Born To Fly Read online

  With a clearance in hand I sat ready at the end of the runway. After a Sri Lankan Airlines jet touched down only metres from the Cirrus I lined up on the centreline and waited for it to taxi clear. Soon I was airborne. It was dark and within minutes I was hidden within a thick layer of cloud. I tracked for my flight path and climbed towards 9000 feet as the land disappeared and the ocean began. It was a fairly standard departure for me.

  The darkness began to lighten up and within seconds I had reached the top layer of the thick cloud, only to pop out into thin air to one of the most amazingly beautiful and colourful sunrises I had ever seen. I juggled the art of analysing the foreign-sounding air traffic control transmissions while taking photos of the sunrise and flying the overweight aircraft. I was well on my way to Malaysia.

  I continued with my usual jobs. It was strange to think that flying a single-engine aircraft with just under 1000 litres of avgas on board, including 600 in the cabin, continuously over water for ten hours, could be regarded as anything near normal. But by then it was. I was far from comfortable, but after well over 20,000 nautical miles I was as comfortable with the situation as I would ever be.

  The forecast for Malaysia was for isolated thunderstorms. Although I had managed to depart early, the fact of a ten-hour leg meant that a late afternoon arrival couldn’t be avoided. As I flew I transferred fuel, radioed through position reports using the HF, recorded engine trends and briefed my arrival. And I watched the sky morph into a dark cluster of ever-growing and towering clouds. They looked menacing: no way I could be complacent about them, yet again.

  Approximately seven hours after leaving Sri Lanka, with three hours to go until I reached Malaysia, I spotted my favourite sight of all time. A sliver of dry land appeared on the horizon: Indonesia, partially hidden by the developing thunderstorms. As I was now nearing a solid and dry surface, I gladly packed away the HF radio and continued chatting with air traffic control on the VHF or standard aircraft radios. I began to hear dozens of aircraft requesting ‘traffic’ to fly left and right of their original route in order to stay clear of the thunderstorms. Flying high over the Indonesian mainland, I was sandwiched between several massive ones. I joined the other aircraft and requested approval to fly left and right of my track. As we were all being overseen by air traffic control, any diversion of our planned route would have to be approved before we set about flying around the weather.

  The day was becoming darker and the blanket of solid land soon turned into water again for the relatively short stretch of ocean that separated Indonesia from Malaysia. I was told to expect an ILS approach into Kuala Lumpur, a very precise instrument flying procedure that would bring me extremely close to the ground and hopefully all the way down through the bad weather. The instrument approach procedure was outlined on a piece of paper, or ‘plate’. As well as having an electronic copy on the iPad I had with me hundreds of hard copy plates all sponsored by Jeppesen, an American aviation company specialising in aircraft navigational information as well as other aspects of aviation. I briefed the plate, a casual conversation with myself to outline exactly what I would do and when, because local terrain and airport position made every approach different in some way. With that job out of the way I continued dodging the storms before being given a clearance to descend.

  I left my cruising altitude and within only a couple of thousand feet I had entered solid cloud. It was a thick layer extending from 8000 feet towards the ground. I was vectored left and right, given distinct headings to fly by air traffic control that would ensure I was sequenced correctly for my approach. I kept descending before intercepting ‘the extended centreline’ of the runway, meaning I was lined up for a landing and could continue my descent through the cloud.

  It was a little exciting and unnerving but I had been in cloud for a long time, zigzagging through the sky as I listened to aircraft of all sizes requesting diversions around the storms. I had managed to stay clear of most of the turbulence and only been shaken around a little, now I was number one in the sequence for a landing into Malaysia. I kept going, approaching my ‘decision altitude’, an altitude where if I was not visual with the runway I would be required to ‘go around’, meaning I would need to climb away from the airport and follow distinct instructions to allow me to either try the approach again or divert to another airport.

  Only a few hundred feet from my decision altitude, the solid cloud began to flicker and I glimpsed a phenomenally long and well-lit runway. Malaysia!

  I touched down and made my way off the runway to allow for the dozens of other aircraft waiting for their turn at the approach. I taxied for my recently organised handler and almost immediately spotted him waving an orange-lit baton around the sky. I also spotted another familiar face, Malaysian James Tan, the youngest pilot to fly solo around the world at twenty-one. Prior to my departure James had been one of only four young pilots in their twenties to have taken on a solo circumnavigation. Like me, James had watched American Barrington Irving fly solo around the world in 2008 at just twenty-three, slashing fourteen years off the world record, and had been inspired. With Barrington’s extraordinary achievement fresh in our minds several young aviators – Swiss pilot Carlos Schmidt, James, Jack Weigand and I – had found a new goal. Not only had James successfully broken the previous record, he was now there to welcome me to his home.

  As always at the end of a long flight I was eager to hop out and stretch my legs before catching my breath and looking around. Another leg was over, another water crossing behind me, another step closer to home. I shook hands with James and was introduced to my handler, Jeff. He was a big guy with an even bigger smile and they were all so happy to be there.

