Born To Fly Read online

  It was phenomenally hot outside, the heat made even worse because of my flying suit and the lack of air moving through the plane. I chose the parking spot closest to the restaurant; the front door sat against the tarmac only metres from my wing. I clambered out, grabbed the essential bags and walked inside.

  I sat down to have lunch in a typical American aviation themed diner. As I finished up a few fellow diners started to ask questions. I don’t think they see many sign-written Cirruses in Tucson. One couple was so interested that we walked back out to the plane and I removed the cover so they could hop in and press buttons. It made their day, and they became my Tucson buddies.

  I explained I was staying over in Tucson on my own and they were so intrigued that they decided to look after me. They dropped me off at the nearby motel for a quick freshen up then took me out to dinner and showed me around the little desert town. It happened to be the second Saturday night of the month, when Tucson came alive with markets and people everywhere. My new friends explained the difference between summer and winter in Arizona – basically too hot and then too cold. For that reason people referred to as ‘snowbirds’ leave Tucson in the summer and move to a second house away from the heat, and so the town becomes deserted.

  The next day was full of the usual jobs, a blog, catch-up emails, answering questions on social media and keeping on top of the continuous emails and jobs required for flight planning. With all that behind me, I found myself knocking on the door of the Pima Air and Space Museum, a very well-known aviation attraction. After a phone call to Australian radio presenter Alan Jones, I wandered inside for a TV interview. I laughed when the reporter introduced himself as Ryan. Here I was, Ryan being interviewed by Ryan after landing at Ryan Aerodrome. I could sense a pattern in there somewhere.

  I chatted away into a microphone that resembled something off the Anchorman movies, a colourful cover with the station’s channel number printed across the front in bold. I continued on to have a look around the museum, blown away at the aviation history hidden away in each corner. I was then dropped at the gates of the Boneyard, more formally known as the Davis Monthan Air Force Base and home to the 309th Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Group (AMARG). The AMARG is an organisation that takes aircraft and preserves them within storage, some for re-use, some for parts and some for scrap.

  The Boneyard sits in the desert for a reason; the atmosphere is perfect for the preservation of aircraft. Each plane is covered in a particular and meticulous way, the windscreens are blanked out and the plane is placed in a line of similar type aircraft. We zipped around in a van, thankful for the air conditioning, as 4500 aircraft passed by the windows. It was a private tour so we stopped here and there when I spotted something exciting, such as President Eisenhower’s old helicopter. The frequent warnings to watch for rattlesnakes hiding in the sand meant a plane had to be pretty special for me to get out of the van.

  It was an eye-opening experience seeing fighter jets, cargo planes, bombers and so much more just sitting in the desert, some ready to fly again, others marked with a large red ‘D’ for destroy. I took a heap of photos but nothing I could snap could do this place justice. It really was an aircraft graveyard. To see the Boneyard was phenomenal, but the visit was complete after meeting some of the high-ranking officials in the defence wing of AMARG. They were all amazing and successful people with a keen interest in Teen World Flight.

  As I was packing my bags back at the motel, with the TV on in the background, a severe emergency weather warning took over the program and flashed upon the screen, just like in a movie. A little map showed a storm tracking towards Ryan Aerodrome, with severe wind shear, hail and lightning.

  The Cirrus was sitting outside, right in the path of the oncoming storm, so I called a cab and asked them to take me to the airport thirty minutes away. As we drove I phoned all the airport businesses I could in the hope of finding hangar space so late in the day. We could see a huge black storm sitting just off the highway and I taught the driver the Australian way of saying ‘drive a little quicker please’.

  I was in luck; a nice guy was on his way to meet me and open up his hangar. I grabbed the Cirrus, which had already moved slightly in the wind, untied it and carefully taxied to the hangar. We opened the doors and pushed it back inside; only then did I take photos of the phenomenal storm developing in the middle of the desert. I could see a dark and isolated cloud full of water, with the rain tearing down in a severe downdraft situated directly under the storm itself.

