The Lonely Sea and the Sky

by Sir Francis Chichester

  'If I yell "earth!" bang those screwdrivers down as if your life depended on it,' I said.

  I pulled over the propeller with a distinct respect. At each fresh swing without the least sign of life, the less I liked it. It might catch on fire, or it might fly to pieces, it might explode. Suddenly, with a crackling roar, it started at full throttle. 'Earth!' I yelled, and jumped for the back of the stand. Whatever Roley did, it had no effect. The engine roared with enough pull to fly a plane at 90mph. The wooden stand jumped and danced madly on the edge of the pit.

  'Hang on, Roley!' I shouted, 'Hang on!', and one of us on each side of the engine, feet jammed against a niche in the concrete at the edge of the pit, leaning right back, we began a tug o' war with it. The roar reverberated from the roof, the blast tore at the roots of our hair, and the shed was full of whirling papers. The stand teetered and stuttered on the edge of the pit until I snatched the pipe off the carburettor, the petrol ran out of it, and the engine died.

  After the engine had had its run, the compression was good, greatly to my relief. There had been none beforehand, and I was afraid that Kirby had been right saying that I had not ground the valves thoroughly. When I imparted the glad tidings to him, he turned up next morning and offered to help me again. I gratefully accepted. All the morning he worked away in the cargo shed, while Roley and I were in the other one. When we returned we found he had discovered the one thing on the fuselage that I had not dismantled. This was a down pipe, to lead away waste oil from the engine. It had no mechanical value. Kirby had spotted a dent in it, and had taken it off to straighten out the dent. He pointed out to me that a job should be done properly. When the dent was straightened out the part could not be replaced, because of the trestle supporting the fuselage. It had to be left till later, when the engine was lifted by block and tackle to a rafter for dropping back into position in the fuselage, which was then moved out of the shed and fixed on to the float chassis. Now both the fuselage and the float struts were in the way of that pipe. I lost more knuckle skin over it than over the rest of the seaplane, and it was only by replacing the dent as before that I finally got the pipe back at all.

  Kirby also spotted the old lock-washers still on the propeller shaft's collar-bolts. 'Look here, Chick,' he said. 'You ought not to use those old washers! Surely you ordered new ones?' I had made up my mind to secure those collar-bolts myself, with the idea that if a wrongly done job meant a watery entrance to the next world, I should have the consolation that it was my own fault. But not wanting to hurt Kirby's feelings I said I had no other washers. I reckoned without his new determination to help me. He proceeded to screw home every nut on to an old washer, and I had to watch the whole operation, conscious of Roley's laughing with his back turned, and of the new washers weighing down my pocket like lead. Roley and I decided that it was not fair to associate Kirby with our slipshod work, and asked him to undertake the sign-writing, of painting the registration letters ZK-AKK in 3-foot letters on the top and bottom of the wings. He could do the job in his own way, and be as efficient as he wished. He said, 'Certainly,' and took away our dope trestles and used the whole packing-shed to begin setting out the letters on the first wing. Roley and I were forced to abandon our doping, and went off to look for a job in the cargo shed until Kirby had finished. He made a thorough job of it, and afterwards Roley and I nearly succeeded in taking out the dents made by his elbows in the wing surface.

  Often it seemed that we should never finish but at last the time came when we had rebuilt four wings and two ailerons, painted them first with oil, and then with dope-resisting paint, taped and covered them, doped serrated tape along the line of the ribs, applied seven coats of dope to the surfaces, fitted the automatic slots and replaced the fixtures and fittings, struts, rigging wires and aileron controls. At last the overhauled motor was back in place, the fuselage beautifully enamelled inside and out, the floats carefully painted, ninety-six new screw threads through the manhole rims, the wings loosely assembled in pairs ready to fix to the fuselage, the bent float boom repaired, and the bruised longerons strengthened with steel fish plates.

  The Gipsy Moth was ready at last for rigging again, and the ground outside the cargo shed had become an island meeting-place. Some volunteers carried the float undercarriage out, others carried out the fuselage with the engine attached, tediously secured by thirty-six bolts and twelve bracing wires to the float undercarriage. I sighed with relief when after an hour and a half we had the fuselage level and ready for rigging. The trouble we had had to get the seaplane level was explained when I happened to turn the spirit-level end for end. The bubble rushed to one end of it; the instrument itself was not level and I could not find an accurate level on the island. Now I was face to face with rigging. I had watched in awed silence a rigger performing this mystic ritual and I studied the book. The wings must be dihedrally rigged, three and a half degrees upwards, and this angle must be correct to one sixth of a degree, measured with a variable inclinometer. In other words the wings must be cocked up.

  'Roley,' I said. 'You will have to make an inclinometer.' 'All right,' he said, 'if you can draw one, I can make one.'

  I marked an angle of three and a half degrees on a piece of wood 3-foot long, which Roley took home and planed until it was a long thin wedge. It was so accurately made that I could not find it the slightest degree out of true anywhere. We laid this along the wing spar with the rather dubious level on top of it, and cocked up the wing by adjusting the rigging screws until the bubble was at least in the centre of the level.

