Do You Have Life Insurance?

“The Big Picture”, by Elisabeth Grant**

In other blogs I relate my flying experience with the Royal Air Force Special Reserves for 2 years 1973-75 (Kicked Out of The Nest and Come in Number 6!). During that time I loved the romance of getting on my modest little Honda 50cc motorbike and riding the 6 or so miles to Glasgow Airport. This was where the squadron was based. One day I arrived to be greeted by my flying instructor with “Do you have life insurance?”. As an 18/19 year old it was not anything I had given any thought to and replied in the negative. ‘Good’, he said, ‘we are going to do spins today’. Now as part of aerobatic training we had to practice inducing spins and usually did maybe 4 or so ‘spins’. It is a procedure that puts the aircraft completely out of control. You are basically falling out of the sky with each ‘spin’ losing several hundred feet in height. Thankfully the Bulldog T Mk 1 was a training aircraft and was designed to get out of them but we had to learn the procedure. The Flight Lieutenant said today we were going to try as many spins as possible, maybe 8 or more. Inherently risky as we would come out of spin very close to ground. I guess that explained his earlier question to me. 

Off we went. We climbed to the maximum height possible for this small single engine plane, about 10,000 feet. Then we flew straight and level but shut the throttle. This meant our forward speed was slowing. The aim was to reach stall point which as I recall was about 60 knots. As we approached this speed in order to maintain our height I had to have a steeper inclination (attitude). The breaking up of airflow over the wings causes the plane to shudder. This is the telltale sign the plane was about to stall i.e. lose lift. Just as that happens I pull the stick fully back and put-on full right rudder. The plane then is induced into a nose dive spin, falling at a tremendous rate. It was extremely disorienting and the sky needed to be clear. The only way to gauge how many times you had turned was by counting each time the sun flashed across your eyes. Cannot remember how many turns we actually did on that occasion. I do remember the traumatic regaining of control of the aircraft. Stick fully forward and full left rudder. She would then come out of the spin. However the disconcerting thing then was that having the stick fully forward meant we came out of the spin perpendicular to the rapidly approaching ground below. It was then a blood draining pull back on the stick to come out of the dive, only applying full power when nose crossed the horizon. It’s not for the faint hearted and glad I always did this with an instructor.

I was cleared to do solo other aerobatic manoeuvres like barrel rolls, stall turns, steep turns and loops. Loops were great fun when you would line up the plane’s nose with a straight line ground feature such as a road or motorway. Then dive at full power to 140 knots and pull hard up on the stick to go up and over. A good loop meant that the nose would return to the same point you had started with. I also liked doing a half loop and then doing a 180 degree roll at top of loop. It’s a handy way to go in the opposite direction!

The local flying area, Loch Lomond area and the Trossachs.

A lot of the training involved practicing emergency procedures. One such was a fire or engine failure where I practiced forced landings. Some instructors took delight in pulling the throttle back just after take off at less than 500 feet. For a few seconds as the plane was descending you then had to verbalise to instructor where and how you would land. Runway was not an option at that height as couldn’t turn. Could only hope it never happened for real as other choices are very limited beside a busy airport. Once satisfied he would then tell you to return to full power. From my notes I see it was always being drummed into you that flying was 90% looking out of the cockpit, not at instruments

Most of the time though engine failures were practiced at considerable height and I was cleared to practice this solo. One such time I shut the throttle at several thousand feet. I had to gauge the rough wind direction on the ground. Then find a longish looking clear field I could land into the wind. Make sure there’s no pylons or other such structures nearby. Once committed to your landing spot do not change on way down! Easier said than done when you are looking at fields maybe a few miles away and other, seemingly better options, start to appear. 

All seemed well. I was gently gliding down in a slow spiral and at about 2,000 feet working out just where I would turn for final approach to my chosen field. The idea was to descend to a few hundred feet and then full throttle again. On final approach with field ahead I then applied full throttle. Nothing happened, instead the engine started to cough and splutter. For a moment I thought this was going to be a real emergency landing and it didn’t look very pleasant. With probably only a few seconds before impact the engine kicked back in. What had happened? I had neglected a key check on way down. Clear the engine every thousand feet on descent. Being so caught up on other procedures I had forgotten the fact the engine needed caring for. The fuel/ air mixture is very different at 10,000 feet than at ground level. I can’t remember if I reported this near accident. Suspect not as it would not have looked good. A chastening experience and ever thankful that the engine fired up.

