You have to be a local.

You have to be a local.

 

Antigua.  VC Bird International airport, the home base of LIAT, the acronym for Leeward Islands Air Transport.  LIAT had just been taken over by the UK based charter airline who were my employers.  LIAT had a less than pleasant safety record and their continual breaking of the Britten Norman Islanders on landing was a frequent source of worry to the UK based bean counters.

Four of us were despatched to Antigua to ascertain the cause of the problem and after several trips flying with the local crews it was apparent that the nose of the aircraft was frequently never raised high enough on the last stage of touchdown.  If the nosewheel touches before the mains, an episode of ‘wheelbarrowing’ occurs and directional control is severely diminished usually causing an ungainly and unintended excursion off the runway and damage to the aircraft.

Our attempts to explain and correct this issue resulted in scornful dismissals from the pilots concerned.  However, there was one American gentleman, a retired DC6 captain who spent his day drinking Wadadli, a distinctly unpalatable local beer.  This had to be drunk very fast and very cold to have any semblance of refreshment.  Wayne Norman seemed to be immune to the stuff and drank steadily from around breakfast right through to eleven at night.  Wayne knew exactly why the locals were bending the aircraft but our attempts to correct the deficiencies caused him a great deal of amusement.

“You guys are just the wrong folks to tell them,” he would say.  “Ain’t like you’re locals.  Hiding to nothing is what you’re on.”

He would pause to pour another massive slug of the evil brew down his throat.

“Them local boys never flew anything bigger than a puddle jumper before the Islanders.  Never been proved but most of them got their ratings with the help of a bundle of Uncle Sam’s folding currency” 

Another unhealthy swallow.

“Also, they don’t appreciate the attention you boys are getting from the local women.  You’re throwing money around like…”

There was an ominous crackling sound followed by Wayne slowly disappearing under the table.  A large, weatherbeaten hand reached from the depths and grabbed the beer mug from the table.  Startled, we looked under the table to see Wayne sitting on the floor surrounded by splintered wood but still holding his drink.

“As I was tellin’ y’all,”  He took another restorative swig, “They ain’t goin’ to take no advice from you guys.  No siree Bob.”

Pounding footsteps on the wooden floor announced the swift approach of the owner of the bar, a large and imposing local lady and a support party consisting of the bartender, a waitress, the chef and three dogs.

“Wayne Norman, get your white ass off my floor.  You done broken my furniture.  That chair been in this here bar for thirty years.”

“Not surprised it broke then.”  He paused for refreshment.  “Life expired is what we used to call that in the aviation business.  Looks to me like it could be FUBAR”

“FUBAR?” she said quizzically.

“Fuc**d Up Beyond All Repair” we chorused.

“Don’t you be getting involved,” she said picking up a chair leg and waving it in our direction with more than a hint of menace.  “This is between Wayne and me.  Wayne, I telled you. Get your ass off the floor. Upsetting customers is what you’re doing.”

“Piss off Yolanda,” said Wayne.  “Down here at least I ain’t goin’ to fall no further.  If you get me another chair and another beer I will give your request my consideration and advise you of my response.  Otherwise… Hey! Don’t you be hittin’ me with that there chair leg.”

Eventually, some semblance of order was restored and peace once again descended on Yolanda’s Retreat.

Sadly, our attempts to solve the accident rate came to naught.  It took a lengthy investigation by the East Caribbean Civil Aviation Authority to resolve the problem and order further training on type for the offending pilots.

That was, I suppose, an obvious solution because, after all the ECCAA are locals.

Last time I was in Antigua, the beer was still as bad.