Born To Fly Page 22

  The flight plan had been faxed through but a notice of rejection had been faxed back. They had tried several times to change it, but without success. I had no idea what was wrong, although we figured they must have had some issue with the routing. However, as they gave no reason we had little to go on in trying to solve the problem. We sent several more plans with the prefix ‘re-routing accepted’ in the hope they would provide a suitable alternative route, but once again they turned it down.

  When I sat down and looked over the chart again I could see a sliver of Israeli airspace that sat just to the west of Aqaba in Jordan. Maybe that was causing a problem. I re-routed the leg so I would not fly as close to the airspace but track further south and around it before heading north towards Aqaba for a landing. No luck.

  We tried and tried: four hours later we decided to give up. I had been in contact with Mike about the overflight and landing clearances and we were still within the allocated time window, but we needed to move quickly. Mike contacted the ground crew in Aqaba and asked them to submit the plan from their end. We hoped that being so close to the Israeli airspace meant they knew exactly what was required and the correct tracking. I was now beyond frustrated.

  After dozens of calls, emails and messages the flight plan was finally accepted. I received a copy and curiously scanned the details. The difference between the original flight plan and the last and final accepted plan was one waypoint. Just one! But that change had taken six hours.

  I said goodbye and scooted to the plane. It was now later in the day but the weather still looked stable. All flights had been planned for the morning to take advantage of what was hopefully the best weather, but luckily this afternoon seemed okay.

  This was no casual departure for me; I was late and I was on a mission. I started up and re-programmed the avionics as I taxied. I backtracked the runway and spun the Cirrus around, and with the throttle pushed forward: the Spirit of the Sapphire Coast built speed and became airborne. I turned left and picked up the flight plan track through to Jordan, taking a few last photos as I passed over the city of Rhodes. Although it had looked bleak on my arrival, I could now see and understand what I was looking at, and I was happy I had done that.

  When I levelled off at around 9000 feet I was well over the ocean. I knew I was not destined to see land until I crossed the coast of Egypt and descended into Jordan. I fell back into the rhythm I had developed, overcoming the first awkward ferry fuel transfer, which meant shuffling from my seat and encouraging the fuel to flow through the air-filled lines. I then continued to transfer fuel, record engine trends and plan ahead for my arrival. Although just under five hours, the relatively short leg would take me from one world to another. I had never been anywhere that resembled the culture or lifestyle of Jordan.

  When I was thirsty I reached for my bottle of Fanta, only to find that six hours sitting in the cabin of the Cirrus had slightly warmed my one and only beverage. I was a little disappointed but with nothing to lose I jammed the bottle between two vents, carefully holding it still with my leg while allowing the cold air to hit the warm bottle. Half an hour later I cracked the lid on what was a freshly chilled drink. I couldn’t believe it had worked and for the first time that day, I had a win. Bear Grylls would have been impressed.

  The water soon came to an end and what looked like an endless sandy beach turned out to be Egypt. I crossed the coast before turning left and heading towards Jordan and although I was only over Egypt for a short while I was blown away by the landscape. Everything was just the one colour, a monotonous sandy grey and gold blur that stretched as far as the eye could see. If I looked extremely carefully I could see the outlines of seemingly camouflaged cities and towns. I even spotted a near invisible airport.

  I was headed straight for Jordan on the northern tip of the Red Sea, but this also meant I was headed straight towards Israeli airspace. As I expected I was told to turn right and track down the Red Sea until requested to turn back. I followed orders and when I banked to the right I spotted Aqaba off the left wing. I would end up there at some point, I just didn’t know when. I was told to remain at 13,000 feet and tracked for miles and miles until approved to turn back, when a 180-degree U-turn lined me up with the runway at Aqaba and I was told to descend.

  The closer I came to the ground the more I realised just where I was. I was about to touch down in the middle of the desert. It was a scene straight out of the Bible; the only thing missing was a camel. In the distance a runway appeared, a long dark sealed strip that stood out like nothing else, mainly because everything within sight of it was a bright golden colour. The northern tip of the Red Sea disappeared underneath the nose just before I touched down. With a slight screech of the tyres I had arrived in Jordan.

  I taxied to what looked like the terminal where I saw a building with peculiar script I took to be Arabic on the front and beside it the word ‘Arrivals’. That’ll do me, I thought.

  I leaped out into the driest and hottest weather yet. There was no welcoming committee, no one to greet me, so I unpacked the basics and wandered to the terminal doors. I needed to clear Customs before worrying about what to do with the plane and I was taken through to have my fingerprints and a quick photo taken. My passport was handed back before I was introduced to my handler, a nice guy with a true passion for aviation. I found that throughout the trip, regardless of the culture, the country, the cost of fuel or the sights, a shared passion for aviation meant that casual conversation was easy.

  With only one night in Jordan I needed to have the aircraft refuelled immediately. The next day was a long leg to Muscat in Oman which would see a good nine hours spent over Saudi Arabia. I was already late and we needed to get a move on, otherwise I would never get to bed. The handler showed me where to taxi. They had a fuel bowser near the local aero club hangar where we would refuel and then park up the plane.

