The first time I remember flying was with my Grandad in a tiny Cessna. We flew over South Canterbury and the fields looked like patchwork quilts of green and the cars were the size of models – somewhere in this mess of excitement I was allowed to take the controls and fly.
The first time I remember being above the clouds our family was on a jumbo jet for the first time heading to Disneyland. I’d won a competition for a family trip and we were at Christmas-levels of anticipation on the ‘trip of a lifetime.’
Tom and I flew to Winton for Christmas – a trip that takes hours as we walk, train, bus, plane, plane, drive to our destination. Now flying is normal, we’re bored above the clouds as we seem to crawl along at a snail’s pace and read and sleep and let the world pass us by instead.