  I unpacked as James looked through the Cirrus, the fuel truck arrived and we topped up with fuel that was extremely cheap in comparison to the price in Muscat and Jordan. The next day’s flight was not too long and I still had fuel left in the ferry tank, so I worked through a few calculations to confirm that we would only fill the wings, leaving the ferry tanks as it was. This was a decision that would save time and stress.

  After making sure it was neat, tidy and ready to depart the next morning, we secured the plane then walked under the wing of several corporate business jets and into the terminal. Jeff led me through Customs and Immigration before setting me free. We had a simple plan. James was determined to take me for something to eat before quickly showing me the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur. He promised it would be a quick trip and he would have me to my motel in no time, I would head to bed as early as possible and grab a taxi early the next morning in order to meet Jeff at Starbucks for a wake-up beverage.

  After a bite to eat in the terminal I threw my bags into James’ car and we set off for the city centre. There are few ways to explain what happened next. I had flown the majority of the way around the world and James had done so completely. He also happened to live in Kuala Lumpur and yet somehow we ended up lost. Really lost. We were looking at the city skyline in the distance, both mobile phones were flat and we had no way of looking up anything such as Google maps or using the GPS so instead, we just drove and took several slightly less than educated guesses.

  A full four and a half hours later, nearing the middle of the night, I checked into my motel. I had a photo of myself standing in front of the Petronas Towers, which was no doubt kind of cool, but I also had the experience of actually finding the towers. It had been quite funny and a little frustrating, but it was a great story and nothing a good night’s sleep couldn’t fix.

  I collapsed into bed and quickly ran through the emails and paperwork for the next leg. Fortunately I had only recently planned the flight to Indonesia while in Sri Lanka so it was still all fairly fresh in my mind.

  Just as I was about to pack up and get some sleep another email made its way to my computer: PLEASE HOLD AIRCRAFT AT WMSA UNTIL WE HAVE INDONESIA LANDING PERMIT (PERMIT STILL UNDER PROCESSED) AND PLEASE DON’T MAKING OVERFLYING OR LANDING INDONSEIA WITHUT PERMJIT ON HAND, HOPE PE
RMIT CAN APPROVED ON AUGIST 29, 2013 BTN 1200 – 1300 UTC AND IF I HAVE EARLY WILL INFORM YOU A.S.A.P

  DUE TO PERMITS NO. 4887, 5567 AND 6075 ARE NOT VALID ANYMORE

  I re-read the email several times. Through the capital letters and imaginative spelling the message was clear: I had to hold the aircraft in Malaysia, a pre-planned permit was now invalid and a flight through Indonesia’s airspace without a permit could end in a little involuntary formation flying with a fighter jet. As a requirement I had the ‘interception from a military aircraft’ paperwork printed off and in the Cirrus. A list of signals, such as the fighter aircraft banking away or flying across the flight path, were outlined with their associated meaning. If you were intercepted by a jet they most likely wanted you on the ground. I had no wish to have to pull out that piece of paper to interpret what the angry guy with missiles strapped to his wings wanted. It sounds funny but it is very serious stuff.

  I called Mike, who was on call in the UK twenty-four/seven. It was always a surprise to see where exactly he was in his day. Was he having breakfast or had I just woken him up in the middle of the night? Mike had been sent the same email and explained what I had feared – we were in a similar situation as in Sri Lanka where we were unable to fly the next day. It was disappointing and frustrating but it was a non-negotiable fact.

  I emailed everyone about the change of plans. We were all awake but it was important to all be on the same page. I didn’t want Jeff to turn up at Starbucks at some ridiculous hour to find out I was still in bed or have Mum and Dad watching the live tracker wondering why it wasn’t moving. Sixteen emails later we were all sorted. I called reception, booked in for another night and went to sleep. Completely alarm-free.

  I was staying in a small and well equipped unit and after a sleep-in and a cold shower I set to work again, spreading paperwork and charts out across the table before sitting down to compile a job list. I had one full day in Malaysia, and there was nothing I could do about the Indonesian overflight permit: others were sorting the problem and all I could do was wait. I had no wish to venture outside my motel room, not because I didn’t want to see Malaysia but because I had so much to do. There were many little jobs that hadn’t been a priority but would become so very soon if not seen to. Over the last few weeks I had been trying to juggle endless emails, some of which had fallen through the cracks and some had been only partially seen to. I needed to sit down and clean everything up, to regroup before setting off on the final stretch towards home.

  After a day of constant emails, efforts to update blogs and organise the finer details of the homecoming, I sat back with a more relaxed attitude. The job list that had been compiled that morning was now a list of obliterated items, all enthusiastically scribbled out with a ballpoint pen.

  I consumed some form of mildly heated room service meal before packing my bags. The overflight permit had been sent through midafternoon and our plans for the following day mirrored those that should have gone ahead on the previous day. I set my alarm and went to sleep.

  The taxi driver I had organised the day before must have slept in; I waited in the lobby as they phoned another, who came. Fortunately it was a short trip through the dark Malaysian countryside to the airport, we pulled up and I began to unpack my bags again with the help of my handler Jeff. We grabbed a quick bite to eat before setting off through Customs and Immigration, then walked across the tarmac to find the Cirrus waiting, ready and willing to take on yet another leg.

