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  I called Glen, who had only just finished wishing me a safe journey over the radio, and asked him to contact Auckland over the landline telephone, letting them know I was taxiing and would be airborne soon. After waiting for a while, Glen had a response. Auckland required that I make contact with them using the HF radio, and I had to do that as soon as possible. If I didn’t they would file a non-compliance report against me. I had no idea how serious this was, but it definitely didn’t sound like a certificate of appreciation.

  There seemed nothing for it but to take off and chance it. If I stayed on the ground I still probably wouldn’t be able to contact Auckland; if I took off and climbed away from terrain, the chances of getting a suitable signal were far greater. The only problem was that if I took off, failed to contact air traffic control and decided to return to Norfolk Island, I would be unable to land because with so much fuel on board I was way over the maximum landing weight. I would have to circle over the airport for a number of hours to burn a significant amount of fuel.

  Without clearance I taxied along the runway, noticing once again how heavy the aircraft felt. I turned at the end of the runway and immediately realised how strong the winds were. In a few minutes the Cirrus was airborne, and I held the nose level with the ground to build up a little more speed. No sooner did the ground drop away than I was flying over the ocean, a sea covered in huge breaking waves. The wind was hitting the aircraft at a speed of 44 knots: I was only flying at around 100 knots.

  As I climbed over the Pacific Ocean I tried to get in touch with Auckland again. After a few more tries I heard the reply in a welcome Kiwi accent; I was relieved that I would not be receiving a grumpy letter in the mail. I set my course for Pago Pago.

  Remembering the lessons I had learned from the first leg of the trip, I took the plane up to 9000 feet above sea level, a cruising speed, and began to transfer fuel, once more removing excess air from the tank by clambering into the back and using the hand pump. With that complete I began to monitor the outside temperature: it had been six degrees Celsius just north of Norfolk, but I was tracking towards the equator and the temperature was climbing.

  Every hour I called through a position report on the HF, indicating my altitude and position in degrees of latitude and longitude. The pilots who told me about the HF had been right: it was intensely irritating to use, so when I was told to contact a nearby island using the standard aircraft radio I was only too pleased. The problem was that I could not make out the island’s call sign. It sounded like ‘Fa-somethingsomething-cracklecrackle’.

  I asked the person who had given me the information to repeat it, which she did several times. This made no difference. I frantically searched the charts to find something that sounded like ‘Fa-somethingsomething-cracklecrackle’. Luckily I found it – obviously ‘Faleleo’.

  I called Faleleo, pronouncing it to rhyme with ‘Galileo’. The man on the end had no idea I was talking to him; I might just as well have stuck to my original pronunciation. I started to mush the word together, pronouncing it every way possible. Fortunately, the man on the other end was polite and he finally understood what I was trying to say. If you ever find yourself in a light aircraft in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, ‘Faleleo’ is pronounced ‘Fa-lay-lee-oh’.

  I was flying away from the sun, in and out of cloud, and after eight hours in the air I watched it set behind the left wing. I descended over the water then, as I broke through a fluffy cloud, I noticed a large black mass in the middle of the ocean, speckled with lights. I was approaching Pago Pago.

  However, I couldn’t see the airfield, as the lights were still dim. I checked the charts again and took a closer look, then I realised that the lights were not on. I tried to activate them but there was no success, and no reply from anyone on the ground. And so, with daylight fading fast, and being in the middle of the ocean without any other choice, I decided to land without runway lights.

  I touched down with the very last lingering glow of the setting sun – I discovered it was an extremely large runway – and approached the big Samoan who was holding two glowing orange batons and waving directions to the Cirrus. I shut down and opened the door to be greeted by a Samoan hello from a man who introduced himself as Arthur, and a swift punch in the face from the humidity. The temperature was well above thirty degrees Celsius, even so late in the day.

