A few years ago I watched an air show at the seaside in Bournemouth, on the south coast of England. It's held every summer over four days, and planes perform above the sea while people watch from the beach and the cliffs. I went with my uncle, who'd been an aircraft engineer, and his ten-year-old grandson.
We got there early to find a spot on the cliff top, which turned out to be a wise decision, because by midday the beach was packed. The show began with some old wartime planes flying slowly in formation, and my uncle explained the history of each one in great detail. Later there was a team of helicopters doing synchronised turns, and a wing-walker, a woman standing on top of a small biplane as it looped above the water. The highlight was an aerobatic team of red jets that flew so low and so close together that it seemed impossible they wouldn't collide. They released coloured smoke and drew a huge heart in the sky.
While watching, I felt a strange mixture of excitement and nervousness. The noise of the jets was so loud you could feel it in your chest, and every time they crossed each other I found myself holding my breath. But what affected me most was seeing my uncle's face. He's normally quite reserved, but he was grinning like a child and kept saying how precise the pilots were. His grandson decided on the spot that he wants to be a pilot. For me, it was a reminder of how amazing human skill and engineering can be.