  As I hitched a ride back to town with the hangar owner I took a breath and organised a time to retrieve the plane in the morning. I would be on the move again, this time to Texas.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Southern hospitality

  We pulled the aircraft from the hangar, I thanked the man for his help and hopped in the plane to venture to the fuel bowser. I said goodbye to my Tucson buddies, two lovely people who had gone out of their way to make me feel welcome, took a few photos and was ready to leave. I tried to obtain a clearance but for some reason it had not shown up in the system. Instead, I departed ‘VFR’, or visually and clear of cloud. Once I was airborne I would contact air traffic control again and pick up my IFR flight plan. From that point on they would help me out wherever necessary and I could pass through cloud.

  As I became airborne I was given a direction to fly and I was lucky: it was just off to one side of the Boneyard, allowing me to see its sheer size from the air. I picked up my original flight plan and climbed to 12,000 feet, another high altitude required to clear the mountains that zipped only just below. After fifteen minutes on the ground entering dozens of navigational waypoints into the GPS I took to the sky and was immediately given clearance to go direct to El Paso in Texas.

  I tracked along my flight path, edging closer and closer to the west Texas town of El Paso, and for a short while just off my right wing I saw the Mexican border. I was excited to be flying along ‘the fence’ and had been looking forward to it for some while. However, my friends from Tucson had told me horrific stories of illegal immigrants attempting to find a new life over that very fence, and so my enthusiasm had become a bit dimmed.

  I was heading for Fredericksburg in Texas. Originally I had planned to go through a little town called Dalhart on the recommendation of a ferry pilot, but when John Deakin and his American counterparts had heard that I intended to go to Dalhart they nearly cried. Apparently it was a silage town with an aroma of its own, one that should be avoided if at all possible. That sounded like very good advice. After a little research I found Fredericksburg, an airport with the Hangar Hotel and an airport diner side by side and right next to the tarmac. The airport looked too good to be true so I booked in.

  As I neared Fredericksburg the sky began to darken. The weather was not fantastic and it was deteriorating quickly. Air traffic control told me that a storm cell was sitting right on Fredericksburg airport. I didn’t feel like it was an issue and grabbed a chart and looked for the closest airport with available fuel – Junction, Texas. I would land at Junction, grab some fuel for the plane and some for me and head on when the weather had passed.

  I turned right, nosed the plane towards the ground and zoomed in over the airport. It appeared to be a very neat airstrip, a cluster of hangars and a lot of cars. Cool. I touched down and taxied to the fuel bowser, clambered out and had a look around. There were a lot of cars but not a person in sight. I could see one hangar door cracked open in the far distance. I wandered in and said hello and shook hands with Sam, the apparent lone occupant of Junction’s bustling airport, who was working on a plane. I asked him for the phone number to order a cab and he laughed at me. Junction didn’t have cabs, he said, or food at the airport, but he offered to drop me off at a restaurant down the road. We hopped in his oversized ute and after driving past a freeway-side McDonalds and various other fast food outlets we stopped at a little Texas shack. He passed on his details and said to call when I was ready for a lift
back.

  There was no menu, just brisket sandwiches. There was nothing extra to add onto the sandwich, apparently that’s where the brisket came in. It was a case of bread, brisket and bread. I looked around quietly hoping to undertake a little self-education, but with no luck I asked what exactly was brisket. They laughed at me too. Turns out it was a cut of meat. I couldn’t walk anywhere else, as this was the only option within walking distance. Instead I sat down under the Budweiser sign with my brisket roll and a Pepsi. It wasn’t the Texan steak I had imagined.

  Sam picked me up and I spent the trip back to the airport telling him just how much of a fan of brisket I was, and how hard it would be hard to leave that culinary delight behind. I climbed into the plane, ready and refuelled, and took off for the twenty-minute flight to Fredericksburg.

