Given that not so many years ago, every time I'd touch foot in a plane the one vital accessory I'd need would be a sick bag, it was with some trepidation that I took up the offer from my old boss to share his lunchtime hobby - a quick jaunt around the Bay Area in a propeller-driven single-engine plane.
I've never been in an airport that small and informal. No check-ins, no passport control, no duty free. No nothing beyond the whiteness of the planes standing out on the slightly dishevelled tarmac.
Dave had got there earlier and handled the initial preparations, so we were pretty much ready to go. I clamber up onto the wing and hoisted myself into the cockpit. Once inside, I'm struck by the resemblance with a regular car. There are obviously a lot more controls, but in terms of the cabin space I'm sure I've seen much bigger vehicles hurtling down Highway 280. Dave completes the final preparations while I adjust my headset and make sure my legs are well clear of the peddles below (planes this size have dual controls).
Negotiations with the diminutive air traffic control tower are made and we take our position awaiting take-off. Dave has always struck me as one of the most composed individuals I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, so his calm, measured conversation with the guys on the ground goes someway to assuage the butterflies humming around my stomach and throat.
And then it happens. Our time is up and we move onto the runway. The moment before the acceleration reminds me of that peace you feel staring at a solitary pool moments before you plunge in. As we start moving down the runway, again I have more the feeling of being in a car picking up speed after a stop signal (not even necessarily a sports car - the cockpit is too high up for that). But suddenly, at a speed much lower than I expect, our nose points upwards and we leave the ground. Now, the feeling of being in a car passes. We climb, we climb and then we tip to the right. The tipping is pretty severe, and I feel like the plane is slipping away from under me but as we approach the waterline of the bay, Dave rights the plane again. We curl upwards into the sky until finally we meet our cruising altitude.
There's a peace and serenity up there that I never really expected. I can see the clear line of the 280 Highway snaking through parched hills - my daily commute looking no more than an ant track up the bark of a tree. The beautiful pine-covered landscape dotted with small azure squares of dot com mansion swimming pools. There's a fade across the landscape: starting with dense vegetation near the temperate coast giving way to the bronze dust-colored hills of the more arid interior.
We make our way towards Half Moon Bay - but as always it wears its tight shroad of puffy white fog. Such a distinguished (distinguishable) weather line. This same fog continues north up the coast as far as the city and so scotches any plans to sneak a bird's-eye-view of our home in the city.
As this pic reveals, at this point things were pretty relaxed. No other traffic around us and clement weather conditions meant there was little to do other than keep us floating. And at this point Dave offered the controls over to me for a few instants.
Thoughts of sending the plane into an irreversible downward spiral play on my mind and I realize things aren't quite as effortless as Dave makes them appear. Still, I can hold the plane steady and even take us over to the right at one point. A small Cessna appears on the horizon and Dave takes the plane back under his expert control.
Having foresaken the idea of heading to the city, we veer inland. The most imposing structures on the peninsula tract linking San Francisco to Silicon Valley are an Ikea and red-bricked Stanford University, facing off like a metaphor for the interplay between academic and business life that is so prominent here in the Bay Area.
We head across the bay - the salt plains rimming the bay producing the most striking rust-coloured glow - and track through the Sunol Grade, where the conurbation gives way to cracked beige hills sparingly dotted with hardy vegetation. The towering Mount Diablo comes into view as we pass over the East Bay towns of Dublin and Pleasanton.
We file off to the South and Dave makes small talk with air control at Livermore airport before veering back along the path we came. As we cross the bay one last time, Dave makes preparations for the descent. We have clearance and find our place in the queue. We circle and get in line with the runway. We drop the flaps which in turn drops our speed and altitude. I marvel at Dave's technical ability to keep our plane on course, as with precision we lurch downwards and there's a final adjustment before the tires paw at the tarmac once more. All too quickly this Friday lunchtime joyride comes to an end.
The plane is duly parked and put to bed under its covers, ready for the next adventure. I make the journey back to work down 101, and I can't help picturing what this journey looks like from above. I am also slightly amazed how far I've come since my childhood penchant for in-flight sick bags - I'd happily take another journey over the bay, a serene distance from the melee below.
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