My father was an Air Traffic Controller for 40 years. Starting out in Shannon Airport in the early 60’s, he moved to Dublin, where his ambition and drive forged the way for him to become one of Irelands leading ATC instructors. In 1993, he accepted a position in Luxembourg, where he became Head of Training at the EUROCONTROL Head Office. He loved his job. He loved aviation. He was good at it.

In 2005, when I decided to take a part-time job in Airport Operations, he was more than happy to offer up some advice. It was a job with JetBlue, in Boston – a low-fare, affordable airline, (dare I say similar to Ryan Air?). He knew everything there was to know about the types and sizes of aircraft, about the baggage handlers, and pilots and flight attendants, about the fact that if ever there was a delay, the pilot and staff would inevitably always blame A.T.C. 

“It’s the air traffic controller’s fault” was the standard excuse used by the captain. “It’s out of our control”. It used to drive my dad mad.

No-one could actually get mad at them. Air Traffic Controllers were this mysterious little group of people who you could barely make out, up in their control tower. If you looked hard enough, you could see them, like tiny ants staring into the sky. Dark, enigmatic silhouettes waving all the planes in to a safe landing, or guiding them to a smooth take off. That was my dad. He was one of those mystical men up in the sky.

So often, he’d come home from work after the graveyard shift, at 8am in the morning. Mam would be hustling my brother and I out to school, making way for him to get in for some scrambled eggs on toast. He’d sit at the kitchen table, with the newspaper, not a word coming from him. Just the rustle of him turning the pages every few minutes. We wouldn’t dare disturb him. When his breakfast was delivered, he’d fold up the newspaper and put it aside, ensuring no-one else would take it. And he would tell stories about “so and so at work”, who always smoked in the radar room. Or another colleague whose lunch would stink up the control tower. And that there was a near-miss that morning. My dad was superstitious. He never worked on Friday the 13^th. Ever.

I have distinct memories of him bringing me and my 4^th class school mates on a tour of the radar room and control tower in 1981. It was an exciting time for us all to go inside the dark and low-lit room, wall to wall with giant radars illuminated in fire-orange, with bleeps flashing across the screens. Each bleep represented an airplane. There were hundreds of them. Our eyes opened wide as we watched and listened to the men (I don’t recall there being any women) talking gibberish into a smoky microphone.

“Delta Charlie Bravo, do you copy?” A crackle and hiss would come back over the airwaves. “This is Delta Charlie Bravo, I copy”. We were in awe. There was a sort of magical feeling in the air.

From there we’d get led up the narrow winding staircase – there wasn’t a working lift – all 30 of us little busybodies would ascend, carefully holding onto the railing, gazing beneath us to oblivion. We arrived into the glorious brightness that was the control tower. Windows all around, blue Dublin skies forever, and old-fashioned microphones placed strategically at each operator’s station. For a bunch of 10-year-olds, it was a very cool and fantastic experience.

In later years, my father became the Secretariat of IFATCA (the International Federation of Air Traffic Controllers Association). I would sometimes go on his business trips with him and my mom. I got to see a fair amount of Europe at a young age because of this. I got to meet exotic and interesting people from all over the world. Other air traffic controllers who did what my dad did.

That was my childhood. Airports, airplanes, weather reports, and complaints about airport ground staff and the airline industry. So, it was quite ironic that in 2005, some thirty years later, I chose a part-time job in this area. I didn’t have any other skills and I needed some extra money. I’d spent the majority of my life inside a bright, white room, smacking a tiny black rubber ball around. And getting paid for it.

Initially, I struggled with sitting behind a desk for 6 hours at a time. I was used to jogging on the spot, or swinging my racquet wildly. I also struggled with the uniform. A navy-blue skirt to just below the knee, fitted white blouse buttoned to the top, and a navy scarf tied to the right side of my neck. I was forever pulling it, just to breath. I yearned for my loose-fitting and brightly coloured sports clothing. But I had to do this. I needed the cash.

Now, I should point out that it was during this time of my life, I was still officially ‘bipolar’ (https://orladoherty.com/a-pint-of-heineken-and-a-shot-of-lithium-please-part-one/) and severely medicated on all sorts of anti-psychotic medication. I may take poetic license and use that excuse for the stories I’m about to share.

