In a feat of aviation derring-do that would make Biggles weep with pride, a British pilot has pulled off what the clipboard-wielders are calling a 'textbook ditching' in the frigid, indifferent waters of the Atlantic. The aircraft, a twin-engine turboprop operated by a regional carrier, suffered a catastrophic double engine failure some 150 nautical miles west of Ireland. The pilot, a former RAF flyboy with the sort of stiff upper lip that could double as a crowbar, calmly announced 'Mayday, mayday, mayday' and proceeded to glide the stricken metal bird onto the waves with the grace of a swan landing on a millpond.
Eleven souls aboard, including a infant who apparently slept through the whole ordeal (because babies are tougher than stockbrokers), were evacuated into life rafts as the aircraft settled into its watery grave. Search and rescue assets, scrambled faster than a Whitehall civil servant reaching for a knighthood, had them plucked from the briny deep within the hour. No serious injuries. Just a few damp trousers and a story to tell at dinner parties for the next sixty years.
The press conference, a farce of self-congratulation and platitudes, was attended by the usual cast of suits. The chief executive of the airline, a man whose smile was as synthetic as the cheese at a parliamentary buffet, praised the crew's 'professionalism' and 'heroism' without once mentioning the rather inconvenient fact that both engines had failed simultaneously. The manufacturers, no doubt already drafting press releases about 'thorough investigations' and 'enhanced maintenance protocols', were conspicuously silent.
But let us not allow cynicism to drown the sheer, unvarnished brilliance of the pilot. In an age where we trust our lives to algorithms and autopilots, here was a man who relied on what God, BAE Systems, and several hundred hours of simulator time gave him: skill, nerve, and the ability to keep a steady hand while descending into the ocean at more than a hundred knots. He did not panic. He did not freeze. He did what British pilots have done since the days of the Battle of Britain: he brought them home.
The passengers, a motley crew of business travellers and holidaymakers, described the landing as 'smooth' and 'controlled'. One chap, a Geordie with a voice like rusty scaffolding, told reporters it was 'like a bumpy landing at Newcastle, only wetter.' Another, a woman clutching her handbag as if it contained the Crown Jewels, said she 'didn't even spill my tea.' If that is not a endorsement of British engineering and piloting, I don't know what is.
Meanwhile, the internet, that great yammering choir of know-nothings, has already spawned a thousand conspiracy theories. Was it sabotage? A bird strike? An engine that had been serviced by the lowest bidder? The official line is 'technical failure under investigation', which is corporate speak for 'we haven't got a bloody clue yet but we'll blame it on the subcontractors.'
The real hero, the man with the stripes on his shoulders and the steady hands, will no doubt receive a commendation, a paid holiday, and a lifetime of free drinks at the airport bar where he will be regaled by fellow flyers who claim they would have done the same. But he knows, and we know, that ditching an aircraft in the Atlantic is not a routine occurrence. It is a miracle. And we should savour it before the bureaucrats sanitise it into a statistic.
So raise a glass of that cheap airport gin to the pilot, the crew, and the 11 lives that were saved not by systems but by a man with the right stuff. And if you ever find yourself in a metal tube falling out of the sky, pray that it is a British pilot at the controls. Preferably one with a moustache and a memory of the Atlantic.
