South with the Sun

by Lynne Cox

  While astronauts and aircrews used different navigational aids, both were, at times, flying into the unknown: into outer space, or into unexplored regions such as Antarctica. I asked Mike if he knew of anyone who flew in Antarctica. His flight path had been so different. He didn’t have friends or contacts in that area.

  That was okay. I kept trying to think of who might know something more about flight. Greg Miller, a cyclist friend, was involved with the first human-powered flight. When we were in high school he invited me to drive with him at three in the morning in his VW van to Edwards Air Force Base to watch him attempt to fly the Gossamer Condor, the first human-powered aircraft.

  Dr. Paul MacCready had recruited Greg for the project. MacCready wanted to compete for and win the Kremer Prize for the first human-powered flight. Greg was a national champion who had broken records for road racing. MacCready needed someone who had the power, strength, and speed to get the Gossamer Condor airborne and to satisfy the criteria for the award: to fly the aircraft a mile in a figure-eight course over two markers, and, at the end of the course, pedal hard enough to reach an altitude of ten feet.

  MacCready had a group of friends, aeronautical engineers and designers from NASA and from Caltech who were working on the aircraft. It was so exciting to witness this event. What this group of aeronautical engineers and designers was attempting was something that had intrigued men and women since the time of the Greeks and their myth about Icarus and Daedalus.

  There was something special about being there that day at Edwards Air Force Base with this team of researchers and aeronautical engineers who designed and built aircraft, rockets, and spaceships, and who had all come together to try to solve the question of human-powered fight using an aircraft that externally resembled the one that the Wright Brothers flew for their first flight. But internally the Gossamer didn’t have an engine. Greg would power the Gossamer Condor. He would climb inside the fuselage and sit on a plastic seat holding on to a little steering wheel—parts MacCready had pulled from his son’s Tonka fire engine. Greg would remember that MacCready always believed in simplicity, in doing more with less, and in using what exists to invent something new. Greg’s seat looked like a recumbent bicycle. He would pedal as fast as his feet could move; the bicycle chain connected to a propeller that would power the aircraft.

  Greg had practiced on other flights. He had crashed. The team had rebuilt and redesigned the plane. He had tried again. He crashed, but learned how to pace himself. He trained harder. He learned how to fly a fixed-wing plane. He watched birds in flight. He joined MacCready and his group numerous times at Edwards. They kept tweaking the aircraft, and he went back and tried again.

  On the drive to Edwards in his VW van he talked about being able to hold a straight line during flight, but said that it was really difficult for him to make the turns. During the entire flight he had to maintain his pedal speed, and when he came to the turns, he had to steer more, and he felt the balance of the aircraft shift. He felt the speed drop, and he had to pedal faster to maintain flight. He had crashed ten or twelve times. He’d fallen ten feet out of the air. It didn’t hurt too much. But it always hurt the Condor. And he didn’t like to do that. He wanted to see it work. He really believed human-powered flight was possible, and he was going to be the one to do it.

  We reached Edwards just before sunrise. The Gossamer Condor was on the runway, and poles had been set up to mark the course. There were a couple of bicycles on the runway, too, so the crew could ride beside Greg and coach him.

  The air was still very calm. Greg climbed into the tiny fuselage. He had to be very careful that his elbows didn’t tear the thin Mylar sheeting skin of the aircraft.

  The team members positioned themselves along the course, and two held poles, one at the half-mile mark, the other at the finish.

  Greg walked around to warm up his legs, took a few deep breaths, and then said he was ready. He began pedaling fast, and the Gossamer Condor lifted off the ground. It was amazing to see him gaining altitude. He increased his speed. I could see his feet were pedaling faster than I’d ever seen at any national championship. He was breathing so hard I could see the skin of the aircraft move in and out with his breath, and I could hear him. He was doing great. It was so exciting to witness the first human-powered flight and to think of all of the people who had been part of this moment.

  Greg managed to fly half a mile, and we held our breaths as we watched him, transfixed by what we were seeing. But then he began to turn the Gossamer Condor; it was at too sharp an angle, with the left wing tilted directly toward the ground. He lost momentum. He pedaled harder and tried to hang on; he held it for a second, two, three, but the Gossamer Condor started to fall, wing first, as if in slow motion, and then crashed into the ground. The men on the team couldn’t help themselves; they shouted, “Oh no,” and they groaned. And then in the next moment they shouted, “Greg, are you okay?”

  The Mylar wing was crumpled into an accordion shape. Snapped pieces of balsa wood stuck out like broken bones and the piano string that had held everything together tautly lay in the pile of wreckage. It looked so bad.

  The crew got to work. They removed the broken wing and quickly attached a new one.

  Greg smiled confidently and climbed back into the Gossamer Condor. I watched the same sequence as before, his feet pressing the pedals as rapidly as they would move. He lifted off the ground and gained altitude with the sunrise. The entire sky filled with red, orange, and yellow light and illuminated the wings of the Gossamer Condor.

  He was climbing higher, six, seven, eight feet off the ground. MacCready had told him it would be easier to fly close to the ground—maybe from ground effect, which would provide lift and help him stay in the air—but he also needed to give himself some height, because if he made a mistake, there was more space for him to make a correction.