  It was a dark and wet morning, the aircraft was covered in dew and the cloud sat so low that it partially covered the lights that shone down on the apron from the tall light poles. While Jeff stood by and chatted I worked away to pre-flight the aircraft and to ensure everything was in order. Soon afterwards I clambered in and kicked the aircraft into life. Regardless of how long I had spent in it, I would never get sick of the loud rumble of the Cirrus as it ruined the early morning silence.

  I waved goodbye to Jeff and taxied from the apron before taking a number of turns to find myself at the end of the runway. I took to the air and flew through the now ever-lifting cloud layer and into a sky that was growing lighter as the night became day. I set course towards the south and settled in for what would be a short flight in comparison to the others, a hopefully leisurely four and a half hours down to Indonesia where I would find the much-anticipated and much-required avgas.

  I settled in for the cruise, focusing on emptying every drop of avgas from the ferry tank to make sure I would know exactly how much had been added in Indonesia and therefore exactly how much was in the tank for the eleven-hour flight to Australia. Just after I had finished transferring around ten gallons into the right wing, I saw the ‘estimated time to run’ sitting at three hours and thirty minutes: I was nearly there! It was interesting that this time now qualified as a short flight. I took notes and looked out the window at an endless picture of rolling green hills, extremely high by the standards of those back home, but nothing in comparison to the French Alps.

  It was all very simple. I tracked for the next waypoint on the list and kept in contact with air traffic control as I went. Each moment saw me edge a little closer to Indonesia. As I tracked south Jakarta was just off to the right-hand side of the nose, but I was asked by air traffic control to turn left and fly out over water because of the other traffic in the area. I would be put into a sequence of aircraft waiting to fly an instrument approach and when it was my turn I would descend through the cloud layer for a landing on Indonesian soil.

  Before long it all started to become a little less simple. The controllers were very hard to understand, I would reply to their transmission and in many cases I just hoped it was correct. If not, they were sure to come back to me and repeat themselves, each time a little slower than the last. I turned towards Jakarta and continued inbound, descended as requested and was told to intercept a localiser, an imaginary extended runway centreline that would see me perfectly lined up with the runway. I was then transferred to a different frequency.

  All the frequencies around the world had names depending on who you were speaking to, ‘approach’, ‘clearance delivery’, ‘tower’, ‘ground’ and so on. But the frequency I had been told to contact was completely new, one that I had never heard of, not even after flying through fourteen different countries. I transferred across and spoke with the controller, who was hard to understand. I was now tracking towards the instrument approach procedure where I would soon need to descend. He quickly transferred me to another frequency and along with his instructions provided the frequency itself. I had no idea why I had even been told to speak with this guy!

  ‘Victor Hotel Oscar Lima Sierra, Contact tower on 123.4.’ I set up the frequency, whatever it might have been at the time, and quickly contacted the tower. At this point I was only miles away from the airport and had not been cleared onto the approach I had been told to expect. I called the tower but heard no response. I tried again and again. I flicked back to the previous frequency to let my contact know that there had been no response, he confirmed the frequency and I tried once more.

  As I flicked back to the tower frequency I heard a call for ‘Victor Hotel Oscar Lima Sierra’. There was traffic information, a ‘traffic alert’ for an aircraft in my two o’clock position. As I peered over the nose a large white Boeing 737, a private business jet, zipped by the right wing of the Cirrus. It was phenomenally close and phenomenally large, it was on climb out of the airport in the opposite direction to the localiser I had been told to track inbound on. I had never seen an aircraft pass so close and in the opposite direction. My heart-rate skyrocketed. My hands began to shake. The picture was all wrong.

  I gave the Cirrus full power and climbed away from my altitude. I’m a person who rarely gets angry but this time I was absolutely fuming. I called the tower to inform them of just how close the ‘traffic’ had come, also the fact I was not going to remain flying along a localiser that was obviously opposing the active runway. I climbed away and asked them fi
rmly just what they would like me to do. They could tell I was far from happy.

  Due to my position I was given another approach to fly, from overhead I set up to fly an approach where I would track away from the airport on descent, turn back inbound and continue down through the cloud. The controllers did not seemed fazed at all, even though the crew of the Boeing 737 also called the tower to inform them just how close they had come to another aircraft. Their response was simple: ‘That was another aircraft transferring between frequencies, he is on an approach and nothing to worry about.’

  I could not believe it. I was trying to fly an approach but my hands were still shaking, I really knew something far from normal had just taken place and began to wonder what might come of it. The whole episode had well and truly frightened me. Would there be someone on the ground waiting to have a ‘chat’? Would I have to recount what had happened?

  I broke through the last of the cloud and spotted a runway, banked slightly and lined up on the centreline. I was so fixated on landing and getting out of the aircraft that I looked at nothing except the painted touchdown markers on the runway. I could not have described what Jakarta looked like from the air if it had been the last thing I had to do.

  I taxied from the runway and towards the marshal. There were a few people standing around waiting for my arrival but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I parked up and shut down before opening the door to say hello. ‘Welcome to Indonesia, sir,’ he said. That could have gone worse.