A Final Story After a Decade of Extraordinary Moments

By Martin Zeilig

After more than a decade with The Voxair, I find myself writing the one story I never quite expected to craft: my last.

Retirement has a way of slowing things down just enough to let you look back — not only at the big adventures, but at the people, the places, and the unexpected twists that brought you here.

It all began with an email from a dear friend sharing a link saying, I think you might be interested in applying for this job.”

The job was photojournalist at The Voxair. I figured nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I applied online and then… nothing. Out of the blue, and perhaps 2 months later, I received a call from Carla Barth with Human Resources for CFMWS asking if I’d like to come in for an interview. A few days later, I sat down with Carla and Mike Sherby, Voxair Manager.

Following the interview I was to do a writing test: a 400‑word story based on a real RCAF incident. I sat at the Apple computer — the same kind I’d used for years at my previous job — and thought, no problem. I had thirty minutes. I finished early, sent it to Mike, said goodbye.

The next day, Carla called with the words that changed everything: “We’d like to offer you the job.” And just like that, the beginning of a beautiful relationship — professionally and personally — was set in motion. The job was permanent part‑time at twenty hours a week, which suited me perfectly. It allowed me to continue my freelance work for the Winnipeg Free Press, The Jewish Post, and other projects I still enjoy today.

I started out in the old Building 63 on base, a place with more character than comfort and more stories in its walls than most people realized. It was where I learned the ropes and discovered that this job would be far more than writing articles. Eventually, we packed up and moved to the new CANEX building. The move didn’t just change our address; it reshaped our daily rhythms, our hallway conversations, and the way we connected with the community.

As the years went on, the people around me became the true heart of my work. Carla — who hired me and has been the head of Human Resources for as long as I’ve been at The Voxair — and Mike set the foundation. Bill McLeod, a subsequent Manager at Voxair, provided steady leadership, while new Corporate Services Manager, Heather Miller brought calm and clarity to every project. Kathy, now Deputy Manager PSP, offered quiet, determined leadership, and Christina Bailey, Senior Manager PSP, provided the guidance that kept the whole operation grounded and purposeful.

Beyond our immediate office, others became part of the fabric of my time here. Health Promotion saw Diane, Deanne, and Dylan – their friendly faces made even the busiest days manageable.

Celine, the cleaner worked tirelessly to keep the CANEX building spotless, is someone I’ll never forget. We communicated through written notes, shared texts, and whatever creative method worked in the moment. She calls me Beanie — after Mr. Bean — because I like to joke around.

Frank, over at the Transition Centre, dedicated his days to helping veterans and members preparing to transition out of the military — work that requires equal parts compassion and strength. Another CAF veteran, Rick Carlton, also at the Transition Centre, brought experience and empathy to everyone who walked through their doors. They both provided me with a number of great stories for The Voxair.

At SISIP, Cliff Kitchen — who remembered me from my earliest days — and his colleague David were always ready with a sports story or a laugh. Their former manager, John Clary, helped shape that team into the supportive, reliable team that they are.

And then there were the people who helped shape The Voxair itself. Misra, accounting clerk, became a good friend — someone I could always count on for a thoughtful conversation or a shared laugh. And Broose, who worked part‑time doing layout for a couple of years, was a character in the best possible way — creative, quirky, and endlessly entertaining.

I had the privilege of working closely with Heritage Officer, Gord Crossley, someone I knew even before joining The Voxair. His deep knowledge of military history enriched so many of the stories we told, including the 80th anniversary of Andrew Mynarski’s heroism — a piece that meant a great deal to me. Gord’s passion for preserving history made every collaboration meaningful.

Along the way, I had the chance to go flying with 402 “City of Winnipeg” Squadron, another unforgettable experience that reminded me just how unique this job truly was. One unexpected perk was covering the Winnipeg Jets’ annual Military Appreciation Nights at Canada Life Centre — sitting in the press box, interviewing CAF members between periods, and occasionally meeting players at ice level as they posed for photos and signed autographs.

And through all of this, something unexpected happened: my appreciation for the men and women of the Canadian Armed Forces deepened profoundly. Truth be told, I never served myself. But working at The Voxair became my small way of contributing — by telling their stories, shining a light on their dedication, and helping the wider community understand the people behind the uniforms.

I also came to admire the extraordinary professionalism of the RCAF Band. Their range, their musicianship, their ability to shift from solemn ceremony to lively performance — they are remarkable artists, and every time I covered them, I walked away impressed.

Our office became the unofficial headquarters for sports talk on base. Hockey, football — you name it, we debated it. Passionately. Loudly. And often with more enthusiasm than expertise. Those conversations stitched our days together and turned coworkers into friends.

Over the years, The Voxair itself evolved.

When I started, it was a traditional newspaper — ink, paper, deadlines, and the satisfying thump of a fresh stack of papers landing on a desk. Slowly, steadily, it transformed into a fully online information source for the entire base. That shift wasn’t just technological; it changed how we told stories, how we reached people, and how the community connected with us.

A huge part of that evolution was thanks to Ash, our webmaster, whose computer skills bordered on wizardry. If something broke, he fixed it. If something didn’t exist, he built it — quietly, reliably, and with a level of expertise that kept the whole operation running.

Alongside all of this were the extraordinary experiences I never imagined I’d have. I flew with 435 Search and Rescue Squadron, witnessing their precision and professionalism up close. I jumped — literally — nearly 10,000 feet out of a Hercules at Gimli during a tandem skydive, at the tail end of a day covering SAR Tech training. I spent almost a week in the high Arctic at Resolute Bay covering Exercise Arctic RAM.

One of the most surreal moments came when I interviewed Colonel Jeremy Hansen, long before Artemis II made him a household name. He had flown into Winnipeg with another astronaut in one of NASA’s sleek T‑38 Talon jets — the stiletto‑shaped aircraft NASA provides to its astronauts for proficiency flying. They were en route to CFB Cold Lake for training, fitting for Hansen, who had been a fighter pilot with the RCAF before joining the Canadian Space Agency.

We stood beside the jet on the tarmac, aviation fuel fumes drifting through the air and making me feel just a little light‑headed. As I was interviewing him, I suddenly turned away for a split second. When I turned back, he looked slightly puzzled.

“This is so surreal, Colonel Hansen,” I said. “I just wanted to see if the Starship Enterprise was here too.”

He smiled — the kind of knowing smile that suggested he’d heard variations of that line from more than a few journalists and space enthusiasts over the years.

I also spent an entire day with a crew from 435 Squadron on an air‑to‑air refueling mission 19,000 feet above the winding, spectacular Snake River Canyon on the Idaho–Oregon border. As I filmed video out the window with my iPhone, one of the crew members laughed and said I looked “like a kid in a candy shop.” He wasn’t wrong.

As I step into retirement, what stays with me isn’t just the stories I wrote — it’s the people who trusted me to tell them. The friendships, the shared laughs, the long days that somehow always felt worthwhile. Thank you to everyone who opened a door, shared a story, or simply made the work meaningful. Thank you to the readers who followed along. And thank you to The Voxair for giving me a front‑row seat to a world I’ll always be grateful to have been part of.

This may be my final story for the publication, but the memories — and the gratitude — will stay with me long after the last article is posted.

And Ash — yes, you can still call me Maverick. I may be taxiing off the runway, but trust me, I’ve still got at least one last flyby in me.