Born To Fly Read online

  We pushed the Cirrus into a humungous old hangar. It was so big you could have almost flown the plane inside it. It was old all right but they told me it was safe, after all it had to become old somehow. As I undressed, or rather awkwardly fell out of the immersion suit, an elderly couple wandered up to say hello, carrying a picture of me and one of their relatives from Australia. They had heard about the flight and wanted to pop by and say hello, not only from Scotland but from those back at home.

  Jumping into a car that finally had the steering wheel located on the proper side, I was driven to a little motel where I would spend just a night before setting off flying once again, the only planned back-to-back flying on the trip. There was a little daylight left and I had taken in the narrow Scottish streets and old buildings on the drive from the airport, so once settled I decided to walk through the main area of town just to say I had seen a little of Wick. I wandered in and out of a few stores before finding a bakery that looked like something from back at home so I zipped inside to try and find something for dinner.

  They had pies! The sign said ‘Meat pies’. This was amazing.

  ‘So can you tell me what’s in your meat pies?’ I asked. ‘Just mince,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll take one with sauce, please.’

  Although I was keen for an Aussie meat pie, a form of food that I had not seen anywhere else in the world, I can assure you that this was as far from an Aussie meat pie as you can get. In Scotland ‘mince’ means absolutely anything presumed once living and now found concealed within an envelope of pastry. The pie had the consistency of Spam and a perfect geometrical shape, as if it had been shaped with a circular cookie cutter. I took one bite and made a beeline for the rubbish bin, then another beeline to the pub where I ordered a chicken schnitzel. Not even Scotland could ruin a chicken schnitzel.

  I carefully folded the used, battered, note-covered flight plan and filed it away in a container along with the other legs already completed. I then removed a fresh white envelope with ‘Scotland to England’ on the front. Each flight-plan envelope had been carefully put together well before I left Australia, so I needed only an hour or so of study to refresh my knowledge of the next flight. Half of my flight plan envelopes were now tattered and used, but the Telstra online tracker had made a turn and was now tracking ‘back down’ from Iceland towards Australia. I had passed the halfway point. Progress.

  Because the flying was so constant and the preparation had been non-stop I had little time to look in detail at all the different locations I would be flying over. So when a Facebook follower asked whether my journey included Newcastle in the UK because he wanted to photograph me as I flew over his home town, I had absolutely no idea. After a little research I let the guy know that I would be passing over Newcastle at around 5,000 feet.

  I left Scotland after an uneventful morning preparing the aircraft, entered into cloud and intercepted my flight-planned track whilst climbing to 5,000 feet above the ocean. I watched the patchwork-quilt-like countryside pass underneath and although the thick cloud dissipated slightly it was still far from a clear blue-sky day. Having not refuelled the ferry tank in Wick, I used the leg to England to pump the last remaining drops into the wing and ensure the tank was again bone dry. It was only four or five hours from the northernmost point of the UK to its southernmost point: amazing when you think how far a four-hour flight will get you in Australia.

  Flying in the UK seemed quite straightforward, although I had doubts about the way air traffic control handed me onto the next controller ‘down the line’. No details of the aircraft or flight path were passed on, and I had to explain it all to the new controller from scratch. By the end of the day, I had a very clear idea about who I was.

  I found it was possible to choose what ‘type’ of surveillance or services I wanted: in other words, how much advice air traffic control would give about the whereabouts of other traffic and other airspace issues. I was stumped when they first asked; I had absolutely no idea what was on offer and had never heard of this approach before. When I queried my options the controller went on to explain, but he talked so fast I struggled to keep up. All I understood was that cost varied among the different options. I didn’t know the finer details so I went with the most expensive one, figuring this was not the time to cut costs when dealing with something I didn’t really understand, and in an unfamiliar country too. I decided I would rather skip dinner that night than breach London’s airspace or see the whites of the eyes of another pilot. If I could have paid someone to bring me an inflight meal and a movie, I would have.

