Sir Denys Roberts - Foreword - Syd's Pirates
It is customary for the writer of a Foreword to begin by saying how pleased he is to have been asked to do so. This is usually a lie. He may have been honoured to be asked. He was probably surprised, because, although he knows that he is a man of unsuspected reserves of talent, he did not realise that this closely guarded secret had leaked to his friends.
He may be suspicious that he will find himself obliged to purchase at least a hundred copies of the book or that he will become responsible for all libel actions launched against the author.
But he is unlikely to be pleased. Anyone whose opinion he seeks will tell him, in the wholly depressing way that is the foundation of true friendship, that his task is a difficult as the author's. The latter, after all, knows the story which he is to tell (or with luck will do by the time he completes the book) whereas the 'foreworder' has to decide what the purpose (if any) is of his contribution.
His dismay is not lessened when he is sharply reminded by the author, that a foreword is not meant to provide its writer with an opportunity to tell an eager public about himself. If, as is probable, this was his main motive for accepting the invitation to write it, he will feel betrayed; in effect, a literary cuckold.
As an unattractive alternative, he feels obliged to say something of the merits of the book (which a cautious foreworder will probably ready for this purpose) and of the less unsavoury characteristics of the author (and of his wife if identifiable and mentionable).
Judge Amsberg has observed, in his usual charitable way, that he regards the MS as lacking grammarian's polish. If this is true it is, I believe, irrelevant. For this is not the work of a pedant. It is the narrative of a man of action. Here is the boldy-coloured view of the actor, not the pale gaze of the critic.
The author tells the story on paper, as he would do at home, with nerve, point and humour. It is a story of lasting value, for it tells of an age, and a style of flying, which have gone. Civil aviation is middle aged, with a thickened waistline, and its enterprise dimmed by caution and regulation.
Chic will take you into an earlier world of flying, when being a pilot demanded more than an ability to follow flight control instructions and to read three hundred coloured cockpit dials simultaneously. In those far off times, only a generation ago, the good pilot was a man of courage, tenacity and flair, who controlled the lives of his planes and passengers by his own skill and experience and did not rely on the advice of the faceless monitors who sit in control towers throughout the world.
The book is, however, more than the story of the professional life of a pilot; it is the history of the rise, as seen through his eyes, of a remarkable Asian airline, Cathay Pacific Airways, which has grown from a single Dakota to a fleet of substantial size in thirty-three years.
CPA comes to life through the remarkable gallery of men who have flown for it. The book is scattered with their reminiscences, which show affection for theircolleagues and their airline that is rare and refreshing.
As you may guess from photographs in this book (and that is about all you can do from most photographs) Chic Eather is short, stocky and ruddy faced and looks like a poor man's Bob Hope--with some of the jaunty confidence and irrepressible good humour of his double.
I once sat, at his invitation, in the cockpit of the CPA Convair 880 that he was flying to Bangkok. Before we took off, he asked the flight engineer if anything had been done about the brakes. He was told that there had not. He asked his co-pilot if the latter knew which lever controlled the wing-flaps, as he was not used to Convairs. The co-pilot professed ignorance. He asked me if I had any brandy, as he liked a stiff one before take off to steady his nerves.
He knew, of course, for he is a shrewd judge of his mates that I was the sort of air traveller who will believe anything about the condition of his plane or crew, provided that it is sufficiently macabre. Halfway down the runway, when he asked the second pilot how the hell he was going to get it off the ground, I achieved the difficult feat of getting to my knees while still retaining my safety belt.
When we neared Bangkok, Chic again demonstrated his long experience of his equipment by failing to find the lever which winds down the wheels. Accidentally switching off his radio, but inadvertently leaving on the intercom, so that the passengers heard him say what he would have liked to do to the second stewardess, but for the fact that CPA rules forbade it.
As you will have realised, Chic was a pilot with style. Before landing, he donned white cotton gloves, immaculately clean. He wore them as he eased his plane without a bump onto the runway. I am sure that he would have liked to wear a white silk scarf as well, and it would have suited him.
As I believe in maintaining decent standards, even in the tropics, I had taken my rolled umbrella aboard. As the plane came to a halt, Chic asked me why I needed it, I told him that I had heard that CPA planes were prone to leak. 'Not now mate,' he answered, 'but they used to, when I started to fly them.' This book proves it.
Chic's private life has been as intermingled with CPA as his working life. His wife, Judy, was stewardess with the airline, with an understanding of the stresses and annoyances of a pilot's work which must have been invaluable.
I extend to her my deepest sympathy on her ordeal while the book has been written, a long history of late nights, glum faces and spoiled meals gone cold. She now realises that marriage to a flyer may be trying, but marriage to a writer, is intolerable.
