CHAPTER 1 – The Spit Known as Tyee
by Tyson Mielke

 “What was happening down there at the Spit was unusual.”

~Harvey Hahn

 Soaring high above the churning gray water, the eagle watched cautiously as Captain George Vancouver sailed into Discovery Passage. Circling, the noble creature surveyed the rich fishing grounds, the peaceful estuary and the natural spit on which the Salish village resided. It thought of the K'u ta 'la—the mighty Tyee Salmon—and the sacred and spiritual relationship it shared with these coastal people. In this ancient and proud culture, the eagle is known as a harbinger of peace and friendship, but not on this day—for this great wooden ship represented an irreversible and sweeping change.

As the eagle flew off into an uncertain future, visions of Yagis or “Bad Thing from the Sea”—a powerful sea creature that conjures up violent and raging storms—appeared before him. It proved to be a premonition.

Shortly after Vancouver’s 1792 historic visit, a storm of violence hit the Tyee Spit when the Euclataw tribe brutally attacked the Salish people. Virtually annihilated, the surviving Salish members made their way to Comox, while an off-shoot group of the Euclataw—known as the Weweakam—settled permanently on the Tyee Spit and estuary lands.

A storm of humanity hit full force a century later as Europeans flocked to the area in a quest for the mighty Tyee Salmon. After the English magazine ‘The Field’ published an account of Sir Richard Musgrave’s 1896 fishing adventures at the mouth of the Campbell River Estuary, camps in the form of canvas tents sprang up along the spit, and local Natives—ancestors of the Euclataw—peacefully guided the sportsmen in dugout canoes.

 With a graceful turn, the eagle caught a current of warm, August air and glided over the Tyee Spit. A strange noise to the south drew his attention. With a gentle turn of his head he spotted the oddest of creatures and the ‘Lord of the Sky Realm’ found he wasn’t alone.

 Almost 130 years after the arrival of Vancouver’s schooner ‘Discovery’, a ship of another kind touched down in Campbell River waters for the first time—a seaplane. Over the next twenty years seaplanes and eagles occasionally danced together in the skies above the town; however, it was 1948 before a full-time seaplane base found a home in front of the old Willows Hotel. In 1949, a proposition was put forth by Bob Langdon, then the manager of BC Air Lines, to move the base to the Tyee Spit. Once again the spit found itself embroiled in battle—albeit peaceful, but just as passionate.

The Chamber of Commerce, which included well-known author and environmentalist Roderick Haig-Brown, expressed concerns about the impact the seaplanes might have on the estuary and Tyee pools. Other sites, like the town’s reservoir at the John Hart Dam, were suggested but quickly ruled out. The spit, argued Langdon, was perfect for a base because it offered “natural protection” from the raging southeastern storms.

In May of 1951, BC Air Lines’ wish to establish a base on the spit came true. With the town’s blessing, the Elk River Timber Company, now controlling this unique finger of land, offered the airline a lease. As more companies followed, it marked the beginning of a new era. For the next three decades, the spit would be home to the ‘busiest seaplane base in the world’.

Today, a peaceful calm envelops the Spit. The title of ‘busiest seaplane base in the world’ is long past, and for the airline companies that weathered the storm of decline, debate about their presence on this hallowed ground continues. Now in the hands of the city, finding a balance between commerce and parkland is everyone’s goal.

From high above, the old eagle traces the footprints of history gently strewn across the sands of the Spit. Much has transpired, and much more will come. The future, as always, is uncertain, but the old eagle is at peace. As his thoughts turn to the present, the winds of change once again begin to dance and swirl. With the lift of a mighty wing he turns and flies for home . . .

 

CHAPTER 2 – A Collection of Firsts
by Julie Matchett

Flying was a very tangible freedom. In those days, it was beauty, adventure, discovery — the epitome of breaking into new worlds.

~Anne Morrow Lindbergh

 PART 1 – The World's First Seaplane

Click Photos to View Large Images  

It was on March 28 th, 1910 that the first seaplane soared into history. Launched from the shores of the small, picturesque town of Martigues, France, the plane successfully managed a flight of about a mile and a half, flying just a few feet above the water. The visionary brainchild of French aviator Henri Fabre, the aircraft was given the name of ‘Le Canard’—literally, ‘the duck’. Fabre used a 50 HP Gnome rotary engine to power his plane, which at that time, was revolutionary. Constructed of an ash frame and then covered with a cotton material, the plane seemed unlikely to be capable of flight—the flimsy wings and wires holding the craft together certainly gave it an air of improbability. Considering that the maiden flight was the first time that Fabre had ever piloted an aircraft, he obviously believed in the integrity of his creation. In front of a crowd of excited spectators, this historic flight paved the way for future aviators.

One year later and thousands of miles across the ocean, it was another aviator, this time an American by the name of Glenn Curtiss, who forever revolutionized the aviation industry. Inventor of the ‘hydroaeroplane’, Curtiss will always be remembered for his flying boats and his contributions to the dawning of naval aviation prior to the First World War. The first Curtiss seaplane, flown on January 26 th, 1911, was actually a biplane fitted with floats—an ingenious solution to the problem of taking off from water. Later, he went on to perfect the ‘flying boat’, literally a boat with wings, which would go on to become the first aircraft to make a transatlantic flight. Curtiss Flying Boats, as they came to be known, were used extensively in World War I for anti-submarine patrols and were favoured by Navies not only in the U.S, but Britain, Italy and Russia as well. For his role in advancing the aviation industry and his outstanding contributions, Glen Curtiss will forever be immortalized as the ‘Father of Naval Aviation’.

The evolution of the seaplane would not have come about without the extraordinary imagination, perseverance and pioneering spirit of countless individuals. It is these trail-blazers of ingenuity who carved a path into aviation history, setting the scene for the innumerable successes to follow.

PART 2 – Campbell River's First Seaplane

It all started with fish… and for a town world-famous for its fishing, how else would it start?

Over the years, Campbell River has had its share of famous visitors eager to partake of the first-class fishing available in the area. For some, the lure of casting the waters is like a siren song, and so it was for William Boeing. Mr. Boeing, famed for his role in the start of international airmail service between Canada and the U.S and for pioneering a ‘little’ aircraft company called ‘Boeing’, thought that a fishing expedition with friends up in the wilds of Canada would be a fine idea. With a sense of adventure, Bill and two buddies set off from Seattle in Bill’s personal yacht, the Taconite, arriving in Campbell River on a beautiful August day in 1920. Anchored just offshore in front of the Willow’s Hotel, they were certainly a magnet for attention from the locals and First Nations people. Promptly swarmed by the latter, they were told about an elusive, hard-to-get-to lake over the hills—a lake so full of trout that the fish practically jumped out of the water to bite your hand. For anyone else, the problem of how to get into the lake might have been a sticky situation, but ‘ol Bill had connections and an ace-in-the-hole—his personal pilot, the famed Eddie Hubbard. One quick call to his pal solved the problem, and the next day, Eddie flew the B-1 into Campbell River, surprising the local residents with the sound of droning motors overhead. The arrival of the plane caused a ‘...good deal of excitement,’ according to a write-up in the Comox Argus newspaper, for this was the first ‘flying machine’ ever to visit the area. The next morning, Bill, Eddie and friends flew out to Buttle Lake and hauled in an impressive catch; according to observers, when the plane left after a day and a half of fishing, it was almost listing sideways from the weight of all the trout. Eddie carefully flew the catch back to Seattle in the B-1, while Bill and his buddies took a leisurely trip home aboard the Taconite, leaving the residents of Campbell River with some exciting memories…and a few less fish.

The Boeing B-1, built in 1919, was a one-of-a-kind airplane and was used for many years by Eddie Hubbard on the Seattle to Victoria airmail route. The famous flying boat now resides, fittingly, in the ‘Hall of Icons’ at Seattle’s Museum of History and Industry and serves as a monument to the two men who made international airmail service a reality.

PART 3 – Zeballos and Ginger Coote Airways

The lure of gold has captured the hearts and minds of many a man (and woman) down through the centuries, so when gold-fever struck in a ruggedly remote area of western Vancouver Island in the 1930’s, the boom was on. Hordes of eager prospectors, scruffy unemployed men and the usual thrill-seekers and dreamers flooded into the area in droves, eventually staking thousands of claims over the next few years. The resulting townsite, named Zeballos after the nearby river, grew at a frenetic pace. By 1939, the population had, according to some sources, reached almost 5000 people, mostly miners and prospectors. In the early days, goods and people were transported by large boats and steamers such as the Princess Maquinna, a hulking lug of a ship owned by Canadian Pacific Railway. Trails into and out of town became so bogged down with mud because of the constant traffic, they were sometimes given rather colourful names—‘Rotten Row’ and ‘Mae West Avenue’ are two of the more infamous nicknames. Incidentally, any self-respecting ‘gold rush’ town would not be complete without its share of bawdyhouses, and Zeballos was no exception—slinky ‘ladies of the night’ offering up enticements of the flesh was certainly one way to keep rowdy, disgruntled miners in check. Another way, of course, was alcohol and gambling—both popular pursuits among unruly miners. Zeballos did a thriving business in booze and as many as 18 bootleggers existed in the town before a liquor store finally opened its doors. Indeed, it was also illicit bootleggers who kept the RCAF fleets busy patrolling coastal waters. Smuggling spirits down into the U.S where Prohibition was still being enforced was a lucrative business and many hours were spent hunting down these elusive ‘rum-runners.’ Despite the ‘wild west’ atmosphere of the town, it did support a sizable number of ‘God-fearing’ people and many services were offered that catered to these ‘decent’ folk: a school for children, a community hospital, banks, a weekly newspaper, numerous merchants and, of course, a Roman Catholic church.

For some, the cry of ‘gold’ was very enticing, but many folks weren’t willing to make the long six-day trip from Vancouver into the townsite by steamership. Realizing a golden opportunity when he saw one, it was famed aviator Ginger Coote who established the first scheduled service from Vancouver to Zeballos, a three-hour trip, using a dilapidated old Fairchild airplane at first, and later purchasing a spiffy new Norseman and a Waco to cope with the rush.

The red-haired Ginger was already a by-word among many miners and prospectors—for years, he had been shuttling them in and out of remote camps in the Interior of BC. A former World War I veteran and Lieutenant at age 17 (a rare distinction for one so young), it was in England while recuperating from injuries received at Vimy Ridge that he made the fateful decision to transfer to the Royal Flying Corps, a decision which would ultimately lead to a bad case of the ‘flying bug’. After a short post-war stint of marital and agricultural bliss as a farmer in the fertile valleys of Chilliwack, he found himself lured back to the skies with a vengeance. Proudly purchasing his first ‘winged junk pile,’ he went to work barnstorming in the Cariboo. In 1930, he became the first flight instructor for the newly opened Chilliwack Flying Club, inspiring many future pilots with his insatiable passion for flying. It was there that a hapless student crashed his beloved plane; in desperation, he turned to his friend, Neal ‘Curly’ Evans, for help in locating a replacement aircraft. Neal came to his aid, and eventually they became partners, forming ‘ Bridge River and Caribou Airways.’ Ginger later changed the title of the outfit to his name, and was now referred to as ‘Ginger Coote Airways.’ In the mid 30’s, the booming mining industry offered him fresh opportunities to utilize his talents as a bush pilot, shuttling men and equipment into some of the remotest corners of the province, and eventually, into the bustling frontier town of Zeballos.

For Ginger, the business was so good in Zeballos that, inevitably, other competitors hit the skies intent on a piece of the action. Canadian Airways inaugurated a scheduled service from Vancouver; Grant McConachie’s Yukon Southern Air Transport had a fleet of planes lined up at the dock at Zeballos harbour and, every day, more planes were coming. To add to the traffic in the skies, the Department of Fisheries was busy monitoring the fishing fleets up and down the western coast of the Island. These patrols were carried out under contract with Dominion Airways and Western Canada Airways using the famous Boeing B-1 flying boats, Fokkers and Fairchilds. British Columbia was in the grip of the greatest commercial aviation boom ever to hit the province—the future was bright. For Ginger Coote and his Airway, the outbreak of the Second World War necessitated a change in his plans. With intentions of volunteering his services as a pilot instructor for the war effort, Ginger sold off his venture to McConachie, leaving behind a legacy for future generations of pilots. The evolution of aviation in British Columbia has never taken a backward step.

 

CHAPTER 3 – The War Years

PART 1 – The Flying Boat Stations by Tyson Mielke

 "The men serving on these bases can be justly proud of the part they played in the defence of their country . . . they did not fail when faced with difficulties, dangers, isolation and monotony.”

~Anonymous

As German and Japanese military actions raised eyebrows around the world, the United States started to wipe a little sweat from their own. Looking for ways to ease their tension, the US turned to the ‘King’, specifically: William Lyon Mackenzie King—the Prime Minister of Canada. They stressed to Mr. King that it was possible for an enemy to attack Ol’ Uncle Sam via ‘The Great White North’ because Canada was too weak to defend itself. After mumbling, “Well, at least our beer is stronger,” Canada concocted a plan.

The plan trickled down in November of 1936 into the bucket of the RCAF Commanding Officer. The order was ‘simple’: survey all possible locations for flying boat stations on the BC Coast. In true Canadian Air Force fashion they were given two planes for a twenty plane job: A Fairchild FC-2 seaplane and a Twin Engine Vickers Flying Boat. This was the mighty fleet of the newly formed BC Reconnaissance Detachment.

Vancouver Island certainly didn’t harbor feelings of inadequacy during those early surveys. Sproat Lake in Port Alberni was considered, as was Forbes Landing in Campbell River. Even the bustling ‘metropolis’ of Alert Bay just off the northeastern coast was an early favorite.

Three years and much debate later, Coal Harbour on the north-west side of Vancouver Island proved the best option. From this strategic location off Holberg Inlet, squadrons could keep a watchful eye on the north end of the island and 150 miles out into the open Pacific. Other bases included Bella Bella, Alliford Bay, Ucluelet on the West Coast, and Port Hardy—where in 1943 landing strips and hangers were hastily constructed for wheeled aircraft.

By August of 1941 the Coal Harbour Flying Boat Station had everything it needed . . . except pilots and flying boats. That all changed on December 7, 1941 after the Japanese decided to “wake the sleeping giant” by bombing the hell out of Pearl Harbor. Four days later, Bomber Reconnaissance Squadron 120 rolled in and began conducting their first anti-submarine patrols.

Many of these early patrols were carried out in the good ol’ Stranraer flying boats which, after being retired in 1944 from military duty, found new fame as the backbone of the Queen Charlotte Airlines fleet. (Visit chapter 4)

As the echoes of war reverberated overseas, the sounds of the RCAF Flying Boat Stations began to quiet down. In the end, fears of a ‘back door’ invasion proved unfounded and in April 1944, the 120 Squadron was disbanded. Though the base remained open, nothing exciting happened except the recovery of a Japanese Fire Balloon: a devious, yet unreliable incendiary weapon designed to float across the Pacific Ocean in the high altitude wind currents, land in North America and wreak havoc. Finally, in August 1945, four years after its inception, the Coal Harbour RCAF Flying Boat Station hung up the ‘closed’ sign and permanently disbanded.

The life and times of the Coal Harbour RCAF Flying Boat Station during the war was typical of the other bases along the coast. After the war, while this base succumbed to the weathering of time, others found new life in the commercial floatplane business—providing facilities and a foundation for an industry that was about to explode in a way the Japanese Fire Balloons rarely did.

PART 2 – War Memories by Julie Matchett

A declaration of war against Germany on September 3rd, 1939 by Britain and her allies made rumours of an impending battle a troubling reality. Concerned about the lack of military aircraft and training facilities in England, the government appealed to the Commonwealth countries for aid, establishing the ‘British Commonwealth Air Training Plan.’ Across the country, Canadians from all walks of life mobilized into action, establishing airfields and training schools, and gathering the necessary equipment, aircraft and supplies in order to bring the plan to fruition. It was through this ambitious undertaking that many future pilots, who would make a life-long career of flying, first learned their craft.

