I had to be off early again next morning, and my hostess generously got up to cook me breakfast, and she gave me a tin of sweetcorn, some bread, butter and jam and a magazine to take with me. Soon I was roaring north. The Great Barrier Reef was now within 20 or 30 miles of the coast, and there were detached reefs everywhere. The water over them was dark blue or pure green, and the sun struck through to the reef as if through plate glass. I flew 80 miles across Princess Charlotte Bay, out of sight of land for part of the crossing. Near the mainland I noticed a school of sharks in the lee of Cape Sidmouth, swirled round and alighted on top of where I had seen them, then cast anchor. It was so hot it made my eyes lazy. I took off my clothes and lolled about the seaplane. I was disappointed not to see any sharks, though splashes I heard showed they were still near. From above, I had seen through the water as clearly as if it did not exist, but on the surface I could see only the bottom immediately below me. After eating and smoking I finally tore myself away, for I had to reach Thursday Island before dark. For hundreds of miles it was like flying along the coast of a desert. Once I spotted a wretched kind of shelter with the thatch beginning to collapse, and once I saw a group of horsemen on the beach. I came upon a lugger with sails drooping limply in the hot still air. It seemed black from a distance, and when I flew up to it I found it was covered with black natives. They were a strange sight, dotting the deck, and leaning over the bulwarks, with a string of them twisted up the mast, feet to woolly pate. They all kept utterly still as I flew up to them, and only twisted their heads to look at me as I flashed past.
I headed out to sea from Cape York, the northernmost point of the Continent, for the group of islands 14 miles off. Thursday Island was not marked on my chart, but the whole group was only 20 miles across, so I did not expect difficulty in finding it. And sure enough I recognised the island at once by the mass of luggers alongside it. As soon as I alighted near the jetty and cast anchor, a dinghy put off with two aboard. One was a man called Vidgen, who turned out to be a pearl merchant. He said that he had a mooring buoy ready for me in the lee of the jetty. He gave me confidence, and I liked him. I hauled in my anchor and stowed it, restarted the motor, and taxied slowly against the strong current to within a few feet of the buoy. I switched off, hopped quickly out of the cockpit and caught the rope thrown to me by Vidgen before the tide bore the seaplane out of reach. We were fast to a proper mooring in just a few seconds without any shouting, swearing or fuss. It was a pleasant change. People came down to the jetty to look. The Australian aborigines fascinated me with the absolute blackness of their skins, and their hair like thick black mats. I dropped one of my watches from my breast pocket and its pale face reproached me through the green water as it sank. The previous day I had lost the oil dipstick. While changing the oil I was scared of dropping the sump-plug into the sea.
Vidgen invited me to spend the night with him. He had a dinner party for a Dutch captain from the Aru Islands. The manners of the party were gentle and punctilious, after the Dutch style. We had a huge, excellently cooked dinner, the sort of feast that one had fifty years ago in an English country house in the middle of winter. They asked me what I proposed doing if I came down in headhunter country. I said that I had a ·410 double-barrelled pistol, and had made the shot solid with candle grease. 'What range would it kill at?' 'Ten yards,' I said. This caused a general laugh. I asked what the joke was. I was told I would never see any Papuans, who kept behind the trees; they would shoot poisoned arrows at me from 200 yards, and would not approach until I was dead. Further, the Papuans used arrows barbed both ways, so they could not be pushed through or pulled out. They seemed a nice bunch.