  With the Cirrus pulled alongside the pump I began to empty the cabin. The equipment lay everywhere and the slight wind took hold of some foam sheeting and gave it an impromptu lesson on how to fly. I was working on unpacking so my handler went for a run in an attempt to restrain the foam. It kept him busy for a little while. We began to pump the fuel into the ferry tank after I had filled the wings and it took quite a while, but patience was something I had learned.

  The diversion to Jordan had happened so quickly I wasn’t really familiar with the local area. As I pumped away I asked the guy, ‘How much is the fuel here?’ I took his: ‘Ah, I might tell you that when you are finished,’ as another way of saying ‘expensive’. I was right, it was seven dollars per litre. After a pumping a good 700 litres into the Cirrus, I didn’t need a calculator: someone to administer CPR would have been more useful.

  I hopped in an old ute with my new mate and we set off for the motel after attempting to submit the next day’s flight plan. The security was insane, they wouldn’t let me back onto the tarmac even though I had just landed an aircraft in their airport. The security guy had a large gun so I kept my opinion to myself, but he and the handler traded words for a little while. Finally they let me zip in and out of the office, the plan was faxed away and the plane was good to go.

  As we pulled out of the airport I had my eyes fixed on the palm trees, passing highway and general tidiness of the area. I suddenly looked up to see a bunch of camels crossing the road. All part of the experience.

  The motel, which turned out to be nice, was in the centre of the city of Aqaba. The buildings and shopfronts all had signs in that peculiar font with a little English to help alongside, although I didn’t need that when working out what to have for a late dinner. Across the road stood a huge red sign attached to a red and white building. KFC.

  This was the only thing I could relate to home or Western civilisation, everything else was very different. After dropping my bags to my room, I wandered inside and ordered something to eat and paid with the only cash I had, a US $100 bill. I have no idea what the conversion rate was, but a few of them gathered ar
ound the calculator to work through the issue. I was handed a heavy handful of Jordanian currency which I didn’t even bother counting, as it would have been absolutely no use. I might have just paid for the most expensive KFC ever.

  Six hours’ delay in Greece had been frustrating but in the end it was worth it. I wandered back after dinner, on the way buying a small stuffed camel to add to the collection of crew in the Cirrus, and had a chat to the guys on the front desk. I told them I would be checking out early, they mentioned I would miss breakfast but a ‘breakfast box’ could be organised for me if I wished.

  Sure, why not, I thought. What could go wrong?

  CHAPTER

  21

  The mysterious East

  I had gone to bed late and got up early; my bags still sat packed on the floor because I had taken out only what I needed for a few hours’ sleep before moving on. The diversion to Jordan had meant an extra day in Greece while we waited for the overflight and landing approvals, but now I needed to climb out of bed and find my way to Muscat in Oman. This would not only enable me to make up for lost time, but would at least put me back on the planned route for the flight.

  I woke up and crammed the few essentials into the end of the bulging bag, pulled on the flight suit and headed downstairs. It was very early, about 5am. I was up against a 1,300-nautical mile flight that would take about ten hours. Most of that would be over the barren landscape of Saudi Arabia. I checked out of my room and was passed my preorganised breakfast box, a plastic bag with a container inside. I had food, my ride was here and I was on time. Today was off to a good start.

  We arrived at the airport and was dropped at the terminal doors with my bags; my handler intended to wait for me on the tarmac while I cleared Customs. Once that was sorted and I was let out the front doors, it would just be a matter of pre- flighting the Cirrus and taking off.

  I wandered inside and found the check-in desk and then the queue for Customs. I was surrounded by foreign tourists and Jordanians, all preparing to take a commercial flight. Just like an airport at home, really, except that I was in a very different culture and environment. Everyone looked at me wondering why on earth I was wearing what I was, why I hadn’t checked in my bags and what I was carrying in that plastic bag.

  I handed over my passport and the General Declaration form, I just needed a stamp and I would be on my way. But the guy behind the glass apparently had other ideas. He spoke little English and didn’t seem comfortable with what I was trying to do. I waited patiently, though with a knot in my stomach, as he spoke with his supervisor, then another guy and then a few other strangers. After I had been in the queue for almost an hour my handler, my only Jordanian connection who was sick of waiting for me on the tarmac, turned up. I have no idea what he told them but my passport and Gen Dec form were stamped very quickly.

  The amount of cash I had to hand over was enough to look as if I was buying a share in the airport, not paying for avgas. I signed a few forms and gladly accepted parting gifts from my handler consisting of hats, bottles, pens and other merchandise from the Aero Club of Jordan, said goodbye and boarded my plane.

  While I waited for my clearance I watched a Jordanian Airlines jet pass by my wingtip and very soon was I following him to the end of the runway and readying for departure. Aqaba is situated in a valley so the avionics and paper charts showed a long, thin, low-lying section sheltered by monstrous mountains along either side. They were so large that the runway pointed directly into the valley to keep arriving and departing traffic clear of the hills.

