Born To Fly

by Ryan Campbell

  Although I believed what happened had been the fault of air traffic control, there was nothing said about a near miss with traffic outbound from Jakarta and I was happy the issue had not escalated into anything significant. I was, however, a little surprised someone hadn’t at least mentioned it. Was this a regular occurrence? Did they consider it okay? I had already decided I would never fly a light aircraft in Indonesia again, except to leave the place of course, so someone else would have to find that out.

  I stood by the aircraft and took a breath, I said hello to my handler and discussed what the afternoon would bring. I needed to clear Customs and Immigration and if we were departing the next morning we would also have to refuel. I grabbed my passport, a large black folder that had held every important document for the last two months, and the bundle of US dollars, and set off for the terminal.

  After the awkward joy of Customs, a lesson in international translation, we wandered up a set of stairs to the airport refueller’s office. I ordered three drums of avgas but was told I would have to pay for them in cash before the locals would wheel them across to the Cirrus. I counted out the US bills and handed them to the lady, who took each note and carefully examined them before saying something to my handler in a foreign language.

  There was a small problem. She would not accept three $100 bills of US cash as each note had an imperfection. One had a small stamp in the corner and the other two had been folded in half at some point in their life and therefore were now apparently worth less. I didn’t have an ironing board and iron in the Cirrus to rectify that so I took the notes back, held my breath and handed her three new bills. We had a deal.

  I left the flawless bills in the office and made my way back to the Cirrus in a small van to find three drums of avgas already sitting on the tarmac on a small cart. We parked close by and began unpacking the plane. A small army of locals had gathered around and as I handed items down from the wing they carefully stacked them around the aircraft. Within minutes of having everything unpacked the heavens opened up and the sideways rain I had experienced in Pago Pago had now found its way to Indonesia. Everyone grabbed something, anything, and threw it into the back of the van before clambering in soon after. Within minutes all the equipment and each person was in the van and keeping dry, all except one guy who thought standing outside with an umbrella would be sufficient. It wasn’t, but it sure was amusing to see.

  The refuelling process had begun. We had three forty-fourgallon drums of avgas, one hand pump and eleven people. Yes, eleven people – nine ‘helpers’, two firemen and myself. The already complicated task was now made harder due to the rain. Avgas and water don’t mix and if water was to make its way into the fuel tanks it could have disastrous results. I made it known that we would only be refuelling when the pouring rain had ceased, and even then we would have to dry the drums, pump and area around the fuel cap on the aircraft’s wing before beginning. With this in mind, we waited.

  When the heavens finally stopped emptying themselves, my small army clambered from the vehicles surrounding the Cirrus and started work. With everything dry, the locals set about pumping the fuel. The pump was a manual one, meaning the handle had to be rotated by hand for the fuel to make its way into the aircraft. I was in charge of the fuel filler and the wings were not too much of an issue, but the ferry tank was a different story. I was definitely the only person going to be pointing the fuel hose into the cabin of an aircraft I didn’t own.

  It was a slow process. We watched as the showers neared and rain began to fall, we would seal the drums, put the cap back on the tank and hop back in the van. Once it had stopped we got out and started again, only to partially fill a tank before the rain returned. It was a ‘rinse and repeat’ task.

  From the first drop pumped into the wing tanks to the last strap being secured on the internal ferry tank it took a full five hours, longer than the flight from Malaysia to Indonesia, and longer than any refuelling venture to date.

  I was exhausted and never wanted to refuel an aircraft ever again, not in Indonesia anyway. The only incentive to keep moving was the thought of touching down on home soil in only twenty-four hours’ time. I packed up the Cirrus, wandered through the terminal, met the little van once again and climbed in for the ride to the motel.

  I sat back and admired the local culture as we crawled through a late afternoon traffic jam that barely moved, something that gave the locals a fantastic opportunity to sell anything they could through the passenger windows. I watched as the scooters zipped in and out of the traffic, some carrying more people than we would normally see in a car, plus the family pet. I took in the sights and smells of the local streets, businesses and way of life. It was now going on two months since I had departed the east coast of Australia and I was tired, not just from the sport of endurance refuelling but also from the trip as a whole. That said, it was a humbling experience to take in the sights and sounds of Indonesia and compare them to the phenomenal opportunity I had been able to pursue, the sights I had seen and the people I had met.

  I checked into the motel, but not before going through security. This was something new: at the motel entrance was effectively airport security. I put my bags through the X-ray machine and wandered through the metal detector, my bags were taken and I was directed to the front desk.

  It was bedtime, but not before food and the usual update of emails, blogs and a quick read through the consistently encouraging social media posts. A late night but an early start. Next stop Australia.

  CHAPTER

  24

  Back home

  I was very keen to reach Australian shores, not only because Australia is the greatest country in the world, but more importantly because it would be the last Customs and Immigration stopover. The ferry tank could be covered up, the HF radio would not be required again. And best of all, there would be no more water crossings.

  I knew Australia was a large country and I would still need to fly from the west coast to the east coast before I was safe and sound back at home. It would all be new, since I had never flown west of the eastern states. This was another reason why I looked on the flight to Western Australia as just another leg, not one that would see me arrive back home.

