What's it Like to Fly In?
There’s something imposing about a Dakota. It’s only a third the length of a Jumbo, but they’re usually visible only as a door at the end of an extendable tube. A Dakota sits on the tarmac in a broad-shouldered, nose-in-the-air attitude, low windscreen narrowing its eyes as it searches the sky. It’s impatient for you to get aboard so that it can return to its natural element. Forget what the dimensions tell you, this is a big plane.
The entrance door is only a few steps up. Because the Dakota sits on a tailwheel, you only need to climb four feet and you’re inside. And this is when reality takes a slightly strange shift. The cabin floor angles away from you up to the cockpit door, high up in the nose.
The walls are unlined in this example, reminding us of the aircraft’s military pedigree. Further evidence of martial origins appears in the overhead line for paratroopers and the red and green stop/go lights next to the door. Dakotas formed the mainstay of the D-Day landings, carrying troops and towing massive Horsa gliders. As you stand in the wide doorway you can picture lines of young men sitting on benches along the cabin sides. It’s a slightly chilling image.
Nowadays it’s all somewhat more luxurious. Each side of the narrow gangway there are pairs of plush blue airline seats. You climb the sloping floor, take your seat and strap in.
What’s this? It’s roomy! If you’re used to the modern layout, with your knees crammed hard against the seat in front, you’ll be feeling pleasantly surprised. Flying in the 30s and 40s was meant to be a pleasurable experience, and even before deep-vein thrombosis had been invented, pins and needles were seen as a Bad Thing.
After a safety briefing delivered via the dazzling smile of Nicole Marques, the Cabin Services Manager, a whine from the right wing announces the imminent awakening of some venerable Pratt & Whitney hardware. After a couple of chuffs, a deep roar fills the cabin, soon to be joined by two-part harmony from the other wing. It’s not quiet, but neither is it the deafening cacophony you might have dreaded. Now we wait. Modern oil has a wider operating temperature than the gloop Dakotas were originally expected to swallow, but we’re still not going anywhere until the temperature gauges up front say the time is right.
As the aircraft begins to roll forward it’s time to settle back and take in the view through the window. To those of us who grew up with cloudy portholes pierced grudgingly into the side of a 737, these look the size and shape of a flat-screen TV. It’s a panoramic view, but set strangely low. Looking at the wingtip requires hunching into a Quasimodo-style pose. Were people a different shape 60 years ago?
We begin our take-off run and there’s another surprise. There’s a distinct wobble as the old girl launches herself – with remarkable enthusiasm it must be said – down the runway. Apparently this is quite normal; the tail-down attitude of these aircraft makes them very sensitive to cross-winds until they’ve gathered speed. It’s not remotely alarming, just… different. After a few seconds the tail rises from the tarmac and the cabin takes on a more familiar orientation. We’re sitting in the middle of 28 cylinders, barking out 2,400hp and the soundtrack reaches biblical proportions. Fellow passengers are calling it symphonic and, damn it, they’re right: this is a glorious noise.
It’s actually hard to detect when the tyres leave the tarmac. Suddenly the ground is falling lazily away and the old bird is back in the sky. A muffled thump as the wheels retract, a gentle, stately rock from the wings and then she settles down to climbing the hill.
Suddenly the window position makes perfect sense. If you’re airborne you want to look at the ground, not the sky. As the Dak reaches its planned height the view is unbelievable. Somewhere up front, Captain Jon Corley cuts the throttles to cruise and the audible component of the experience scales back to a reassuring throb.
The view from most airliner cabins generally consists of clouds. From the Dakota windows the world’s a much more interesting place. These pleasure flights rarely go above 2,000 feet, so you can identify the makes of the cars below. Each time a local landmark passes below, Captain Corley obligingly pulls the aircraft into a gentle turn and the cameras chirp all along the cabin. There’s no sense of banking; the turn’s so beautifully balanced that you see the world tilt, while you sit perfectly level.
Time passes quickly and G-AMPY begins her graceful descent to earth. And here’s another new experience. We seem to be about to land sideways. There’s a runway clearly visible through the side windows. You’re experiencing another unique aspect of the taildragger. When tailwheel aircraft land in a cross-wind it’s quite normal to approach the runway in a sideslip. This keeps the Dak centred on the ideal approach line, but it’s a strange sight for the uninitiated.
Modern aircraft often hit the ground with a hefty bang. The Dakota’s too dignified an old lady to sink to such antics. She touches gently with a refined double squeak and lowers herself comfortably onto her amply sprung suspension. The cabin takes on the by now familiar nose-up attitude and the Dak rumbles back to her apron.
Flying in the 21st Century has become something to be endured. It’s a necessary obstacle between you and your holiday. After 25 minutes or so on board a precious piece of aviation history you suddenly understand how much we’ve sacrificed in our search for speed. The world may have shrunk, but that’s because the distances have become so much less interesting.