Englishman Don Thompson, who would later establish Alert Bay Air Services after the war, began his initial classroom training in Coventry before being deemed as ‘suitable for pilot training’ and sent to Canada. After intensive full-time flight training at several locations across the country and a short stint as a flight instructor, he was relocated overseas to the Cocos Islands in the Indian Ocean. In the latter days of the war, Allied Forces had established bases in the area to conduct raids on Japanese targets and to provide support during the reinvasion of nearby Malaya. “We weren’t dropping bombs,” Don notes, “but rather food, medical supplies, ammunition, guns, radios…Everything the guerrillas in the mountains needed.” As a pilot, Don was always “heart in mouth” when it came to the reckless supply drops, worried for the safety of his fellow servicemen. Supplies were packaged in 50 lb bags and then packed in sturdy containers; with a word of ‘Go!’, the wireless operator and the engineer would push all the supplies out the open hatch of the plane with their feet, the goods plunging hundreds of feet down into the jungle clearings below. “I was always glad when I saw them coming back…” chuckles Don, no doubt haunted by visions of his cronies being entangled in stray ropes and dragged off to their doom.

With the official end of the war on September 2 nd, 1945, Don went home to his native shores, reuniting happily with his Canadian wife in early 1946. The arrival of twins changed the picture for the young couple, and they eventually decided to move back to Canada to raise their growing family, settling in Chilliwack in 1948.

For Ted Turner, who at 16 was “…too young to be scared,” the war was a very different experience. He was so eager to join the Air Force that he contemplated faking his birth certificate to get in early, but chickened out at the last minute after learning of the possible repercussions. “When I first applied to go into the Air Force,” Ted says, “they told me that my eyes weren’t good enough.” His dreams of becoming a pilot on the verge of being crushed, Ted stubbornly consulted the local civilian eye doctor, who attested to his perfect 20/20 vision. Armed with this information, he went back to the Air Force and was promptly told, “Sorry, son…but the Air Force says your eyes aren’t good enough!” They offered him a choice of discharge and re-enlistment in the Army or a job as a truck driver, but young Ted was having none of it. “I want to fly and that’s all there is to it!” he told them. In the end, it was his determined attitude that finally won him a place as an air-gunner aboard the Halifax Bombers. Among servicemen, the job of air-gunner was not popular due to the high mortality rate, but Ted was thrilled. “The Air Force was my life,” he remembers, “I was a Canadian and I wasn’t going to let those guys come over here.”

Ted and his fellow crew-members would eventually log in 35 missions over enemy territory, “without getting a scratch,” Ted is proud to note. “We just melded together like a team…All brothers, we call ourselves.” Once the fibres of friendship are woven, the bonds last a lifetime; more than 60 years after the end of the war, Ted is still in close contact with many members of his former crew.

The Campbell River resident is also involved with history of a different kind—the recovery of a Halifax Bomber from the bottom of the North Atlantic. This particular Halifax, the LW170, is one of the planes that Ted flew in during combat missions over Europe. As a fundraising effort for the project, a print was commissioned of the plane and signatures were collected from the surviving veterans scattered all across Canada, Ted included, who flew in the aircraft. “There’s six guys out of our original crew of seven still alive,” he remarks, “We are the only ones in the world with that many crew guys still surviving.” The plane itself is still waiting to be rescued from the watery depths, but the painting of it hangs front and centre in Ted’s living-room—“I’m so proud of that picture,” he says with a grin.

 

CHAPTER 4 – Queen Charlotte Airlines
by Carol Hentze

“So here we are with an overhauled airplane . . . in debt up to our ears, but raring to go.”

~Jim Spilsbury

Unlike other youngsters who were scraping their knees learning to ride bikes, Jim Spilsbury preferred tinkering with boats and motors. It was this curiosity with all things mechanical that led him to building his first crystal radio set in 1922. Growing up in the relative isolation of Savary Island on the BC Coast, it was only natural that Jim would be drawn to a way of connecting with the outside world.

In 1936 Spilsbury combined his passion of radios and love of the coast by venturing out on his own as a marine radio mobile man. Using his forty-foot boat to distribute and repair radios, Jim became a familiar sight in the numerous inlets, bays and channels of the BC Coast. In 1942, Spilsbury partnered with communications expert, Jim Hepburn, and established Spilsbury & Hepburn. Based out of Vancouver, they manufactured and sold radios and communications equipment.

Gasoline rationing during World War II forced Spilsbury to tie up his boat and travel up the coast by way of the reliable, but slow Union Steamships. The radio business was flourishing, but to keep up with demand, they needed a faster form of transportation. After scraping up a ‘mere’ twenty-five hundred dollars, they purchased their first aircraft: a Waco floatplane. Now the entire coast was at their fingertips within a few hours using far less fuel than the boat.

In hindsight, this was the catalyst for starting Queen Charlotte Airlines. During World War II, Spilsbury was contracted to maintain the government installed radios that detected enemy aircraft. In 1943, the company was issued a special permit to have free, unlimited gasoline to fly anywhere along BC’s coast. Inevitably, this perk would end after the war. When they flew in to service or install radios in remote coastal areas, they would often pick up loggers and fishermen flush with money and eager to get out of camp. Though carrying passengers was illegal due to licensing restrictions, the quick cash was too good to turn down as it helped finance their newly acquired plane. It soon became apparent that ferrying passengers would be a lucrative addition to their radio business.

There was only one problem: this illegal shuttling of passengers was documented by QCA’s competition—CPAL (Canadian Pacific Airlines)—and they intended to bring it to the attention of the newly formed Air Transport Board. Due to a fortuitous mix-up in paperwork all of CPAL’s evidence against QCA ended up on Spilsbury’s desk instead of back east. Whether it was divine intervention or just plain luck, this little clerical error saved QCA’s bacon. Strict regulations implemented at the end of the war meant that if QCA were to stay in business they would have to apply for a proper licence. Had their illicit activities been revealed to the Air Transport Board any hopes of getting said license would have been crushed. Spilsbury decided the best thing to do was to destroy all the evidence against them and apply for a license. Knowing that the company’s future was on the line, they meticulously filled out the paperwork and submitted it to the unpredictable bureaucrats in Ottawa. After an anxious wait, a licence was granted in 1946 and the company breathed a sigh of relief.

The reprieve didn’t last long. As always, it boils down to money, and not enough of it, so Spilsbury convinced several logging companies to help finance the newly formed Queen Charlotte Airlines—named after the area that they first served. Overwhelmed with the logging business right from the start they became known as the “logger’s airline”.

According to Spilsbury they are most remembered for their ‘gangling Stranraer’—a strange looking aircraft originally designed for military use. Purchased from the Canadian Government in 1946, and named for the Earl of Stranraer, these flying boats proved to be reliable machines and remained in service for almost twenty years. As QCA approached the 1950’s, in addition to the Stranraers, the QCA fleet included: Dragon Rapides, Grumann Goose, Norsemans, Ansons, Cansos, Stinsons and Fairchild Huskies. With this conglomeration, it was fitting that Queen Charlotte Airlines became known as “Queer Collection of Aircraft.”

As the airline gained more territory, the adventuresome bush pilot style gave way to the repetitive, procedural airline-type flying. For several years QCA was Canada’s third largest airline, a title they held until the end of the 1940s. In July, 1955, an offer was made by Pacific Western Airlines—QCA’s biggest competitor—to purchase the airline. “We had everything happen to us,” Spilsbury says of that remarkable era, “everything!” With nothing left to experience, and nothing left to prove, Spilsbury decided to let the company go. For a cool $1.4 million, PWA swallowed up QCA and the airline that started “accidentally” on a “shoestring budget” became a chapter in the history of coastal aviation.

 

CHAPTER 5 – BC Air Lines
by Tyson Mielke

“It was probably one of the most popular bases that BC Air Lines had.”

~Stan Kaardal

Contrary to local aviation myth, Bob Langdon was not BC Air Lines’ first pilot in Campbell River. That distinction belongs to a man whose name is lost in the fog banks of history. Bob’s name, on the other hand, is forever etched in the memories of early Campbell River townsfolk. When he filled-in during the summer of ’48 for the vacationing ‘unknown’ pilot, the locals took a real shine to this charming and personable young aviator and decided they wanted to keep him. The only problem: Mr. Langdon was stationed in Alert Bay. Not a concern to the stubborn and resourceful pioneers of the 1940s. After penning a few colorfully effusive letters to the BC Air Lines head office in Victoria, the locals got their pilot, and the rest, as they say, is history.

In those early days the entire BC Air Lines fleet in Campbell River consisted of well..., Bob and his notorious SeaBee. The old Willows Hotel, legendary in its own right, housed Bob’s living quarters and the base office, with the beach in front serving as a jumping off point for the aircraft. Citizens watched with amusement as the amphibious SeaBee lumbered up onto the beach, clamored across the main street and ‘docked’ in the hotel parking lot. In bad weather the plane moored under the ‘hangar’—which, in actuality, was nothing more than a big tarp. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a start.

To drum up business, Bob tailed the old Union steamships into their ports-of-call hoping to pick up the occasional logger that needed to go the few extra miles into camp. “The skipper of the boat used to laugh at this funny airplane following him around,” remembers Bob, “We ended up taking all the passengers.” It wasn’t long before Bob garnered a reputation as a brave, daring and compassionate pilot and the clunky old SeaBee—lovingly compared to a 1950s Chevy—became a symbol of hope to the hundreds of gypo logging camps along the coast.

Bob’s reputation grew expeditiously thanks to reporters hacking away on old portable typewriters, “Because,” according to his son Tom—also a pilot, “they didn’t have an awful lot to write about except loggers getting hurt.” This humble attitude is typical of the ‘Flying Langdons’ but truth lurked behind the headlines. Time after time, Bob, often accompanied by local physicians Dr. Hall or Dr. Depew, braved rabid weather and frothing seas to bring in injured loggers. In one famous nail-biting, hair-raising flight, Bob and Dr. Hall combated 75 mile-an-hour winds on a successful rescue mission to Thurlow Island.

“The challenges of flying on the coast can be summed up in one word,” recalls Stan Kaardal, a former BC Air Lines pilot, “weather!” Indeed, sloshing seas, hidden hazards, a schizophrenic climate, and diabolical winds all made for an interesting day at the ‘office’. Back then, early aviators like Bob, Stan Kaardal and Gord Wilkinson learned the hard way. “They got their butts kicked,” muses Tom Langdon, “trying to figure it all out.”

But another, more ominous concern preyed on the minds of coastal pilots: “We can stand wind and rain and snow,” says Bob, “but when they start bearing their children on an aircraft . . . we are frightened to death of this.” On a blue-wet April day in 1949, Bob looked uncharacteristically panicky when the cries of the first BC baby born in an aircraft resounded over the skies of Cape Mudge.

In 1950, different cries— these of the swear-word laden variety—emanated from the BC Air Lines office. The fleet, which had grown to include a Piper Super Cruiser and a Luscombe Silvaire, now docked at the wharf in front of the hotel leaving the planes exposed to the whims and twisted desires of nasty weather. Frustration stemmed from the fact that, a year earlier, Bob had asked the Chamber of Commerce to grant him permission to move the entire operation to the Tyee Spit—a little, unassuming finger of land at the Campbell River estuary—and was still waiting for an answer.

The Chamber of Commerce continued to rack their brains on the issue. Led by well-known author and naturalist Roderick Haig-Brown, they expressed concerns about the environmental impact on the estuary and Tyee pools. (Concerns, ironically, that are still debated today.) Someone suggested the town’s reservoir as an alternative, but drinking-water, it was determined, probably tastes better without planes landing in it. “The Spit,” argued Bob, “was the best location, as it offered natural protection from the storms.”

After ruminating for another year the Chamber of Commerce abandoned their resistance and gave BC Air Lines the nod to move operations. The Elk River Timber Company, owners of the land at the time, happily offered the airlines a lease, and, with the stroke of a pen, gave birth to the seaplane era on the Spit.

Thanks mainly to the booming logging industry, the fleet expanded with the addition of more planes and pilots. Stan Budd, lured to Campbell River in the early 50s for the hefty sum of “one-hundred-fifty dollars a month and three dollars per hour extra”, laughs about his first week on the job: “I was only there a week and Bob decides to take off for two weeks. I had no idea where the logging camps were!” It was a rare vacation for Bob— described by Stan as “a snappy little guy”— who worked tirelessly in his dual roles of pilot and base manager.

In 1956, BC Air Lines founder Bill Sylvester grew weary of the “government bullshit” and sold his empire to a couple of gung-ho Vancouverites named Paul Tak and Maurice McGregor. The Campbell River base, which remained on the Spit until 1968, filled the new owners with much happiness as the lack of competition made it one of the busiest and most lucrative.

When a rival airline finally emerged in 1959, it made a few people very sad—most notably, Paul and Maurice. Not only was their seaplane monopoly in Campbell River over, but the founder of this fledgling upstart was none other than their trusted and long-time employee, Mr. Bob Langdon. Things on the Spit were about to—pardon the pun—really take off.

CHAPTER 6 – Island Airlines
by Tyson Mielke

 “Bob used to say by the time he owed a million dollars, he’d have it made.”

~Jackie Langdon

 On June 16, 1984, Bob Langdon stepped through the doors of Campbell River’s Masonic Hall and into his past. There, gathered before him, were friends, family, and former colleagues of Island Airlines, the bygone company he had founded a quarter century earlier. The room, rich with nostalgia, was buzzing; it was a surprise reunion, and the guest of honor had just arrived. A sense of quiet contentment overcame the aviation pioneer as he scanned the crowded hall. Despite some adversarial relationships, union troubles, and business downturns, Island Airlines held a special place in the hearts of everyone there. After all these years, reflects son Tom Langdon, “it was still remembered as some of the best times of their careers.”

By the end of the 1950’s, Bob Langdon, after more than a decade with BC Air Lines, was wanting more. “He’d come home frustrated,” remembers ex-wife Jackie Langdon, “he just figured he could do better on his own . . . and be his own boss.” When the brass at BC Air Lines got wind of Bob’s plan, they made it easy for him to pursue his dream. “They found out and fired him,” recalls Gordie Wilkinson—the first pilot hired by Bob for his new venture—“so he was free to go and do his thing.”

When Diefenbaker came to power in 1957, he made it a lot easier for entrepreneurs like Bob to do their thing by ordering the Air Transport Board to relax the rules regarding small charter airlines. “I was the one who helped him with his application,” remembers Anne Wilkinson—Gordie’s wife—“and it had to be letter perfect. There could be no omissions or anything else. There was quite a bit of paperwork to do.”

Bob’s first move involved purchasing a Cessna 140 and 180 and luring Gordie Wilkinson away from BC Air Lines to help fly them. Next was finding a place from which to operate. Ironically, after working so hard on behalf of BC Air Lines in establishing a base at the Spit, Bob found himself in June of 1959 once again docking planes on a float in front of the Willows Hotel. A wicked storm on Labour Day of that year reminded him of why the location was less than ideal. Fortunately, this arrangement wouldn’t last long. By the following year, Island Airlines was happily ensconced on the Spit—right beside Bob’s former employer.

BC Air Lines, unhappy with this monopoly infringement, did everything in their power to make life miserable for the upstart airline. Bob, however, was up for the challenge. “[He] had the courage of his convictions,” remembers Jackie, “he felt that he could handle any competition. You have to have that self determination and self confidence. Otherwise I don’t think you can handle it.”