  I was tired. I took the bags from the plane and locked it up, accompanied by a shower of rain. Arthur and I walked via Customs to sign the arrival documentation and continued to an office where we organised a time the following day to prepare the Cirrus for its onward flight. Arthur was my handler in American Samoa, the person designated to help in clearing Customs, organising refuelling, parking the aircraft, accommodation, transfers and anything else I needed. I had handlers for most of my stops. They were a godsend in most cases and some of them I will remember for the rest of my life.

  I checked into a local motel, thankful to escape the humidity, and had a brief chat with someone from the local newspaper in the bar, sipping a Coke under the sign that said you had to be twenty-one before imbibing alcohol. Then I called it a day.

  Throughout the trip, my aim was to fly early in the day in order to escape the late afternoon weather, especially around the equator with its tropical thunderstorms that gradually built up during the day. Then after landing I would pack up and head off to somewhere I could rest, spending the following day in refuelling, packing up and preparing the aircraft to set off again.

  My day in Pago Pago, American Samoa, was interesting. In the morning I duly refuelled the aircraft, even though the rain (which I had come to know as the Pago Pago Sideways Rain thanks to the gusting wind) was doing all it could to delay the process. A further complication was that the refueller spoke no English whatever, though he smiled enthusiastically. Arthur stood by to translate such phrases as ‘A little more’, ‘It’s not my aeroplane, please do not spill the fuel’ and ‘Whooaah.’ I stood in the rain and wind counting out $100 US bills and feeling somewhat conspicuous. After talking to a local TV crew under the open-air terminal, I paid the fees at the Customs office, got into a taxi, dropped some things at the motel and set off to drive around the local area, a trip organised by the newspaper reporter I had met the evening before.

  On Norfolk Island I had mistakenly left behind an emergency personal locator that I could activate in the event of an emergency to transmit my exact position. I needed to replace it, so I got into a taxi and went into town looking for an electronics store. Pago Pago was quite a place. Damage from the 2004 tsunami that swept across the Pacific Ocean was still obvious, with the ruins of buildings sitting next to the rebuilt and renewed city. There were wild dogs roaming everywhere and taxis apparently made from a combination of different car parts. I had been told that deceased family members were often buried in the front yard of their descendants’ homes, and I did see a number of these graves. The taxi driver was particularly keen on showing me the local fish canning factory, an important economic centre for the town. The smell was almost deafening. Needless to say, I couldn’t find a replacement for my personal locator.

  I put in the afternoon checking the plane and writing a blog, studying for the next leg and washing my flight suit. (It’s always a good idea to press ‘start’ after you have put clothes into a dryer, I have found.) I set the alarm for three the next morning, with the weather promising to be wet and windy.

  I woke the next morning knowing one thing for sure: three in the morning is too early for anything except sleep. After showering and dressing I met Arthur and we headed for the airport. I pre-flighted the plane by torchlight in the sprinkling rain, and after a quick photo with Arthur and a farewell handshake I prepared to leave Pago Pago for my next stop, the coral atoll of Kiritimati, or Christmas Island, part of the republic of Kiribati around 1300 nautical miles away, with a flight time of approximately eight hours.

  The runway lights were working but the rain and wind were steadily increasing and my
nervousness grew. The charts showed a very large and troublesomely placed mountain hidden in the inconveniently unlit sky. I realised I would have to undertake what is known as a standard instrument departure; just after takeoff I would turn right away from the mountain, then, once I had reached a comfortable height I could turn towards Kiritimati.

  As I taxied down the runway I realised again just how large it was; the painted centreline was as wide as the Cirrus’s cabin and I nearly needed to refuel once I reached the other end. The wind was strong and gusting straight across the runway, directly towards that inconveniently located mountain. I gave the aircraft full power and we lifted into the pitch-black sky.

  Now for the really hard bit. I could see absolutely nothing, a feeling that reminded me of trying to find my way back to my bedroom at midnight after closing the brightly lit fridge door. My palms were sweaty, my hands shaking as I climbed through 500 feet and turned right onto my assigned track. I stared at the instruments, checking and rechecking my flight direction, making sure everything was as it should have been.