If she had not been nearby, with encouragement, endless patience and jasmine tea, the book would never have been finished.
Perhaps I should have written this foreword for her.
He may be suspicious that he will find himself obliged to purchase at least a hundred copies of the book or that he will become responsible for all libel actions launched against the author.
But he is unlikely to be pleased. Anyone whose opinion he seeks will tell him, in the wholly depressing way that is the foundation of true friendship, that his task is a difficult as the author's. The latter, after all, knows the story which he is to tell (or with luck will do by the time he completes the book) whereas the 'foreworder' has to decide what the purpose (if any) is of his contribution.
His dismay is not lessened when he is sharply reminded by the author, that a foreword is not meant to provide its writer with an opportunity to tell an eager public about himself. If, as is probable, this was his main motive for accepting the invitation to write it, he will feel betrayed; in effect, a literary cuckold.
As an unattractive alternative, he feels obliged to say something of the merits of the book (which a cautious foreworder will probably ready for this purpose) and of the less unsavoury characteristics of the author (and of his wife if identifiable and mentionable).
Judge Amsberg has observed, in his usual charitable way, that he regards the MS as lacking grammarian's polish. If this is true it is, I believe, irrelevant. For this is not the work of a pedant. It is the narrative of a man of action. Here is the boldy-coloured view of the actor, not the pale gaze of the critic.
The author tells the story on paper, as he would do at home, with nerve, point and humour. It is a story of lasting value, for it tells of an age, and a style of flying, which have gone. Civil aviation is middle aged, with a thickened waistline, and its enterprise dimmed by caution and regulation.
Chic will take you into an earlier world of flying, when being a pilot demanded more than an ability to follow flight control instructions and to read three hundred coloured cockpit dials simultaneously. In those far off times, only a generation ago, the good pilot was a man of courage, tenacity and flair, who controlled the lives of his planes and passengers by his own skill and experience and did not rely on the advice of the faceless monitors who sit in control towers throughout the world.
The book is, however, more than the story of the professional life of a pilot; it is the history of the rise, as seen through his eyes, of a remarkable Asian airline, Cathay Pacific Airways, which has grown from a single Dakota to a fleet of substantial size in thirty-three years.
CPA comes to life through the remarkable gallery of men who have flown for it. The book is scattered with their reminiscences, which show affection for theircolleagues and their airline that is rare and refreshing.
As you may guess from photographs in this book (and that is about all you can do from most photographs) Chic Eather is short, stocky and ruddy faced and looks like a poor man's Bob Hope--with some of the jaunty confidence and irrepressible good humour of his double.
I once sat, at his invitation, in the cockpit of the CPA Convair 880 that he was flying to Bangkok. Before we took off, he asked the flight engineer if anything had been done about the brakes. He was told that there had not. He asked his co-pilot if the latter knew which lever controlled the wing-flaps, as he was not used to Convairs. The co-pilot professed ignorance. He asked me if I had any brandy, as he liked a stiff one before take off to steady his nerves.
He knew, of course, for he is a shrewd judge of his mates that I was the sort of air traveller who will believe anything about the condition of his plane or crew, provided that it is sufficiently macabre. Halfway down the runway, when he asked the second pilot how the hell he was going to get it off the ground, I achieved the difficult feat of getting to my knees while still retaining my safety belt.
When we neared Bangkok, Chic again demonstrated his long experience of his equipment by failing to find the lever which winds down the wheels. Accidentally switching off his radio, but inadvertently leaving on the intercom, so that the passengers heard him say what he would have liked to do to the second stewardess, but for the fact that CPA rules forbade it.
As you will have realised, Chic was a pilot with style. Before landing, he donned white cotton gloves, immaculately clean. He wore them as he eased his plane without a bump onto the runway. I am sure that he would have liked to wear a white silk scarf as well, and it would have suited him.
As I believe in maintaining decent standards, even in the tropics, I had taken my rolled umbrella aboard. As the plane came to a halt, Chic asked me why I needed it, I told him that I had heard that CPA planes were prone to leak. 'Not now mate,' he answered, 'but they used to, when I started to fly them.' This book proves it.
Chic's private life has been as intermingled with CPA as his working life. His wife, Judy, was stewardess with the airline, with an understanding of the stresses and annoyances of a pilot's work which must have been invaluable.
I extend to her my deepest sympathy on her ordeal while the book has been written, a long history of late nights, glum faces and spoiled meals gone cold. She now realises that marriage to a flyer may be trying, but marriage to a writer, is intolerable.
If she had not been nearby, with encouragement, endless patience and jasmine tea, the book would never have been finished.
Perhaps I should have written this foreword for her.
Sir Denys Roberts Chief Justice, Hong Kong