  The leading edge of each wing had to be higher than the trailing edge, so that the wing made an angle of three and a half degrees with the horizontal fore and aft. After that we had to rig for 'stagger' – the upper wings had to be 3½ inches ahead of the lower wings. At the end, it all appeared to have been so simple that I started looking round for something I felt sure must have been forgotten. No, by lunchtime next day the seaplane was finished. I thought she looked handsome, superb with her white enamelled body and floats, her bright aluminium wings with Kirby's jet-black lettering. My pride went flat on finding a large bolt in the cargo shed that had obviously been left out from somewhere. We ferreted round the seaplane but could not find any place lacking a bolt. In the middle of the night I was woken up with the solution; there had been a duplicate rudder bar in the front cockpit, so that the seaplane could be flown from there if necessary. I had dismantled this, because it would never be needed, and the bolt had come from there. The Gipsy Moth was in perfect order.

  She was ready for launching, but I could not think how to launch her safely. There was a 6-foot drop from the edge of the bank down to the sand. There was not enough room to pass the seaplane between the bank and the side of the sheds to reach a steep wooden boat-launching slip in front of the sheds. I was scratching my head, when Gower passed. 'How much does it weigh?' he asked.

  'Half a ton.'

  'Why not carry it, then?'

  'Gower, will you launch it for me?'

  'My way might not be your way.'

  'You can do it entirely your own way. I'll not interfere at all.'

  'The boys might think…'

  'I'll ask you in front of everybody to do the job for me.'

  So Gower took it on. Under the floats he placed four beams, manned by four men each. He walked backwards in front of them, conducting them with a baton like an orchestra. He passed between the barbed­wire fence on the edge of the bank and the side of the shed, he had them drop the wings on one side till nearly touching the beach and hold the other wings high over the shed roof while the bearers shuffled along. It was a great strain for those on the beach side, and I followed behind, biting my thumbs. All the bearers held on, and finally dumped the seaplane in the water. Everyone cheered – it was a fine piece of work. I am sad to say that Gower, who was himself so amazingly efficient, was drowned some years later in a yacht that went down sailing from the island to Australia.

  I went aboard at once for
a trial flight, thinking that if I waited I should get nerves, imagining all the things that could be wrong with the seaplane. I taxied well out, faced into wind and opened the throttle. The seaplane left the water as easily as a fairy dancing off. There was a splutter, the engine choked, picked up again, spluttered for a few seconds, choked again, coughed out a few backfires, and then stopped dead. I closed the throttle to prevent the engine from bursting into life again unexpectedly, and concentrated on alighting. Fortunately I was still over the lagoon, and it was easy enough.

  I anchored off the jetty and, standing on a float, I tried not to drop any tools into the lagoon as I removed the carburettor. The jet was blocked by a small piece of skin. I had cleaned the salt water from the carburettor and then wiped it with a rag soaked in linseed oil to prevent further corrosion. This oil had dried in a thin skin, which the petrol had peeled off. There were enough pieces to choke the jet fifty times. 'Awkward for you if you had not found that until half way to Australia,' said Gower. We cleaned every part as thoroughly as possible, but there were bends and passages into which one could not see. Gower said, 'I wonder if you have left one piece behind.'

  Again the Gipsy Moth danced off the surface with thrilling ease. I flew low over the lagoon, first waggling the wings a little, and then more and more, until the plane was rocking from one wing tip to the other. Now I began hurdling. I put her through her paces, increasing the strain steadily. She had never been more fit, I thought. Then I jumped her up 200 feet, and trimmed the elevators for hands-off flying. I left the stick alone – she flew dead level. The rigging by our island plane factory was perfect first shot.

  The least I could do was to offer my helpers a flight. I sent the boat for Auntie; she sent back word, 'Oh, she didn't think she would come.' The third time I sent the boat for her she turned up, groaning and sighing. 'Oh, Captin, do you think it's all right? Oh, Captin, are you sure I won't die?' During the flight she scarcely moved an inch. When we were back on the water she turned and said in a quiet voice. 'Oh Captin, that was a wonderful thing! And to think I should have missed it if you hadn't made me go up!'

  Minnie arrived, full of chatter and giggles. Eileen was intent and quiet, as if unwilling to waste the enjoyment of one second. Gower told me exactly what type of windscreen would improve the excessive blast in the front cockpit, and had I seen the big school of bluies at the mouth of North Passage?

  Frank surprised me most. Poor slow old Frank, I thought, will realise we have left the water just about when we settle on it again. To my surprise, we were barely in the air when he coolly picked out his house half hidden by trees, and signalled me to fly there and circle it while he waved to his wife. Suddenly he gripped the cockpit edge and stared down. Curious to know why, I banked steeply. He was looking at his small garden. A horse, two calves, a lot of hens and ducks were steeple chasing through it. I tapped Frank on the shoulder and laughed, at which he shook his fist at me.

