The weather at Tatoi Airport is an uncertain—slate-grey. Low scudding clouds race north-eastward, like thoughts untamed. Morning has finally arrived, and the sun is no more than a white, pale smudge behind a steel stratocumulus canopy. I stand alone on the apron, feeling the wind biting at my fleece jacket, checklist in hand, gazing up at the scattered, ragged ceiling. There is a clearing ahead, with two hours' worth of visual meteorological conditions, according to the latest forecast. Not the best of flying weather. Not the worst either. Just the kind that demands presence—real presence—not just of eyes and hands, but of soul.

I’ve flown this route before. Tatoi to Santorini—north to south, from the bustling heartbeat of Attica to the ancient caldera of Atlantean myth, but never with a sky preying so intently on my inner movements.

I run my fingers across the cold, red and white cowl of the Cessna, checking its bolts and the overall shape of the bird. This 172 isn’t exactly a showpiece. It is certainly not fast, and probably not even deemed elegant, or ambitious as a machine of the air. But it is faithful, solid and strong; a design of the 1950s that has seen very few changes to date on account of its unparalleled reliability. This 40-year-old aircraft carries within the frame of its form a multitude of aerial stories, and doubtless several bold accounts of airmanship. Now, supine, it is parked on its tricycle gear, yielding in mild protest to the gusts of wind, a silent sentinel on the apron. The aircraft’s posture reflects the opening poise of traditional martial forms ‘kata’— its wings, two white, fuel-filled aerofoils, hold simple elegance in their curves, attesting to a durability that has witnessed their decades of use. The aircraft rests now on the tarmac apron, silent, full of hidden nuance, awaiting an exponent who will give themselves over to it completely.

In my forty years of treading the path of the Warrior Arts, and close to twenty years as an aspiring aviator, I have learned deeply the necessity of discipline and of humility on the quest to true learning. The exponent of any authentic martial discipline must bend their will, blending with the laws of gravity and with the tenets of nature, seeking eloquence in articulate brevity and reticence of action. Flying an aircraft is, in this respect, no different from those life-death elements of walking the martial path of Bushin.

I circle the aircraft slowly, completing my external inspection. Fuel checked, tanks topped to tabs. Oil, 6.5 quarts. Control surfaces—clear and unencumbered. The tie-downs come off, like symbolic cords of attachment. The aircraft is mine now.

Clambering into the tight cockpit always feels like coming home. Harness snug. Doors latched. The faint tang of avgas still residing in my nostrils from fuelling the aircraft subsides as the mildly pungent smell of worn leather, tanned over the decades by sunlight trapped in a plexiglass screen, greets me. I glance over at the empty right seat smiling inwardly. Today will be yet another solo flight. Alone in the Heavens. For so many flights, that right seat has remained unoccupied.  Yet it carries weight anyway, I reflect, feeling a warm wash of gratitude that is addressed to all of my flight instructors; men who have sat patiently in this very right seat, or a similar one on other aircraft, selflessly offering their knowledge, teaching me their time-worn skills and kindling my deep love of aviation. My mind shifts momentarily to a different category of devotion, paying silent homage to my beloved martial arts teachers, whose traditions echo in my breathing, my posture, in my intention. I whisper my ritual, silent prayer to the Sentinel who watches over all aviators, the Archangel Michael, that he guides my hand on this flight.

Master switch on. Beacon pulses red on the tail. Mixture full rich. Throttle cracked. Primer locked. Then the magnetos engage.

“Clear prop.”

The starter key twists right igniting the engine, and she coughs, sputters, and finally comes to life with a shaking purr. The aircraft jumps to life out of its slumber, a bow drawn smoothly and held in the breathless space before its release.

Avionics on, and a visual flow system with checklist in hand, to start the radios, power up the GPS system and set the transponder to standby. With a finger pushing the red comm button, I call up the tower on 122.65 giving them my callsign. The ritual is always the same on the radios. A short message stating who I am, where I am, what I want. That is aviation’s timeworn communication ‘poem’, as one instructor had drilled into my psyche. The reply is curt, charged with vibrant static over the radio. Runway 21 in use, QNH 1004. My fingers respond, turning the small black dial on my altimeter to set the barometric pressure. 

Prior to the flight, I have read the latest METAR, and the terminal aerodrome forecast. The wind was reported as variable from160 at 12 knots, gusting 18, visibility is 6 kilometres, and the ceiling is at 3,500 feet, broken. Marginal. Not ideal. But I’m legal. I’m ready. The flight plan has been filed, and I certainly feel fit to fly. That old pilot’s adage nevertheless echoes in my mind: ‘take-offs are optional, landing are mandatory.’  I finish my checklist and cast a long glace around the aircraft for obstacles before setting off down the taxiway from the apron.

