A few days ago I was talking to one of my friends, Eleanor. She asked me what I was doing of the weekend and so I listed off the things I would be doing; my little sister’s birthday, helping out at Kids@Ken (my church’s kids group), going to my grandparents, and flying in a Chinook. Of course it was the last activity on the list that particularly caught my friend’s attention.
I am not really sure how best to put my experience into words, there are some things that can not accurately be described, but I’ll give it my best shot.
The morning started with an early rise and a hectic packing of bags, being me I hadn’t packed yet and still needed to fill in forms etc. At around 6.50am I was in my uniform, hair done, shoes polished and hoping my uniform didn’t crease too much, and that I’d got everything I needed. On arrival at the coach stop no one from my squadron was there. Thoughts along the lines of, ‘I got the wrong place,' 'wrong time,' 'wrong date'. But, no need to panic. I was on time, everyone else was late. Despite the earlier setback we somehow managed to arrive at the RAF station early. Don’t ask how that’s possible, it just happened.
Arrival, people everywhere. Fire engine, police dogs, gliders and finally the Chinook. Safety brief, brace position. Lined up, helmets, goldfish bowls trying to speak but can’t hear anyone. Thought I was going to be blown away as I walked to the back of the Chinook. Sitting down, seat-belts. Windows, tipping side to side, open back, trying to speak, forgetting that I can’t actually hear. Landing, getting off and then just letting it all sink in as I fall asleep on the coach- with my mouth open!