  The eastern coastline of the UK sat off my left wing while each town zipped under the aircraft. My plan was to fly south until I reached the coast, tracking straight for the White Cliffs of Dover, then once I had overflown the cliffs I would turn right and follow the coast to the day’s final destination, Lydd.

  I had decided to stop at Lydd for a very good reason. Fred and Linda Rankin from the Frogs Hollow Aero Club spent half the year living in England and the other half in Australia. They had UK backgrounds and broad English accents, but they also had the good idea of escaping the English winter and fleeing to the warm Sapphire Coast of New South Wales, one of the greatest places on earth.

  Fred and Linda had heard about a potential stopover in England while I was planning the route, and I had decided to spend two nights at Lydd before moving on to France. Fred had wanted to plan a little gathering at a local English pub and although the chances of delays and diversions were high we decided to go ahead and take our chances.

  Besides, Mum and Dad would be there too. They wanted to meet me wherever possible, but because the flight’s budget was beyond tight, their options were limited. Besides they had contributed to the flight in any way possible already. That said, after being in the USA for Air Venture, it was only a short hop across the pond to England (that is in their highly advanced, temperature controlled, jet powered, food and alcohol equipped travelling machine… not a Cirrus). This meant that for one of the final times on my trip, there would be a bunch of familiar faces waiting to say hello when I touched down in England. I was looking forward very much to seeing Fred and Linda and Mum and Dad, and on the way there was one thing I had to do: take in the White Cliffs of Dover.

  Whilst I was speaking with the Lydd control tower I peered over the nose of the Cirrus. The English Channel was clearly visible, but I could see nothing that resembled the White Cliffs of Dover. I knew what to do, however. I had the cameras at the ready and as I crossed the coast I banked hard to the right. The green patchwork fields had ended abruptly, and there, underneath me, were enormous, perfectly pure white cliffs. I was blown away. and as I looked back towards the north I truly understood just what the White Cliffs of Dover were – a picturesque foreground to a history-filled landmass, one that we only wish could tell stories. I had spent hours watching, reading and learning about the young pilots who flew over these iconic cliffs during World War II. Though there are still a few of these heroes left, for someone my age the war remains part of history, something with which I have absolutely no direct connection, except for my imagination and what I have read or seen on TV or film. I stared at the White Cliffs in awe, and also took in the nearby harbour at Dover, something I had seen a thousand times in a textbook, on TV or during a movie. I couldn’t believe I was really here.

  I looked back over the wing at the disappearing white coastline before focusing on a landing. I joined a long final approach and descended towards the English countryside, touching down and coming to a stop just clear of the runway. The controller explained to me where to taxi and when I looked carefully I could see a marshal in front of a large crowd of people over by the terminal. I parked the Cirrus, shut down, clambered out and began to say hello.

  I was excited. It had been a relaxing flight with a lot to see, a little to learn and not too much to stress about. I had just seen something indescribable and now was on the ground saying hello to Mum and Dad, the manager of the
airport and a group of media who had been patiently waiting. After a few quick conversations I walked across to thirty or forty people standing behind the security fence. I was so glad they had taken an interest. I looked into the crowd, looked away and then looked back immediately, recognising some familiar faces from the Frogs Hollow Aero Club, people I had never expected to see in England.

  Debbie Keys and her daughter Georgie had been visiting the UK and had told me they would come by the airport to say hello. Just behind them stood, Col and Bev Hazel. No one had mentioned that they would be stopping by. It was great to see them all, a wonderful surprise.

  I left the aircraft where it was and spent an hour talking with all sorts of people inside the terminal. There was even an elderly Sri Lankan man who gave me a handful of Sri Lankan currency – he wanted to shout me lunch when I finally arrived in Colombo. There was so much support for the flight and so much excitement to see the Cirrus arrive in Lydd, it was simply a great afternoon.