My scrappy flying notes from this time. Hope it was not indicative of my flying!

Another engine failure procedure is to practice glide landings onto runway. Again I was permitted to do this solo. On the downwind leg of runway I ease back the throttle before making an early turn into the final approach. The difference from a much shallower powered approach is that it feels as if you are almost looking down at the runway, not along it. The attitude is very steep and quite disorienting height-wise. Normal landings you were told to flare (round out just before landing by lifting nose) when you ‘feel the grass around your ears’. On a glide the steepness means that the flare needs to be got just right. Too early and you would loose lift and drop to the ground (stall). Pull up too late and you would ram into the ground. This time I flared much too soon, stalled and dropped the last 30 feet or so onto the runway. I violently bounced 3 times before regaining control. Still I had landed(!). My main thought naively was that the control tower had not seen. No word was said to me initially but this time be sure my sins would find me out.The squadron engineer reported that the g meter*** had recorded 8g. Was fortunate that I hadn’t knocked myself out. Wing rivets had popped and the plane would be out of service for a week or so, all because of me. From my notes it seems my fault was not to practice glide landings in a very strong headwind. My guess is flaring is then even more difficult to judge.

You might think that the flying instructors were a steely, cool bunch of pilots. Indeed they were accomplished, one had done a tour as a Red Arrows**** pilot. However instructing me could frighten even them. On one occasion I was first learning glide landings with an instructor. So focussed on what I had to do that I didn’t hear my instructors repeated, increasingly frantic order for him to take the control stick. We sat tandem with each of us having a control stick. He later said I was rigidly holding it and not moving. For a time he couldn’t wrest control until I snapped out of what was a kind of frozen fear. 

Most of the above manoeuvres were inherently dangerous and required quick thinking. Mixing this with my lack of skill and experience did result in errors or omissions on my part. Thankful that these did not lead to accidents. You the reader are probably thankful I never became a commercial pilot! Did other trainee pilots make similar mistakes or have near misses? I don’t know as the macho atmosphere of an aircrew mess did not lend itself to admitting any mistakes. My guess is instructors had a few stories to tell but they weren’t saying. Despite my giving perhaps an accident prone impression it was anything but. Safety was drilled into everything. It was a highly disciplined training environment in which those learning were being equipped. Better to learn to feel the fear, cope with stress and make decisions quickly with no regrets. Backing that ethos with a tough little aircraft that could take a lot of abuse I think made for the best form of equipping.

Looking at the bigger picture of my life I have made mistakes. Sometimes I hide them, sometimes I am found out. I make errors of judgement, regret things and occasionally feel I have crash landed. All too often I am focussed on the instrument panel of daily routines and feelings. Neglecting to care regularly for the engine of my life has led to spiritual and physical exhaustion. I fail to look out of the cockpit of my own little world at the bigger picture outside. I need direction, orientation and encouragement. 

Do I have life insurance? Well, a document assuring me of provision for loved ones in event of some accident befalling me is one thing. Having someone always sitting tandem and guiding me through this wonderful and puzzling life is another.

Jesus answered, ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No-one comes to the Father except through me’.

John 14 verse 6 (NIVUK)

** See Instagram

*** A g-meter measures the amount of acceleration or deceleration (-ve) force. Someone experiencing 2g would feel twice their weight due to gravity.

**** Royal Air Force Aerobatic Team

City of Many Faces

MV Logos berthed in river Hooghly, Calcutta.

There are many great world cities each with their own character and peculiarities. All shaped by its history and people. To spend several weeks or months in any metropolis leaves a lasting impression from the particular time visited. One such place for me is Calcutta (now named Kolkata) in West Bengal, India. 

My first visit was for a few weeks on board the vessel MV Logos in Feb/Mar 1978 (see my bio or another post here for more background if interested). I was working as a seaman and our ship was berthed at the ‘man-of war’ jetty on the river Hooghly which runs through the city. The river as an arm of the Ganges has religious importance to Hindus. It was a strange experience to watch garlanded dead bodies on rafts floating up and down the river on the fast flowing tides. The crows sitting on them were doing more than hitching a lift. On one occasion a body got wedged by our vessel. As a deckhand it was not a nice experience to dislodge. 

