planes, though serviceable, were old and well worn. The same could be said of my instructor, Bent Nielsen.
Bent, with his lingering Danish accent, was likely in his early sixties. The line service staff claimed that he had over 17,000 flying hours, a testament to his vast experience. One thing was undeniable about Bent: he was unflappable. Having flown with him several times, I'd never witnessed him flustered or reactive.
Flight instruction is a delicate balancing act. The instructor, while ensuring flight safety, also needs to allow the student to learn from mistakes. This means letting things go wrong to a controlled degree, much like removing training wheels from a bicycle. The student needs to experience the realities of flight to truly learn. Bent, though, was not one to take unnecessary chances. I recall arriving for my lesson on one particularly windy day. Bent elected to cancel, quoting “It’s better to be down here, wishing you were up there, than up there wishing you were down here!”
Bent excelled at teaching the art and science of flying. There were a few occasions when things went awry, prompting Bent's calm announcement, "I have control!" to avert disaster. Yet, he never overreacted or even raised his voice. He remained remarkably composed, the picture of cool under pressure.
After each lesson, Bent assigned a chapter or two in the training manual to delve deeper into the theory and practice of flying. One such reading focused on rejected takeoffs (RTOs). The chapter emphasized the critical role of listening to the engine during takeoff. If anything sounded abnormal, the pilot should decisively "reject" the takeoff by throttling back and applying the brakes. Importantly, the sooner this maneuver is initiated, the better due to the aircraft's lower speed. Better to stop the plane on the ground rather than take off with an ailing engine. As a diligent student, I absorbed this procedure and stored it away in my memory bank for future reference.
May 13th, 1983. Taxiing out for my lesson with Bent, a knot of anticipation tightened in my stomach. Northbound takeoff, I was at the controls. As we rumbled down the runway, engine sounds became my sole focus. Then I heard it - a sharp pop, out of place in the familiar symphony of the engine. Pop! There it was again, unmistakable. My mind screamed 'wrong!' and my hand reacted instantly. Throttle slammed shut, brakes engaged, takeoff rejected!
The seconds seemed like an eternity before the little Cessna shuddered to a halt, mere feet from the edge of a terrifying truth. The ravine, mentioned in passing earlier, ran a silent east-west path just beyond the runway's north end. The very runway we were on dipped towards this precipice in its final stretch. It was at the precipice's edge, where the ground began its treacherous descent, that I had instinctively aborted takeoff. Here, too, was where the ever-composed Bent sprang into action. A startled yell erupted from him as he reached across the instrument panel, deftly shutting off the engine while simultaneously applying full brakes. Thankfully, his split-second reactions brought us to a halt before the unforgiving ravine claimed us.
Bent gently interrogated me as to why I had done what I had done. I replied that I thought the engine sounded off. I’m not sure what his reply was but by the time we had backtracked to the south end of the runway he convinced me that nothing was wrong with the engine. Like a rider bucked off the proverbial horse we took off again to the north. While I was anxious about the sound of that engine, I’m sure Bent was even more vigilant of my every move! My log book indicates that we continued our normal one hour lesson.
Disappointment gnawed at me as I walked into the clubhouse a few days later and saw a new face behind the instructor's desk. Tony Stuart, they said, would be taking over my training. Sadness settled in, but somehow, the news that Bent had decided to move on from flight instruction wasn't entirely unexpected. Ernest K. Gann, in his memoir Fate is the Hunter, suggests that every pilot grapples with fate. Gann himself eventually quit flying, believing he'd stretched his luck too thin. Was this Bent's story too? Had my near-miss with the ravine shaken him as much as it had me? The unanswered question lingered as I shook Tony's hand, a question that haunts me to this very day..
Though I've long traded the cockpit for terra firma, I still find myself drawn to airports. Watching those little Cessnas take flight, their engines popping merrily, brings back a flood of memories... mostly good ones, despite that whole near-death ravine incident!