  We packed away the plane and before long we were standing at the doors of the Queen’s Head in Icklesham, East Sussex. We’d come from the thought of a ‘potential gathering’ at the Frogs Hollow Aero Club to a real English pub, and it was surreal to finally be there. We had managed to dodge several vehicles on the ridiculously narrow and winding lanes to get there: I was discovering that the narrower the roads, the faster English people seemed to drive. They must find that kind of thing fun. Luckily the drive ended at a pub.

  We spent the evening chatting away and I was asked many questions about the flight so far and where I was headed after leaving England. The room was buzzing – unlike me when I had my first pint of Guinness – but silence quickly fell when a story about my flight popped up on the nightly news. It’s hard to describe what it feels like to be in an English pub with a group of people who have gathered because of a flight you have made, and then to see your own face on an English TV channel. It was strange but exciting to have an evening away from my racing mind that seemed to be stressing about something at every waking moment. When the night was over and I was more than ready for bed, we checked into the Ship Inn in nearby Rye and I went to sleep.

  I woke next morning to the knowledge that once again I had one day to prepare the aircraft. I had to fill the ferry tank and it was time to wipe the oil from the underbelly of the Cirrus. I was also up against another issue. The plane was nearing a required fifty-hourly oil change, originally planned for France. I needed to buy and take fresh oil and an oil filter from England. It was all very heavy, not what I wanted to carry anywhere, but we had had trouble sourcing it in France. I spent an hour calling ahead to try and secure a hangar in Cannes because I needed somewhere clean and tidy to change the oil, but that turned out to be harder than I thought.

  With little luck organising anything in France I decided to look at my options. Maybe it could be done in England instead? I crunched a few numbers. Each service had to be completed at a certain time: there was a little leeway but no exceptions. Apart from that, I needed to know whether a service in England would leave me with enough hours to fly back to Australia before the next one. If I didn’t think this through I could end up in Indonesia with a grounded aircraft. I didn’t think there would be too many Cirrus-certified engineers in Indonesia.

  After a while I decided it was all possible, phoned a local engineering company and explained the situation: ‘Would there be any chance you could give a Cirrus a fifty-hourly service? When? Ahhh, would now be okay?’ All of a sudden the Cirrus was towed from its hangar and a local company was hard at work on the plane. They cheerfully told me not to worry, just to take in the sights and let them do the hard work.

  The service meant an extra day in England and one less in France. This didn’t worry me too much as both were countries within Europe meaning no Customs rescheduling or issues with paperwork. All I really needed was liaison with Mike Gray from White Rose Aviation. A key component in the flight’s success, he had been working with me to organise all the overflight and landing clearances for each country.

  With a day now up my sleeve I made a last-minute decision to see London really quickly, and so Mum, Dad and I hopped on a fast train that took us to the centre of the city. Once off the train we walked from the Underground and into the bustling streets, jumped on a red double-decker bus and took photos as famous buildings and locations zipped by. I ran from place to place, took a photo in front of Buckingham Palace, poked my head into the Tower of London, drove across London Bridge and gazed upwards at the London Eye before buying a new stuffed toy, a bear guardsman, to add to the ever-growing flight crew.

  After only a few hours and with sore feet we took to the Underground and hopped back on the fast train. As we travelled to Rye I reflected that I had just seen London in record time. I had completed a round of the Monopoly board for real.

  When the morning sun began shining through the window of the Ship Inn I got up and quickly headed for the airfield. Just down the road, through complete coincidence, was the Eastbourne Airshow, a phenomenal display of flying by the beach. I had only been told about it the day before, although I had a big day ahead to finalise the maintenance and prepare the aircraft I had decided to sacrifice a sleep-in to see one thing in particular – the Red Arrows.

  We stood on a typical rocky British beach amongst thousands of other spectators and watched a Spitfire and a Lancaster bomber, two of the most iconic British aircraft, take to the skies over their very own home. Soon after a fleet of red aircraft arrived as the star attraction of the show. The Red Arrows are the British Air Force Aerobatic Team, a world-famous group of red Hawk jet aircraft that trail thick blue, white and red smoke while they perform breathtaking aerobatics. As the Red Arrows disappeared over the horizon it was back into the car and off to the airport.

