Nick Burnham: Seven miles up, 500mph and an over-active imagination do not happy bedfellows make
Flying is a means of travel I came to late in life, and I have a lovehate relationship with it. I only started flying regularly when I changed careers to marine journalism and found myself ping-ponging back and forth between the Med (a popular model launch location), various other scenic parts of Europe and occasionally America. So on the one hand, flying signifies another new adventure, perhaps a new location to explore, warm weather and exciting new boats. On the other, there’s that whole pesky certain death in a plane crash thing. I know the odds are massively on my side – I’m more at risk when driving to the airport, I know. But still, seven miles up, 500mph and an over-active imagination do not happy bedfellows make.
It wasn’t always this way. In my twenties I had that utter invincibility that results in eye-watering car insurance premiums for young males. I did things with boats that make my hair stand on end now. I remember taking a 20ft single petrol-engined Sea Ray ten miles down the coast from Torquay to Dartmouth in big seas. No VHF, no lifejacket, and waves so large I was easing back to tick-over as I crested each one in order to stop the boat taking off, then throttling up down the other side to avoid burying the bow. I thought it was fantastic fun! But what if..? What if the engine had stopped? Or a rope around the prop? Doesn’t bear thinking about. These days I’m the exact opposite, cautious to a point that frustrates Marianne. As I always explain, it’s not about what we and the boat can cope with, it’s what we and the boat can cope with if the engine were to stop. Of course it never has. A m