  Greg reached the halfway mark, and then he began the turn. I think Greg was the only one breathing at that moment.

  Over a walkie-talkie we heard the details moment by moment.

  The Gossamer Condor began to shudder, but Greg made an adjustment; he made a wider turn. It took more time, and more energy, but he made it all the way around. The team cheered and threw their arms into the air. All he had to do was to fly back to the starting point. But “all” was still a lot.

  He flew the Gossamer Condor quickly toward us, and the strong morning sun illuminated the aircraft. Everyone was focused on the aircraft and on Greg. The chase bikes were behind him, and the team’s cheers were growing louder and more excited, sensing that Greg was almost there.

  Greg had just one more hurdle; he had to climb into the air and fly to an altitude of ten feet to fly over a pole. But he was getting tired. I could hear him gasping for air. All he had to do was get up over that pole. Everyone was cheering. This was a vision they all had shared. And when Greg flew over that last hurdle, everyone cheered, applauded, or jumped up and down. It was one of most fantastic sights I’d ever seen. They had achieved the first human-powered flight.

  Years and years had passed since that day, and I thought of Greg and Paul MacCready. Greg had broken more national cycling records, and he had become a mechanic for the Tour de France, helping Greg LeMond and Lance Armstrong keep their bikes performing at their best. MacCready had designed the Gossamer Albatross, and Bryan Allen became the first to fly this human-powered aircraft across the English Channel. MacCready also designed the Solar Challenger, a solar-powered electric aircraft, and the solar-powered car, the Sun Racer (which Greg built the wheels for), which won the Race Across Australia. MacCready also developed drones and drone technology. MacCready’s spirit had taken flight. He had passed away, but Greg was around, and so I asked him if he knew someone who might know someone involved with polar flight. He didn’t off the top of his head, but he would think about it. And I kept thinking about it. Who else could I contact that might know something about polar flight so that if I got a chance to speak with the people at the 1
09th, I’d be able to ask meaningful questions?

  As I continued trying to learn more about flight very unexpectedly Alan Williams called me. We had met years ago, in 1977, during my summer break on Dutch Harbor in the Aleutian Islands. Alan was then a pilot who flew Lear jets, and he had flown out to Dutch Harbor to transport customs agents there to check foreign ships coming into the port. Alan had saved my big toe. I had been on an expedition to the Aleutian Islands that had gone wrong, and I had gotten an infection in my big toe from a blister. I used that as the excuse to leave, but I later found out that if I hadn’t I would have lost my toe from gangrene.

  Alan said he was now flying a Gulfstream 5 for a corporate executive and traveling the world. His wife was a physician, and they had four sons, and the youngest was just graduating college. He asked what I was doing, and I told him I was planning to follow in the wake of Amundsen through the Northwest Passage. He immediately put me in touch with a friend of his who was a pilot in Alaska, and with her help, I was able to get the permission I needed to swim off Prudhoe Bay.

  A couple of years had passed, but we’d stayed in touch, and when he heard that I was trying to learn more about polar flight, he said he grew up flying small planes throughout Alaska and that he was coming to California for work, and we could meet in Seal Beach.

  Over dinner, Alan said his dad was an incredible pilot who had taught him everything about airplane mechanics and flight. He had soloed at fifteen and had flown into very remote areas of Alaska. Arctic temperatures were milder than those in Antarctica, but in either case keeping the airplane fluids warm was very important. Weather in the polar regions played a huge role in whether it was possible to fly or not. He also explained that an aircraft taking off at sea level performed a lot better than an aircraft taking off at altitude. He said he looked forward to reading what I learned from the 109th Air Wing.

  Out of the blue, Pat Roberts, my good friend whom I had met just after college, who now lived in upstate New York, called to say hello. She asked if I would be coming out for a visit any time soon. I had never been to her home in New York to visit her family, and I had always wanted to, but we always met in California when she came to visit family.

  I said I hoped to visit the air force base near Scotia and talk with the aircrews and maintainers at the 109th, but I needed to do background research first. Pat’s voice filled with excitement. She said she lived half an hour from the base. She said that she knew two of the pilots from the air force who flew to Antarctica; one lived across the street, and the other, Gary James, was a close friend of hers and her husband. Gary would even be coming to her big birthday party in a few months. Pat would introduce them to me if I wanted to talk with them. And John, her brother who flew for the navy, had a friend who knew one of the Antarctic pilots. She wanted to know if I wanted to talk with them, and I said, “Oh yes!”

  But Ron Smith suggested I first contact the public affairs office. I did and waited. And then I received an e-mail from the 109th Air Wing. They invited me to visit them in Scotia, New York.

  Riding the train from New York City to Scotia, north along the Hudson River valley, was one of the most gentle and beautiful trips I’d ever taken. The Hudson River was silvery blue and calm. Trees, homes, and buildings reflected upon its surface. Waterbirds—ducks and geese—paddled across the water’s surface. It was so soothing to watch the river slide past. I was excited and apprehensive about meeting people at the 109th. I didn’t have much experience with the U.S. military. The only places that I’d visited on military bases, in addition to Edwards, were the cold research tank with the Navy SEALs on Coronado Island, the swimming pool at the Joint Forces Base in Los Alamitos, California, and the U.S. Marines’ flight simulator in El Toro, California.