  The Cirrus was pulled from the maintenance hangar complete with new oil and paperwork confirming that it had been inspected. We filled the ferry tank and double-checked all we could, I spent hours looking through paperwork, finishing up blogs and responding to emails. I had also withdrawn a large quantity of US dollars, having heard what the countries towards which I was now headed would and wouldn’t accept as payment, and I knew plenty of US cash was vital.

  Although the last few days had been far from planned, the jobs were nearly complete. I was almost ready to fly on to France and I had been rested and revived up to a point. To be able to spend time with familiar people in a comfortable environment was worth every moment. It was now up to me to fly through a further seven countries and back into Australia, only then, when the flight was over, would I be able to catch up with family and friends again.

  As the busy few days in England came to an end I finished packing and casually read through the posts and conversations on social media. A photo caught my eye. It was an aircraft overflying Newcastle in the UK at approximately 5000 feet. A perfect shot of the aircraft’s underbelly, an oily white Cirrus tracking from the north to the south.

  I was now glad we had wiped most of the oil from the belly of the plane, but how on earth did he take that photo?

  CHAPTER

  18

  Highs and lows

  Like every flight so far, the routing Ken and I had chosen from Lydd to Cannes needed to be approved by air traffic control. I had been told that the Eurocontrol air traffic system could be a nuisance. If the routing was not approved a notice of rejection would be sent back with no information given about the reason. Working out why your route had not been approved was a guessing game. This time, however, I had struck it lucky. Andrew Bruce from Far North Aviation in Wick had already given me Eurocontrol-approved flight routes for all my European legs up until Greece. He had gone beyond the call of duty to help in seeing the flight become a success.

  With the flight plan approved we pulled the plane from the hangar and completed the usual pre-flight inspection. The Cirrus was fresh out of Eagle Aero Engineering and thankfully there was very little to do before the four-hour flight over the English
Channel, the French mainland and into Cannes in the French Riviera. For the first time in my flying career I had been given a ‘slot time’, a definite departure time set so I could fit in with other air traffic in the area.

  Next up, I said goodbye to Mum and Dad. To have them travel home from Oshkosh and the airshow in the USA via England had been fantastic but now they would be heading back to Merimbula and waiting there for me to arrive in early September. I wasn’t really fazed by saying goodbye to their familiar faces; so much was going on that there was no time to think about anything not directly related to safely arriving at the next destination. Being preoccupied with that helped me a bit. Mum, on the other hand, not so much.

  Once in the plane I started up and sat and waited for my allocated slot time before contacting the tower. A voice with a strong English accent gave me taxi directions towards the runway and with a wave through the window to Mum and Dad I was off. I lined up and with the checks completed I ascended towards the clouds, focusing on picking up my planned route and climbing as directed by the controllers. Within seconds I was told to turn over the English Channel and track outbound towards France. As I listened, replied and conformed to the orders I felt the engine give a slight shudder, a slight cough that within less than a second was back to normal. I was instantly as alert as if I had just downed four cans of Red Bull for breakfast.

  This wasn’t the first time the Cirrus had coughed early in a flight: it had done the same thing when I left Christmas Island in the middle of the Pacific. Then the aircraft had been extremely heavy and I would have had to circle overhead for hours to burn away the fuel and therefore the weight before landing. Instead I monitored the trends, and with the engine running smoothly I had made the decision to keep going. It was a very hot day and I believed the aircraft had experienced vapour lock, a small air bubble that enters the fuel lines on the engine and therefore momentarily starves the engine of fuel; after a slight cough it picks up again and runs as normal. Since then I had asked Rex Koerbin back at Merimbula Aircraft Maintenance some serious questions, and had also spoken with the Corporate Flight Management engineers back in Tennessee. Everyone agreed that although a little vapour lock would wake you up, it was quite normal and nothing to worry about.