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This page first appeared 20 October 1995.
Hong Kong's Kai Tak airport is the hub of Asia. Built by the Japanese during World War II, its runway was constructed with the walls of a 19th-century fort. On one side is a stinking nullah, on the other, the turquoise waters of Victoria Harbor.
On final approach to Kai Tak, travelers must endure one of commercial aviation's most gut-wrenching finales. If you can resist the urge to drop the window shade, the experience will restore your faith in God, man, and Boeing. The airport is tucked amid steep hills, a busy harbor, and thickly populated urban districts. Kai Tak is the eye of a needle, and you are a flying piece of thread.
Only seasoned pilots attempt "Approach 13," the roof-skimming inbound route over Kowloon. During landing, the plane comes so close to apartments that you can see the flicker of television sets. A sharp bank to the right lines the craft up with the runway. The cue for this critical maneuver? Not a sophisticated navigation aid, but a giant red-and-white checkerboard painted on a hillside. Sudden adjustments to trim or power evoke a specter of hands trembling at the controls. Visions of a fiery death haunt even well-seasoned travelers, and applause at touchdown is common.
Despite nightmare scenarios of an urban crash-landing, Kai Tak enjoys one of the best safety records of any airport in the world. There have only been three major accidents the past decade, the most recent involving a 747 that skidded off the end of the runway.
The closing of Kai Tak will break few hearts, however. When the last plane touches down in 1998, thousands of residents living directly under its flight path will enjoy for the first time in decades a life uninterrupted by the scream (
23 seconds,
532k) of aircraft overhead.
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