I dreaded the thought of Sydney, and its crowds, but my job was to reach it. The launch was crowded with sailors, and at 20 yards their robust personalities gave me a feeling of inferiority. I felt that I had to get away quickly. I asked the launch to tow me to the shelter of the breakwater, and a sailor slipped me a tow rope efficiently. I climbed out on to the float to swing the propeller, and as I swung it I noticed mares' tails of sticky black soot on the cowling, due to the backfires. I wondered if the engine still had enough kick to get me away, but as soon as the seaplane started moving forward and pounding the swells, the futility of trying to take off was obvious. That settled it; I had to ask for help. The launch approached again. 'We'll tow you to Albatross,' an officer said. I made fast the tow line and I was towed up to the aircraft carrier, where I made fast to a rope dangling from the end of a long boom. I released the pigeons, feeling sorry for them, and they took off flapping and fluttering, presumably for their home loft near Sydney. A sailor let down a rope ladder from the boom, and I grappled clumsily up it, my feet often swinging out higher than my head. I made my way along the boom to the deck where a commanding figure, with much gold braid, was waiting for me. 'Doctor Livingstone, I assume,' he said, looking hard at me. 'At any rate, you have managed to discover the only aircraft carrier in the Southern Hemisphere. Come along to my cabin.'
I felt like a new boy in front of the headmaster. 'Did I say, when you came aboard, "Doctor Livingstone, I assume?" Of course, I meant, "Doctor Livingstone, I presume?".' But Captain Feakes of the Royal Australian Navy was a great host. He gave me a whisky and soda and made me feel like a long-expected, favourite guest. Yet I felt isolated, and drained of personality, horribly cut off from other people by some queer gulf of loneliness. I had achieved my great ambition, to fly across the Tasman Sea alone, I had found the islands by my own system of navigation which depended on accurate sun-sights worked out while flying alone, something which no one had ever done before and perhaps no one ever would do in similar circumstances. I had not then learned that I would feel an intense depression every time I achieved a great ambition; I had not then discovered that the joy of living comes from action, from making the attempt, from the effort, not from success.
Squadron-Leader Hewitt of the Australian Air Force arrived and offered to lift the seaplane on board Albatross. I asked him to let me do the job of hooking on. It was dark when I went on deck. An arc-lamp shed a brilliance high up but only a dim light reached the seaplane as she was towed slowly under the lowered crane-hook. Standing on the top of the engine of the bobbing seaplane I tried to catch the ponderous hook; it was a giant compared with the one at Norfolk Island, with a great iron hoop round it, probably a help in hooking on big flying-boats, but only adding to my difficulties. I had to duck the hoop to catch the hook with one hand, and reach under it with the other to keep the two sling wires taut with the spreaders in place and the middle points of the wires ready for the hook. The hook itself was so heavy that I could not lift it with my arm outstretched. The seaplane was rolling, and also there was a slight movement of the aircraft carrier, sufficient to tear the hook from my grasp, however tightly I clung with my knees jockeywise to the engine cowling. At last I had the wires taut and the hook in place under them, when either the seaplane dropped or the aircraft carrier rolled unexpectedly. The hook snatched and lifted the seaplane with my fingers between the hook and the wires. The pain was excruciating, as the wires bit through my fingers. I shrieked. I felt ashamed; but I knew that my cry was the quickest signal I could give the winchman. The hook lowered, and I sat on the engine top, knees doubled up, leaning against the petrol tank. I could not bear to look at my hand. The hook swung like a huge pendulum above me. I felt, well, I had bragged of my skill at this job; I should just have to get on with it. I cuddled the round of the iron hook in the palm of my right hand, and rested the wires in the crook of my thumb of the other hand. Everything went easily. 'Lift!' I said. The water fell away, and at last the seaplane swung inboard, stopped swinging, and dropped softly on to padded mats. I said to a man standing by, 'Help me down, will you? I am going to faint.'
When I came to I was in the ship's hospital. My right hand was crushed, but I lost only the top of one finger. The surgeon cut off the crushed bone and sewed up the flesh. I then became the guest of the wardroom officers as well as of Captain Feakes, and it is hard to recount such marvellous hospitality. It was like staying in the best club with the mysterious fascination of naval life added.