In a pre-emptive strike, BC Air Lines applied to the Air Transport Board and was granted protection of their Class 2 service routes. This was not uncommon in the 60’s, but the decision also included an unusual addendum: each base was granted a 25 mile protective radius, meaning no competitor could fly within that perimeter. Bob scoffed at the ruling and vowed to oppose the order, arguing that since the decision was not made at a public hearing, the monopoly it created for BC Air Lines went against the public interest. The battle would wage for several years, with Island Air eventually achieving victory. In an open letter to the Courier in 1965, Bob writes: “The ATB was in error in informing Island Airlines that BC Air Lines was to be granted a twenty-five mile protected area surrounding each base. It would have prevented Island Airlines from flying into a vast area of the coast. It was a great relief to learn that this portion of the ruling had been rescinded.” It would not be the last time Bob battled with competitors.

Despite BC Air Lines’ best attempts, Island Airlines flourished. “He had strong support from all his customers up and down the coast because he was very personable and people liked him,” reflects Jackie, “and he hired good people too.” By 1962, those ‘good people’ included eight pilots, three engineers, and an office staff of three, all nicely situated in a comfortable office on the Spit. The fleet had grown to six aircraft, including the company’s first de Havilland Beaver, purchased for the tidy sum of $63,000. The expanding empire added immensely to the local economy, and made quite an impression on a five-year old future pilot: “One day dad was putting his pilots uniform on and heading out the door,” reflects Tom Langdon, “I asked him what he did for this company. He said, ‘I own it.’ I remember being very surprised by that. ‘You own the whole company! You don’t just fly for them?’ ‘No son, I own it.’

1962 also marked the arrival of two employees integral to the history of Island Airlines: Pilot Frank Roberts and Engineer Dave Nilson. Frank got his start flying for BC Air Lines in the Port Hardy area, developing a working relationship with Bob over the years. “I knew him when he was with BC Air Lines,” recalls Frank, “he was a good businessman. He was a good guy, very well known.” Frank remained with Island Airlines for 15 years, becoming the director of Flight Operations and one of the most popular pilots of his day. “I enjoyed working with Frank,” says former dispatcher Norene Reedel, “he is a very knowledgeable man and had a good way of talking to people.”

Dave Nilson arrived at Island Air with a wealth of experience and one of the best mechanical minds in the business. He has won many awards, including Aviation Engineer of the Year, and can fix just about anything that flies. His relationship with Bob and Island Air seemed pre-ordained. Remembers Dave: “When I was a young fella, I used to go out to the Regina Airport . . . I snuck in one day checking out the old Tiger Moth in the hanger. Somebody grabbed me from the back and kicked me out the door. That was Bob Langdon’s father. All these things fit together.”

As the calendar pages flipped into the 1970s, Island Airlines, thanks mainly to the booming logging industry, soared to unbelievable heights. By the early part of the decade, Island Air had bases in Campbell River, Tofino, Gold River and Powell River; a brand new hanger on the Spit; a flight school at the airport; a fleet of 25 aircraft; a staff of around 30 people; and, were one of only two Cessna dealerships in western Canada. Dave Nilson remembers: “The seventies were crazy, it was just crazy. It’s hard to believe how busy that place was. The pilot would have flown ¾ of an hour, but would have landed 18 times. There was more maintenance because of all the landings and take-offs.” Many pilots during this time can attest to the constant flow of seaplane traffic. “When Island Air and Gulf Air were going,” recalls former Island Air pilot, Mark Murphy, “there’d be days when people couldn’t book a flight between either airline. You couldn’t book a 20 minute trip. It was unbelievable!”

Keys to success in the seaplane industry revolved around route licenses. Without them, it was hard to keep up with the ever increasing demand for service and stay ahead of the competition. “A great deal of our time and effort on the job . . . is associated with licensing,” said Bob in a 1975 taped interview, “we are always striving of course to improve ourselves and get better licenses.” It was certainly in Bob’s best interest. Gulf Air, formerly Trans Mountain, was now a formidable competitor on the Spit, with owner Don Braithwaite building up quite an empire after purchasing the BC Air Lines base in 1968. “Gulf Air had all the scheduled licenses from Toba Inlet and north,” recalls former Island Airlines pilot Harvey Hahn, “and Island Air had Bute Inlet and south of Campbell River". It was quite the rivalry, and the two owners, who didn’t really see eye-to-eye, took a certain pleasure in trying to ‘one-up’ each other. Don remembers a fateful day when he picked up a load of loggers from Phillips Arm. “Langdon was sittin’ there with his binoculars watching me do this. We didn’t have the right class of license . . . he got a hold of the Ministry of Transport (MOT) and they came out and inspected things.” Don would extract his revenge, however. Island Airlines, he discovered, was doing mail runs into Bute Inlet even though Gulf Air held the license for that area. Instead of complaining to the MOT, he simply started undercutting Island Air’s rate and doing the mail run, as Don would say, “practically for nothing.” The plan worked. “We finally worked our way into Bute Inlet,” says Don, smiling as thinks back, “and we got bigger and bigger all the time.”

Such was life on the Spit. It took a certain mettle to run a seaplane operation, and Bob’s determined and focused nature sometimes led to adversarial relationships within the company. “I think, to get along in that type of business, you had to have a thick skin about a lot of things,” reflects Jackie, “you had to be the boss. And that’s all he knew.”

Described by one employee as “a rough and ready guy”, there is no denying Bob’s importance to the careers of many aspiring pilots. “Bob was tremendous for taking people who were totally unknown on,” recalls Anne Wilkinson, “Gord wouldn’t have been flying if it wasn’t for him. We couldn’t afford the training.” In those days, there was a system in place where young pilots could start working on the docks, and through an apprentice type program, build up some flight time with experienced pilots until they became fully qualified. “When I was getting started,” recalls former pilot Gord Beadle, “the pilot designated to do the mail run would let you come along and fly the plane. After you got to know the country a little bit better, they checked you out again. Now if a mail run came up—strictly a mail run—the pilot who was designated to do it, could say, ‘Let Gord do it’. He could then sit back, drink coffee in the office and get paid while I did his mail run.” It was a special situation for young pilots, reflecting the unique challenges of coastal flying. “It doesn’t happen anymore because of the way the insurance is,” says Rolly Bartlett, who started training at Island Air in 1974, “ It was kind of a neat thing at the time—a good way to learn and know the area.” As good as the system was however, it did have certain drawbacks. Recalls Frank Roberts: “There was a time when we had to limit our hiring to older fellows. These young fellows . . . they’d work as a dock boy for a while, then on to junior pilot, and eventually they became great pilots. Just about the time they had reached the point where you could really rely on them and trust them, off they’d go to Canadian Pacific or PWA.”

Losing good pilots is one thing, but somewhere along the line, Bob’s marriage began slipping away. “Bob worked long hours,” recalls Jackie, “I guess from May until the end of September he sometimes didn’t have a day off. Weeks would go by and he’d be flying from first light until dark. He was gone before the children got up and he didn’t get home until after they went to bed. That in itself is hard on a family.” Though their marriage didn’t last, Bob remained a dedicated father to his three children.

Tom Langdon, now an accomplished fixed-wing and helicopter pilot, laughs when he remembers the first day working for his dad: “I started working there when I was about thirteen pumping floats and packing freight. My dad said, ‘Do you want to work on the weekends?’ I was excited. Dad walked me into [Chief Pilot] Harry Taylor’s office and he said, ‘Harry, Tom thinks he’d like to work here. I’ll leave him with you and you can tell him how it’s done. If he works out fine, give him a job, and if he doesn’t cut it, fire his ass.’ And with that, dad went to his office and left me standing there.”

In July of 1976, Bob was left standing alone when pilots and ground crew of Island Air walked off the job. He never understood the need for a union and this walkout felt like a stab in the back. “He was used to a ‘family style’ sort-of operation where you looked after your family and they did a good job for you,” relates Jackie Langdon, “The better job they did, the more perks they got. He felt that this union effort on parts of some of his staff was an act of disloyalty.”

Gord Beadle, former Island Air pilot and shop steward at the time of the strike, remembers it a little differently: “We basically went two years without a pay increase; so, when the third year came up, and the boss announced he couldn’t afford another pay increase, that was kind of the straw that broke the camel’s back.” Somewhere along the line the base pay started decreasing as the mileage pay started increasing; which, according to Gord, led to some pretty lean times. “You basically couldn’t live on it. In the wintertime for the most part you were on starvation wages because the days are short, flying time is cut down, and a lot of the logging camps were starting to shut down.” Bob, however could be very stubborn. In an Upper-Islander article from July, 1976, he declared: “The strike will end as soon as the day comes when they accept our proposal. We cannot not meet the union wage demands and stay in business.”

Bob stuck to his word. When the strike finally ended ten weeks later, workers returned to find a new name plaque on the bosses door. During the lockout, Bob accepted an offer from Keith Stephenson, owner of Vancouver based Haida Airlines, and stepped away from the company into which he poured his heart and soul. “He took [the strike] very personally,” remembers Tom Langdon, “This wasn’t just a business, this was his business. That was a big part of why he wanted to sell: it wasn’t fun anymore.”

With the pulse of the company gone, two long-time employees felt it was time to move on. First to go was engineer Dave Nilson: “ When Island Airlines changed ownership, I left at that time,” remembers Dave, “everybody was just angry at that point. So I thought, ‘I’m outta here!’" Dave would go on to found Nilson Aircraft, an aircraft maintenance business he ran successfully until his retirement in 1999. A year later, Frank Roberts followed suit. “This was a time of lots of changes down at the Spit,” reflects Frank, “My contract was that I would stay on for a year under the new owner, give him a hand, and get him started—which I did. After a year, I left.”

Under new ownership, Island Airlines continued to do well. Whereas Bob was a little more conservative in his style, Stephenson proved to be a progressive owner. “He was always open to new ideas and did really well with it,” remembers Harvey Hahn, “I liked him. He actually bought the Twin Otter that Island Air had.” The Twin Otter proved to be a great investment for Island Airlines—making three runs daily from the Spit to Vancouver Harbour in the late 70’s. "I think it was $35 each way,” recalls former dispatcher Val Todd, “This is around 79. Our run was very, very popular.” Popular with the passengers certainly, but with senior pilots like Gord Beadle as well: “In my last few years in Campbell River I was mainly flying the Twin Otter over to Vancouver. That was one nice thing about going to Vancouver: you got away from the base pay/mileage. You were strictly salary. There wasn’t the pressure to fly because it wasn’t going to affect your paycheque.”

When the 80’s rolled around, sweeping changes on the Spit affected more than just paycheques. “[Stephenson] had ambitions,” reflects Harvey Hahn, “but when Pattison’s group came along and knocked on the door with their check book, they said, ‘It’s a good deal for us.’ So they sold it.” It was the end of an era. Both Island Air and their long-time rival Gulf Air, were scooped up by the Pattison machine; and, in one final ironic twist, operated for a short period of time as a unified entity called Gulf Island Air. By 1981, the amalgamation became part of Air BC.
(Visit Chapter 10)

On January 23, 1986, friends, family and former colleagues gathered once again. This time to say a last farewell to the iconic aviator. After a lengthy battle with cancer, Bob Langdon passed away at the age of 61. His contribution to Campbell River’s aviation industry is immeasurable. From the economic impact to the city, to the coastal communities that relied on the airlines as a connection to the outside world, Bob’s legacy will live on. It is no wonder that many former employees, when thinking back to that golden era on the Spit, often remark, “We never realized how good we had it.”

CHAPTER 7 – Alert Bay Air Services
by Carol Hentze

 

“All we ever hoped for when we got started was a decent living for ourselves”

~Don Thompson

Hoping to make a better life for themselves in Canada, former Royal Air Force pilot Don Thompson, his Canadian-born wife and their young twins crossed the Atlantic from the shores of ‘Merry-Olde’ England, arriving in Chilliwack in 1948. Post-War England was not the ‘merriest’ place to be at the time; the economy was still struggling to get back on track and because the American Lend Lease had stopped, free food wasn’t being shipped across the seas as it was during the war, making rationing in the country worse. “My wife wanted to come back,” says Don, and seeking a stable future for his growing family, he happily agreed.

An active member of the Chilliwack Flying Club, Don got the chance of a lifetime in 1955 when he was offered a full-time job by BC Air Lines founder, Bill Sylvester. He was not deterred by the location of the job, which turned out to be on an isolated island known as Alert Bay, off the coast of northern Vancouver Island. The Thompson family settled in nicely on nearby Comorant Island.

Just one year later, in 1956, the strict government regulations and endless paperwork forced a frustrated Sylvester to sell BC Air Lines to Dutch gin millionaire Paul Tak, and airline executive, Maurice McGregor. As the newly appointed president of BC Air Lines, McGregor was more interested in ‘big-time’ operations; according to Don, “…he didn’t really gel with the coastal stuff,” and naturally, the service at the Alert Bay base suffered. With tensions mounting between unsatisfied passengers and the new owners of BC Air Lines, Don sensed that if “he didn’t do something about the service, someone else would.”

Scraping together a mere five thousand dollars, three thousand of which was immediately spent on a ‘new’ used airplane, Don and his business partner, Bill Groth, started their own airline in 1958. Alert Bay Air Services was ready for business and roaring to hit the skies.

All ABAS employees were locals who understood the special needs of the remote communities. The policy in the early days was to take passengers wherever they wanted to go and not be bogged down by a set schedule. They utilized smaller planes whenever possible and charged less money per flight than their competitors—strategies that quickly endeared the airline to its growing customer base.

Indeed, it didn’t take long for the airline to work its way into the hearts and minds of the outlying communities. “The people look after us all through the year,” reflects Don, “We try to show in some small measure, our appreciation.” One way they showed their appreciation was through their annual Christmas run. Children living in the isolated camps and villages along the coast searched the December skies in wide-eyed anticipation for ‘Santa’s’ traditional visit, who arrived by floatplane and distributed free gifts and candy.

Other unique services included: delivering messages, taking grocery orders, cashing cheques, issuing emergency loans and finding jobs for the locals. They operated 365 days a year, including Christmas, if they were needed. Working from dawn until dusk in the summer, an average day consisted of twenty landings and take offs, with the flights lasting approximately fifteen minutes— making it one of the shortest flight durations in the world.

Because of the unique weather conditions on the coast, pilots could fly a whole month without getting above one thousand feet and at times were forced to fly only ten feet off the water. They never said “no” unless it was foggy or blowing too hard. Their ‘customers first’ policy was: as long as an airplane could get airborne from any of their bases, they would, “go and have a look at it.” Even with the unpredictable weather they were only grounded an average of ten days a year. On the rare occasions they were stranded due to blustery conditions, Don remembers the coastal people being very hospitable: “You never had to worry about a place to stay. They always found a place for you, food, and very often, too much booze as well.”

Don’s idea from the beginning was to stay small, but this is not what transpired. “The pressure to expand was always there,” he says, and the bank was ever-accommodating, ready to supply an endless amount of cash for new airplanes. By the early 70’s, the main ABAS base had moved to Port Hardy, the company’s fleet of airplanes had swelled to fifteen and the staff numbered over forty people. Smaller bases existed in Kelsey Bay, Hardy Bay, Bella Bella and Ocean Falls.

But nothing lasts forever. By the mid ‘70s, the heyday for ABAS—reflecting that of the fishing and logging industry— had come and gone. In 1978, more than ready for retirement, Don jumped at the chance to sell the floatplane part of the business to Don Braithwaite, owner of Gulf Air. Says Don proudly, “I don’t have any regrets – we were in business for 30 years.”

 

CHAPTER 8 – Trans Mountain/Gulf Air
by Carol Hentze

“The airline was a real good money-making situation in the days we were in ”

 ~ Don Braithwaite

Early in the 1960’s, Campbell River, already on the map as the ‘Salmon Capital of the World’ was growing in leaps and bounds. Air traffic established in 1959 by Pacific Western Airlines (PWA) at the Campbell River Municipal airport was becoming increasingly popular. Forrest Cochrane took over the existing Campbell River Flying Club at the Campbell River Airport and operated it as a flying school. Cochrane envisioned a future in the industry, and wanting to expand further, applied for a charter licence—which was granted under the name of Trans Mountain Air Services. In 1964, Mr. Cochrane enlisted a member of the old flying club—an Englishman, William I. ‘Bill’ Macadam as president and co-owner to help them reorganize and expand the business.