While in my Airport Operations training camp in Florida, I learned a lot about the technical side of how airplanes worked. I studied emergency procedures. How to put on a life-jacket, an oxygen mask, how to deal with irate customers. I also signed up for an intensive course that dealt family members who had lost a loved one in a plane crash. This was my favourite part of the job – helping people. I didn’t necessarily thrive on the operational or ‘hands-on’ part of being a ground-crew member. Let me explain.

Part of our job, as the planes were coming into land, was to drive the jet bridge out to meet the incoming plane. I’m getting anxiety just thinking about it. The next time you’re boarding a plane, have a look at the ‘joystick’ that is used to guide this monstrosity to meet the plane. It is similar to the joystick you might have used on your Commodore 64 computer game in the 80’s. This joystick precisely guides the giant canopy of the jet bridge to exactly the right position over the exit door of the aircraft. I can remember clearly one of the first times I did it. I stood alone, at the opening of the canopy, wind and rain whipping in my face on a cold Boston winter morning. I watched the grounds crew with their orange vests and orange wands, carefully guiding the vessel into the exact spot it should be. The captain’s eyes bore through me, his tiny head peering out from the tiny window at the front of this giant metal bird. I was here to welcome his passengers and I had better do it in the smoothest possible way.

Assuming my position at the joystick, I must’ve hit the wrong button. The jet bridge began moving very quickly. I was steering it with the tiny knob beneath my sweaty palm, but I couldn’t slow it down. Someone called my name from behind. I could sense a bit of trepidation in the voice. I saw the flight attendants’ mouth open as she began frantically waving her hands at me from the emergency exit.

And then it happened. CRASH.  Yes. I crashed into the airplane. But it was sort of a soft crash. The look on the captain’s face was priceless. As the plane shook for a moment, I mouthed ‘sorry’ and then, slowly backing away, I allowed my co-worker behind me to take over.

As if that wasn’t enough to traumatize me, I recall a time not long after that, where all the passengers had deplaned in a timely manner. While I was waiting for the captain and his staff to exit, I could usually be found playing with the microphone at the ticket desk. It was around Christmas time. I used to enjoy singing carols to the passengers while they were getting agitated because of their delayed flight.

I was trying to cheer them all up. So, there I was singing the following, to the tune of We Wish You a Merry Christmas:

“We’re sorry for the delay, we hope you don’t mind

It’s the Air Traffic Controllers, who do control the sky

We wish you a merry Christmas, and we should be boarding soon.”

If my dad had heard me! The absolute cheek. But I digress. Once all the passengers and staff had exited, it was my job to detach the jet bridge from the aircraft. This would surely be a lot easier than approaching a plane full of passengers. What could possibly go wrong? Indulge me for a moment.

You know that giant yellow accordion looking tube that leads from the back of the plane into a giant oblong shape truck that had just pulled in? That tube, discards all the planes’ waste. It’s huge. It’s so big that it rolls along the ground before being secured to the waste truck. I remember feeling so proud of myself that day. I had a good grasp on the joystick, and had placed it in reverse quite confidently. The jet bridge beeped loudly and rhythmically, as I slowly steered it backwards. And then I felt quite a jolt. A bump. A large bump. I had rolled over something. And there was suddenly an odd odour. And quite the mess. And people screaming. 

It’s no wonder I was on anti-psychotic meds. (https://orladoherty.com/a-pint-of-heineken-and-a-shot-of-lithium-please-part-two/) I was a fish out of water in this job. Give me back my racquet and ball. I was written up for that one. Pure negligence. How could I miss the giant yellow tube?

I never told my father those stories. Needless to say, I didn’t last very long in that job. But I did meet some of the funniest people on the planet there. There’s a chapter in my memoir dedicated to them. They were a breed all of their own, in their blue uniforms and with their quirky personalities. I love them still. This is why I feel justified in writing about those Ryan Air ground staff last week. Why didn’t I get a nice Christmas Carol about missing my flight?

Today is the 14-year anniversary of my father’s death in Luxembourg in 2008. I dedicate this post to him. He was one in a million. I have no doubt he’s smiling at me now from his control tower in the sky. Miss you, Dad.