PART 3
CHAPTER 17
FIRST STAGE TO JAPAN
The Australian Navy took me into Sydney Harbour, and then I had to set about finding refuelling places and the necessary permits for the second half of my flight round the world. With the Gipsy Moth's range as a seaplane reduced to 600 miles, I had to find a sheltered river or inlet every 500 miles or so where the half-ton seaplane could ride out the night at a mooring, and where there was someone who could understand my talk or signs, and where I could get some petrol.
The first 2,000 miles up the coast of Australia was easy enough; the difficulties started with New Guinea. Merauke sounded all right; a steamer called there once a month. But where could I find a spot within range after that? The Admiralty Sailing Directions were the only guide I had at first:
'Frederik Hendrik Island... about 100 miles long... everywhere covered with dense forest and so marshy as to be almost inaccessible.'
'The Digul River... the natives were hostile, the boats and bivouacs being repeatedly shot at.'
'The Inggivake... twice shot arrows at the boats.'
Kaimana Bay seemed my best hope, it had several houses with corrugated iron roofs, but it was 600 miles from Merauke. Fortunately I met a Dutch skipper who knew the Arafura Sea well, and he told me that the settlement at Kaimana had been withdrawn and that Fakfak, 700 miles away, was the nearest place to Merauke. So the only hope seemed to be for me to dump some petrol myself in a creek, and return to Merauke to fill up again. My Dutch skipper said that if I alighted alone at 10 o'clock, I should be in the stewpot by noon; he said, 'Why not fly from Merauke to Dobo, the pearling centre in the Aru Islands 480 miles west of Merauke?'
The Dutch Government refused me permission to fly over New Guinea unless I guaranteed to repay any expenses incurred in looking for me. I imagined myself working for the rest of my life to pay for a week's cruise of the Dutch fleet. Later, they allowed me to fly to the East Indies if I signed a form absolving them from any responsibility. I was happy to do this, for I did not want anybody to go searching for me if I got into a mess. What I did not know was that the Dutch had cabled to New Zealand, and two of my friends, Eric Riddiford and Grant-Dalton, had guaranteed payment of any expenses incurred without saying anything to me about it.
While I wrestled with consuls to get permits, de Havillands gave my engine a complete overhaul. Some of the pistons were cracked, and the crank-shaft was full of sludge. One of the worst mistakes I had made in reassembling the engine was to screw up the propeller-shaft thrust-race too tight, and only a shimmy of it still remained when I reached Australia. Nothing could be found wrong with the magneto which had cut so mysteriously over the Tasman Sea, but the other one, which had kept on spluttering and misfiring, had a cracked distributor, and they showed me a long blue spark jumping the terminals when it was tested. Major Hereward de Havilland, known to everybody in Sydney as 'DH', red-faced with a deep slow voice, was an interesting friend. He liked to probe everything until he found the reason for it. Why was I attempting this flight which he considered impossible? Why did I not buy a yacht and sail round the world instead of flying? It was more comfortable, cheaper, safer and healthier. After a fortnight of wrestling with people and difficulties it did seem to me like paradise to be sunbathing on the deck of a yacht. Thirty years on, now that I am a sailing man, this idea seems a great joke; I get far more sunbathing in the middle of London in a month than I ever have on a yacht! Hereward had one theory that, I believe, was valuable and t
rue; the only way for a flying man to keep alive was to be apprehensive.
Captain Feakes had allowed me to leave the seaplane in Albatross. It was not until then that the flight-sergeant found one of the bilge compartments full of water; it had not been discovered before because a chock under the float had prevented the drain plugs being opened. The strange thing was that the aircraftman could not find any leak in the float. I asked de Havillands to have a good look when they replaced the engine, but they too could not find anything wrong. If ever fate wove a web it was round that bilge compartment.
