It all began on a quiet afternoon in our neighbourhood park.
Cricket season had ended, leaving a vast, grassy oval entirely to ourselves.
My big brother picked up a sheet of writing paper, folded it with care, and launched it into the breeze.
That simple paper glider soared for a few glorious seconds before landing softly - and just like that, I was hooked.
The paper glider quickly evolved.
We graduated to a tiny balsa wood glider from the local newsagent. Flights grew longer, more ambitious, and mildly aerobatic. We experimented endlessly - tweaking wing angles, adding nose weights, and coaxing the little aircraft into graceful circles that sometimes brought them back toward the launcher.
A threepenny coin taped to the nose proved just about perfect.
At home, every empty drink bottle I returned for a refund went straight into funding the next Airfix model kit - also from the newsagent.
My bedroom soon became an aviation museum suspended from the ceiling on fishing line and thumbtacks. Sopwith Camels, Spitfires, Focke-Wulfs, a couple of Mitsubishis, a Catalina flying boat, and a Lancaster bomber all hung in proud formation.
The scent of glue (something stronger than Tarzan's Grip was definitely required) filled the air.
Dad joined the fun by building me a small box kite - cleverly triangulated with two wings. Attached to my fishing rod with 100 yards of line, that kite climbed like a rocket.
It pulled so hard it felt alive.
Next came a balsa monoplane powered by rubber bands. With Dad's patient help, we covered the wings in tissue paper and doped it for strength.
After two weeks of careful work, it flew straight and level across the backyard.
I was officially obsessed with anything that could fly.
The Thrill of Real Power
Then came the leap to the next level.
For my brother's 12th birthday, Dad bought him a control-line Hawker Hurricane powered by an OS Max engine that ran on nitro-methane fuel.
The heady aroma of methanol mixed with castor oil and a dash of acetone remains unforgettable - it smelled like pure excitement.
We started attending flight lessons with one of Dad's friends, a modest man with an impressive (though rarely discussed) service record and a gentle, skilful touch with the controls.
I watched every session intently, though I was never handed the controls.
Saturday afternoons became sacred.
We'd head to the park with half a dozen other enthusiasts. Control-line flying was no simple skill to master. You'd launch near the cricket pitch, then fly in wide, roaring circles until the fuel ran out.
The noise, the speed, the centrifugal pull on your arm - it was heady stuff for a young boy.
Combat and Catastrophe
Emboldened, my brother decided it was time for combat.
Paper streamers were attached to the tailplanes, and the goal was simple: cut your opponent's streamer while protecting your own.
It looked spectacular in theory.
In practice, it was chaos.
I mostly stayed an observer, too afraid of damaging my brother's prized Hurricane.
Eventually, though, the inevitable happened.
In a spectacular nosedive, the model met the ground at high speed. Balsa wood fragments scattered across the oval like confetti.
We gathered the wreckage in silence, placed it carefully in a fruit box, and carried it home.
That night, we hid the remains under the bed and spent a long time rehearsing exactly how we were going to break the news to Dad.
Looking Back
Looking back, those years in the park and the backyard weren't just about toys or hobbies.
They were about curiosity, experimentation, family, and the pure joy of watching something you built defy gravity.
That little paper glider started a lifelong love of flight - one that still lifts my spirits every time I see a plane cross the sky, hear the buzz of a model engine, or catch that unmistakable scent of nitro fuel on the wind.
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