Bill Macadam, described by chief pilot Harvey Hahn as “pretty colourful,” was sent to Canada to get an education by his dad, millionaire Lord Iverson Macadam, the Queen of England’s capital advisor. “Bill, I guess was one of the black sheep,” remembers future owner of Trans Mountain Air Services, Don Braithwaite, “and he got kicked out to BC more or less.” With the ‘old’ money from Bill’s grandfather, who had invented asphalt, known in England as macadamized roads, Bill bought out Cochrane’s partner—Art Price and invested in the promising new airline. “He had one hundred thousand dollars and his sister had one hundred thousand dollars,” says Don Braithwaite, “and Bill blew his money and her money on the airline and was going broke.” Harvey Hahn agrees: “We made many friends, but we didn’t make much money.”

By 1965, the aviation industry became Campbell River’s second largest employer, and the future looked even brighter. Trans Mountain retained their presence at the airport and also nestled down at the Spit next to the two other seaplane bases: BC Air Lines and Island Air. The competition was about to get fiercer.

 “I was a logger,” says Don, “and loggers can’t sit around waiting for airplanes, they gotta go to work. So I got my own plane, learned how to fly and got my pilot’s licence in 1955.” In those days, Braithwaite lived in Lake Cowichan and used to fly parts for his logging company into the camps from Nanaimo Harbour. He used his new Cessna 180 until 1966 when he bought a Beaver to haul heavier loads and make more frequent trips to his new logging gig at Knight Inlet. Consequently, Braithwaite reduced his trucking time and increased his company’s profit by moving to Campbell River.

Don’s next dilemma was to find a place at the Spit to tie up his plane. BC Air Lines and Island Airlines were both plugged up, so Trans Mountain Airlines, fairly new on the block, offered up a lease for a parking space and part of their hangar. This arrangement was copasetic until the fall of 1967 when Trans Mountain owner, Bill Macadam, found himself in financial hot water. Harvey Hahn, Trans Mountain’s chief pilot and Macadam’s ‘right hand man’, flew up to Knight Inlet where Don Braithwaite was logging. Within no time, Braithwaite was plunked down in Macadam’s office where the urgency of the meeting was revealed to him: Trans Mountain was burdened with debt and going broke. “I wrote him out a cheque,” recalls Don, “and I was now in the airlines business.” Braithwaite covered the current bills and became a fifty-one percent share holder. “I took over the airline right away,” remembers Braithwaite, “there was no sense in horsing around. If you want to get in there, you might as well get in there.”

Red flags went off immediately when enthusiastic Macadam came up with some grand ideas for Trans Mountain’s future. These suggestions just didn’t jive with Braithwaite’s vision for more control in the company. The writing was on the wall: Macadam had to go. Don negotiated a fair dollar to buy out Macadam, and became the sole owner of the company in January, 1968. Off to Ottawa went Macadam, while Braithwaite headed in another direction—that is, up and down BC’s coast forking out more money to pay off Trans Mountain’s old debts and hidden costs. Once Macadam’s ties were completely severed with the airline, Don transferred the assets and licences from Trans Mountain into his new company, Gulf Air Aviation Ltd.

Early on in the game there was some spying going on down at the Spit, particularly in 1968, when Bob Langdon, president and founder of Island Airlines got on the blower to the Ministry of Transport (MOT) back in Ottawa to report a little misdemeanour by Trans Mountain. They had flown some loggers and cargo into Phillips Arm without the required licence to do so. Inevitably, a short while later, there was a rap on Trans Mountain’s door—an MOT inspector—that went through the Trans Mountain planes and premises with a fine-tooth comb. That was it for Braithwaite, so, in the summer of 1968, he grabbed his lawyer and off they went to Ottawa to apply for a bigger licence. While there, the pair got an ‘inside scoop’ that BC Air Lines was going to sell off its Campbell River base. This perked Don’s interest immediately as the Campbell River base was a money-maker. So, when Don showed up at the BC Air Lines base in Vancouver announcing that he wanted to buy the base in Campbell River, they were quite perturbed that this information had leaked out. A couple of weeks later, an MOT rep was back in Campbell River—this time with some good news for Braithwaite—to discuss the sale of the BC Air Lines base with him. Don then presented him with a $10,000 cheque for good faith. There was just one stumbling block: Island Airlines also had a shot at buying the base. Things were tense until Don got word that it was a done deal; Trans Mountain Air Services officially took over the BC Air Lines base on August 1, 1968, becoming the first company to buy a base off them. Their planes were moved over to the newly acquired BC Air Lines dock, and the pared down staff worked out of one building at the new location.

“It was quite a struggle competing with Island Airlines,” reflects Don, “It went along and I had my problems.” Braithwaite couldn’t seem to keep the logging business and the airlines running smoothly—at least not at the same time. Don eventually let the logging go in order to focus on his growing airline. “I was with Trans Mountain through the change to Gulf Air and Don Braithwaite,” reminisces chief pilot, Bob Early, “when Don took over, it was boom times…he had plenty of good timing that way… we were crazy busy… there were a lot of young guys like myself and we were all gung-ho. I worked six or seven days a week—I didn’t have to, but I did.”

The rivalry with Island Airlines existed from day one. An example of this was in the late 60’s, when Bob Langdon’s Island Air had the mail run to Stuart Island and Blind Channel which enabled them to run an ‘incidental’ off of the mail run up to Bute Inlet. Langdon had beaten out Trans Mountain and they couldn’t get in to Bute. This didn’t sit well with Braithwaite who said to his operations manager, John Ward, “We’ve got to get that licence and get that mail run out of there. We’ll take it for nothing.” The company started out dropping freight for three dollars a parcel, three dollars a drop, finally working their way up into Bute Inlet and the whole issue. Says Braithwaite: “…Basically we just got bigger and bigger the whole time.”

“I was the first guy to bring an Otter in,” reflects Braithwaite, “loggers go for anything that’s bigger—[they can] move more stuff. I was a logger. I had stood on the dock waiting for airplanes and the rest of it… so I knew what it was all about.” According to Bob Langdon, owner of Island Air, the Otter was too big of an airplane to land in the river and would never work… which was all the more reason for Don to try it.

Braithwaite knew the high cost involved in running a logging operation and worked with the companies to help reduce their ‘downtime’. One such example was when Braithwaite flew down to Vancouver, picked up eight logging truck tires (1224’s), loaded them up and delivered them to Loughborough Inlet in a matter of hours. If not for the Otter, the logging company wouldn’t have been able to work for another four days—a huge loss of income. Trans Mountain soon became known as the ‘Logger’s Airline.’ They kept their two Otters busy flying a ton of freight into the camps—either groceries or powder and then picking up ten loggers and flying them out. The Otter got the airlines more business all the time.

If it wasn’t enough trying to keep up with the demands of the airlines, there was another thorn in Braithwaite’s side in 1975—the rumbles of joining the union. Operations Manager at the time and long time employee, Bob Early, muses, “It was Gordie Wilkinson ( Trans Mountain pilot) that was spearheading the union. He was a good guy though. I was in the middle between the union and Don. It was just awful…I was getting shell-shocked from both sides. One day I just decided I can’t do this anymore… and I walked out and I never went back.”

“Gordie Wilkinson is a heck-of-a good fella and a good pilot,” remembers Braithwaite, “but he got mouthing off at me. I had enough,” so I told my operations manager to send him into my office and I said, “I’ve had enough of your bullshit. You are a good pilot, but I just can’t take this.” Wilkinson then hired on at BC Forest Products. He needed a place to tie up the plane, so he approached Braithwaite about using Trans Mountain’s dock. Braithwaite had space available and readily agreed to let him dock there. Says Gord Wilkinson, “We started to give them some work, and eventually we gave them all the work, and Langdon got none of it. And that didn’t please Langdon too much.” Gord’s new work situation ended up benefiting both men.

In 1976 Island Airlines went on strike. Don’s people (Gulf Air) were not union. “My guys asked me if I was going to give them a raise,” recalls Braithwaite, “and I said ‘not right now, probably in the spring, but you’re getting more money than those guys (Island Air) already…I’m still trying to pay off the bank and the whole issue.’” So, to appease his crew, whatever Island Air negotiated, Don paid—and they kept operating. The strike provided more business for Gulf Air and enabled them to keep their commitment to the bank by making all their loan payments. On the other hand, Bob Langdon, frustrated with the strike, sold out Island Airlines to Keith Stephenson.

Things were running along so smoothly that in 1978, Gulf Air acquired ABAS (Alert Bay Air Service) located at the Port Hardy airport. Founder Don Thompson was ready to sell off the floatplane part of his business; it was perfect timing for Don Braithwaite to expand his empire once again, enabling Gulf to cash in on the scheduled routes.

Around 1980, ‘Uncle Jimmy’…that is Jim Pattison, wanting to buy an airline, or rather the route licences, sent his people up to Campbell River to make a deal. Pattison kept it quiet that he had just bought out Air West, and wanted to buy out Gulf and Island Air. Remarks Braithwaite, “I was in good shape, so that’s when I decided to get out.”

“I had a bellyful between trying to argue with the bank, argue with the MOT and argue with the union,” laments Braithwaite, “who needs it?” Uncle Jimmy’s timing could not have been better. “We had three or four bad accidents,” reflects Don, “It’s not bad to go to one funeral, but when you have to go to five or six in one afternoon it gets difficult. Jesus, people look at you like you are a murderer.”

The Campbell River Spit was forever changed when Pattison amalgamated the airlines and it became Gulf Island Air. The parent company was Air BC.

“We had a lot of fun at it and the whole deal,” recalls Don, “there’s no two ways about that…I guess I was basically one of the biggest regional/postal carriers around.”

Chapter 9 – The Busiest Seaplane Base
by Julie Matchett

“Campbell River's float plane base in the estuary was reputed to be the most busy float plane base in the world. It was constant—planes coming and going.”

~Jack Chicalo

 

For those who’ve always wondered where that phrase, “ Campbell River was the busiest seaplane base in the world” really came from, blame former Island Airlines engineer, Dave Nilson. It was Dave who half-jokingly made the remark while he was chatting with a good friend down at the Campbell River Spit. The friend, a newspaperman and ‘airplane nut’, took the comment and flew with it, and before long, the term had stuck. “That’s the story...” says former Island Air pilot Gord Beadle, “…It was busy, no question about it—extremely busy.” A study done by the Ministry of Transport back in the seventies only confirmed the rumours. Hired during the summer, two university students spent a ‘miserable’ day on the Spit, stretched out on lawn chairs in the hot sun, bucket of cool beverages on hand, counting the number of planes coming and going. The official results of the study? In a 12-hour period, there was an aircraft taking off or landing every six minutes. Remembers Gord, “…it was go, go, go back in the day!”

By the mid-sixties, coastal British Columbia was in the firm grip of a logging heyday with independent ‘gypo’ loggers springing up all over Vancouver Island. “There was a terrific amount of logging,” says pilot Lee Frankham, “everywhere you went it was five guys and his brother out here logging.” When Timber Forest License 2 (TFL2) was granted by the Ministry of Forests back in 1949, it gave independent loggers the right to log old growth timber stands on Vancouver Island for the next 35 years. According to logger Len Crawford, at the time TFL2 was issued, “Nobody ever knew how much old growth there was to start with.” He continues: “In 35 years, the technology changed so much, with road-building and such, that the [timber] they thought wasn’t accessible, got to be accessible.” The inevitable result was an influx of small, independently run companies, eager to cash in on the booming timber market. When boom times are happening in one industry, the benefits tend to trickle down the line into other industries—it was a natural progression that floatplanes would become an indispensable part of the logging world.

“The aircraft was one of the most important tools in the coast logging industry,” says pilot Walter Davidson. The forest industry has seen enormous technological advances since the beginning of coastal logging in the 1880’s: from teams of oxen hauling timber out of the bush, to the advent of steam donkeys, and into the modern, mechanized era of logging trucks. While these advances aided in the hauling of lumber, it wasn’t until the arrival of the floatplane that the movement of people changed. Up until that point, logging camps were large operations, employing hundreds of men from distant areas, who would live in camp for a few months at a time. “Floatplanes changed the logging industry over time,” remarks Phil Bergman at Vancouver Island Air, “Loggers used to travel from Vancouver on the old Union Steamships. When floatplanes came in, loggers could live in this area and fly into and out of camp really easily.” Needless to say, the ease of locomotion heralded big money-making opportunities for the airline businesses in Campbell River, and enticed new companies to the area. In 1966, Okanagan Helicopters started a full-time base on the Spit, and the reason for that decision was “the logging industry,” remarks Craig Houston, a helicopter pilot. Says pilot Mark Murphy: “The community over the years, I don’t think they had an idea of how big the business was out of the Spit…parts, equipment, groceries…it was huge.”

Pilot Harvey Hahn relates a typical day on the Spit during the hectic rush of those times: “On Monday morning, we used to shuttle two to three hundred people. We just went right at it from first daylight in the summer until 9:30 at night…every airplane on the Spit was hauling people out to these camps.” Chartering an airplane was the usual way to transport employees out to remote camps, but before long, logging companies got wise to a simple fact: “…having to wait for airplanes and chasing around [town] wasted a lot of time,” says logger Don Braithwaite, “…downtime costs you a lot of money.” So, in order to avoid this nasty truth, many companies started investing in their own aircraft. Walter Davidson, former owner of a logging operation, agrees: “If you had your own aircraft…you had a distinct advantage over people who had to charter. I can hardly imagine operating our logging [business] without our own aircraft. It became indispensable.”

And it wasn’t just loggers who utilized the floatplane business. Before the ferry system to Cortes Island was established in 1969, people living on the outlying islands around Campbell River had two options at their disposal to reach the mainland: a boat, or a floatplane. Travel by boat entailed a multiple-hour journey, as opposed to a quick jaunt in an airplane which took mere minutes—for many, the choice was blatantly obvious. As Phil Bergman explains, “I grew up on Cortes Island…the floatplanes were how I got to Campbell River for doctor’s appointments and things like that.” At one time, Island Airlines had a scheduled flight that served only Cortes Island and the surrounding areas—this one little spot had its own dedicated service, proving how busy the traffic was.

It’s undeniable that the economic impact to the city was substantial. With the spin-off from the constant traffic, the local community benefited enormously, and it created a huge tax base for the city. “The [logging industry] has allowed our community to be seen by a lot more people,” mentions Phil Bergman, “and I think over time, the more people that see the area the better and healthier it becomes.”

CHAPTER 10 – Uncle Jimmy’s Air BC
by Tyson Mielke

“Pattison was not a good thing for the industry. It wasn’t good for the airline. It wasn’t good for the people.”

~Harvey Hahn

Retired pilot Gordie Wilkinson remembers a handshake like a “wet dishrag”. Local aviator Jim Creighton refers to him as an “evil character”. Former Gulf Air owner Don Braithwaite simply calls him “Uncle Jimmy”. As the bellbottomed 1970’s gave way to the conservative suits of the Mulroney/Reagan era, an ominous presence arrived on the Spit donning a pin-stripe suit and Cheshire Cat grin . . .

Legend has it Jimmy Pattison wanted an airline to add to his growing empire of car lots, media outlets and grocery stores, and had his eye on Pacific Western Airlines—one of Western Canada’s aviation juggernauts. With confidence fuelled by a briefcase full of cash, he strutted into PWA’s head office and kerplunked an offer on the table. “They wouldn’t even entertain the idea,” recalls former Air BC pilot Gord Beadle, “They said, ‘Go away little guy. You can’t afford us.’” Jimmy did not like this. In fact, it made him so mad he did what any self-respecting, soon-to-be-billionaire would do: form his own airline.