  Suddenly I realised I had been making life more difficult for myself than necessary. The Cirrus was equipped with synthetic vision. On the screen in front of me was a visualisation of what lay ahead, but I had been so focused on the instruments that I had completely disregarded this. I could see the bright blue sky and the slightly darker ocean ahead, and on the left edge of the screen was the mountain, gradually sliding out of view. I took a deep breath of relief and calmed down. This was, I knew, a perfect example of being caught up in a moment and being overrun by nerves: a lesson learned and something I could apply during the rest of the trip.

  Gradually I climbed to 9000 feet, methodically moving through standard procedures. These were becoming more familiar, but I they were still far from routine for me. Then I tried to contact air traffic control via the HF radio. No luck. For two and a half hours I yelled slowly and clearly into the microphone, making sure my vowels were rounded and concentrating on not swearing. Eventually I gave up and decided to try something else.

  The satellite phone provided by Telstra was installed in the right foot well; I knew reception was intermittent, as one would expect, but a call could get through provided you were patient. The phone did not actually ring when a call was coming in; this was not really an issue because so few people had the number. I leaned over and dialled. My brother Adam answered. It is safe to say that he did not expect a call at three in the morning from anyone, and definitely not from me. I told him everything was fine, and asked him to call air traffic control for me using his Australian landline. I needed to make a few calls to get the full message through to Adam, but it worked.

  Once Adam had made contact with air traffic control and passed on my position and intentions he gave me a call back. Without the phone ringing, he just started talking. Here I was, flying across the Pacific and all of a sudden my brother was just talking to me as if we were chatting at home in Merimbula. I’m guessing that’s what it’s like to lose your mind.

  I finally let Adam go back to bed and switched the navigation page to show the aircraft’s longitude and latitude. Countdown to the equator. The Cirrus was flying well and the weather had cleared up; for the first time in a while I was simply enjoying the flight. As the aircraft crossed the equator and entered the northern hemisphere, shown extremely accurately by modern avionics, I let out a cheer. I didn’t really know what else to do. It was hard not to have anyone to share such moments with.

  Shortly afterwards I descended towards Kiritimati. The sky was clear and for the first time during the flight I could see the horizon clearly in all directions. It gave a very good indication of where I was: right in the middle of nowhere. It’s difficult to understand the size of the Pacific Ocean until you see it from a single-engine aeroplane with the ‘nearest airports’ function on the GPS displaying ‘Nil’.

  An atoll suddenly appeared, glistening swirls of green and blue water surrounding flat sand, looking like something from a cruise brochure. I flew to the left side of the island and came down to 500 feet. By now I was in contact with a woman at the airport, and although I was tired I just had to fly low around the coastline before I touched down. At last, I thought, I would be able to stretch out and relax on the beach, and I could hardly wait.

  I landed on a nice, smooth runway and taxied to a large tarmac apron. The airport seemed deserted, I was the only aircraft in sight. I radioed the airport lady, who was also nowhere in sight, and asked where I could park. She replied: ‘Pick a spot. You’re the only aircraft here until next week.’ Wow. Glad I missed peak hour.

  I parked up next to the terminal, a rickety structure that looked as if it was about to crumble to the ground, hopped out and stretched my legs. I had just completed three legs in a row, lasting seven to ten hours each, and was beginning to feel it.

  A man named John, who was my handler, walked towards me. I knew about him from my mentor Ken, who had also stopped here on his own round-the-world flight. John was the only white man on the island. He owned a general store that provided all the necessities required for life, from food to tools and medical equipment and a few luxury items such as small laptops and pushbikes for those who could afford them, all sourced from Australia or the USA before being shipped to Kiribati. Planning to refuel the next day, I hurled my bags into the tray of his little green truck and climbed in.