  On October 6, 2008, I met with Samantha East (nicknamed Sam by her colleagues), and she brought me to the base to speak with the aircrews and aircraft maintainers with the 109th. I met with Colonel Tony German, the wing commander for the 109th; Senior Master Sergeant Ron Barnes, life support specialist; Major Mark McKeown, LC-130 aircraft commander/pilot; Senior Master Sergeant Glen Preece, loadmaster; Senior Master Sergeant Kevin Hubbley, flight engineer; Senior Master Sergeant Bob Thiverage, flight crew chief/aircraft superintendent; Senior Master Sergeant Chris Ricket, superintendent of command post/operations coordinator; and Major Sal Salvaggio, LC-130 navigator.

  Throughout the day the aircrews and aircraft maintainers talked to me about their jobs. They gave me so much information about polar flight that I was afraid I wouldn’t retain it all, but when Sam suggested that we head to the Y in nearby Scotia so I could help her with her swimming technique, I was eager to watch her swim and also have the opportunity on the drive to the pool to ask more questions.

  CHAPTER 22

  Parallel Planes

  As I watched Samantha swim at the Y, I thought about flight through the air and flight through the water, and that reminded me of the small airplanes and private jets that my teammates and I used to wash at Santa Barbara airport to pay our way to water polo competitions with other universities. Most of the women on the team liked to clean the interiors of the planes, but I volunteered to wash the exteriors. This gave me the opportunity to feel the surface of the airplane—the wings, flaps, and rudder. The way the aircraft felt reminded me of swimming with dolphins and having them let me run my hands along their backs, tails, and fins. The shapes felt similar. When I turned the hose on an airplane’s wing, I watched the water move as it did over the dolphins’ flippers.

  As Samantha swam, her hands become propellers, her body became the fuselage, and her feet gave her additional propulsion. She flew across the swimming pool. Her sense of balance and movement may have come instinctively from being a triathlete and from her experience as an aviator. Doc Councilman would have loved to watch her swim. Doc Councilman was one of the world’s greatest swimming coaches, who coached Olympic greats Mark Spitz and Gary Hall. In 1978, when he was fifty-seven years old, he contacted me and said he wanted to become the oldest person to swim across the English Channel. Doc Councilman was the icon of modern swimming. It was hard to believe that he was asking me for advice. I was just twenty-one, but that didn’t matter to him. He knew my swimming background. I gave him as much information as I could, but I was coaching another swimmer at the time, so I put Doc in touch with Tom Hetzel, a friend and former New York City cop who had swum across the English Channel five or six times. With Tom’s coaching, Doc, at fifty-eight, became the oldest man to swim the English Channel. Doc was so far ahead of the curve in his thoughts about human potential at any age. He connected worlds where most people didn’t see a connection.

  Doc thought of swimming as flight through the water, and he applied Bernoulli’s principle of fluid dynamics to analyze a swimmer’s hand movement through the water. He compared a swimmer’s hands moving through the water to a propeller moving through the air to generate a propulsive force.

  Swimming is a learned skill, one that takes years to master, one that I am still learning. I wondered at Samantha’s awareness of the movement through space of her hands entering the water, pulling pieces of water, setting them into motion, and finding new pieces of water, and pushing them toward her feet so she could move forward. She had a natural feel for the water. Her hands knew how to find new water, and to increase her feel, I asked her to do a series of sculling drills.

  I had her lie on her back and scull her hands over her head, on either side of her face, then near her stomach, and, finally, beside her hips.

  The drills helped her hands gain a greater feel for the water. The points where she sculled—over her head, on either side of her face, stomach, and hips—became waypoints for her hands. Maybe it was in part because she was an air force navigator that she knew where her hands were supposed to be. When she took a stroke, her hands automatically moved precisely from one point to the next.

  She felt locations of still water, and her hands immediately locked into these places in the sequenc
e of her pull from the entry point near the top of her head, out toward the side of the pool, back in near her waist, and out again by her hips. She traveled across the pool using a perfect S-curve pull. She stopped at the end of the pool and stood up with water droplets streaming down her cheeks. Her blue eyes were bright; she gave me the biggest smile and said, “I haven’t had a swimming lesson since I was eight. I can feel that I’m swimming faster,” and she wasn’t even breathless.

  Lieutenant Colonel Dean Johnson, an LC-130 Skibird pilot, avid triathlete, and swimmer said that there was an amazing parallel between polar flying and swimming. He said hydrodynamic efficiency depended on an awareness of the body’s roll, pitch, and yaw. These same elements were crucial for aerodynamic efficiency to translate into a successful ski takeoff. The airplane became an extension of the pilot and accurate analysis of what the aircraft was telling you was the difference between mission success or failure.

  All the concepts of swimming—lift, propulsion, and drag—were also integral to flight. Translation of these concepts to swimming might help improve her body position in the water to minimize drag and maximize efficiency.