In those days airline companies needed route licenses to conduct business. Once licenses were obtained—for example, from Campbell River to Vancouver—it was illegal for other operators to infringe on the route. But new licenses weren’t just handed out like grandma’s stale butterscotch candies. Applicants had to convince the Ministry of Transport that there was a genuine demand for service. Tom Langdon, former owner of Orca Air, remembers: “You needed letters of recommendation, customer lists, and letters from clients saying the service was needed. You needed to jump through lots and lots of hoops.”

One thing about billionaires, they hate jumping through hoops. They’d rather clobber them with heavy bucket loads of cash. Pattison came to the conclusion that it would be a lot less trouble and way more fun to buy existing airlines and, if things didn’t go well, simply extract the licenses he wanted and sell off the dregs. Content with this seemingly foil-proof plan, he turned his attention to the North Island.

The Pattison ‘Express’ began sweeping down the coast in early 1980. Directly in the path of this corporate maelstrom were Campbell River’s biggest operators: Gulf Air and Island Airlines. Gulf Air owner Don Braithwaite saw the storm coming; but, instead of taking shelter, calmly laid out the welcome mat and put the kettle on. “Pattison wanted to buy an airline and I thought, ‘You are just the man for me.’” By this time, Don was getting tired of the game and he knew Pattison came knocking with deep pockets. “I had gotten really fed up with the whole issue,” recalls Don, “I had a bellyful between trying to argue with the bank, argue with the Ministry of Transport, and argue with the union. Who needs it?”

Next door at Island Air—by then operating as a subsidiary of Vancouver based Haida Airlines—the story was pretty much the same. Owner Keith Stephenson looked at the offer sheet and decided it was too good to pass up. Just like that, Campbell River’s largest and longest serving seaplane outfits were now in the hands of a man with a much bigger agenda. It was not a happy time on the Spit.

“That was probably one of the worst parts in my life,” laments Don—who was asked to stay around after the sale and help with the changeover—“I had to fire a lot of people . . . everybody that wasn’t union. One gal just about passed out when I told her she was fired, but what do you do? It was a tough go.” “It was pretty rough,” agrees Val Todd, who started dispatching for Island Air on the Spit in 1979, and received her proverbial pink slip during the transition, “a lot of people were just sort of let go on a moment’s notice and it was very upsetting . . .” No-one, it seemed, was immune to Pattison’s golden axe. Even Harry Taylor, who had been Chief Pilot at Island Air for many years, was phased out. “There was some bad blood and that was hard,” recalls former Air BC dispatcher Norene Reedel, “Harry, still to this day, doesn’t come to any airline reunions. It’s sad.”

Until the license transfers and seemingly endless bureaucratic procedures were finalized by the Ministry of Transport, Island Air and Gulf Air were technically one company but conducted business as separate entities. Gord Beadle remembers it as a strange time: “I could only fly an Island Air airplane and the Gulf guys could only fly Gulf Air because of the licenses.” When approvals finally arrived a few months later, Island Air and Gulf Air morphed into a giant, perplexing operation called Gulf Island Air. “What they did for a while was operate scheduled service out of one building and chartered service out of the other,” remembers Val, “which meant for some awkward stuff trying to dispatch it.”

Awkward indeed, but things were only getting started. On the day after Halloween 1980, the company exchanged one mask for another when Gulf Island Air and the four other coastal airlines purchased by Pattison officially fused into one, big happy company called Air BC. Perhaps this crazy period is best summed up by Larry Langford, current owner of Vancouver Island Air, “At one time, there was an Island Air Beaver flying around with a wing on it from a Gulf Air airplane in Air BC colours. It was a very confusing time and . . . a little bit of a disaster.”

While employees wrestled with their disgruntlement, customers were having a little trouble grooving on the new company’s philosophy. “When an airline comes along and says, ‘Hey, we don’t care what your schedule is, you have to work around us,’” remembers former pilot Harvey Hahn, “the loggers will just tell you to shove off—and that’s exactly what happened.” In an ironic twist, logging camps began purchasing their own planes—ones belonging to Air BC that were now, thanks to cutbacks in coastal service, sitting in hangers collecting dust. Indeed, many inhabitants along the coast felt betrayed. “There were all kinds of newspaper articles about this situation,” recalls Gord Beadle, “headlines like, ‘Coastal Communities Left Stranded’ were common.”

Most agree that some of Air BC’s problems arose from management trying to run the company in a big city manner—a style that just didn’t quite work in this unique coastal market. “They had all these grand ideas of what an airline should be,” muses Val, “but that doesn’t equate to what it’s like for a small float plane operation dealing with loggers and all that sort of stuff.” Things really came to a head when the company started charging passengers for parking. “Boy,” muses Val, “that did not go over well.”

Air BC even managed to cause itself internal grief when residue of the coastal take-over smeared a nice coating of insecurity and doubt amongst the staff at company headquarters in Vancouver. Before Pattison arrived on the Spit in all his mad-money glory, staff at Island Air and Gulf Air worked under the umbrella of the Canadian Brotherhood of Railway Telegraph and General Workers Union. When Air BC took over operations, they not only brought along ill-conceived business ideas, but also the Teamster’s Union. “That’s when all the bumping started to happen,” remembers Steve Todd, a former dispatcher for Island Air and Val’s husband, “all the Island Air and Gulf Air people had the seniority in the system.” In fact, fifteen out of the top twenty employees on the seniority list came from Campbell River and, if they were willing to move, had the option of taking positions and displacing workers at the Vancouver base.

While many union employees decided to stick things out in Campbell River, several, including dispatcher Norene Reedel and pilot Gord Beadle, threw caution to the wind and flew off to the mainland to be part of Pattison’s grand vision. “If you guys will stick with me, and do this five year plan . . . things will work out.” This was, according to Norene, the crux of Pattison’s rallying speech, and he delivered on his promise. “He paid us well and we did stick to the five year plan. There was growth and we could see we were going somewhere. It was really exciting because I saw it go from the original plan of buying out all these little airlines to the success it became.”

There is no question that Jimmy Pattison is a shrewd business man. Heck, even his wallet comes with an ensuite. But the world of business revolves in a capricious and fickle orbit. Yes, Air BC became a great success on the mainland, but things weren’t so rosy in Campbell River. Already dealing with low staff morale and a wary customer base (picture irate loggers violently crumpling up parking tickets) the company suffered another blow when the economy started experiencing chest pains. “I think that’s when all the employees went into a depression,” reflects Steve Todd, “the logging declined, the fisheries declined, the economy declined, the airlines business declined and everyone was scratching to make it work.”

In the end, Pattison grew weary of scratching. Whether it was the plan all along, or things legitimately didn’t pan out, barely two years after the big splurge, he salvaged what he wanted from his coastal operations, sold off the pieces and high-tailed it out of town. A few of the scattered remains emerged in Gold River under the guise of Air Nootka, with the majority of the pieces ending up on the Spit in the hands of Wayne Denny and CoVal Air.

One thing is for sure, Pattison’s take-over and hasty exit marked the ending of one era and the beginning of another down on the Spit. Change was probably inevitable, but one can only speculate how things may have played out had Pattison stayed out of the aviation game. Air BC’s coastal monopoly barely lasted two years, but strong emotions regarding this time period still linger within the people whose lives were affected by all the chaos. Indeed, there is no grey area when it comes to remembering this pivotal character in Campbell River’s seaplane history. On one side are those who regard him as an “evil character”, and on the other, those who simply remember him as “Uncle Jimmy”.

CHAPTER 11 – A New Era Begins

PART 1 – CoVal Air by Tyson Mielke

 “ Wayne had all these ideas and wanted to do them all at once. The biggest problem was getting him to slow down and do things in the established pattern.”

~Harvey Hahn

Wayne Denny was a confident, “gung-ho” man anxious to become a major player in Campbell River’s aviation scene. When Pattison decided to pull the plug on Air BC’s seaplane operations on the Spit, Denny jumped in with both feet and scooped up the base and licenses. It was this impulsive, “balls-to-the-wall” demeanor that ultimately, some believe, led to his downfall. “He came from a military environment,” recalls former CoVal Operations Manager, Harvey Hahn, “that was his undoing.” According to Harvey, the military has a tendency to leap-frog over problems—a practice that doesn’t work in the commercial world. “You can’t do that here. You have to be very meticulous and careful and make sure the whole thing is safe.”

Comox Valley Air (CoVal Air), already established in the Comox Valley, enjoyed an auspicious start when they expanded operations to the Tyee Spit. When government approvals of the sale were finalized in 1982, the airline found itself alone atop the seaplane industry in Campbell River. They had, in a sense, purchased all of the old licenses once belonging to Gulf and Island Air—the former heavy-hitters—giving them a local monopoly. After dealing with the ‘take-it-or-leave-it’ attitude dished out by Air BC over the last couple of years, the sale left customers wanting. “Wayne wound up with the whole thing,” says Harvey, “there was no-one to compete with them. I would have people saying, ‘Yeah right! That’s how much you charge, but if you had competition it would be less.’”

Patrons were not the only ones expressing displeasure. While many employees during the early stages of the transaction used their seniority within Air BC to find jobs at that company’s Vancouver operation, the ones staying behind at the newly formed CoVal Air found things a little unsettling. “ Wayne wanted to be an innovator and a pioneer at a time when that wasn’t being embraced at all,” recalls former dispatcher Steve Todd, “everybody wants to be a pioneer in something, but the pioneering days of aviation are basically gone.”

It was this cavalier, pioneering spirit—ironically a recipe for success in the early days of Campbell River aviation—that led to a lot of dissention. “I just wasn’t happy with what I was seeing with the way CoVal Air wanted to operate,” remembers Gord Beadle, retired Air BC pilot who left CoVal in 1982, “you could see the writing on the wall at that point.” Others, particularly the chief pilots, expressed concerns over certain business practices and, as a result, according to Steve, “were quitting on a regular basis and would not fly with Wayne at any point.” Their worst fears would be realized.

On Canada Day, 1984, while families across the country gathered to celebrate the Nation’s birthday, the staff of CoVal Air huddled together in grief and sadness. Wayne Denny, along with eight passengers, perished that afternoon when the Beech 18 he was piloting crashed at the Port Hardy airport. “It was catastrophic,” remembers Harvey, “a lot of people that worked there were his friends. For a small company like that to lose eight passengers . . . It took everything for all of us to hold it together.” The shock waves of the event reverberated down island to the CoVal office and Steve Todd vividly recalls the emotional turmoil and uncertainty following the crash. “There’s the president of the company, the direction of the company, and all the energy behind the company . . .gone! Everybody is left in complete limbo. We waited to see what was going to happen.”

Despite the tragedy the company soldiered on—overcoming not only the repercussions of the crash, but a sagging economy as well. When Harvey Hahn left in 1987 to pursue other ventures, Wayne’s wife Donna took over the management side of a business in a strong financial position. “I just told her, ‘Here’s your company. It’s in good shape. You are free and clear.’ It was probably the only airline on the coast that was in the black and had their debts paid off.”

CoVal’s success could be attributed to not only forestry—which accounted for 80 % of the company’s revenue at the time—but also management’s ability in finding new markets. CoVal pilots made close to 15,000 flights in 1987, thanks mainly to the burgeoning new industry of aquaculture. In a Courier newspaper article dated November of that year, then Managing Director of CoVal Air, George Filiatrault states: “Six percent of the airlines’ gross revenues will come from moving fish, and I anticipate that will grow to 15 percent by the end of 1988. We’ve now moved close to three million fish.” That’s quite an astonishing number considering they had only been in the fish hauling racket for a few months. As the recession slowly abated, the company also started tapping the summer tourism market, attracting a steady influx of travelers in pursuit of fishing adventures at remote BC lodges.

CoVal continued operations well into the 1990s—holding the title of largest float plane operator on the BC coast for many of those years. Finally, after nearly fifteen years on the Spit, CoVal slowly morphed into what eventually became Air Rainbow. Though he would not live to see his dream fully recognized, Wayne Denny will always be remembered for founding one of the most successful—and arguably most controversial—airlines in Campbell River seaplane history.

PART – 2 Vancouver Island Air & Sea by Tyson Mielke

 “I’ve always had an interest in aviation. I came out to Campbell River, started flying floats and liked it a lot.”

Larry Langford

The Campbell River seaplane industry is notoriously fickle—making Vancouver Island Air a true success story of the post-Pattison era. When the beleaguered billionaire decided to pull Air BC out of the Campbell River float plane racket, CoVal Air happily stepped in and acquired the assets—securing their position as the only game in town. “There was no competition for them,” relates Larry Langford, owner of V.I. Air, “That presented an opportunity if somebody wanted to start an airline.” After pitching in a few thousand dollars apiece, acquiring a license and a “repossessed, beat-up old Cessna 185,” Larry Langford, Bill Alder, and a third partner, seized that opportunity—establishing Vancouver Island Air in 1985.

Business expanded, and over the next year the fledgling airline acquired another Cessna with Tom Langdon coming aboard as a second pilot. Soon after, with one partner moving away, and Bill wanting to concentrate on his new venture, Sealand Aviation, Tom was given the opportunity to become an owner. “I bought one of the partners out . . . and Larry bought the other one out,” remembers Tom, “so we wound up with a one third, two third split in the business.”

Unfortunately, this arrangement was not ideal for either man. Tom had envisioned taking a more active role in the decision making and felt frustrated by the situation. Larry, on the other hand, knew exactly what he wanted: sole ownership. Remembers Tom, “I don’t think it was really Larry’s idea to have a partner. It wasn’t his choice at the time. So I could see it wasn’t going to work out in the long term as far as business partners go.” Two years later, Larry bought Tom out when he voluntarily decided to leave the company and the two men amicably parted ways.

Today, Vancouver Island Air & Sea continues to provide excellent service. Under Larry’s guidance the company has survived the downturn in logging and the changing of the times. Though forestry related business is still vital to the company’s existence—making up 50% of the revenue as compared to 85% in the busier times—the focus now is on the burgeoning eco-tourism trade. “Today, you have to diversify to try to survive,” says Val Todd, who has dispatched with V.I. Air since 1988, “Our biggest customer is a grizzly bear viewing company. The bulk of our business is done in three or four months out of the year and that sustains us.”

Sometimes business comes from unexpected sources—like the deep pockets of a Hollywood studio. “It’s not something you can predict,” remembers long-time dispatcher Phil Bergman, “The Beech 18 has that classic twin tail which is visually appealing. Our first movie was Insomnia back in 2001. They repainted the aircraft because it had to look terrible for the movie. The only problem was we had to leave it painted that way through the fall in case they had to come back and do re-shoots. We did a lot of explaining to our customers as to why it looked that way.”

Rolly Bartlett, pilot with V.I. Air since 1987, recalls another brush with Hollywood when the producers of the movie Agent, Cody Banks came calling. “That was pretty interesting…it was fun. They had the helicopter camera ship hovering along. They said, ‘fly underneath this helicopter and get as close as you can.’ Of course, to actually intentionally fly towards another aircraft in the air was a little bit daunting at first!”

The two Beech 18s in the V.I. Air fleet not only look good on the big screen, they are quite unique in this part of the world. “The Beech 18’s are rare,” states Phil proudly, “only 70 were ever put on floats, and we have the only ones on the coast of British Columbia.” Larry, believing in the potential of these aircraft, spent six years modifying a third Beech 18, resulting in a one-of-a-kind craft dubbed the Seawind. Sadly, this unique plane is no longer part of the fleet. After a freak accident in April of 2007 in Jackson Bay, BC, the Seawind began taking on water and sank. No passengers were injured, but the aircraft could not be recovered.

Redesigning the Beech 18 is typical of Larry’s forward thinking. Instead of shying away from modern technologies and advancements, he uses them to the company’s advantage. For example, installing web cams for collecting weather data and maintaining a strong internet presence. “We can truly say that the internet has generated business for us,” says Larry, “We get inquiries from all over the world, and we know that we do get people to ride in the airplanes because they have seen them online.” Indeed, making connections with clients, whether electronically or through long-term service, is the heart and soul of the business. “A lot of the customers we’ve got we’ve been flying for over twenty years,” relates Val, “we see them week after week and that’s really neat. They call you on the phone and they don’t even have to say who they are because we recognize their voice.”