  As we drove along the gravel roads I realised something very forcefully. This was no island paradise, but a Third World country. Houses were makeshift lean-tos, men, women and children were barely clothed. Dinner was tied to a post to stop it running away. So much for the tourist brochures: it was a real eye-opener.

  John dropped me at the Captain Cook Motel, the only one on the island. It made the Formula One budget motels – the ones where you stretch out and your hand pokes through the window on the other side of the room – look like the White House. I think I was the only guest in the building. I hauled my bags into my room and looked longingly at the rickety bed. I was exhausted, but I needed to send updates to the team to let them know everything was okay, then grab dinner and an early night.

  I woke up at eight the next morning with my laptop and paperwork scattered around me. I had fallen asleep at 4:30 the previous afternoon and not moved an inch for fifteen and a half hours.

  CHAPTER

  12

  One leg at a time

  I looked at my phone and lay still, dazed and confused, trying to work out whether it was 8:30 at night or 8:30 in the morning. I had never slept for so long in my life, but there was no doubt I needed it.

  I had a shower; although what came out of the showerhead barely existed, I am fairly sure it was water. I was very hungry, but had passed the kitchen on the way to my room and decided it would be better just to eat the muesli bars I had in my lunch box. With a few hours to waste before fuelling the aircraft I sat back and compiled another blog. Then, with backpack and sat phone at the ready, I set off for a walk.

  John lived just around the corner and would be helping me refuel. Due to the nature of the island, the tiny amount of light aircraft traffic that passes through and the use-by date on aviation fuel, I had needed my own avgas shipped to Kiritimati from Hawaii by boat. John had picked up the three drums of fuel and placed them in storage until my arrival.

  I found the drums of avgas in John’s warehouse; he had them loaded onto the little green truck and his two sons took me out to the Cirrus. One of the boys drove and I rode with the other in the back, both of us holding the drums steady as we bumped along the gravel roads.

  Although the drums were new they were far from pristine. Each was covered in rust, not only having made the journey from Hawaii but having sat on Kiritimati waiting for my arrival. One of the first things you learn in flight training is the vital importance of having clean fuel. Any contaminants can cause rough running or even a complete engine failure. We had known what the drums at Kiritimati would probably be like and I had worked out a number
of strategies for testing the fuel before filling the aircraft. I knew it would be a long process.

  After checking that the drums were sealed and within the use-by date we opened the caps. I then used a large wooden stick with a water-detecting paste to test for water in the drum itself; if there was anything other than fuel in the drum the paste would change colour. So far so good. We filled the wing tanks, passing the fuel through two filters. This made the process painfully slow but a quick glance to the right gave me all the patience I needed – there was an awful lot of water out there. After the wings were full we filled the ferry tank, adding every drop of avgas from all three drums. I was becoming quite good at strapping the ferry tank down and each time I found a better place to store something. Within another half an hour we were finished.

  I then spent some time with John, who showed me around the warehouse and parts of the island close to his home. I was offered some dried tuna freshly baked from the sun, which I declined, and returned to my motel room. After finishing off a few jobs I read through the flight plan for the next leg.

  This would take me north to Hilo in Hawaii and directly through the inter-tropical convergence zone or ITCZ. The ITCZ is a band of bad weather that moves up and down around the equator depending on the time of year, producing thunderstorms and weather phenomena that are far from inviting. Ferry pilots had mentioned the ITCZ during the planning of the trip. They told me that sometimes it would be nonexistent, giving you a blue-sky day, but more often that not it produced amazing storms. Either way it was something to plan for and keep a keen eye on.

  I walked outside and down to the beach with the satellite phone. With a little time up my sleeve I made a call to Ken to update him on progress, but really just to have a chat with a familiar voice. He was very happy with the flight so far and we spoke about a common goal: to land on the mainland of the USA, having completed both the longest leg and the longest overwater section of the entire flight.