I add power to break away, and an initial jolt of complaining rubber yields to taxiing that is slow and deliberate. Each movement is reminiscent of a tai chi form — a graceful circle traced not just in motion but in intention. Some interruptions as I taxi: a quick break-check and testing the veracity of the turn-slip indicator readings. When I reach the threshold of the active runway, I hold short, turning the aircraft into the wind as I proceed with the engine runup. My right hand slowly applies power whilst my feet press down firmly on the rudder pedals, applying brakes.  Magneto checks; first left then right. Bring the key back to its ‘both’ position. Next eyes scan the oil temperature and pressure and suction gauge. All in the green. A moment of stillness. Reduce power, add carburettor heat, and observe the RPMs. More ritual moves, checking for aircraft surface movement. Flight controls check ‘free and correct’. Verify the integrity of the cabin, its windows and doors closed and locked. I am finally ready to take to the air. My finger fumbles its way to the red comm button and pushes down with purpose.

“SX-AEW, holding short Runway 21, request line-up.”

The response is quick and welcome. I receive line-up clearance, and my iron bird picks its way across the threshold to align with the white runway centreline markings. The fuselage groans at a stab of crosswind. I make a few final adjustments to the heading indicator, check the fuel selector and magnetos and my finger toggles the red mic switch.

“SX-AEW ready for departure, VFR to Santorini, first point Holargos 2500 feet.”

“SX-AEW, Tatoi Tower, cleared for take-off, Runway 21, wind 160 at 15 knots, gusting 18, turn left after take-off, report passing 2,000 feet.”

Rudder pedals feel firm underfoot. The yoke is still twisting heavy, protesting against sporadic wind gusts. I turn the yoke slightly into the direction of the wind and glance at the engine gauges once more—all in the green. I breathe once, deeply. The martial arts speak of the necessity of zanshin—that state of perfect awareness that precedes motion. It is a realm of neither thought nor action. Zanshin holds the promise of explosive purpose, wrapped within a cocoon of a relaxed alertness.

With graceful, forward motion, I gently push in the lever to full throttle. The aircraft responds as propellor blades bite voraciously at air molecules in an invisible, greedy blur. The piston engine’s sound rises in pitch as the runway begins its acceleration towards me. A  sensation of pressure in the small of my back and the tremors from the rolling wheels on my spine attest to the aircraft’s growing velocity. The airspeed indicator springs to life, as an afterthought of this motion, creeping rightwards from the dynamic pressure of air molecules on the pitot tube. Some gentle back-pressure on the yoke to rotate the aircraft skyward, and a feeling of lightness begins to grow—first in the nose, then in the main gear. The aircraft comes unstuck from the shackles of Earth and hurtles into the element for which it was created.

The miracle of flight!

I climb out of Tatoi, leaving the runway to bleed off to my six-o clock, checking my airspeed and watching the lazy hand of the altimeter winding its way rightwards. A quick glance beyond the screen reveals the sprawling city of Athens off to my right; it is a studded concrete tapestry that unfolds underneath the heavy cloud base, enlivened by a mosaic of light that protrudes momentarily to spill out on the ground below. The city is a melange of green and white, punctuating out above fading hues and grey concrete structures below my aircraft. The climb rate is modest. My RPM holds at 2450. I trim the nose for 80 knots, let the aircraft rise like a quiet thought, and level out at my designated altitude of 2500 feet. I thumb the red button and call Tatoi tower over Holargos, reporting my position. The controller’s steady voice affords me my next frequency and releases me, so I switch the standby frequency across to active to speak to Athina TMA on 124.025. I fumble a crisp greeting, giving my callsign to the new designator, ready to recite the old ‘poem’ once more. TMA Control responds with a fresh, hurried female voice. I say my piece and the controller replies professionally and curtly, giving me a new barometric pressure that I twist into the altimeter. Then, having responded with the correct readback, I settle into the routine of the sky, my eyes gazing across the city to the dark, Saronic Gulf.

The cloud deck is lowish, scattered at around 3,500, with several broken layers above. I steer between wisps of visible precipitation, ducking shafts of light and the drum of drizzle, chasing a corridor of lighter grey to find whispers of blue that are not promised to last. The Acropolis peels back into obscurity, and below I finally get my feet ‘wet’ over water.