  I woke up in the darkness, packed up and loaded my bags into the waiting handler’s van and we set off for the airport. It was strange to drive through a country that I had only been in for a matter of hours. I looked at the road signs, trying to convince myself that I was in Indonesia, knowing that even before I absorbed their messages the Cirrus and I would be airborne once again and bound for another country.

  I asked the handler whether it would be possible to purchase some food along the way. It didn’t have to be much, just something to keep me going for the eleven-hour flight. ‘No worries, sir,’ he said, ‘We can stop at Dunkin’ Donuts.’

  That sounded sufficient and nutritious.

  As we pulled up in front of the terminal we glanced across towards Dunkin’ Donuts but it was shut. Who would have thought at 4am? We scouted around and I quickly found a small convenience store. I soon emerged with a bottle of water and a pack of Oreos, the only edible products on offer.

  We cleared Customs and Immigration before meeting the van on the tarmac. I quickly asked where the bathroom was: visiting one was a sensible if the next eleven hours were to be spent in the aircraft. The bathroom turned out to be the most worrying sight I had seen in quite a while. I am fairly certain I was the first person in there for the last ten years. It was so bad that I walked back through security and into the terminal just to find somewhere a little more convenient, which to my relief I did. With security now cleared for the second time I took the weather information and my Customs paperwork, and after a pre-flight inspection climbed into the Cirrus. All I could hope was that the departure would be a little less eventful than the arrival.

  With the aircraft warm, a clearance in hand and the checks completed, I taxied for the runway at the Jakarta Halim International airport.
I lined up and gave the Cirrus full power, listened to the familiar groan of the engine and the churning propeller blades biting away at the thick humid air. Within moments the heavy Cirrus became airborne and climbed away slowly but surely, making only a slight left turn before picking up the track towards Australia and continuing the climb to 9000 feet.

  I was transferred to a range of Indonesian controllers. One requested that I contact them as I passed the coast and again when crossing another waypoint well out over the water and therefore at the outer edge of their airspace. I agreed and continued. I began to overfly some significant mountains; even at 9000 feet the high terrain only just zipped underneath the aircraft. I focused on my flying whilst the mountains sat below, wondering where and how I would land the heavy aircraft if there was an engine failure.

  As the land below gave way to ocean for the final time, I radioed air traffic control. There was no response no matter how often I tried, and it didn’t take long to realise that this was because of the mountains that were now behind me. Instead I began to request a relay through another aircraft in the hope they would pass on my message to the controllers; although I tried several times I had no luck here either. I could either turn back and climb up above the terrain to find a position where I could contact air traffic control myself or keep going and wait until I was in contact with Australian air traffic control. It wasn’t a difficult decision. There was no way I was heading back towards Indonesia, I was only heading in one direction and that was towards the beaches of Australia. If that meant the Indonesian ATC worried a little about my whereabouts so be it, but I’m sure they didn’t.

  I settled into the cruise and enjoyed the radio silence while I could. I began to unpack and tune the HF radio for the final time but no matter what I tried I couldn’t seem to bring it to life. There was no rush, I was casually plodding along towards the boundary where the Indonesian airspace would become Australian and only then would I be required to speak with the Aussies for the first time. With the HF radio having retired for some reason I decided to take a different approach, I scanned through my paperwork and found the phone number for Melbourne Centre, the Aussie air traffic control sector I would be speaking to very soon. I leaned forward and peered around the right seat to find the satellite phone Telstra had supplied me with, dialled the number and pressed the little green button.

  The dial tone registered through my headset and the phone began to ring and then an Aussie voice answered from far away. It was hard to hear but I introduced myself, passing on a position report giving a set time, latitude and longitude and an expected arrival time at the boundary of Australian airspace. I cannot explain just how great it felt to hear an Aussie accent, especially from a controller. I could actually understand what the guy was saying. With my position report confirmed we decided to talk again when I crossed over the boundary. I said goodbye and hung up, wondering why on earth I hadn’t used the phone more often.

  I flew on and worked through the different tasks that were now very familiar. I transferred fuel after initially removing the air that seemed determined to block the fuel lines, recorded engine trends and monitored the systems. I continually calculated fuel figures, all the while ensuring I was pointing in the right direction as I watched the Australian boundary come ever closer.

  I zoomed in on the avionics, dialled Melbourne Centre again and counted down the nautical miles. I had a smile from ear to ear as the nose of the aircraft broke into Australian airspace, much the same smile that had appeared when first entering New Zealand’s airspace after departure on that very first leg. I was just happy to tick another box, and to know that after one more round of Customs it was all going to be familiar air space for the ride home. I dialled the number and spoke to my new friend in Melbourne. He could tell I was excited and the congratulations began as I passed on an estimate for the next waypoint.

  Before saying goodbye he quickly asked, ‘You must be well and truly bored up there?’ I wasn’t bored, believing that boredom is generally a sign of having forgotten something important, but I was comfortable enough to wonder about the fact that yet again I was hanging over a very large ocean. Flying over water seemed to be getting to me more than it ever had before.

