Born To Fly Read online

  I levelled off at 9000 feet above sea level, still zooming in and out of cloud. It was time to start transferring fuel from the ferry tank for the first time. The aircraft had three fuel tanks, one in each wing and the ferry tank in the rear cockpit. This 600-litre soft tank strapped in place of the back seat was connected with a fuel line to a contraption of pumps in the right-hand front foot well. Two electric pumps, along with a backup hand pump, would propel the fuel through a pipe running from the cabin to the outside of the aircraft, under the wing and into the right-hand tank. When the pumps were switched on the fuel would transfer and the right-wing fuel gauge indication would slowly climb.

  With the plane settled I checked the valves and taps on the fuel system; everything was in the correct position. I then switched on both electric pumps, and heard a loud harsh rattle coming from the foot well. During testing I had been able to tell the difference between the sound made by the transfer of fuel and the noise when the lines were full of air, which meant the pumps were running dry. I knew that this rattling sound meant that fuel was not being transferred from the tank.

  I waited, thinking that the fuel might take a minute to run through the lines, but the sound persisted. This was far from what I needed. We had tested the ferry system with a very light fuel load but regulations had not allowed for a full test with the aircraft operating over weight. My heart began racing. What if there was something wrong?

  With the aircraft now on autopilot I unbuckled my belts and turned to kneel backwards in my seat. I knew that air could become trapped in the top of the bladder, not allowing fuel to reach the lines. As the pumps rattled I removed the filler cap for the tank and shuffled the bags that were sitting on top; I could hear a burbling sound as air escaped the tank. I twisted back around with the filler cap secured once again, adjusted the air vents to push the fumes and smell of avgas to the rear and waited, praying that the pumps would now pick up the fuel.

  No luck. I crunched a few numbers and worked out just how far I could fly with the fuel I had in the wing tanks alone. I wouldn’t be able to get as far as Norfolk Island, but I could reach Lord Howe Island. I had chosen my flight route to track directly over the top of Lord Howe, as it was a secondary landing destination in the case of engine trouble or average weather at Norfolk Island. I decided that if I could not manage to get the fuel to transfer I would land at Lord Howe instead.

  Not wanting to give up and change my first destination just yet, I decided to use the hand pump. If I could get it started manually I hoped the electric pumps would then do their job. With the correct valves and levers turned, I pumped the fuel by hand for ten minutes or so. I put the hand pump away and flicked the switches that brought the electric pumps to life. There was an immediate and familiar loud rattle but only moments later it became muffled. The fuel gauge indication increased, it took a little encouragement but the fuel was now transferring. The relief was instant. Destination: Norfolk Island.

  As the flight continued I carefully monitored the fuel gauge, switching on the pumps from time to time to ensure that the right wing always had sufficient fuel. I began working on trend sheets, taking note of all the engine’s figures and indications in detail every fifteen minutes; a change in one would be easily noticeable on paper. Coming close to the distance from the Australian coast where I was expecting to lose radio coverage, I switched on and attempted to tune the HF radio.

  This was an external radio fitted purposely for the flight and the controls and screen sat on my knee with an attached handheld microphone. I had been warned by ferry pilots that the HF was not a nice piece of equipment to use. Even with the long and cumbersome aerial attached to the outside of the aircraft it was still unbelievably difficult to get a good signal. It made hearing others and being heard quite frustrating. I had to have the radio on and to be in contact with air traffic control at all times, never more important than when crossing between the airspace of different countries.

  The sky above Australia is simply Australian airspace that extends a certain distance from the mainland in all directions. At the point where it ceases, known as an FIA, or Flight Information Areas boundary, the airspace changes to that of the neighbouring country. On my leg to Norfolk Island I would be crossing into New Zealand’s airspace and therefore I needed to contact Auckland on the HF radio that was now switched on and tuned.