Below me, the Saronic Gulf spreads in folds of dark steel and platinum. The martial artist learns early that beauty and danger often wear the same face. This weather, like an opponent, can be deceptive—perceived softness laced with a latent threat.

My mind flitters to a rainy summer afternoon in Japan, back in 1992. I recall textured, flaxen tatami patterns and the soft aroma of incense hanging heavy in the charged air.

‘Hajime!’ Sensei had commanded, and combat had ensued. Where rain hissed through bamboo leaves outside the time between each falling raindrop seemed an eternity of opportunity. Hidden within this timelessness; mushin-no-shin - The ‘Mind of No Mind’. Revealed within combat— the life-death element. Life hanging by a fragile string. Not just in the dojo, but in every second of this fleeting existence. Every strike measured, every breath pregnant with purpose.

“There is no storm,” Sensei had mused after the trial. “Only the noise of the chattering wind. The storm is always within!”

I recall a haiku poem that I had penned awestruck as a much younger man. It was a poem wrought for my sword; a 15th-century-katana that had witnessed combat from as far back as the Sengoku Jidai.

‘Deep in the cold blade!

Light of the Earth, dancing clouds

Amidst silver storms.’ 

 

Such echoes of whirling clouds forged within folded steel propel me forward now, across the Saronic Gulf, suspended in the fullness of the charged air.

Abeam Kea, the cloud layer thickens a little, but its base is higher now, so I level off at 4,500 feet, threading a path between the swirling ragged columns of vapour. I fly by reference to the instruments now—airspeed, heading, altitude. The world outside becomes abstract, just as my haiku of the cosmos I had discovered from peering deep into the folding swirls of tamahagane steel from whence my sword was born. Each correction is a response to the subtle cues of nature. The slip-skid ball dances slightly. Aileron input. Rudder trim. Scan. Breathe. Adjust. Be one with the aircraft; an extension of it. – First aviate then navigate…

I spy an airliner on its decent into Athens—it is breaking the cloud base off to my right, barely discernible, and moving quickly. I imagine the world of my airline pilot brothers—pressurized, automated, detached. My flight is not like theirs. I am closer to the air, in touch with every buffeting gust, every updraft and downdraft along the Aegean ridges.

The sea and sky blend at the horizon into an indeterminant ancient grey. The Cyclades line up as charcoal silhouettes—first Kythnos, then Serifos, then Sifnos. Ios and Santorini are still invisible to my eye, but discernible on my electronic screen, and I feel the assurance that my flight path will inevitably lead me to their encounter. I fly not so much by sight now, but more by a careful act of navigation through the vortex of the elements.

Flying in such conditions is not unlike fighting in a dark room, and yet it also follows very different parameters. In armed combat, the warrior must give in to heightened senses, relying on their training, whilst the mind remains a vessel empty of intruding thought. Flight must also be founded on rigorous training, with a mind empty of stray thoughts. However, the aviator must go beyond the martial artist, unlearning their reliance on earthbound senses, and once vision is lost, rely solely on his instruments. As with the martial artist, the aviator must feel the movement of air molecules, pre-empting sudden change, keeping ahead of unfolding events. The aviator’s attention must be seamlessly affixed to the fluid through which his sky-vessel moves, his eyes hovering over his instruments, scanning and repeating the scan with practiced precision. 

I am flying alone at this precise moment in eternity, and in this moment, I am both master and I am beginner. As a practitioner of the Warrior Arts, I reflect on all the patterns I have memorized; forms performed endlessly over a span of forty years, until muscles remember more than the mind ever could. Up amongst the clouds, unseen, unpraised, unadmonished, I am now performing another set of kata—crosscheck, power setting, heading, altitude, radio. There is no praise, no blame in the Way of the Warrior, and the same is true of the aviator. What however remains etched in the chords of the skies is that for the aviator, in discipline lies emancipation.

And yet, flying is not simply the culmination of discipline. It is an engaging and most compelling love story; a deep eros with the aerial element that suspends the aviator, carrying them through earthly hardships. I have found that there is a place deep within the soul that comes to life only when I fly. It is a hidden chamber that yearns to be touched by the air, by unfettered light, by the gentle caress of the wind racing past struts.

Beyond that friendly stranger on the comms, I speak to no one.  Flight is a performance that is expounded in quintessential solitude.  My truest companion is that soft hum of the engine and that inner longing for the sky’s embrace.