My second time in the city was to prepare for a visit of the said MV Logos for about 3 months at end of 1981. The work involved getting permissions from government and port authorities for the public to visit what was then the ‘world’s largest bookship’. It also included publicising and organising many types of events both on board and on shore such as conferences and meetings with churches and civic organisations. With the ship’s crew of 140 from about 25 nations there also were a lot supplies also to arrange. It called for interaction with a wide range of people at all levels of society.

Actually living in the city instead of on board a ship meant you experienced life as a local. My accommodation was in the grounds of the Carey Baptist church and Calcutta Bible College. Both were in the same compound in the heart of the city. Initially I stayed in the church manse and later got a room in the Bible college. The church was named after William Carey, said to be ‘the father of modern Protestant missions’. A one time shoemaker from England he went to West Bengal in 1793 where he had enormous influence as a Bible translator, educator and social reformist. His life example subsequently inspired many missionaries to go to far flung places. In the Carey church is a plaque stating that Adoniram Judson was baptised here on his way to Burma (Myanmar). Like Carey he was a pioneer, one of the first American Protestant missionaries. Anyhow enough church history. Suffice to say that living there almost 200 years later impacted on me. 

The church pastor and his wife were very hospitable. As well as leading a busy church with many programmes and outreaches they also hosted a constant stream of visitors to the city for both meals and accommodation. In addition they had a radio programme broadcasting in Bengali which generated interest in Bible correspondence courses.  

In my Bible College accommodation the principal asked if I would do Bible studies with a Thai Buddhist monk named Pariyat. Thus began several weeks of studies in the gospel of John with this man who was on a pilgrimage to find the truth. It was a special time exploring the Bible with our very different backgrounds and worldviews. There was something very challenging and sincere to me about his forsaking everything to travel in search of the truth. I pray he found the ‘Word made flesh’. 

When I moved out of the manse of the Carey church I had to fend for myself much more as far as meals were concerned. My favourite was a Tibetan restaurant a short walk away from the compound. Not too spicy and with more Chinese type food it suited me. At times I was the only customer in this small restaurant which also appeared to be home for the family who ran it. It made for familiarity. Having a fixed menu and becoming a regular customer for evening meals helped both the family and me.

Aside from buses the main public transport around the city was the trams. I don’t recall using trains in the city, only out of town. The trams were a carryover from colonial times. In ramshackle condition it was amazing that they lasted so long in a bustling city of then 9 million. During my time there a metro underground was being built. It took many years before completion. It was disconcerting to see major infrastructure projects like that where the excavation was being done by hand. A human chain of women carrying soil in baskets on their heads.

If needing private transport it was either by taxi or by rickshaw. India’s economy at the time was quite closed to the rest of the world. This included cars and so taxis were nearly always of one type, the ubiquitous Ambassador car. Indian made and based on a 1950s style Morris Oxford. In Calcutta there were no cycle rickshaws which was common elsewhere in India. Instead it was men running barefoot pulling the rickshaw by hand. Sometimes with two passengers and trips could be for several miles. The rickshaw pullers who did this gruelling work through the choking fumes of grid locked traffic did not live long. The cost for taxi or rickshaw was roughly the same. Due to that I preferred to give custom to the rickshaw wallah as thought they were the neediest. After a while I was convicted when one fellow couldn’t pull me over the long Howrah bridge that crossed the river. Hopping off I walked alongside and didn’t take them any longer.