  I said goodbye to the Australian controller, wondering when I would hear another Aussie accent under the same circumstances, grabbed the handheld microphone for the HF and attempted to call Auckland. ‘Auckland radio, Auckland radio, Victor Hotel Oscar Lima Sierra…’ Almost instantaneously a voice with a Kiwi accent replied with my clearance through their airspace. Another new task was out of the way and I sat back to take a breath. As I crossed into New Zealand’s airspace I smiled: I was now an international pilot.

  All seemed well, but in the rush of the morning I had made an important mistake. My lunch box, filled with dozens of muesli bars, was in the aircraft but sitting well behind the ferry tank at the rear of the plane. I was hungry. I promised myself I would never, ever do that again.

  What with the business of the fuel supply and the HF radio, time had sped past and I was more than halfway to Norfolk Island. Still suffering from nerves I was eager to get the aircraft on the ground, to have some time to myself to forget the hype of the day and to prepare for the next leg. As I approached my destination I tuned the radio for Norfolk Island and made an inbound call to let any other aircraft know of my whereabouts and intentions. It seemed an odd thing to do, I thought; who on earth would be flying out here? A woman at the aerodrome responded, providing an update on the weather in return for an updated arrival time.

  Before I could descend I had one last job. Ken had explained that some countries required an insecticide spray to be used inside aircraft before landing. The ‘top of descent’ spray, which he had organised, was a can of insecticide to be used before commencing descent towards the destination. By the time you touched down any potentially living organism would be dead.

  I grabbed the can from my bag, had another quick read of the instructions and removed the lid. I started to spray the insecticide around the cabin. Ken had provided a few cans and we had agreed I would top up in the USA if required. With this in mind I continued spraying until the can was empty. I can assure you that every living thing inside that aircraft was dead and that nearly included me. I pushed the nose of the Cirrus towards the ocean and began my descent.

  In the distance I spotted a small green island protruding from an ocean that seemed endless. When I had reached gliding distance of the island I felt a combination of excitement and relief: the realisation that I had reached my first goal, one that had seemed so distant for years. I turned overhead to have a look at the airstrip and windsock before joining the approach to the runway. It was a rough approach; the wind that flowed across the ocean unobstructed was now streaming over this elevated rock sitting in the middle of nowhere. I closed the throttles and touched down, taking a deep and well earned breath.

  As I rolled out on landing and the aircraft slowed I completed my after-landing checks, then glanced around to see what Norfolk Island had to offer. There were either some very poorly placed car parks and no one in Norfolk Island knew how to drive, or the dozens upon dozens of cars scattered randomly across the hills surrounding the airport were all there to see me and the Cirrus arrive.

  I parked the aircraft on the corner of the main apron and waved hello to the two young women who had come out to the aircraft. I knew I was to keep the door shut until Customs and Immigration had acknowledged the correct use of the insecticide, I was then given the okay and raised the door to an enthusiastic welcome. I handed the used can to one of the women, who took note of the batch number on the label and handed it back. When I asked whether I needed to keep it she queried whether, being only my first stop, I would use it for the next few destinations. Turns out you only spray the insecticide for a few seconds before putting it away, a
nd when they found out I had emptied the entire can they nearly cried with laughter. If there are any foreign insects or bugs now living on Norfolk Island, you can be assured they did not arrive there with me.

  I unloaded my bags and followed the Customs officer inside. I was tired and had just completed the longest non-stop leg of my life. After signing the Gen Dec from Wollongong along with another for my next leg, I was taken out through the arrival gate of the terminal. As the doors opened a sea of people let out an almighty cheer, they had watched me land and now stood patiently waiting to welcome me to their home.

  I had landed in Norfolk Island. Leg number one was complete, and although there were many more to come, I was simply proud of the day’s achievement, shattered and ready for bed.