Ios is over to my left now. I have been chatting with Athina Information, and as I approach my destination, I dial up Santorini’s ATIS. A slow metallic monologue fills my headset, reporting winds from 190 degrees at 17 knots, gusting 24. Visibility 5 kilometres and light rain. Runway 16 in use. I commence my descent slowly, ducking beneath the broken layers. The world becomes sharp and three-dimensional once more—hills, white wave crests atop angry, swirling waters, an improbable wind farm perched out on a ridgeline, and the broken, dark sea crashing against solemn rock.

“Santorini Tower, SX-AEW, with information Romeo, 20 miles north, inbound, full stop.”

“SX-AEW, Santorini Tower, continue inbound, report long final Runway 16.”

As I descend with Oia to my right, the massive caldera yawns below, a festering, dark wound against a pale horizon. The cliffs bleed burgundy and black to meet thrashing waters as rain drums and smears across my windscreen. I switch on carburettor heat and the aircraft’s landing light.

The island is alive with wind. My approach tightly crabbed, fighting a crosswind that slaps the wings like a sparring partner who’s intent on drawing blood. I hold the centreline with rudder and with patience, my right hand gently squeezing the throttle, poised for a go-around.

“SX-AEW, runway 16 cleared to land, wind 190 at 22, gusting 27.”

“Cleared to land, runway 16, SX-AEW,” my voice is detached, my attention devoted to the looming runway beyond the screen and to my airspeed indicator sitting snugly within the warm safety of the instrument panel.

I cross the threshold with flaps at 20°, airspeed precisely at 65 knots, hands and feet committed in unison to maintaining the centreline. Complete awareness in this moment is the only thing the universe requires of me now. – Zanshin.

The main gear kisses a tarmac darkened by rain. The nose lowers slowly, obediently. The Cessna rolls straight despite several tugs of gusty resistance. I ease on the brakes to avoid aquaplaning, as if concluding a sparring bout with a most unruly opponent.

“SX-AEW, taxi to parking via Alpha. Welcome to Santorini.”

Bleeding off the last remnants of speed, I taxi the aircraft gingerly, lifting the flaps to reduce wind resistance, and place the transponder back to its standby position. The ramp is slick with rain, empty, and echoing. I follow an air-marshaller donned in a yellow parka, bringing the aircraft to a standstill at its designated spot. I begin the shutdown process, turning off the avionics in a flow of precise movement. Radios off, GPS power down, transponder off, master avionics switch off. Throttle 1000, mixture idle-cut. The plane’s engine shudders as fuel burns dry in the chamber and then falls abruptly silent.  Only the drumming of soft rain on the screen remains. My left arm comes alive. Magnetos off, master switch off. A new layer of stillness settles from the spooling down of the gyroscopic instruments, as they yield to an inevitable stillness, no longer being propelled to spin by a battery-driven airflow across inner gimbals. I sigh with the release of accumulated inner tension, as it melts into the yielding satisfaction of terra firma underfoot.

I sit in the cockpit for the briefest moment as the air marshaller walks up to the aircraft, smudged behind the tear streaks of rainwater on the screen, looking more like a melting doll than a man. The door cracks open and a few drops of accumulated rain splash across my arm as I mutter something in greeting to the smiling stranger. My headset is cradled now in my lap, and I can discern only the drumming rain’s incessant tapping on the plexiglass canopy.

I breath in charged air; replenishing my lungs with a chill warmth. I am full…

Full of sky.

Full of silence.

Full of a strange, sweet elation that comes after a bout well-fought, a path walked alone, a landing made in weather that has not been kind, but has nevertheless been fair to its pilot.

My flight today has come to an end. My soul however, I muse, may have not yet landed. Most assuredly, some part of me is still airborne, circling, lingering between tendrilled layers of cloudy mist, dancing among the greys and the blues, charged with that tingling memory flight.

Egress is slow. I climb out, muttering to the assistant who is covering his face with a cupped hand over his brow. I tie the aircraft down and place the chocks snuggly in front and behind the aircraft’s wheels. I remove my flight bag, lock the aircraft door after one quick final interior check. Pitot tube cover on, and control lock is set. The door slams shut, and I fumble with the turning of that small, wet key that has made everything possible. I follow the yellow-jacketed marshaller, whose pace betrays an unwillingness to remain in this growing drizzle. The wind is rising. A storm is probably on its way.

I cast a quick back glance towards the graceful, winged machine that allowed me to pilot her here, and I can already feel that tug, as my heart yearns to be back in the aerial firmament.

The aviator is forever in his sky.

 

Michael Mayson