Jonathan Rotondo - Airborne: Finding Foxtrot Alpha Mike

Jonathan Rotondo was 28 when his father, Antonio, died. Numb with grief, Rotondo decided to track down the object that had once given his father so much joy: a tiny single-seat biplane called CharlieFoxtrot Foxtrot Alpha Mike.

Thus began Rotondos journey to retrace his fathers life from Italy to Canada via the plains of East Africa. In his search for Foxtrot Alpha Mike, Rotondo meets a host of colourful characters: an Australian expat living in Kenya who inspired Antonios love of flight; a soft-spoken Swiss-Canadian who managed to get Foxtrot Alpha Mike into the air; a free-spirited dreamer who bought the plane to dogfight with his mates.

In this uplifting story of a father and son, Rotondo catches fleeting glimpses of his father and rediscovers his own passion for flight. All the while he captures the rush of speed, the exhilaration of the winds breath rushing through the cockpit and along the fabric flanks, the surreal sensation of gravitys pull and lifts might.

Copyright 2019 by Jonathan Rotondo.

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). To contact Access Copyright, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call 1-800-893-5777.

Edited by Jill Ainsley.

Cover and page design by Julie Scriver.

Cover images: Landcape near Tottenham, Ontario courtesy of Charlie Miller, Delta Sierra Alpha in flight courtesy of Ernie Szelepcsenyi, Tony Rotondo with Foxtrot Alpha Mike courtesy of Anna Gaudio.

Text illustrations from the collection of the author, unless otherwise noted.

Printed in Canada.

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Rotondo, Jonathan, 1983-, author

Airborne : finding Foxtrot Alpha Mike / Jonathan Rotondo.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77310-063-0 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-77310-064-7 (EPUB).-

ISBN 978-1-77310-065-4 (Kindle)

1. Rotondo, Jonathan, 1983-. 2. Air pilots--Canada--Biography.

3. Fathers and sons--Canada--Biography. 4. Aeronautics.

5. Autobiographies. I. Title.

TL540.R68A3 2019629.13092C2018-904641-4

C2018-904642-2

Goose Lane Editions acknowledges the generous financial support of the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of New Brunswick.

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To my children, Elgin Anthony and Evelyn Anne,
so that you may know your grandfather and perhaps
understand me a little better than I understood him.

Love,
Dad

Ive waited all summer for a day like this: a warm August afternoon cooled by a brisk breeze, bringing lines of neatly formed cumulus clouds marching across the royal blue skies.

The clouds, alike and yet each one unique, advance roughly southeastward. As I roll my biplane out of the shade of the hangar at Rockcliffe Airport in Ottawa, the vanguard of the formation, a loose gaggle of ragged patches, has only just drifted over the field. Ten minutes later, behind the eager tug of the Lycoming engine, we are threading our way northwest through the tip of the main cloud column and climbing quickly.

We stop the climb at our usual seventeen hundred feet and, from our new vantage point inside a cloudless trough, spy a long, solid cloud front stretching across the horizon before us. This new front is the origin of the ragged lines of cumulus clouds that we picked our way through only moments ago. It appears as though a massive, snow-covered mountain has been turned onto its peak so that its low, rolling foothills loom over us like a giant shelf at great altitude. From there, my goggled eyes trace the flanks of the colossus down to a point far in the distance where it vanishes behind the green mounds of the Gatineau Hills.

My mind, when I fly, is quiet. Normally, its a chaotic mess though my exterior rarely betrays it. I wasnt always like this. Years ago that stillness and peace was easier to find, and I could hold onto it longer. It happens to all of us that noise. It is the echo of all our triumphs and failures, our discoveries and losses. Here, aloft, those voices stay far beneath me.

I used to be a daydreamer. Im not anymore. Life moves too quickly with work and family and obligations to permit the mind to wander. In an airplane, its equally frowned upon. Flying, after all, is serious business. Still, were alone up here the biplane and me. No co-pilot looks at me sideways; Ive no passenger to fret over. Its such a lovely afternoon that it would sinful to waste this opportunity for silence and peace.

It was a perfect day for flying. (Photograph courtesy of Bojan Arambasic)

Once again, small groups of white cumulus, having detached themselves from the main body of the cloud front, begin to influence our path, forcing us to circumvent them to the east or west. As one presents itself just below the nose to our right, I pressure the control column slightly aft, and we bound over the top and into a slight right turn. And then, the strangest thing happens. Nature conspires to assemble the perfect set of circumstances a cloud below, the sun high above and behind us so that we see our shadow for the first time.

Initially, I wonder what it is, that dark smudge on the clouds crest ringed in concentric halos of orange, yellow, red, pink, green, and blue. As my eyes blink behind my goggles, I bring the vision into focus. There we are albeit much larger complete with twin wings, rounded tail, and the circular shade of the whirling propeller. My other senses dulled, I gaze upon our shadow with the same wonder as one who is seeing their reflection for the first time. With the cloud sliding away, I instinctively bank the wings and roll into a turn to prolong the apparition, but that unwittingly upsets the balance. The image fades.

We fly on. The solid wave of cloud remains distant ahead. The seaplane base at Chelsea, Quebec, drifts by. A trio of float planes, gaily coloured in yellow, orange, and eggshell blue, bob contently at the dock. A canoe works its way south, leaving a feathery wake on the otherwise placid river. Up here, the wind seems stronger, hastening the journey of the clouds drifting our way while hampering our progress up the river.

The cloud bank creeps closer now. Its time. The conditions are ripe for a little cloud-hunting. I raise the nose and inch the throttle forward, adding power to begin a climb. The advantage, after all, is in height. The plane eagerly soars up toward the promise of cooler air. A quick glance at her instruments: the speed stands at ninety miles per hour, the vertical speed announces itself at an optimistic two thousand feet per minute, engine gauges normal, fuel on and sufficient, and switches in their proper places. We are ready.