  I was cleared for takeoff and told to climb on the runway heading until I reached 9000 feet, a very long climb with the aircraft as heavy as it was. It was hot and the Cirrus didn’t like it at all. With the nose held low I climbed at a much higher airspeed to try and keep the important bit up the front nice and cool. After the ‘forever’ climb I finally reached 9000 feet, was cleared to turn right and pick up my track to Oman. It was then I looked back over towards Aqaba and realised just how far I had flown up the valley.

  After levelling off I began to set up for a long flight. I twisted around and messed about organising the first ferry transfer and then settled back in my seat facing the right way. As I entered the western side of Saudi Arabia I started to take down notes and chat with the various air traffic controllers.

  I was hungry but I always seemed to be hungry, and just as I thought about eating I realised I had the breakfast box full of goodies. Best day ever. I hadn’t looked but maybe it was a muffin? Maybe a packet of chips? Maybe a fruit box?

  I grabbed the plastic bag and sat it on my lap, cautiously but excitedly untying the knot, only to be swiftly smacked in the face by a very strange smell. I am far from a skinny kid and therefore know my muffins very well, and I can assure you the smell did not come from a muffin.

  I peeked inside the Styrofoam container. Oh no. It was a full cooked breakfast, with eggs, bacon, beans and something green. The sausages had now escaped the situation and lay in the juices in the bottom of the plastic bag.

  I could have cried. No way in the world did I think they would pack me a hot breakfast. I had cherished this potentially food-filled package through an hour of Customs and now four hours of flying. Worse than that, the smell was far from healthy and I was trapped inside the cockpit for the next six hours. What on earth could I do?

  I unbuckled the belts and climbed into the back. I went through everything I had and found several plastic bags that I pushed together in an evil attempt at pass the parcel. I then lobbed it over the ferry tank into the back of the plane. I was of course still hungry.

  I took a few photos of the sandy landscape, a mix of rich red and light golden sand that extended as far as the eye could see. After a few hours of flying I took a few more photos of sand, this time a mix of rich red and light golden sand extending as far as the eye could see. I fixed up a few jobs and checked that everything was still running smoothly and then became phenomenally excited when I spotted the one sealed road that disappeared on the horizon and took its photograph. Around it was a mix of rich red and light golden sand extending as far as the eye could see.

  I soon worked out there wasn’t much else to Saudi Arabia. The thought of having an engine failure and ending up stranded in the middle of the desert made me shudder; I hadn’t watched enough episodes of Bear Grylls to handle that. Okay, I did have an Official Bear Grylls Survival Kit, but even that wouldn’t be enough.

  I spotted green crop-circle-like objects at one point mid flight and quickly took photos with eager interest. In the middle of nine hours of picturesque sand sat these green circles, obviously regularly watered. What on earth were they?

  The flat endless sand began to turn into mountains, Saudi Arabia whittled away and soon became Oman. I was getting closer to the day’s destination.

  I was within range of Dubai and the Middle East, the mountains of Oman had risen from the flat desert ground and clouds had started to appear. I was really looking forward to flying past Dubai as two friends, Brennan and Lisa Single, had moved there from Australia not too long before. I was so close to familiar faces but still so far.

  Air traffic control was fairly quiet and one controller took the opportunity to query me on the details of my flight plan. I had written my ‘endurance’, or time I could spend in the air as 1300, or thirteen hours. The controller wanted to know what on earth I was flying and I can assure you that ‘a Cirrus’ was not the answer he was expecting. He then asked what was I doing and after I mentioned I was flying around the world solo in a Cirrus and he had confirmed my age, the radio came alive as a handful of pilots launched a bunch of questions.

  The general unprofessional chatter gradually quietened down, I was now over water and nearing the top of descent. With the required clearance I pushed the nose towards the desert floor, next stop Muscat.

  I was cleared to fly a ‘localiser’ approach that would put me on a long final approach to the airport. I could follow a distinct path to the grou
nd. Each distance from the airport had an associated height and if I flew these heights I would arrive at the end of the runway, right where I needed to be.

  I joined the approach and let air traffic control know. They asked me to keep the speed up as I was one of a few aircraft inbound to Muscat. What they should have said was: ‘You have half a dozen jet airliners chasing you, fly significantly faster or you will become a small smear on their windscreens.’ I continued flying as I listened to air traffic control slow each jet down: ‘Slow to 160 knots please due to preceding traffic.’ I was scooting along as fast as I could, but I knew the pilots of the airliners were cursing the little kid in the whippersnipper-powered plastic toy that was currently ahead of them in a fierce battle with the laws of physics.

  I found the runway of what turned out to be a huge airport that again appeared against a sandy backdrop. The runway was so large that when I touched down I still had to apply power in order to find the first taxiway so I could make my way to parking. I turned to the right, headed towards a far-off marshaller and parked the plane among a few Saudi Air Force C130 Hercules aircraft. They were painted in camouflage, a rich red and light golden sandy colour.

  My handler was a young girl who was extremely helpful and polite. Not once was I called Ryan, nor Mr Campbell or Sir, it was always ‘Captain’. I laughed a little inwardly at this, especially as everybody else – Customs, the refuellers and every single person at the hotel – called me ‘Captain’ too. I couldn’t have felt further from being one: to me a captain was someone with neatly combed grey hair who flew an airliner and had been flying planes for longer than I had been alive.