Nothing was going right with my preparations. I could not get any decision about where I could alight en route, and so could not make any arrangement for petrol supplies. No money arrived from New Zealand; my finger refused to heal; finally, I asked Hereward if he would lend me some money. He turned up trumps, and I set off for Japan with £44 in my pocket, with which I was to pay for all my expenses, and buy my petrol as I needed it on the way.
So one chilly early morning the great hatches were rolled back, and the Gipsy Moth hauled up from the giant hold of the Albatross. When I tried to thank Captain Feakes and the others, he drew me aside and said, 'If you find it's impossible, give it up, won't you?'
He offered to have the seaplane launched for me, but I declined, mounted the cowling, and held the crane hook under the sling wires myself. The seaplane was swung outboard and lowered to the harbour surface. Lazy wisps of smoke hung about buildings. The soft grey shapes of the moored warships suggested a peaceful existence. That glassy surface was a worry for me, though. The floats would not be able to break from the suction of smooth water; with the Captain on the bridge, and my friends watching, I should be unable to take off. I had to try, though, so first I headed for the harbour entrance. The water felt like treacle, and I turned and headed for Sydney Harbour Bridge, but I could not break the grip of the surface. Suddenly I spotted a ferry steamer ahead, swerved, and made for the waves of its wash. I felt a bump-bump-bump underneath, and we were off. I dipped my wings to Albatross and headed for the open sea. It was wonderful to be roaring north. I wrote in my log, 'This is the supreme ecstasy of life.'
Three hundred miles later I was skimming the surface a foot or two above a waterway parallel with the coast. It was wild, rough country, with dark-green feathery-leaved trees overhanging the water's edge. I put up two big flapping birds, like flamingos, only white. I followed one close behind, and it could keep ahead at 70mph, flying frantically with its great spread of jagged-edged white wings and its long pinkish legs streaming behind it. Suddenly it checked itself, its legs dangled limply, as if broken, and it crumpled and dropped as if shot. I expected it to hit the water in a burst of feathers, but it suddenly took flying shape again and made off in another direction.
The Brisbane River was puckered and wrinkled by a breeze. I flew up-river to the bridge and alighted there. When I came to take off next morning it was foggy with a light rain. There was not a breath of wind and the muddy water was as smooth as glass. I tried taking off up-river and down-river, I tried every trick I knew, rocking, jumping and porpoising, but I could not unstick the floats. It was nervy work, for I could not see far ahead in the mist, and there were ferry-boats, steamers, rowing-boats, buoys and moorings to be avoided. After repeated failures to get off, I tried up-river again, for the full length of the straight. I reached a right-angled bend and, although it had been drummed into me that a seaplane must be kept dead straight in taking off, I swerved slightly to obtain a few more yards' run. My hands were on the throttle to shut off when I thought that the floats rode a little easier. That was tantalising just at the bend where I must stop. I had a wild feeling, and I swerved hard to starboard. I could feel the port float lift; for an instant I straightened out, and then swerved hard again to starboard. As I straightened again I could feel that the starboard float had risen a little in the water. While still rounding the bend I lifted her off the surface. She was heavily stalled, but she was in the air, and stealing up-river. I learned something new about seaplane flying that morning.
I swung round, and flew the length of the river to the sea, then skimmed the passage between the mainland and Great Sandy Island. There were a lot of little flat islets, and I enjoyed jumping them. Then the screw-cap of the front cockpit petrol tank flew off the filler-pipe, which projected through the fuselage. A little safety chain held it, but I was afraid that this might break, and that the cap, hurtling back in the slipstream, might smash the tailplane. I had to come down, so I turned into wind above a stretch of water I thought suitable, and I was just about to settle when I noticed a snag sticking out of the water. I dodged it with a hurried swerve and came down on a narrow strip of shallow water between the mainland and a long sand-spit. There was a light breeze of 8mph from the south. There was no trace of man; alighting there was an indescribable thrill, and the silence and solitude were a balm. I screwed the cap on and let the seaplane drift sternwards until about to ground on a sandbank before swinging the propeller and taking off again. Some hours later I flew up the Fitzroy River to alight just below the bridge at Rockhampton.