  It was still a little showery but I had fun flying nice and low and looking at the Texas barns and farmhouses. With the airport in sight I overflew and joined the circuit to land, touched down in a gusting crosswind and taxied for the Hangar Hotel. This was something out of a movie, a war-themed hotel with a classic airport diner as its neighbour. It brought a whole new meaning to valet parking when I shut the Cirrus down twenty steps from the check-in desk.

  I unpacked my bags then slipped the Cirrus away in a hangar. I had food, aeroplanes and a bed all within stumbling distance. I was in heaven.

  One of the guys from the airport had come over for a chat just after I landed and mentioned that a local pilot would be interested in the flight and would come and say hello the next morning. He did just that and I shook hands with Bob Snowden, who lived with his wife Karen on the airport in what was a half hangar, half house. We walked over to his hangar and pulled up a chair between a yellow Piper Cub and a Ford Mustang. We chatted away for an hour and then Bob took me for a walk though a few other hangars and asked whether I would like to go for a fly. Of course I would.

  I climbed aboard a bright yellow Beechcraft Staggerwing, a sleek and fast biplane. To many it’s just another aeroplane but to a pilot it’s one of the most amazing-looking aircraft in history, a vintage machine made of wood and covered in fabric. We started up the radial engine and drowned in a cloud of smoke, then taxied to the runway as the radial burbled away. We took the Staggerwing around Fredericksburg, a different type of flying than what I had been doing over the last month, and I was now in a completely different environment. That’s another reason aviation is so amazing. A slight change in environment, a new aircraft and a new type of flying suddenly turned me into a student again, eagerly trying to learn whatever I could.

  Bob and Karen were my hosts for a night out in Texas, an experience in Tex-Mex cuisine that more than made up for the brisket sandwich in Junction. And the Staggerwing flight was something I’ll keep in my logbook forever.

  It was bedtime, and in my room I bunked down next to a leather chair and an old telephone with a cord and a round dial on the front. Fredericksburg wasn’t just an airport, it was an experience, almost like an amusement park except that the bar known as the ‘officer’s mess’ was off limits to anyone under twenty-one. I didn’t want to leave, and told Bob and Karen I was good to go with the adoption process when they were.

  Next morning I dragged the Cirrus out and topped up the wing tanks, thankful I didn’t have to touch the ferry tank. I taxied to my valet position and loaded the bags, and after a goodbye to Bob, Karen and the crew at the airport I took to the skies, straight into a low-lying sheet of cloud and bound for Tennessee. The Spirit of the Sapphire Coast climbed through a solid layer of cloud above Fredericksburg in Texas and soon I was flying ‘on top’. It was bright, sunny and still – perfect conditions to commit aviation.

  I had a planned arrival time into Smyrna, Tennessee, a town just outside Nashville. Jeff Boyd, a very successful businessman and pilot whom I had met at the Frogs Hollow Aero Club fundraiser dinner, had helped to organise the major service for the Cirrus there. Jeff had connections with Corporate Flight Management in Smyrna, which happened to be a Cirrus service centre situated just about where I would require the 100hour service. It was almost too good to be true. Jeff had been in the industry for a long while and had helped with planning, sponsorship, maintenance and so much more.

  Corporate Flight Management were expecting my arrival midmorning; it was a fairly large service and they planned to get started straight away. On top of this, my mentor Ken, who was holidaying in the USA at the time, was in Smyrna waiting for my arrival, and I couldn’t wait to catch up.

  I levelled off and took in the scenery, still air and the broad accents of each controller. Given the ferry tank was packed away I planned to make a quick fuel stop in the small southern town of Greenville, Mississippi, before continuing. As I neared Greenville and started my descent, I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the rather large grey storm sitting opposite the airport that was well and truly moving towards me.

  I rolled to the left and right and as I crossed low over the Mississippi River I saw a steamboat sitting by the river’s edge, exactly as it was supposed to. I conducted a quick orbit to slow down before joining finals and landing at Greenville. As I taxied from the runway I spotted the huge water tower with ‘Greenville’ across the front. I wasn’t even lost.