  Next morning, with a stiff south-east breeze in a lopping sea, I was still taking up passengers, but becoming more uneasy and peevish every trip. I must be flying badly I thought, as the seaplane swerved to the right on alighting, and nearly capsized. I seemed to take longer to leave the water each time. I stopped flying to pump the bilges dry with my new specially-made bilge pump, but there was scarcely any water in them. When Roley said to me, 'You know, Chicko, I can see water trickling off the bottom as you fly low over the shed; you must have water in the starboard float.' I pooh-poohed the idea. I had only just pumped all the bilges dry. The truth was that the fixed metal bilge pipe which led to the bottom of the compartment with the big leak had buckled and cracked when the float was dropped on the deck of the cruiser. When the bilge pump was attached to this pipe, it sucked air through the crack at the top, although the float compartment was full of water.

  I spent the afternoon in a feverish rush, stowing my gear, fuelling, collecting mail, and making myself a fresh chart for a direct flight to Sydney. I had made what now seems a crazy decision to fly direct to Sydney, 483 miles across water, whereas by increasing the flight by 80 miles I could have flown to Macquarie, the nearest place on the mainland thereby cutting down the flight over water to 365 miles.

  Just before midnight I went for my last run along the beach. I used to enjoy my 2-mile barefooted sprint every night before turning in. Often, when the moon made the stars pale in a clear sky, I yearned to be up there flying again. It was the yearning that a frustrated airman will pay any price to satisfy – health, life, fortune. But that night I felt sad. My stay on the island was nearing its end. It had been the happiest nine weeks of my life, perhaps because I knew it was a crazy, dangerous flight which I had to face, the most foolhardy I had ever attempted; to fly across 483 miles of ocean, with a seaplane and engine which had spent a night bumping on the bottom of the sea. I dreaded the idea of the flight.

  On waking in the morning I was surprised to find that I had slept all night without a stir or a dream. I felt that I was in the hands of fate, and that nothing I could do would affect the issue. But that was absurd; success would depend solely on my own efforts, on my flying, navigating, reasoning, and on my efforts in rebuilding the seaplane. I went outside, and looked at the pale flawless dawn above the edge of the palm tops. My heart ached at the thought of all the wonderful things on the island, the charm of its simple, healthy life, Auntie's calm outlook, and her cooking, those grilled bluie fish which melted in one's mouth when dipped in butter with a dash of salt and pepper. Padding along the sandy pathway, the palm crests were silhouetted against the pale-blue sky. There was something young and tenderly virginal about the still air in the wood. Heavens! What a paradise! I overtook Charlie Innes, pushing a fixed-wheel bicycle. I borrowed it and had a mad ride, twisting and turning and doing tight figures of eight round the trees. I went down a hill at full pelt, and banked steeply to slow up, because the bicycle had no brakes. I turned a complete circle, and finished up in front of the boat shed, where the waiting people looked strangely at me. I did not care; I had squeezed a little more fun out of life.

  Gower drew the dinghy under the propeller, and I broke the bottle of brandy on the propeller-boss. I had ordered the bottle from Australia with the materials. The mooring-bridle was cast off, the engine started and I was in the cockpit. There was no dashboard clock; I should miss that. And the various tables used for reducing sun-sights had all been soaked off the side of the cockpit; I should miss those too. There was no wireless transmitter, but I had a pair of homing pigeons in a basket which Frank's uncle had given me.

  A breeze was blowing away from the island to the reef, so I tried to taxi downwind to the reef. To my surprise I could not turn the sea­plane. The stiff south-easterly blowing had a strong 'weathercocking' effect, but surely not enough to prevent a turn downwind. She would make a half turn, until broadside on, and stubbornly refuse to turn downwind. When I tried full throttle the leeward wing dipped into the sea, and threatened to capsize the seaplane. At each engine burst the new propeller cut into heavy spray. I gave up trying to turn, and set off across wind down the lagoon until in the end I reached the reef down by Goat Island. I swung into wind and opened up. As the sea­plane gathered speed I felt her slew hard to starboard, and begin to trip over the float. Instantly, I throttled back. Would she recover without overturning? She settled back. But it had been a near go.

  It is hard to understand why I did not realise that the starboard float was nearly full of water, and that a few more gallons would have sunk it. The fact that I had pumped all the float compartments dry, as I thought, had bemused my power to perceive this. It is amazing that the seaplane did not capsize while turning, and theoretically it was impossible to take off. I restarted the engine, headed into wind and tried once more. The seaplane ploughed through the water, throwing up a deluge of spray, but soddenly refused to leave the surface. I throttled back, and tried to turn downwind, but it was hopeless. Every time I loosed the full blast of the slipstream on to the rudder to swing the tai
l round, the off wing tipped into the surface, and the seaplane began to capsize. Drifting back was the only alternative. I was mildly surprised that she drifted so slowly with the wind driving her back. What did it matter? How crude was this struggle with all the superb beauty of nature around? I sat on the leading edge of a wing root, one arm on a bracing wire, and sat absorbed in the exquisite beauty of the sparkle and dazzle of the wavelets tossing their crests in little showers of spray. A piece of coral would appear at my feet, and I would slowly lift my eyes to follow the intricate clump of dark brown and purple while it receded, growing less distinct until it disappeared for good as I thought, only to be reflected again in distorted form by a wave surface.