Rockhampton was a queer place, though full of character. There were a lot of odd-looking boats in the river and I had difficulty in persuading boatloads of youths not to jab at the floats with their oars, or grab the wings to hold themselves against the current. In the afternoon I worked on the motor and refuelled, finding it awkward with my bandaged finger. This seemed to hit everything, and dip alternately in oil, petrol and the muddy river.
There were steam trams in Rockhampton puffing about the streets, and everyone there seemed to spend a lot of time in asserting the equality of man. In the evening I was driven out to a pub, given a glass of beer, and set on a beer barrel to answer countless questions. When at last I got to bed I found that I had left behind the copy of Homer's Odyssey which I was reading.
In the morning, I succeeded in taking off from the river, but I had hard work through 60 miles of heavy rain before flying into fine weather. I was then inside the Great Barrier Reef, through the reef itself was still 150 miles to seawards. At noon I reached the Whitsunday Passage, which stirred a romantic feeling at the thought of Cook's discovering it. I wanted to come down there myself, but with a fresh breeze blowing from the East it was difficult to find a suitable spot. If the water was sheltered there was not enough take-off run to clear the land ahead or else there was a sea running or reefs showed their dirty brown teeth. After passing one of the bays I decided that it would have suited me, but I would not turn back to it. I was getting hungry and impatient, but at last I reached Gloucester Island and came down on the passage between it and the mainland. The seaplane, once down, drifted back fast, and I could see a seething tide-rip which had looked negligible from the air. I hurriedly threw out my anchor, and although it jerked and bumped a bit, it held in time. It was lovely and peaceful there, and all the land in sight seemed uninhabited. I sat on the front wing edge, dangling my feet, and eating. Then I smoked a pipe and lazed – this was what I had dreamed about, complete solitude in the sunshine, and silence except for the friendly slip-slap of wavelets against the floats. But I had hundreds of miles to go before nightfall, so I had to tear myself away. I expected an easy take-off with the loppy sea and a good breeze, but to my surprise the seaplane stayed heavy in the water and when she struck the open seas beyond the island she suddenly swung to starboard. I thought that she was going to capsize and jammed on full opposite rudder. She righted, and finally bumped into the air. I wrote in my log, 'Horrible! Cannot understand it. I must have been flying atrociously, yet did not think so.'
After 450 miles I had the greatest difficulty in keeping awake, and I was tempted to alight at a beautiful little settlement on Palm Island. But I had to get on to Cairns to refuel, so I made myself go on. With 30 miles yet to go the petrol gauge showed empty. I knew that there was still some left, but to be on the safe side I began climbing so as to have a glide in hand in case of need. I flew over a watershed to
see Cairns River within gliding range, 4 miles ahead. It had taken eight hours flying to cover the 623 miles.
Cairns was a surprise to me in more than one way. From the air it looked beautiful, lying in a horseshoe basin split by the river, and almost encircled by ranges with a dark-purple bloom. But as soon as I alighted, a launch rushed up. It was loaded with tourists clicking cameras. They stopped dead in my lee, and the seaplane promptly began drifting on to the launch. I jumped for the wing root, switched on, sprang to the float and began frantically swinging the propeller. Fortunately they could not hear my swearing at them. I started the motor just in time, and taxied away. As I was rigging my anchor at a fresh spot the launch came up again. Then the petrol agent arrived, and told me that I could not anchor there; I had been ordered to moor on the other side of the estuary, almost out of sight of the town. I asked with wasted irony if they suspected the Gipsy Moth of being loaded with dynamite. Next, I had to go with the agent to the storage tanks for petrol, so that I finished emptying ten 4-gallon tins of petrol into the tanks by torchlight. Finally, when I did reach the town, the petrol agent told me that I would not get a bed: I thought he was joking as Australia was then in the middle of a slump, but I was turned away by the first three hotels. When at last a kindly Mrs McManus squeezed me into what I think must have been a housemaid's cupboard; I was grateful. Further, she fossicked some food from the kitchen, and Australian tea that makes one's hair curl. Apparently anyone in those parts who expected food after 6.30 p.m. was regarded as crazy.
The Lonely Sea and the Sky Page 21