  ‘How about I find you someone to talk to? There are a few guys out there,’ suggested the Melbourne controller. Almost immediately I had a call from an airline pilot. No land-based radio would have been able to reach me at my current position, so I knew the call came from an aircraft in the air space around me. It was from a jet bound for Bali. I chatted away with the crew, partly about my flight. They told me they thought I was insane but the flight itself was amazing. We talked for quite a while before saying goodbye. ‘We might even catch you on the way back,’ they said.

  I kept going, calling once an hour to report my position and to give an estimate for the next waypoint while I completed the other jobs. There was a moment of excitement when I realised I had the pack of Oreos on board. They had dropped to the bottom of a bag while I went through Customs that morning, but now sudden hunger made them a very high priority.

  I munched away on the only food source I would receive for over fifteen hours. I now realise that was probably not a good thing but at the time so many other issues seemed more important, such as safely leaving Indonesia or finding a bathroom that was not a risk to health, wellbeing or sanity. At least all the pre-flight immunisations were being tried and tested.

  I watched as the time en route to Broome counted down, and when it fell below two hours my excitement grew. It was time to clean up around the cabin. For the final time I sprayed the top of descent insecticide throughout the aircraft. Before much longer I pointed the nose of the Cirrus towards the ocean and made my way towards 6000 feet.

  As I neared the tail end of the flight, a familiar voice came across the radio: one of the airliner crew bound for Bali earlier in the day. They had landed there, the passengers had disembarked and they had reloaded the new passengers and refuelled before heading back towards Perth. Now they were overtaking me and would touch down in Perth before I arrived in Broome. I obviously needed a faster aeroplane, preferably one with flight attendants and room to walk around.

  As picturesque as eleven hours of ocean was, the change in scenery provided a very welcome sight – the Australian coastline. The sliver of land slowly grew as I neared Broome and I was switched from the frequent satellite telephone calls to actual contact with Broome tower on the standard aircraft radios. I started to set up the cameras and sit straight up in my seat, with my eyes nearly as wide as my smile.

  I tracked inland listening to the other traffic and could now pick out the beach itself, golden sand I had not seen since leaving home. The Broome controllers were great. They knew all about the flight and were excited for my arrival, but not before a particular plane brought reality back into the occasion. A jet was inbound to Broome and flying on a medevac status, giving it right of way to all other traffic. It was the Royal Flying Doctor Service and I am sure they were picking up a patient from Broome. I was asked to orbit in my current position off the coast. Now at 3000 feet I went round and round in circles, so close to land but apparently so far. The ocean meanwhile seemed so very close.

  When, after ten minutes I was cleared back inbound, I watched the beach grow larger in the windscreen. Ten minutes is a long time to orbit over water when the Australian coastline is in sight! I could see the airport just inland of the beach and the runway that awaited me. The controllers asked a few questions about my feelings and they also mentioned that a few people had sent ‘welcome home’ messages. I was very cheered to learn that the message had come from the Frogs Hollow Aero Club.

  I was cleared to join the circuit area for a landing and watched the beach zip under the nose. I was overwhelmed and so relieved: from the very beginning one of my great and ever-present fears had been engine failure over water, but now that fear was gone. The ocean was behind me and there was no reason for me to cross it in a Cirrus ever agai
n. I completed my checks, turned towards the runway and moments later came to a halt on Australian soil. I backtracked the runway and the fire trucks at the airport sat just off the runway, waiting to shoot an arch of water to welcome me home. Later I was told that this was only the second time this had been done in twenty years. I taxied under the arch, peering through the water-covered windscreen and hoping not to hit anything.

  I was given a final welcome home from air traffic control, parked up and shut the aircraft down. It had been a long day and it was so close to being over. I kept the door securely shut as the Customs and Immigration officers made their way to the plane. They asked whether I had remembered to spray the insecticide and I told them I had, holding up the half empty can as proof, but they seemed to think I should spray a little more just to be safe. As a small crowd stood around the Cirrus I took the can and filled the cabin with the insecticide again; they asked me to just sit, or incubate as I called it, for five minutes before hopping out. I had been in the aircraft for way too long and now every living object in that aircraft was now dead, and that nearly included me.

  I opened the door and stood up and out onto the wing, I stretched and smiled before stepping down onto the ground. I was actually standing in Australia again. It was both exciting and an enormous relief. I signed a few final Customs and Immigration forms and thanked the firefighters for their welcome. Soon afterwards I was able to chat to the locals who had turned up to say hello. A woman came over and introduced herself and her husband, saying they had followed the flight from the beginning and had stopped by to welcome me back to Australia. She handed me a brown paper bag containing something I had craved for months. It was a simple meat pie and sauce, a real Aussie meat pie that in no way resembled the concoction I had purchased in Scotland. It tasted amazing. The couple were asking questions but although I was truly grateful for their gesture, my answers had to be delayed. No way was I going to let this pie be wasted, not after fifteen hours in the air on a packet of Oreos.