  I climbed out and into the scorching heat. I had parked next to a business jet and in front of a small aviation business, another FBO (fixed base operator) who would organise the refuelling of the plane. I said a quick hello and went off in search of some cold water, to submit another flight plan and to check the ever-evolving weather. I called the 1800-WXBRIEF number and spoke with a really nice guy, telling him that I had come into Greenville towards some serious-looking storms. After a quick look over the forecasts his verdict was simple: I could track south immediately and hope to miss the storm about to pass over the airport, then once clear I could turn around and fly north-east towards Smyrna. It would take longer and use more fuel and there was no guarantee it would work. There was another option. I could book a motel, delay my arrival into Tennessee and not need to stress about anything except choosing what to have for dinner. It only required a little thought.

  We began to pack up the Cirrus. By this stage lightning and thunder were creating a show that would play a starring role at the Greenville municipal airport any minute. The pilots of the business jet in front of the Cirrus quickly clambered in and proceeded to undertake a seriously spectacular takeoff. Just after becoming airborne into the now gusting winds they banked hard and left the storm behind them. I taxied the Cirrus to a worn-out, old but phenomenally huge hangar to park and unpack, sheltered from the heavy rain.

  I was given a lift to the motel and thinking Greenville was an interesting-looking place. I asked the young guy driving if there was anything to see or do here. He told me that there was a restaurant a few metres from my motel and to ‘sleep there, eat over there and don’t go anywhere else’. I didn’t ask any questions, I just did what he said. Somehow I had the feeling that Greenville, Mississippi might not appear in many tourist brochures.

  I was now late for maintenance in Smyrna but after a quick phone call I told them I would be there very early the next morning, so we would lose only half a day. I went to bed and woke up early yet again – at 3am – though with the knowledge that this time I wouldn’t be facing a ten- or fifteen-hour leg but a casual flight of less than two hours.

  A young guy from the FBO picked me up and we drove to the airport in his SUV. This guy was into car sound and audio systems and I had to hold my bags on my knees as everywhere else was covered in speakers and subwoofers, even the door handles had been removed. We pulled up next to the Cirrus in the large old hangar, our voices echoing in the cold early morning air. He then decided to show me just what his car could do: I will now go deaf ten years earlier than I otherwise would and the video of my distorted face will remain on the internet forever. It was amazing.

  I said goodbye and dragged the Cirrus just clear of the hangar as I jumped on the phone and start
ed to submit a flight plan. A lady answered and I began to provide the details she required: ‘Aircraft type, aircraft registration, endurance, persons on board, departure point, destination point’. She stopped me mid sentence and asked, ‘Where are you from, where is your aircraft from, how did it get here? Don’t try and tell me you flew it here! You’re flying around the world? Why, how old are you?’

  Her voice became more and more excited with every question. We spent twenty minutes just having a chat while I filled her in on what Teen World Flight was all about. By the end of our chat, although the flight plan hadn’t been submitted yet, this lady was well enthused. ‘This has made my day, the most exciting call I have had in a long time!’ she said. I laughed as we said goodbye; I was now late again. I started the Cirrus and the sound of 310 horsepower rumbled through the old hangar, a perfect noise to start the day. I took off above the lights and zipped though a layer of murky cloud. To my surprise, above the darkness was a magnificent sunrise.

  The flight went quickly: two hours passed like ten minutes. I lined up with the runway at Smyrna, touched down and taxied under guidance from air traffic control to the hangar of Corporate Flight Management. A small group of people were waiting for me but no face stood out more than that of Ken Evers. I shut down and climbed out after a most enjoyable flight, and it was still only time for breakfast.

  We all took photos and shook hands. I was introduced to a number of people including Dave Augustin, the co-founder of Corporate Flight Management. I unpacked the plane which was towed to the maintenance hangar, and Dave offered to take me to the motel where Ken and I could catch up for a couple of hours and then offered to take me out to lunch. Apart from not being able to check in at 7am, the morning was fantastic.