Dave and Pete were a couple of drinking buddies who worked as aircraft engineers in Darwin, Australia. They were good at their jobs—real top-notch blokes—but when the airport got fogged in one slow Tuesday morning, they found themselves stuck in the hangar with nothing to do but stare at grounded planes and complain about instant coffee.
After about two hours of boredom and competitive paper airplane folding, Dave had an idea. And, as usual, it wasn’t a good one.
“Mate,” he said, scratching his chin, “why don’t we take that old test plane out for a quick spin?”
Pete raised an eyebrow. “You mean the one with no flight clearance and half a cockpit panel?”
“Exactly,” Dave grinned. “She needs to be tested eventually, right?”
Pete looked around. The place was empty. The fog was thick, sure, but the runway was technically clear enough if you didn’t care too much about… visibility, safety, or basic regulations.
So they climbed into the old two-seater aircraft—Dave in the pilot seat, Pete as his co-pilot slash snack holder. They fired up the engine, and surprisingly, the thing roared to life.
Pete said, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”
Dave replied, “Absolutely not. But it’s better than paperwork.”
Moments later, with the fog thick as soup, the plane was moving. They couldn’t see five feet ahead, but somehow they made it onto the runway.
“Alright,” Dave said, “she’s rolling!”
“Yeah,” Pete shouted, “and we’re definitely not supposed to be doing this!”
They took off, barely missing a maintenance truck, a flock of angry geese, and possibly a man walking a goat. Up they went—into the fog, into the sky, and into what could only be described as a midlife crisis with wings.
For about seven minutes, everything went great. The plane held together, they marveled at the clouds (which they couldn’t see through), and Pete started recording a “test flight review” on his phone for future bragging rights.
But then, reality set in.
“Dave,” Pete said cautiously, “do you remember if we refueled?”
Dave blinked. “I thought you did.”
“I thought you did!”
There was a dramatic pause, followed by the sputtering cough of an engine realizing it had been betrayed.
The plane began a slow descent, which would’ve been terrifying if they weren’t laughing so hard at their own stupidity. They crash-landed in a sheep paddock, scaring about forty sheep and one very unimpressed farmer.
The farmer walked over, looked at the smoldering wreck of a landing, and asked, “You two alright?”
Pete waved weakly from under a deployed emergency slide. “We’ve been better.”
The farmer nodded. “You want me to call the airport?”
Dave coughed and said, “Yes. And maybe a taxi.”
Back at the hangar, the fog had lifted. So had any remaining respect their supervisor had for them. But somehow, miraculously, they didn’t get fired. Mostly because the supervisor had once accidentally set fire to a vending machine, so he understood mistakes.
From that day forward, the hangar wall featured a sign: “No unauthorized test flights. This means YOU, Dave & Pete.”