Another example of the company’s progressive thinking and understanding of the market is offering clients an alternative to flying. This may seem strange for an airline, but many logging companies prefer using the crew boats for short trips out to their respective camps.

Perhaps most important to V.I. Air’s success is the culture of safety that permeates the company. After 22 years in service they have had only one incident involving passengers—the Seawind crash— where fortunately, no passengers were injured. "In our situation it starts with Larry and works all the way through the company,” states Phil, “There will be days when we don’t fly, but someone else will get in an aircraft and make it back safely, but that’s not really the point. When we make a decision, we make it for a reason and stick to our guns.”

A lot of the credit goes to Lyle Whyte, Director of Maintenance, and his crew. “We have to abide by the books,” relates Lyle, “We can’t just say ‘Oh, well, I’m just gonna go ahead and stick a bunch of rivets in this piece of aluminum here.’ There are guidelines.” The crew is certainly kept hopping—especially in the cold months. “Wintertime involves rebuilds and getting the planes ready for the busy summer,” points out Lyle, “we can take an airplane apart and replace any parts or components that have corroded, change skins on the airplane and give it a good going over.” These winter ‘makeovers’ keep the planes in really good shape for a couple of years and each year the team works on a different aircraft. Major overhauls aside, the daily routine equates to an amazing amount of work in itself. For every hour of flying, an aircraft goes through two hours of general maintenance, which—based on costs per hour and actual man hours—is actually more than a 747. Floats in particular take a lot of beating. Larry equates landing in water to “landing in a farmer’s stubble field at 60 to 70 mph,” resulting in the floats having to be totally re-skinned on average every five to seven years.

Amazingly, the majority of the planes in V.I. Air’s fleet are over 40 years old. That sounds ancient, but this is not unusual in the aviation business. Most of these aircraft were built pre-computer, and in the pre-computer days, things were built to last. “Newer (planes) are designed with computers . . . to what they call ‘finite analysis’,” explains Larry, “it’s just what they need to meet the standard and no more. The older planes are actually tougher then the new aircraft being offered.” In other words, the newer planes have a definite life span for certain parts. For example, the wings on a new craft may be good for 25,000 hours. Once they reach that number, the wings are history and have to be replaced with brand new parts. It is different with the older planes; they do not really have a definite lifespan. “You can make it go forever if you have the time and money,” relates Larry, “a lot of the aircraft get completely overhauled almost to new condition.”

When Larry started with Island Airlines in 1972, close to thirty planes between the three major companies landed or took off from the Spit every four minutes to handle the volume of business. Today, about seven planes between two companies easily manage the workload. It’s an industry, it seems, in a constant state of flux. “I’ve worked for about eight different companies that have gone out of business or just quit providing service,” reflects Larry, “the aviation industry is not exactly known for its stability.” It’s this instability which makes Vancouver Island Air’s run truly remarkable. “I would consider that a success,” states Larry proudly, “there aren’t too many airlines that survive long under one ownership. We’re pleased we’re still here. It’s been a struggle, but we’ve got a good crew so everybody realizes the risk involved and how hard we have to work”

PART 3 – Rush Air by Tyson Mielke

 “It’s a very competitive business. It always has been, but that’s usually good in some ways.”

~Mark Murphy  

Mark Murphy and Keith McKillican both learned how to fly ‘old school’. They started at the bottom as dock hands and worked their way up—taking rides and gaining ‘float time’ with more seasoned pilots whenever they got the chance. “It was a fantastic system, really great,” recalls Mark of his days at Island Air, “You’re flying with really experienced guys.” In those days ‘wannabe’ pilots were responsible for obtaining their private and commercial licenses on their own, but the real training came later by riding along with the savvy veterans. “Even though you had your commercial license,” recalls Mark, “you still didn’t know anything.” The system certainly worked well for Keith, earning a reputation over the years as one of Campbell River’s most popular and trustworthy pilots. Described as a “helluva guy” with “personality plus”, he and Mark would eventually make a great team.

After the Pattison take-over in 1980, Mark and Keith trudged through the murky quagmire that was Gulf Island Air/ Air BC until February of 1981 when they found salvation doing contract work for logging behemoth Crown Zellerbach. For the next several years they enjoyed the stability and routine of shuttling crews and executives up and down the coast. Whether it was due to the juicy contract work or temporary insanity, in 1986 the two pilots decided to buy their own Beaver. This was the genesis of Rush Air.

“The name came about as a joke actually,” laughs Mark. Needing an official moniker for the license application, Mark recalls Keith’s moment of inspiration: “There’s a big freight container on the dock, and of course every box was from all these different logging camps, and they all said ‘Rush air, Rush air’—cause they’re always in a panic for everything. So, he says ‘Well, jeez, everything’s addressed to us as ‘Rush air’’. So that’s how we came up with the name.”

Speaking of names, logging companies have an annoying habit of changing names and owners as often as a burbling baby changes diapers—and change always arrives with its ugly cousin: uncertainty. What started as Crown Zellerbach became Crown Forest, which metamorphosed into Fletcher Challenge, which transformed into Timber West. It was during the Fletcher incarnation in 1990 that Rush Air’s contract became a victim of corporate reshuffling. But all was not lost. “We still did quite a bit of work for them,” recalls Mark, “and we started doing charter stuff.” Ownership of the company also changed during this time with Mark buying Keith out. It was an amicable decision however, and the former owner stayed on for several more years as an employee.

Mark embraced the challenge and decided the time was right to expand. “I had just the one Beaver to start with, and two years later got another one, then a year later another one, and a couple of years later, another one.” Like their Spit based predecessors, Rush Air enjoyed an excellent relationship with the logging industry—with 80% of the work coming from the same four or five companies. Says Mark, “We never advertised. We weren’t really out there like the other guys—just word-of-mouth basically.”

Word-of-mouth is a powerful form of advertising, but too many words in the form of federal legalese can lead to some exasperating moments. In fact, Mark may still be in business today if not for the hair-pulling frustrations brought on by government bureaucracy. “They’re idiots! Transport Canada—all they’re interested in is paperwork. That’s one of reasons I got out of it—I just couldn’t be bothered.” It’s a familiar lament—echoing that of many former airline owners.

After selling the business in 2000, Mark watched with dismay as Rush Air slowly disintegrated towards a rather indignant ending. Rumor has it the new owner got himself into a little financial trouble and decided that flying a plane load of dope into the United States was a good way to earn some extra money. Turns out, Americans don’t really appreciate this kind of thing, and the new owner quickly found a different career as a license plate maker in a U.S. federal prison. (For the record, Mark and Keith had absolutely nothing to do with the new ownership.)

Today, both men are enjoying semi-retirements with Mark occasionally flying friends and loggers around if they really bug him enough. And Keith, though no longer flying, still hauls loggers to work in the high-speed, camp crew boats which, ironically, have taken away some of the seaplane business. “It’s unbelievable the amount of airlines that have come and gone,” reflects Mark, “but I wouldn’t want to be in it now. The fun has gone out it.”

PART 4 – Air Rainbow by Tyson Mielke

"The owner at that time was a fellow named Murray LeSage . . . "

~Jim Creighton

At the end of every rainbow—or so the legend goes—is a leprechaun with a pot of gold. At the heart of Air Rainbow loomed the “Dark Prince of Aviation”—a mysterious character known as Murray LeSage. Overweight with pockmarked skin and long, dark hair, LeSage definitely couldn’t pass for a leprechaun, but he did seem to have access to a large pot of gold. “He had a whack of cash from somewhere”, says Jim Creighton—former Air Rainbow Chief Pilot—“and we’re talking a lot of money.” Money, it was alleged, coming directly from the pockets of the notorious motorcycle gang ‘The Hell’s Angels’. Whether this is true or not—LeSage denies the rumor, saying his only connection was when he owned a hotel in Nanaimo and the Hell’s Angels used to supply strippers for the bar—he targeted Campbell River in 1996 with a grand scheme to revitalize the industry and had the bank-roll to make it happen.

Wasting no time, LeSage motored down from Nanaimo—the company’s main headquarters—and quickly gobbled up the CoVal Air operation, giving the expanding company a high profile presence on the Tyee Spit. It was all part of the master plan towards coastal aviation dominance. “He was going to set up eco-camps all the way up the coast and make this big sweep and change everything,” says Jim Creighton, “It would be an operation that ran in the summertime, and rich American tourists would be taken in brand new Cessna Caravans.”

Rubbing their hands with greedy delight, Cessna reps flew up to Campbell River to placate the enigmatic Mr. LeSage. They had a big fish on the line and they weren’t about to let the commission of twelve Cessna Caravans—valued at a million bucks apiece—go without a little mollification. Armed with artist mock-ups of the planes in Air Rainbow colors and inundating the office with Cessna paraphernalia with the name ‘Air Rainbow’ plastered all over it, the sales team “really pushed,” remembers Jim, “because there was money involved.”

Oh, there was money—lots and lots of money and LeSage certainly enjoyed splashing it around. Both he and his wife could be seen running around town in Hummers—leased at $1000 per month each— all done up in Air Rainbow colors. He also spent thousands sprucing up the office by installing an expensive cedar floor, purchasing brand new furniture, and by hiring a local Native artist to carve intricate designs in the waiting room. He relished the role of business tycoon and played the part well; but, behind the façade, lurked the real money people—and they were getting a little twitchy.

It wasn’t long before that twitchiness turned to full-on paranoia and the steady stream of cash slowed to a trickle. In the end, the sparkling new Cessnas never arrived, and the grand scheme withered away to dream dust. Barely managing to stay afloat with their existing fleet doing the day to day mundane work of delivering freight and loggers, the pressure was always on to find new revenue streams. Jim remembers: “After awhile, you’re trying to make a living and you’re scrambling trying to find ways to bring in tourists.”

It was during one of his ‘scramblings’ that inspiration came in the form of a question: “What about the gay market?” Confident that he could set up ‘gay themed’ tours, Jim skittered over to Vancouver hoping to hustle some business in this potentially lucrative niche. “We were arranging all these packages,” laughs Jim, “we could fly the guests directly out of Vancouver and they’d have as much privacy as they wanted in these lodges and live their own lifestyle.” Once in the city, he went to what he describes as “the absolute gayest area in town” and paid a visit to a travel agency. Unbeknownst to Jim at the time, a rainbow is often used as a symbol in gay communities and there it was—written right across his hat in all its embroidered glory: ‘Air Rainbow’. “The guy kind of looked at me . . . and he could see that I wasn’t going to enrich the lives of him or any of his friends. I think I actually insulted him. That deal fell through.”

Also falling were the company’s revenues, with the downward spiral rapidly reaching terminal velocity. Murray LeSage, who entered the scene with much bravado, unceremoniously exited when the ‘pot of gold’ finally ran dry. And Jim Creighton, “the last pilot standing” followed suit when his cheques started to behave like tennis balls. After less then four years on the Spit, Air Rainbow’s vibrant logo faded into the dull grays of oblivion. But the offices would not remain empty for long. Several former employees of the ailing airline sensed an opportunity and took action. “When we knew things weren’t going well,” remembers Mike Farrell, “We bought Corilair and stepped in place when Air Rainbow went away.” And that is another story . . .

PART 5 – Corilair by Julie Matchett

“I won’t predict the future, but we’ve had a really good run.”

~Mike Farrell

Caught up in the convoluted mess that was Air Rainbow and fully aware of the dire straits the company was in, employee Mike Farrell and his fellow cohorts decided to get out before the proverbial ‘shit hit the fan’. Putting their heads together, they hit upon the idea of buying out Richard Godfrey’s Cortes Island operation, Corilair, and starting their own airline. Keeping the name intact, they moved the company to the Spit in 1999, and remain there to this day.

Says Mike: “I think the biggest challenge over the years has been adapting to the changing economy on the coast.” Because of this, diversification has become paramount in the floatplane business. “We don’t have any one thing that’s the majority of our business,” he explains, “…there’s a lot that we do.” Adventure tours, logging, First Nations work, medevacs, ‘passenger participation mail runs’, work with the fisheries department—even shuttling around famous Hollywood celebrities. “In fact,” laughs Mike, “I remember the lady who sat out in our parking lot for eight hours, waiting to get a glimpse of Sean Connery!”

“It’s been a fun industry,” agrees Pat Hadikan, the dispatcher at Corilair, “…it still continues to be not an ‘everyday’ job.” Her boundless enthusiasm and passion is infectious, especially when it comes to describing the people she interacts with on a daily basis. “The people have been wonderful—I love the northern villages, the locations…the people on these outlying islands are the people who make our business.” Along with a highly-developed sense of humour, she is also well-versed in the intricacies of the ‘shaking knees’ syndrome. After a passenger returns from a flight, she always makes sure to ask them, “‘Did you have fun?’ and if they did, I get them to sign the guest book—if not, I ask them to tell their friends they flew with someone else.” But, she finds, more often than not, the owners of those quivering knees come back from their trip with the biggest smiles plastered on their faces. “Yes!” she quickly nods, grinning, “We have a wonderful time.”

Despite the ongoing controversy regarding future plans for the Spit, Mike believes that “…people still enjoy having the floatplanes here.” He continues, “We live a unique lifestyle out here, and that includes boats, floatplanes and different forms of transportation that city people wouldn’t always be used to.” For Mike and the company, thoughts of an unstable future aren’t really a cause for concern: “We’ve lived in limbo for so long…you just do what you have to do.” More importantly, it’s the connection to the community and the people that keeps Corilair running smoothly, now and into the future.

PART 6 – Minstrel Air by Julie Matchett

“Carder was his name, Ed Carder.”

~ Don Braithwaite

 

When Ed Carder bought an island off the coast of Northern Vancouver Island and settled in with his family, he probably had visions of a fairy-tale ‘happily ever after’ ending for his life. For a while, that’s exactly what happened. But, like most of us know, ‘happily ever afters’ are pretty rare in the real world, and when the walls of Ed Carder’s perfect little kingdom started crumbling, no amount of bricks and mortar could repair the damage.

A waypoint for the Union Steamships which used to chug up and down the West Coast of British Columbia, Minstrel Island was a popular place in her time. Located in the waters near Kingcome Inlet, the island played host to a myriad of different folks. At the turn of the century, hundreds of logging camps were situated nearby, and the island was the perfect stop-off to unload supplies and provisions. Passengers embarking for distant Vancouver would await the steamships’ arrival in the spacious hotel which was built in 1904. The hotel saloon was also notoriously popular with the local logging crews—legend says that upwards of 500 men would pack into the barroom, all chugging down copious amounts of booze faster than a naughty saloon girl could whip up her skirts to flash a saucy bit of leg. In fact, the barroom still holds the record as being the one place in BC where more liquor was downed on a nightly basis than any other bar in the province.

The relentless passage of time has a tendency to transform the landscape and by the mid-seventies, those glory days were long over. The once-busy hotel had weathered and sunken into the surrounding hillside, the ghosts haunting its bustling hallways long since silenced. But Minstrel Island, forgotten and abandoned for years, was fortunate with the timely arrival of the American-born Ed Carder and his family. A man full of enterprising spirit, Ed had a vision, a plan for reviving the lagging spirit of Minstrel Island. Wasting no time, he set about refurbishing the old, rambling hotel; restocked the general store with goods and acquired a liquor license; rebuilt the rotting docks and piers; installed fuel facilities and new electrical outlets. His vision was a teeming resort, where visitors and tourists would come and spend their days admiring the quiet beauty of the place, and of course, spend obscene amounts of cash.

