Flying Over Australia: An Alternative Life

In a single-engine plane over the most isolated metropolis in the world. An alternative life—what would it have been like if not for the expedition? A flight from sadness to joy, and family roots. Last week, at an altitude of fifteen hundred feet, where the turquoise ocean edged with foaming surf looks like the pattern on a magic tablecloth, I saw an alternative life... An Alternative Life —is not simply the life you might have had if fate had not swept you into your present one. It is the life that really gets you going. Perhaps it was a profession you were afraid to pursue after school because “they don’t take people like you into the cosmonaut corps”; perhaps it is another path that captivates you with how fascinating it is. It is an alternative life if you are having a great time in your current one. But if everything in your reality is dead in the water, then the life you want is no alternative at all. In that case, it is called “missed opportunities.” And it means it is high time to change something. There Is Always a Choice And now, up in the sky, I counted a fourth path and a third alternative life. It would be better, of course, to have nine lives, like a cat. But all right, let’s balance the books. My current expedition-and-ocean-going destiny comes first. I would devote my second life to the theatre. Or better yet, cinema, because I have always liked things to feel real—and with location shoots too: travelling to filming locations absolutely counts as travel. In fact, I dreamed of becoming a film actress. That was the only way to become D’Artagnan, Chingachgook, and a round-the-world sailor. My Chingachgook and D’Artagnan are still sitting deep inside books, unrealised. Because fate steered me into a seafaring life. My third alternative life would go to being “some kind of -ologist,” as our young sailor says about her own prospects. As a child, I thought of becoming an archaeologist or geologist. It would have been wonderful to roam from expedition to expedition, deciphering the mysteries of the rongorongo script or studying the oceans like Cousteau. I miss that now. And after listening through headphones to the pilots’ radio communications with the ground, right there in the skies of Western Australia , I realised what my fourth life would be: I would definitely become a pilot. How does it go?—Landing gear, flaps, engine. Contact!—And the thrill of confidently handling a powerful machine. And the feeling of flight (and no seasickness , unlike on a yacht—that is just glorious!). How It Happened After agreeing without hesitation to Pasha’s offer to take us flying, I had thought of nothing else since Sunday. I even reread the story of Valery Chkalov’s tragic death (best not to do that before a flight). I was fervently hoping someone from our crew would decide not to fly, so we would not have to draw lots to see which of us would be the odd one out. After all, the cockpit has room for only three people besides the pilot. And then, at the airfield, I realise everyone wants to fly. The children, and our captain. He had never flown in a small plane at all, whereas Nastya and I had at least done it once in the Altai . Okay, I say, you go. I’ll film you from the ground. And my spirits sank right down into my trainers. They taxied away behind a hill. And I ran to film the take-off. Towards the hill. I will spare you the details of how I ran somewhere I was not allowed to go and was escorted back to the waiting area by a special vehicle. Which outfit are you flying with? the escort asked sternly. Mmm... er... I don’t know, the one in that hangar over there. The kind gentleman drove me to the hangar and delivered me to reception, where there happened to be no one at all. They’re going to get into trouble because of me, aren’t they? I ask. The man shrugs and leaves. And I feel as though I have messed up big time at school, landed half the class and the senior Young Pioneer leader in trouble, and now I am waiting for retribution, a summons to the headmaster’s office, and an entry in my permanent record. Apparently, the stars aligned favourably that day: the company merely received a verbal warning, while the pilot was released for lack of sufficient gravity in the offence committed by me... And here is the hangar (in the photo) to which I was teleported for wandering where I should not have been. And you would think I understood that I was not allowed to leave the hangar. Yet I still ran onto the grass, all for art and the desire to watch the take-off. Good News After landing with my lot, Pasha , the pilot in command, announced that we would do another circuit, this time with me inside the cockpit. That was probably why my spirits quickly climbed out of my shoes and began hopping on one foot. And here it is, the real thing: flaps, engine, contact! We’re flying!... I peer down at houses that look like chocolates nestled in the compartments of a box, and perfectly round lakes. Perth City rises like a castle of skyscrapers above low streets and parks. We fly over the surf line and Rottnest Island, where little quokkas smile at us from the bush—the smiliest marsupial rats in the world. During the flight, I remember that Dad wanted to become a pilot. He spent a year at flying school, and after it was disbanded, he went to the Kazan Aviation Institute. And there he met Mum, who apparently also dreamed of the sky... I wonder whether I could have jumped out with a parachute 36 times, like Mum , into the terrain map that the earth becomes at an altitude of one kilometre. We are flying much lower, but even from here it would be terrifying to jump through an open door. I remember how interesting it was to ask Mum: what kind of plane is that flying over us? And she would answer: a Tu-134, or an An-24, or an Il... It was so cool that Mum knew about planes. And military ranks. And also... ...And I gaze greedily down and all around me, never letting go of my camera. In my excitement, I even forget to ask the pilot if I can take the controls (what if he lets me?—there it is, the second control yoke, right in front of me). Lada liked the steep turn—are you ready? Pasha asks. Yes!!! Lada and I cry happily. And then I shriek “AAAAH!”—from delight and the G-forces. After we land, I hug Pasha, an aeroplane and glider pilot, like family. It is hard to imagine a better gift. And after landing, as I wander around the hangar among the planes, I become acutely aware of that crucial point: in my alternative life No. 4, I would become a pilot. Would you like to fly in a glider? Pasha asks in parting. ...What do you think we said? 🙂 Our Tail 🙂 The tail bears the make of the almost-four-seater plane we flew in. The aircraft is new, only 2 years old. The model itself is most likely two or three decades old. Attention, a Question! Guys, what would your alternative life be? Please share! Because I am incredibly curious to know what hidden dreams and talents lie dormant in all of us :). Make your dreams come true—it’s brilliant! The female contingent of the squadron with pilot Pasha Golodonyuk This is how simply the ribbon is hung from a clothes peg, so no one walks into the protruding antenna Perth—City Hugs!