The tension of living with the injustices of poverty was not easy to adjust to. I would carry coins and give to the continuous stream of beggars that a foreigner attracted. The margins between life and death for many were wafer thin. At times the sheer desperation of people affected me. The following is an extract from a letter I wrote at the time…

It’s  10pm  as  I  sit  here  in  my  room  in  Calcutta  Bible  College  –  all  day  it  has  been  raining causing  the  streets  to  become  more  chaotic  than  usual.  If  one  wants  to  study  humanity  or 
different  social  conditions  then  Calcutta  must  be  an  ideal  place. The  other  day  a  small  boy and  his  mother  were  crying  out  in  the street  and I was moved  to  give  them  something. I hesitated and  when  eventually I  reached  their  area, they  had  gone. The  Lord  seemed  to  say true  charity  must  be  spontaneous, without  reasoning.  Who  should  one  give  to  if  confronted by a dozen beggars daily  from  the  deformed  and  limbless  to  tiny  children?  My  observation  is that  most  foreigners, myself  included, after  a  few  months  develop  an  insensitivity  to  our environment. The  majority  of  us  live  our  own  lives  oblivious  to  the  real  needs  of  those around.  In  many  evangelical  circles  social  action  is  not  a  very  popular  word  but it  seems  to be  a  desperately  needed  element  in  our  gospel  message  and  witness. These  issues  I  share  with you  as  they  weigh  on  my  heart  at  the  moment.  (How  do  you  respond  to  a  ragged  man  with one  arm  and  no  legs  rolling  along  the  street?).”  10 Dec 1981

The city’s needy has inspired many works of compassion with the best known being Mother Theresa’s Sisters of Charity. During my time there I also encountered some less famous but just as worthy charitable works. Years later I found reading ‘City of Joy’ (by Dominique Lapierre)** helpful in describing the city’s economic and social conditions.

During the day I was based in the magnificent offices of the esteemed shipping agent Mackinnon, Mackenzie & Co. It was built on a grand scale with cavernous high ceilings. It felt like working in St. Paul’s cathedral. One of many beautiful buildings in the city that were a legacy of fine, yet usually crumbling, colonial architecture. Calcutta was the capital of British India till 1911.

I had a big desk in the open plan ‘cathedral’ area as it was deemed to be safer from theft. Without my arranging I seemed to have been appointed a dedicated ‘chai’ (tea) wallah. Unlike the normal sellers of chai on the streets these men were dressed in finery appropriate to the office surroundings. Elaborate turbans and bright uniforms with lots of braid. My appointed man stood at a distance along with others but would often be looking my way. It made me nervous as the slightest expression on my part would instigate action. He would then appear with a tray to serve chai. If I had visitors that of course necessitated chai without any prompting on my part. His aim was to wrestle as much tips from me in the day as possible. That was his job and I had mine. 

Preparing a visit of MV Logos to a port or country was at times high profile. To gain maximum publicity we would try and invite some VIP to officially inaugurate our visit at an opening ceremony. To this end one of our local committee arranged for he and I to have a half hour audience with the governor of West Bengal. It felt intimidating being escorted in a golden lift by another resplendently dressed individual. The governor put us at ease in the sumptuous surroundings and was happy to officiate at our opening on board ship.

It was not all work and it was good to find places to relax. One such was the Maidan. A large green park space near the river where cricket mad inhabitants would practice and others like myself stroll. Away from the heaving humanity of the built up areas. To watch cricket as the day cooled provided a haven. 

Kolkata, city of many faces.

** There is also a film of same name, based on the book.

*** If on Instagram you can see more of Elisabeth’s work at

The Elephant in The Room

Like the proverbial elephant in the room the pandemic and it’s effects on physical, mental and spiritual health cannot be ignored. I thought writing a blog in these times one topic I would safely ignore is the virus. There is so much in the news and most conversation is permeated by it that people don’t need to hear more. However this elephant at times suffocates and takes up too much of my mental space. It needs addressing in some way so here goes. 

Late last year I wrote to friends some of my ‘lockdown musings’. With a few variations it largely applies today…

Quiet evenings; unhurried; fogginess of mind (brain fog); stress despite little activity; furtive shopping; playing guitar; waiting on God; preciousness of relationships; impatience; news overload; irrational fear; auto distancing from people; cleanliness; blurring of the particular and the routine; Zoom and video meetings; online church; discouragement; crosswords; newspapers; clear, blue plane-free skies; sweet birdsong; phone calls; cancelled trips; cancelled races; freedom of trail / mountain running; walks alone, together with Elisabeth and with friends; envying people with gardens; good books, podcasts and music; family fears; solitary but not alone; frustration; weariness; disquiet; sleep; noise of social media; a different future; peace; mortality; resurrection; Ignatian retreat and use of imagination; annoyed with myself; anger at rule breakers; gratitude; face masks; picnics in friend’s gardens; rare meetings with relatives; indecisive; becoming ‘buddy’ to two overseas students; short stays at friends’ cottages between lockdowns; amazing 42+ year Zoom reunion with former colleagues; guilt at things not done.  

