On the evening of July 5, 1998, an air of nostalgia and melancholy filled the skies above Hong Kong. The lights of Kai Tak International Airport, once a beacon for travelers worldwide, shimmered for the last time. As Cathay Pacific Flight 251 took off, it marked the end of an era—one defined by daring landings, breathtaking approaches, and a history deeply intertwined with the city’s growth.
For 73 years, Kai Tak had been more than just an airport. It was a symbol of Hong Kong’s resilience, a place where pilots earned their stripes navigating the infamous “Checkerboard Approach”, a sharp right turn at low altitude, threading between the city’s towering skyline before aligning with the single, narrow runway that jutted into Victoria Harbour. The heart-pounding descents made passengers clutch their armrests, while onlookers in Kowloon often felt they could almost touch the aircraft’s belly from their rooftops.
But behind this thrill lay a growing problem. By the 1990s, Kai Tak was bursting at the seams. Originally designed for a fraction of its traffic, the airport struggled as passenger numbers surged past 30 million annually. Overcrowded terminals, inadequate runways, and a lack of expansion space choked its efficiency. The risk was not just inconvenience but also safety—a concern that became painfully evident in 1993, when a China Airlines Boeing 747 misjudged its landing during Typhoon Dot, overshooting the runway and plunging into the harbour. Miraculously, all 396 passengers and crew survived, but it was a stark warning. The airport was no longer sustainable.
Hong Kong needed a change. Plans for a new airport had been brewing since the 1980s, and by 1992, construction was underway on Chek Lap Kok, an island reclaimed from the sea. While Kai Tak was legendary, it could not match the modern infrastructure, twin runways, and sheer capacity of its successor. And so, the decision was made—Kai Tak would close.
As the final day approached, emotions ran high. Airport staff, some of whom had worked there for decades, struggled to say goodbye. Captain Pierre Rowe, piloting the last departure, was honored yet heavy-hearted. “It’s like saying farewell to an old friend,” he later reflected. The people of Hong Kong gathered near the runway, their faces illuminated by camera flashes, waving at each departing plane as if it were a piece of history taking off.
At 11:38 PM, Flight 251 soared into the night, its wheels leaving Kai Tak’s tarmac forever. Moments later, the runway lights dimmed. An eerie silence followed. The airport that had once pulsed with life, welcoming millions and sending them across the globe, had taken its final breath.
Today, the site of Kai Tak holds echoes of the past. A cruise terminal stands where jumbo jets once roared, and remnants of the famous runway can still be seen. Yet, for those who experienced it, Kai Tak remains irreplaceable—a testament to a city that dared, soared, and ultimately outgrew its beloved airport.
Some places never truly close. They live on in memories, in the roar of jet engines, and in the hearts of those who once flew through them. Kai Tak was one such place.