Money was something close to Ed’s heart. Always dreaming, Ed had plenty of money-making schemes on the go. In addition to his duties as the island caretaker, Ed was also the teacher on Minstrel Island. The trouble was, Ed wasn’t always quite as honest as he should have been, and that character quirk sometimes got him into trouble. The Port Hardy School Board was thrilled beyond belief when Ed introduced himself to them as a teacher with a Master’s Degree in Education. They also readily agreed when Ed suggested that Minstrel needed a school. Provided that Ed could maintain a specific number of students at the school, the job was his. For Ed, the thirty-thousand dollar a year salary was just a nice little bonus. Everything went smoothly for a few months, until the School Board started getting wind of disturbing rumours. Apparently, the number of students at the school had fallen below what was required, and Ed, the sneaky guy that he was, had been smuggling in fake ‘students’ from the outlying areas whenever school officials were due to show up. The rumours proved true, and Ed was unceremoniously canned from his cushy desk job. But, no worries for Ed. In the meantime, keeping his options open, he had decided to apply for a ‘Local Initiative Grant’ through the federal government. Stating that Minstrel badly needed a community centre, and that he would happily build one for only a measly thirty-thousand dollars, Ed dutifully filled in all the necessary paperwork and submitted photos documenting the busy little neighbourhood. Problem was, Ed ‘forgot’ to mention that the only people living on Minstrel Island full-time were his family, which consisted of four people. Hardly the teeming little community he portrayed. But, in typical government fashion, the feds happily coughed up the money and Ed was able to build his kids a wonderfully spiffy new home for their pet donkey.

Word was quickly getting around that Minstrel was back up and running. Pleasure and commercial boats cruising in the nearby waters made sure to stop at the Island to stock up on provisions and supplies. With his ambitious undertaking well-in-hand and his wife Margit and children running the busy store and resort, Ed turned his attention to the skies above Minstrel.

A former Vietnam veteran and helicopter pilot, Ed thought that an airline would be a perfect addition to his growing empire. A long, nerve-wracking wait for his license application ensued, but the charter service was finally approved by the Canadian Transport Commission in 1977. Ed quickly plunked down big bucks on a brand new Cessna 180 and hit the skies running. He was soon doing a brisk business with the local logging camps and native villages scattered along the coast. He also quickly garnered a reputation for his recklessness, earning him the nickname of ‘Crazy Eddie’. While his competitors would batten down the hatches when a wicked southeaster came rolling in, Ed was out flying in the thick of it. Rollicking, tumultuous seas, high bracing winds, stomach-churning turbulence—Ed was in his glory. As many of his passengers were loggers from the coastal camps, he certainly didn’t lose out on any business. It’s common knowledge that many loggers, when the time comes to roll out of camp, don’t care who they fly with, as long as that pilot can get them to the nearest booze joint ASAP. Before long, Ed had expanded the airline with an office in nearby Alert Bay, another brand new plane and hired a new pilot to cope with the rush.

Things were looking way up for Ed, and that’s when, so often, life decides to give you a good old swift kick in the ass. The busy little store on Minstrel Island burned to the ground, his liquor license was revoked for misuse and his fuel-dispensing system was condemned as unsafe and shut down. With his resort on the verge of collapse, Ed was slapped in the face with something even nastier. Allegedly, Mr. Carder, fancying himself as a ‘hunka hunka burnin love’ with the local ladies, found himself facing two sexual assault charges. Hot on the heels of this scandal was the devastating revelation that his wife was terminally ill with brain cancer. The empire that Ed fought so hard to build was crumbling before his disbelieving eyes, and it’s plausible that Ed was desperate for a quick solution to his misery.

The story of his disappearance in the waters off Knight Inlet sparked a flurry of speculation and rumour. Ed was well-known for his enterprising spirit, and there are those who believe that his mysterious departure was nothing more than the ultimate piece de resistance—a perfect getaway into the sunset to escape the tangle that his life had become. “He left the country,” remarks Don Braithwaite, who would later take over ownership of Minstrel Air after Ed’s disappearance. Well-known author Jack Schofield disagrees: “I had been flying on the day that Ed had disappeared, and I knew how the fog had been hanging in the inlets that morning.” But even Jack has had his moments of nagging doubt; recalling a flight in Alberta, he was so convinced about the identity of a fellow passenger being Ed that he made official inquiries to the airline about the man. Turns out, it was a case of mistaken identity. Like the phenomenon of recurrent ‘Elvis’ sightings that permeate the public consciousness, there will always be those who insist he’s still alive and well somewhere. “People have said they’ve seen him in Hawaii… Oregon…back in the States,” says Don. Sadly, it’s unlikely that anyone will ever know the true fate of Ed Carder and his disappearance will remain an elusive mystery, haunting the hearts and minds of those who knew him.

PART 7 – Western Straits by Julie Matchett

"I changed the name to Western Straits Air Services. Irvin kept the name."

~Don Braithwaite

 The disappearance of any pilot sends shockwaves across the aviation community. When Ed Carder of Minstrel Air vanished in the waters off Knight Inlet on a foggy, October day in 1981, veteran pilots and Search & Rescue teams alike scoured the ocean for days seeking an answer to his mysterious disappearance. That answer would never come. People who fly for a living are fully aware of the risks inherent in the business, and when tragedy strikes, due to freak mechanics or pilot error, it’s a sad, stressful occasion for all involved. But pilots tend to take a rather philosophical attitude towards misfortune—not to mean any disrespect, but as the old saying goes ‘life carries on’, despite painful memories.

The fact of the matter was that the thriving little charter airline that Ed had poured his heart and soul into was now suddenly without a captain at the helm. In the early eighties, serious waves were pounding the aviation industry on the BC coast, thanks to money-mogul Jim Pattison, who with one foul swoop of his dollar-sign encrusted magic wand, wreaked havoc in aviation communities. Gulf Air owner Don Braithwaite was one of those victims, although he was more of a willing victim compared to some of his other cronies. “You are just the man for me,” was Don’s thought upon meeting Pattison, and tired of all the bullshit dealings with MOT and the Union, he happily agreed to a buyout. In the back of his mind, Don probably entertained thoughts of getting back into the business on a smaller basis one day, and when the unfortunate Ed Carder disappeared, that opportunity unexpectedly presented itself.

Armed with a whack of cash from the Pattison buyout, “I wound up buying Minstrel Air out,” remembers Don. “I bought Forbes Landing at the time,” he continues, “so I ran it out of there.” He changed the name of the airline to Western Straits Air, and installed a new ramp and service bay at the facility. The Forbes Landing site, together with existing bases at Minstrel Island, Alert Bay and Kelsey Bay made for quite a formidable company, but according to Don, “…it really didn’t do that good.” After a stint of about four years, his good friend, logger Irvin Olsen, expressed interest in getting “into the racket”, and Don sold the company to him.

Keeping the name Western Straits intact after the takeover, Irvin leased the Forbes Landing site for a couple of months before deciding that it would be smarter, business-wise, to relocate to the Campbell River Spit. “We operated out of the freshwater marina [but]…they kept raising our rent over there,” Irvin relates, “so we just moved the dock and everything to the Spit and operated from there.” The tricky problem of moving the company office, which incidentally was the original Trans Mountain building, was solved when someone hit upon the idea of jacking up the building on skids and hauling it across to the other side of the estuary. With 3 planes in the company fleet—an Otter, a Beaver and a Cessna 180—the airline made a name for itself in a time of uncertainty and change. In addition, Irvin owned two Cessna 185’s which were used exclusively for transporting loggers out to his camps.

On September 27 th, 1995, nine passengers and the pilot of an amphibious Otter owned by Western Straits were returning home to Campbell River from a Triumph Bay logging camp. On approach to the Campbell River Airport, under heavily fog-shrouded conditions, the plane crashed into a mountainside about 10 kilometres from the airport. The pilot and seven passengers were killed. The devastation struck Olsen hard; anguished over the horrible loss of his friends and co-workers, he gave up the airline business for good. “We just folded up the company after the crash,” he remembers with sorrow. For Olsen, the choice was an easy one—his heartache over the tragedy far outweighed the benefits of owning an airline and by late 1995, Western Straits Air was no more.

PART 8 – Orca Air by Julie Matchett

“I thought the days of owning your own airline and being the entrepreneur were over."

~Tom Langdon

To this day, the rights to the name ‘Orca Air’ belong to Tom Langdon. “It’s a tough business…” he says, and laughs as he adds: “‘It’s a horse race between debt and corrosion’—I think Jack Schofield said that.” “I want to retire this name,” Tom continues, “because that was part of my history and I didn’t want someone else starting up another Orca.” The name may be officially beached, but the history lives on.

That history started on July 31 st, 1987 when Tom, the son of well-known pilot Bob Langdon, became “the proud owner of a charter airline.” But Tom’s involvement with Orca Air actually started years before, in the early 80’s, when Jack Schofield was still a partner with the airline. He did some relief work for Jack before the opportunity to move up to Port McNeill and fly for the company full-time presented itself. “The company was in the process of changeovers,” mentions Tom, “…and Jack, who is a wonderful guy, eventually left to start West Coast Aviator magazine and write books.” Says Tom: “It was fun. Basically, I’d spend Monday to Friday in Port McNeill and go home for the weekends.” But life is tough for a young couple just starting out and even tougher when distance separates them. “I did that for a couple of years, but I started to miss my wife in Campbell River…I was young, but it [was] nicer to be home,” Tom remembers.

Back home in Campbell River, Vancouver Island Air was the newest kid on the block, busy doing charter work with a “repossessed, beat-up old Cessna 185.” When they acquired another Cessna to add to their fleet of one, they needed an additional pilot and Tom was able to fill that role nicely. A year later, two of the founding partners of the company left to pursue other avenues, and Tom was offered the chance to buy into a slice of the business. “I bought one of the partners out…and Larry [Langford] bought the other one out,” Tom explains, “…we wound up with a one-third, two-third split in the business.” While this arrangement ‘got his foot in the door’, it didn’t quite work out the way Tom had envisioned and after a two-year stretch, he voluntarily left the company and Larry bought him out.

That choice led Tom to ‘round two’ at Orca Air: “I left early in 1987 and went back to Port McNeill,” Tom remembers, “…that was a tough year for me all the way around.” Tom’s father, Bob Langdon, had passed away the year before and his dreams with Vancouver Island Air didn’t materialize. “Jack [Schofield] had left Orca Air prior to this…I called the fellow who bought him out and asked if he needed a pilot.” Tom wasn’t there a month before the owner asked him, “Why don’t you buy this company from me?”

“He really wanted to get out…he’d had enough,” says Tom, “…basically, between him and the bank, they financed my way into it and I bought him out.”

After the first couple of years in business, the realities of owning an airline really hit home. “The first year,” relates Tom, “…was wonderful. We had a great year…we made money…I was just on top of the world.” But in the airline world, a stable livelihood tends to be dependent on circumstances beyond one’s control, and in the second year, “…I just about lost my shirt,” remembers Tom. “…Poor weather, a cold, cold winter and a poor market,” were very nearly his downfall. But Tom had inherited his father’s tenacious will, and despite the pitfalls, Tom and family stuck with the business.

“It was a difficult operation logistically for me,” he says, “…my overhead was really high. There was no appropriate waterfront for me to buy so we were tenants…we didn’t have our own fuel or own building.” On the other hand, “I loved being my own boss.”

But owning and managing an airline takes its toll, and all too often, the price that is paid comes down to time with family. “I saw the same kind of things happening with me that I saw happening with my dad and his family,” Tom remembers. “It’s a kind of lifestyle,” he says, “an intense lifestyle.” By the time 1994 rolled around, “I just couldn’t take it anymore…it reaches a point where you think, ‘Is this gonna be it?’” The time had come to move on, and luckily, there was a taker on the horizon.

Air Rainbow was actually based in Nanaimo, but an offshoot of the company had branched out and established a base in Port McNeill two years previously. Although competitors, the two companies had decided in an amicable agreement, “to split the market.” But, of course, Orca Air had been established for a longer period of time in the community; for Air Rainbow, “…it was really a hand-to-mouth kind of thing for them.” At the end of 1994, wanting to get out of the airline business, Tom approached the company with “an offer you can’t refuse.” “They laughed,” muses Tom, but he was determined to cut a deal with them. “Look,” he told them, “it’s easy. No money down. You buy my customer list. I’ll keep my receivables and pay my payables…All you do is pay me a percentage of what my annual revenues are as a good-will factor.” It turned out to be a deal Air Rainbow couldn’t refuse. The company leased a plane from Tom, and “every month for four years they paid me a nice, big fat chunk of goodwill.” Tom stayed on with the company for another year before deciding that he couldn’t fly for other people, and with his buyout money, went on to take flying lessons at E & B Helicopters.

“I was offered fifteen-hundred dollars for the name [Orca Air] a few years back and I turned them down,” remembers Tom. Thinking back to his days as an airline owner, he says, “It was fun and I would do it again…We didn’t go out of there with nothing, but we didn’t make our fortunes like we had thought.” And with a laugh he adds, “I occasionally have daydreams about buying a helicopter and going into business, but I usually wake up.”

PART 9 – Sealand Aviation by Julie Matchett

“It would probably be pretty unusual to find somebody operating a Beaver who didn’t know who we were.”

~Bill Alder

To a guy from Northern BC, the climate in Campbell River would seem pretty darn attractive. Usually, the only snow we get here is the unfrozen variety; the weather is balmy most of the year, and there are no body-numbing, sub-zero temperatures to contend with. So it was for Bill Alder, who moved to the Island from Dawson Creek in 1980. Another big bonus for Bill was the floatplanes—as an Aircraft Maintenance Engineer, and former owner of his own maintenance business back home in Dawson Creek, Bill knew airplanes. Eager to get involved with the local aviation industry, he worked at the Flying School at the Campbell River Airport for a short time, before setting up his new business—Sealand Aviation—with a partner. Bill was also involved in the founding of both Vancouver Island Air and E & B Helicopters in Campbell River—companies which are still thriving in the city to this day.

Recipient of the Robert Hope Pursuit of Excellence Award in 2002, Bill is well-known to his peers for his outstanding contributions in the aviation industry. Never one to say ‘No’ when a challenge presents itself, Bill’s sense of innovation and his original, yet ultimately practical, aircraft modifications are what make the company so successful. “The Alaska Door and the Cabin Extension Kit are what we’re famous for,” says Bill. The creation of the Alaska Door was spurred by a customer’s request to cut a large hole in the side of his plane for a cargo door. The creative design was soon noticed by other pilots, who found the new conversion very appealing. The Alaska Door kit “…just sells itself,” says Bill, “…one of our modified airplanes gets into an area where they’re running Beavers, and pretty soon, everybody’s gotta have one.” A special memory for Bill was working with Dick Hiscock, the original designer of the Beaver, on his Cabin Extension Kit. Government regulations require a ‘Design Approval Representative’ to do the engineering and approve the design work and they ended up with Hiscock, who was 80 years old at the time. “It was a real treat!” remembers Bill.

While Sealand is best-known for their modifications on the de Havilland Beaver, the company is also a Transport Canada approved facility for overhauls, rebuilds and repairs on small aircraft. In addition to the main business located at the Campbell River Spit, the company also has a hangar at the airport where all the major modifications and rebuilds are done. “We’re doing well with our business,” remarks Bill, “we’re always trying to expand.” Working in conjunction with the local college, Sealand offers apprenticeships with the company every year. “There’s a major shortage in the industry and it’s only going to get worse,” Bill explains, “the industry is growing so much and there’s such a demand.”

Dedication to his craft is what makes Bill Alder and Sealand so successful. That, and a willingness to share his expertise with others in the industry, and to lend a helping hand when needed. Says Bill, “There’s really no competition, we all work together—everybody’s here to help everybody else.”

CHAPTER 12 – Dawn of the Choppers

PART 1 – Okanagan Helicopters by Tyson Mielke

“The guy running the government project said, ‘The price is way too high. It’s still a lot cheaper with the donkeys.’”

~Craig Houston on Okanagan Helicopters’ early competition.

A failed fixed-wing charter business sparked the conception of one of the world’s most successful helicopter companies—and put a lot of donkeys out of work.