  CHAPTER

  11

  Pacific interlude

  After saying hello to the locals I walked back onto the tarmac to cover up the aircraft. I was really surprised by their interest in the flight; the fact that they had taken the time and effort to welcome me to Norfolk Island was fantastic. After the six-hour flight, the ferry tank had collapsed after having nearly all the fuel transferred to the main wing tanks, the bags and equipment that sat on top now lay in a heap looking as if I had stood twenty metres away and hurled them through the door. After deciding to clean up and organise everything the following day and with the aircraft secured for the night, I headed across the airport grounds, through the terminal and out to the car park.

  A local business, the Heritage Hill motel, had decided to support my journey. The owners drove me from the airport to the motel; I was shown to my room, the place where I could drop my bags on the bed and collapse on the couch in sheer relief. A local club had organised a dinner for that night and I had been given a car. I agreed to meet the organisers by the water in a few hours, but first I had to tell everyone I had arrived. Norfolk ran on a completely different network, including the internet, but I got online and emailed the first of many updates to the team back home, knowing they would receive it when the stars aligned and the Telstra mobile beamed into action. I had most of the next day to discuss things in detail with the team, but right then all I needed was a quick feed, chat and bed.

  Dinner was great, and I was humbled to see how many people were fascinated by what I was doing. There was a quick speech, I thanked the club, and then had an hour or two of casual chatter, all the while looking at sunset over the Pacific Ocean. It was an enjoyable evening but it wasn’t long before I headed for bed and a good night’s sleep.

  The next morning I woke up and had breakfast while crunching some numbers about the fuel load required to get me to Pago Pago in American Samoa, my next destination. I arrived at the airport and met the crew I had organised to help refuel the plane, and we pulled the Cirrus next to the bowser.

  It was only the second time I had filled the ferry tank and this time I needed a significantly greater quantity than I had used on the last leg. We started with the wing tanks before unstrapping the ferry tank and everything around it and placing it on the ground; there was equipment everywhere. As the tank was inside the cabin there was a risk of spilling fuel inside the aircraft, not a good idea. With this in mind I inserted a length of plastic PVC pipe into the filler cap, allowing the pipe to extend outside the open door of the plane. The guys switched on the pump and I started filling. It was a long process, requiring a keen eye to make sure the fuel didn’t splash back up the filler tube and not-so-conveniently offer a complimentary shower.

  We reached the final required amount of fuel and I handed the hose down off the wing. I then tried to remove the plastic pipe, only to discover that it was stuck. Really stuck. The tank was so full that it had pressed the pipe up against the side of the cabin, denying it any movement whatsoever. After a little thinking we decided the only way to remove the pipe was to remove some fuel.

  I took a breath as the refueller set off to find a forty-fourgallon drum to transfer fuel into from the ferry tank. This wasn’t quite how I had imagined the first refuel away from home would go, but it was a lesson learned. Fortunately it was a problem that could be fixed within half an hour.

  As I waited, I wandered around casually checking the aircraft. A few stickers had been tattered in the heavy rain I had encountered en route to Norfolk; the thick cloud had produced occasional heavy showers. I casually ran my hand down the leading edge of the propeller to ensure that it was undamaged. As I did I felt something strange, and a closer look revealed the biggest chip in a propeller I had ever seen. Although nearly every propeller suffers some form of damage from stones or similar, this was far from minor and definitely something to look at before setting off the next day.

  Now the priority had changed. There was no point in putting the fuel back into the tank after we had removed it. The aircraft would then be very heavy, not ideal if the damaged propeller needed any work. If we could fix the propeller we would refill the ferry tank with the fuel that was removed.

  I called Rex in Merimbula Aircraft Maintenance and explained about the propeller; he said that the procedure for fixing it would depend on how deep the chip was. Norfolk Island had no certified aircraft mechanic and I spent three hours trying to get useful pictures of the prop back to Rex in Merimbula. This was successful up to a point but Rex, who had contacted the manufacturer of the propeller, said the damage looked so bad that it might need to be replaced. If so, the flight would come to a screaming halt and the budget would be blown out too.