Such a bundle of experiences and contrasting feelings! I have much to be thankful for. For some the pandemic has brought much misery, sorrow and grief. With your unique circumstances you will have your own list.

It would be nice to say that these days I wake up, jump out of bed and ‘seize the day’. However there are times when I lie awake and think wearily of doing exactly the same thing as yesterday. Slight variations, maybe a different walk route from day before! Or a short car trip for some errand or different household chores. More dangerously I might imagine starting on a minor DIY project. Rarely enjoyed and usually filled with frustration. Going through this mental exercise hundreds of times the past year there is little that is different or new that motivates me in doing these things again. Except discipline. 

Discipline will get me out of bed. However another less healthy stimulus to activity is a misplaced sense of guilt if not busy. I initially thought that lockdown offered an attractive possibility. More time to slow down and just ‘be’. However the paradox is I often trade this opportunity by filling my life at the altar of ‘poor quality’ activity.

Many of us here in the UK are eagerly observing the beginnings of spring, the season of hope. It seems to bolster the desire for long awaited freedoms from lockdown. Tentatively daring to imagine a post pandemic world where that elephant takes much less space and we can breath easier. 

A long time ago king David wrote probably the best loved and most well known of the Psalms. His voice rings true today as an antidote (vaccine?) to my frenetic nature. Best read slowly.

God, my shepherd!

    I don’t need a thing. You have bedded me down in lush meadows,

    you find me quiet pools to drink from.

True to your word, you let me catch my breath

    and send me in the right direction. 

Psalm 23 vs 1-3 (Message translation)

Who’s in Charge?

MV LOGOS at sea

For some years my home was on the MV Logos, the world’s first floating book exhibition ship. I started my time there as an AB (‘able bodied’) seaman. Able-bodied sounds as if all that was needed was brawn. Possibly true. There were many days chipping rust and painting, handling of ropes thicker than arms, hauling tarpaulins and other chores the lot of seamen the world over. 

When I first joined the ship in Oct. 1977 in Marseille, France the captain was a much loved and respected George Paget. He had come to serve on this most unusual of vessels where all, including he as captain, were unpaid volunteers. During my first year on board incredibly we celebrated his 50th year at sea*. Much of his life he had been on vessels ploughing back and forth from the UK to India. 

Captain Paget had a great love of India but he was also very English. We were not married at the time but Elisabeth as part of the crew worked in the pantry. She recalls how if there was afternoon tea requested to the captain’s cabin it was served in china cups. 

He was known extensively around the ports of India and had the nickname ‘holy’ Paget for his Christian convictions. I think this was said with affection and respect. It was rumoured he knew every rock between England and India. This legendary claim was made clear to me as a deckhand steering the ship at night through the Red Sea, en route to India. The duty officer on the bridge told me to make no deviation from course as the captain would wake sensing something was not right.

When the vessel came to India I was still working as deckhand and training for a certificate in steering. So it was that I was on the bridge when we were entering a certain Indian port. As is normal we would take on a pilot to bring us alongside our berth. Captain Paget told me not to obey the pilot but to listen to his orders. This seemed rather odd as we were engaging a pilot for his expertise in local navigation or so I thought. However Paget knew this pilot was partial to a drink, or two. His judgement could not be relied upon. I soon began to see what he meant. Every order the pilot gave was extreme… 

Full ahead…full astern… hard a port…hard a starboard’.

Each command was immediately countermanded by Paget giving gentler orders

‘Half ahead… 10 degrees port’ etc.

Needless to say I obeyed the captain.

LOGOS in Greek means Word and is one of the ‘words’ used in the New Testament for Jesus (for example John 1 verses 1-3). Towards the end of his life Capt. Paget often said “I want to go to the real LOGOS so that the young ones can go to this LOGOS**”

* This was his last year. He left LOGOS in June 1978 and died later that year.

** Extract from a tribute by Philip and Rosemary Morris, 10th Nov 1978