It all started way back in 1947 when former RCAF pilots Carl Agar and Barney Bent, along with engineer Al Stringer, landed in the fruit growing region of Penticton, British Columbia and founded Okanagan Air Services Ltd. After a few months of not making any money—a major problem for any new business—something had to give. Instead of bailing out of the industry altogether, the crafty former fighter pilots simply changed tactics. In July of that year they purchased a new, open-cockpit, Bell 47 helicopter, took some training lessons up in Alaska, and established a fruit spraying operation.

The company started to show a profit with the new venture but not enough to justify the cost of the machine—which in those days went for a whopping $30,000 and had to be basically rebuilt after twenty-five hours of flight time. To survive, they needed to find new uses for this amazing, but apparently somewhat limited ‘whirlybird’.

So dawned the science of vertical air movement. Referred to now as ‘mountain flying’, it is the art of using up flow on the side of a mountain to land and get loads off. Once Agar and his peers mastered these pioneering techniques—giving them international acclaim in the helicopter industry—the helicopters found more and more uses within the forestry and mining industries.

Rechristened Okanagan Helicopters in 1949 after relocating operations to Vancouver, two events over the next couple of years solidified the company’s future. The first was the Kitimat-Kemano project: a $500 million development deal to establish an aluminum industry in northwest British Columbia. The second was Carl Agar becoming friends with Igor Sikorsky—the Russian/American founder of the world’s leading helicopter manufacturing company. War was raging in Korea during this time and Sikorsky was supplying the U.S. Air Force with his new S55 helicopters, a much bigger, sleeker and faster machine than the Bell 47s. There were no civilian models available per se, but with Igor’s help, Agar was able to acquire an S55 and with it, secure a contract with the lucrative Kitimat-Kemano project.

Surveys for the momentous undertaking normally would have taken years and required the use of donkeys to carry supplies and equipment, but with the helicopters, jobs took a fraction of that time. Despite braying protests from the donkey’s union, the writing was on the wall . . . er . . . stable. By 1954, Okanagan Helicopters had become the largest commercial operator in the world.

Fast forward to 1963. Gone was founder Carl Agar, who retired as President the year before (he would pass away from cancer in 1968), and gone was the constant flow of work. The economy had taken a nose dive and company pilots were about to feel the rotor slice of major layoffs. It was time to change tactics once again. The pilots said to management, ‘give us a machine, and we’ll go find work.’ And they did—moving to places like Nelson, Terrace, Prince George, Kamloops and Campbell River to find work during the summer months. This was the beginning of seasonal base flying.

Glyn Fitzgerald arrived in Campbell River in 1963 as the first base manager and quickly garnered a reputation as a popular pilot and upstanding member of the community. The Bell 47 that he flew off the Spit in the early days probably looked rather peculiar against the constant flow of seaplane traffic but, like its fixed-wing cousins, the natural resource industries would solidify the helicopter’s future in this little seaside town. Recognizing the potential, Glyn championed the idea of establishing a permanent, year-round base.

On a warm, May afternoon in 1966, Glyn’s wife, Helen, cut the ribbon at the official opening ceremonies of Okanagan Helicopters’ brand new facility on the Tyee Spit. It was a poignant moment for the young mother of four. Sadly, nine months earlier, Glyn was killed after an engine failure caused his Bell 47 to crash in the woods near Zeballos. He would not be forgotten. To this day a bursary is given out in his name at Carihi Secondary School.

Retired engineer and former base manager, George Crawshaw started working with Okanagan out of Vancouver in 1964 and moved to Campbell River in 1966. He recalls the base system as a means to not only bring in revenue, but to save marriages. “They had a real problem with families breaking up. A lot of divorces happened. In the early days a pilot would say goodbye to his family in spring and if you saw them again in the fall you were lucky. The idea was to establish bases and . . . the crew would be home every night.”

Success of the base system depended on the ingenuity and creativity of the pilots and engineers to find new uses for the helicopters. George Crawshaw remembers: “We were adapting the machines to do different projects like power-line construction, setting towers and pulling wires. We were still learning what to do with these contraptions. You could land them anywhere.” Med-evacs, aerial photography, fire protection, timber cruising and mining were just a few of the other services provided by the company, with heli-logging techniques also being developed at the time. “In the late 70’s, early 80’s we had nine machines on the go,” remembers George, “we were experimenting with (heli-logging) locally.”

As business expanded—in 1974 Okanagan had 15 permanent bases in BC— it became increasingly apparent that bigger and more powerful machines were required. At first they brought in a couple of Bell Jet Rangers, but they quickly proved unreliable. Then they heard about Hiller’s new FH1100 turbine helicopters and, convinced they were the future, wrote out a cheque for a dozen machines. Unfortunately, four out of the twelve were involved in accidents and the machines quickly earned the rather unfortunate nickname of ‘Hiller Killers’. Left with few options, the company returned to the Jet Ranger, which by this time had been outfitted with a different engine. It was a good move. Like the de Havilland Beaver in the fixed-wing world, the Jet Ranger would become the workhorse of the helicopter industry.

By the mid 80’s things were beginning to change. Bill Hill, a retired Okanagan pilot, recalls the subtle shift: “ Campbell River was basically on the edge of a frontier line where everything was being explored. As the years went by, that line kept moving further north. It became quite mundane after a while. There wasn’t that ‘out there, being-the-first’ sort of feeling anymore.”

In 1987, a feeling of uneasiness settled on Okanagan Helicopters as the company was swallowed up by the (CHC) Canadian Helicopter Corporation, a large amalgamation of several major companies headed by Newfoundland businessman Craig L. Dobbin. Mirroring that of the seaplane industry during the Pattison era, it proved to be a catalyst for change on the Spit. CHC wanted to get rid of their smaller bases, including Campbell River, and many employees left under this shadow of uncertainty. Today, thanks in part to the purchase of Okanagan Helicopters, CHC is one of the largest helicopter companies in the world with bases in over 30 different countries. It is not known if any donkeys are on the payroll.

PART 2 – West Coast Helicopters by Tyson Mielke

 “The demand changes and you don’t know what’s around the corner.”

~Craig Houston

 

“Basically,” reflects Craig Houston, pilot and Base Manager for West Coast Helicopters, “it’s a story of expansion and contraction.”

 Helicopter companies come and go, but more than that, the very lifeblood of the coastal business is changing. “Originally . . . 80% of what we did was logging related,” states Craig, “now it’s probably only about 20%. The rest is other things.” Some of those other things include: med-evacs, government contracts, heli-skiing, and the occasional movie work. The bulk of the business however, comes from the communications industry. “We do a lot of work for Telus and B.C. Hydro,” recalls Craig, “linemen have to go out and check lines because Telus needs to keep the communications going.”

Forest fire fighting is another potential, but notoriously unreliable revenue stream. Says Craig, “I’ve seen companies over the years that have tried to count on fires as a business. In a five year cycle, you’ll get maybe three good years and two droughts where it rains here all the time.”

Mr. Houston arrived at Okanagan Helicopters’ Spit base in 1980. When Canadian Helicopters purchased that operation seven years later, he left, moving across the road to manage a base for Long Beach Helicopters. Soon after, West Coast Helicopters bought out Long Beach Helicopters and the entire operation moved back across the street to the original Okanagan base.

But the ebbs and flows are nothing new to the veteran pilot. It’s just the nature of the beast. “It turns,” says Craig matter-of-factly, “we had too many helicopters five or six years ago, and it was very marginal. In the late 70’s, there were a lot of machines out here. The demand changes and you don’t know what’s around the corner.”

Like their aviation brethren on the Spit, V.I. Air and Corilair, West Coast has enjoyed a certain amount of stability since setting up shop; but, one never knows. “This is an incredible time in Western Canada for the economy,” remarks Craig, “I was in the oil boom in the early 80’s in Fort St. John and I’ve seen the bust too. Everybody thinks it’s going to last forever, but it never lasts forever.”

It is impossible to predict what will happen tomorrow, but today, one thing is alarmingly clear: the next generation is floundering. Strangely, up-and-coming pilots find themselves in a catch-22 position. There is a demand for their services, but only if they have a plethora of experience. “We have a society where people are supposed to have equal opportunities,” states Craig, “some companies will say, ‘we only want pilots with certain qualifications’—5000 hours and that sort of thing. Sometimes the criteria is just not reality. It’s finding a balance between experience and maturity.”

Craig sees a real crisis on the horizon as the majority of working pilots are closing in on retirement. “We are all getting older in this business. We have to start training younger pilots. My wife made the observation that all the current helicopter pilots are, ‘old like you dear.’”

With maturity beyond her years, one young pilot to catch a break was Craig’s own daughter. “She ended up getting her helicopter license,” says Craig proudly, “she wasn’t looking for a job with dad, but that’s how it ended up. I said to my boss, ‘I think we can train her.’” She is one of the lucky few. Less then 15% of new trainees fresh out of flight school ever get a chance at a job. It’s an unfortunate circumstance and, as Craig says, there is a real misconception about the competence of new pilots. “Younger pilots are not necessarily more dangerous. In fact, sometimes when they are below a 1000 hours they are safer. After 1000, they sometimes start to get a little overconfident.”

Aside from Campbell River, West Coast Helicopters has bases in Bella Coola, Port McNeill and Nanaimo—with each offering something unique for the area. For example, the Bella Coola base runs an excellent heli-skiing program. The Spit base maintains a steady clientele, is home to three helicopters—mainly Eurocopter AStars—and is currently in negotiations with the city to build a new hangar. Ironically, part of the stipulation of building the new hangar is that it be constructed—you guessed it—across the street from their present location. “They want us to move to the other side,” says Craig, “but this is a superior heliport on this side. I am not really sure why they want us to move . . .”

PART 3 – E & B Helicopters by Julie Matchett

“We refer to them as time machines. If your time is worth a lot of money, you’ll use a helicopter…”

~Ed Wilcock

“I got into aviation a long time ago,” says Ed Wilcock—“before you were born!” he adds with a laugh. It was Wilcock, together with Bill Alder, owner of Sealand Aviation, who founded E & B Helicopters in Campbell River over 18 years ago. Starting out with one helicopter, a little R22, the company has successfully managed to thrive in an ever-changing economy. “It’s a whole bunch of things that make us successful,” remarks Ed. “We’re into maintenance, we’re into sales…training, avionics, charters.”

It’s this multi-faceted attitude toward expansion that the company excels in. A sparkling new facility was built 3 years ago on the Campbell River Estuary to house the company’s fleet of 10 helicopters. In addition, the hangar includes a start-of-the-art overhaul bay and component room. E & B is one of largest suppliers of Robinson helicopters in Canada, selling an average of 8 to 10 a year. “Generally, helicopters appreciate in value,” mentions Ed, “A 407 three years ago sold for $1.5 million—now they’re $2.5 million for the same machine.” The helicopter industry is “…a competitive business,” according to Ed—“we get busier every year because we get a little bigger every year.”

Change is inevitable in every industry, and the same applies to the helicopter business. Says Ed, “Whereas you used to be busiest in the summer, now you’re busy year-round.” Eco-tourism is becoming increasingly popular; for those with an innate sense of adventure, the sky is the limit—literally. Strolling across a pristine mountain glacier, heli-fishing in a remote river, skiing down virgin powder slopes or a romantic picnic for two amidst wildflowers in an alpine meadow are all possibilities. “A lot of our work is also with the lodges,” relates Ed, “One of our contracts is with King Pacific Lodge…probably the highest-end lodge on the West Coast.”

“When I first came to Campbell River,” he remembers, “the floatplanes were the main method of transportation.” Unlike an airplane, which is made to move people from ‘A to B’, a helicopter is a much more versatile piece of equipment. Firefighting support, tree-topping, aerial seeding for the forestry department, medevacs, long line operations—“We have a broad range of what we can do.” Helicopters are now a “way of life” on the coast. But, adds Ed, “with the floatplanes, I think there’s room for everybody.”

CHAPTER 13 – The Spit Today
by Tyson Mielke

“A lot of people don’t realize how many passengers and how much freight goes out on floatplanes. People should know.”

~Steve Todd

Atop the barren tree, high above the estuary, the young eagle listens to the whispers of his ancestors . Finding courage in their essence, he edges closer to the lip of the nest. At twelve weeks of age, an intrinsic force compels him, and he knows the time has come to spread his wings . . . and learn to fly.

Early morning on the Tyee Spit: A Beech 18 roars to life at the Vancouver Island Air dock. Down the way, a Corilair Beaver prepares for take-off. Wrenches turn at Sealand Aviation, while blades of a West Coast helicopter slice the air overhead on its journey north. These are the noises of the Spit: the sounds of aviation; the sounds of commercial enterprise; and the crux of a lingering controversy.

When a Spit base was first proposed back in the late 40’s, village leaders expressed concerns about the environmental impact on the estuary and Tyee pools. When these fears proved unfounded, a different form of pollution became the target. “There was very little opposition to the airlines in the early days,” remembers Stan Kaardal, “It was as the area built up with homes that you had people who didn’t like the noise.”

Through the years these sentiments would be reiterated time and again. In a letter written to the Mirror newspaper in 1988 Van Egan writes: “An immediate and existing menace is the ear-shattering take-offs that nearby residents and anglers must suffer from daybreak to sundown.” And more recently at a city council meeting: Recalls V.I. Air dispatcher Phil Bergman, “a fellow complained that his peaceful morning walk was ruined when an airplane started up.”

 Gaining confidence with each attempt, the eagle swoops and dives. Guided by instinct there is no fear; just an innate sense of grace and precision. Far below, a young child watches with wonder and amazement.

After purchasing the property for 1.7 million dollars from Timber West, the city became landlords of the Tyee Spit in 1994. Heeding the complaints of its citizens, council had no choice but to address this controversy and decide if the seaplanes should stay or go. To aid in their decision, council hired an impartial consulting firm to study the economic impact of the floatplane industry on the local economy. The results echoed loudly. The direct impact to the city of Campbell River was 25.4 million dollars annually; exceeded only by the airport, which topped out at 35 million a year. “The value was almost the same as the municipal airport,” relates Phil Bergman, “but the difference being the airport is supported by the city and the federal government. These are all private companies on the Spit that get no funding.” The numbers are impressive: Approximately 40,000 people and 620 tonnes of cargo move through the Spit annually. “This is the most natural seaplane base in North America,” said former City Councilor Bill Harrison at the time of the survey, “and the loss of the seaplanes could mean a major blow to the local economy."

The report recommended that 20 percent of the Spit be used for seaplane operations, while the rest be allowed to revert to its natural state and become park land. “People want it preserved in some form because property like this does not exist in most communities,” says Phil Bergman, “It’s an incredible spot. There is no question that the vast majority of it should be turned into park land for everyone to enjoy, but the floatplane companies need to fit into that.”

A dozen years after the recommendations, things are yet to be solidified—something business owners have grown accustomed to: “We’ve lived in limbo for so long,” says Corilair owner Mike Farrell, “we don’t even worry about it anymore.” Things, however, are looking up as the city recently allowed businesses to sign long term leases on the Spit . “By the city giving us long term leases," says Phil Bergman, “we can finance and do things that need to be improved.” As far as park land . . . well, that has yet to be decided. Meanwhile, V.I. Air, Corilair, West Coast Helicopters and Sealand Aviation continue to go about their daily business of supplying jobs, serving customers and adding immeasurably to the local economy. “I don’t think the float plane companies are going to be asked to leave,” contemplates Phil, “It was just making sure that our footprint on the Spit stayed small.”

Off in the distance, foreign, yet strangely familiar noises emerge from the past. Faintly, as if veiled in fog, they drift across the Spit. The young eagle turns to listen . . . the clamor of a BC Air Lines SeaBee, the rumble of an Island Air Beaver, the roar of a Gulf Air Twin Otter, and then, ever-so-softly, the voice of the young child . . . “One day I’m gonna learn to fly . . .”