  I was sure the damage was not that bad, so with limited mechanical knowledge and the burning desire to set off to Pago Pago the next morning, I took more detailed photos with a ruler showing the dimensions of the damage and sent them back to Merimbula. Hartzell, the propeller manufacturer, said the damage was within limits after sealing the chip I would be able to continue the flight.

  In just a few hours, with the locals all pulling together, we had the damaged area of the propeller as watertight as it had been when new. Now we had only to put the fuel back into the ferry tank before the sun went down. We pulled the aircraft back to the bowser and a bunch of people guessed how much fuel had been removed – the hand pump used when removing the fuel had given no indication of how much was pumped into the drum.

  I had barely begun pumping when one of the young guys called out that there was a leak in the tank. You have to be kidding, I thought. We had a quick look and realised there was a loose fitting, luckily not a hole in the tank itself. One of the guys quickly squeezed through the baggage door with a shifter to tighten up the culprit before fuel found its way onto the floor. As he clambered through the small opening near the rear of the aircraft, the already tail-heavy plane decided to sit down. The nose rose high and the tail neared the ground; I yelled something that resembled English and we all froze, carefully letting the weight move forward and the nose wheel meet with the earth once again.

  It was over. The aircraft was refuelled and sat ready to take off for Pago Pago early the following morning. All that remained to do was to submit the flight plan that night. I must admit I was a little worried; what had supposedly been a day off had become an absolute mess, with problem after problem rearing its head all day. Was it going to be as hard as this all the way around the world?

  I set off to the motel to get ready for dinner at the home of a local couple. It was a welcome gesture and left me with nothing to worry about apart from preparing for the next flight. I had submitted the flight plan via fax, something I thought only old people still used, yet had a call from the New Zealand air traffic control soon after. There were a few issues with my plan, requirements I had no idea about at all. I altered the plan and sent it through. Once I knew it was approved I kept a copy to use as a template as the trip went on.

  Again dinner was fantastic, it seemed to me that the people on Norfolk Island couldn’t do enough. This was a tightly knit community, I discovered. I had been given a hire car and as I drove the streets throughout my stressful day, every person passing in the other direc
tion waved. I had no idea who they were, but after the first few the awkwardness passed and I waved back as if we had exchanged gossip at bingo only that morning.

  I set the alarm for early the next morning, packed everything and set it by the door of my motel room. It was now time to forget the day I had just endured and to focus on the flight to Pago Pago, the next stepping-stone across the vast Pacific Ocean.

  Next morning I woke up to howling winds, which did not surprise me greatly. A quick visit to the meteorology office the evening before had told me that the wind would not only be strong but moving in the opposite direction from where I would be heading. This meant that the flying time would be longer and the groundspeed slower. The officer on duty told me that the winds were forecast to become even stronger over the next few days. I had to decide whether to leave immediately or wait out the worsening weather conditions over the next few days. However, I had calculated that even with the winds I would have enough fuel to land in Pago Pago, so I decided to leave as planned.

  I left the motel while it was still dark, parked the car and carried the bags to the plane. Having signed off the Customs paperwork on my arrival, all I needed to do now was to print off the latest weather reports, do pre-flight checks and take off. Glen, one of the airport managers, met me at the office and we printed off the weather information.

  I said goodbye, clambered into the aeroplane and sorted everything out, making sure not only that the equipment was in the right place, and worked, but that my lunch box was within reach this time. I started the engine and entered the extremely long list of navigational waypoints into the GPS while the engine warmed up.

  After pulling the HF radio from its side pocket, I dialled the frequency for air traffic control, the same Auckland-based frequency I had successfully contacted just before my arrival two days before. This was standard procedure: it was a requirement to let air traffic control know you were ready to depart so they could provide any clearances into various airspace. For over ten minutes I called, but there was simply no response. After trying a number of different frequencies I sometimes heard a faint voice in reply, but it was of little use.