There was a small wooden bank building on Thursday Island and I walked through the heated air to it full of hope. But no money had come for me, and I had to leave with only £18 to see me through to Manila. Vidgen collected some mail for me to take to Japan, and I was asked to keep a look-out for a lugger that had been stolen from Thursday Island. I said I guessed that none of them had ever tried to identify a stolen lugger from an aeroplane. Oh, but it would be quite simple, they said, and to help me they gave me a photograph of another lugger which was like it, but had a mast two feet longer. I said good-bye to Vidgen the pearl merchant with regret, and left Thursday Island soon after noon to cross the Torres Straits. My first water hop was to Deliverance Island, 50 miles. The seaplane was awkward to trim which I think was because I had loaded her noseheavy, filling the front petrol tank full, and leaving the rear tank empty. I thought that she might take off better with the weight forward, and I believe she did, but in the air she was so nose-heavy that I had to use three fingers to keep the control-stick back while I held the log-book between my finger and thumb. Deliverance Island was an atoll with smooth water inside the ring, and it was soon passed. I flew on, and rather suddenly realised that there was land below me; I had seen it for some time, but thought it a cloud shadow. Soon I was flying along a broad, shallow, muddy shore and I shall never forget the fantastic sight below. Hundreds of crocodiles basking in the shallows went crazy with fear as I flew over, and sheets of liquid mud flew wide into the air to right and left as they lashed their tails with great writhing strokes until they reached deep water. Some of them by my float shadow were 15 feet long. I always thought that crocodiles lived in fresh water, but this must have been a sort of crocodiles' Brighton beach. Flying over one little sandy cove I saw a sailing boat drawn up on the beach, which looked like the stolen lugger. It would have been the perfect hide-out if a small seaplane had not happened to be flying through that part of the world. I reported it, and it turned out that it was the stolen lugger, and a police patrol recovered it as a result of my report.
Merauke was a tightly packed settlement in a space cleared from dense tropical growth. The river flowed in front of it, wide, smooth and muddy. Studying the layout as I flew overhead, I could see natives pouring on to the jetty and river bank, some white figures embarking in a launch, and I presently picked out the bright tricolour of the Dutch flag nodding from a drum buoy. I came down, and I think that there must have been 2,000 Papuans on the jetty and river bank. All the white men of the settlement were there too; three missionaries with long beards straggling to their waists, who seemed glad to see a stranger although none could speak English or French; the gesaghebber, or Dutch official, and the doctor, who could speak a little English. It was an exotic place, packed tight with flimsy wooden or bamboo structures crowding narrow streets. There were one or two Chinese stores, surprisingly well stocked. I bought some petrol from one in unbranded tins, but I could not get any suitable oil, and was glad that I had brought a spare gallon tin with me. I had no map or chart for the next 1,000 miles of my route, expecting to have been able to get one at Merauke. But there was no map to be had. I should have been badly placed if the gesaghebber (doctor) had not generously given me his own map.
I was taken to the stone guesthouse where I stayed the night alone. I tried to ask about buying food, but our language was not equal to it, and presently a meal arrived, which I think the gesaghebber had sent, though I was never able to find out. The guesthouse was in front of a prison guarded by four native sentries who each sounded a bell one after the other at every quarter-hour. Judging by the effect on me I should think it was an excellent way of keeping them from sleeping at their posts. On my way to the jetty next morning I met the prisoners going off to work on the roads. The Dutch official drew my attention to two husky prisoners with beaming faces laughing away and chattering rapidly at each other as they padded along the road. They looked ideal husbands. They were hill men who had formed a habit of coming down to the town periodically, selecting a fat town boy and treating him to a meal of drugged sago before they dragged him back to the hills where they cooked and ate him. The Dutch thought that it was not right to execute them for doing what they had been brought up to believe was the right thing, and so set them to road making for a few years, which they liked, the Dutch official said, because it gave them re
gular food without the trouble of finding it. (It must be remembered that all this was thirty years ago).
Time after time I tried to get off the glassy surface of the river in the hot sticky air, and when at last I managed it, it felt like flying a mudclogged old wheelbarrow with wings. Before I left that sea of tufted palm-tops I was sick to death of them, and my clothes were soaking wet.
I flew along the south coast of New Guinea and then made a 70-mile flight across the middle of Frederik Hendrik Island. No white man had ever seen the interior of this island. All that was known was that natives attacked any ship becalmed near the coast.
Blotchy cloud shadows gliding over the ground were overtaken by the seaplane shadow flitting at an uncanny pace across tall reeds like corn or skimming up a wall of forest trees and rushing over the dense tops. In the middle of the island the swamp took on a definite pattern of stripes and cross stripes. I felt sure it must have been cultivated thousands of years ago, though now there was not a sign of man. Later I saw two tiny planted patches.
The air was uncomfortable, not with vicious bumps but as if pitching into lively short waves. At every pitch my face was showered with petrol from the air vent. By 10 o'clock I completed the traverse of the island and flew over the sea again. I had to navigate the 260-mile sea crossing to the Aru Islands with care, although they were a comparatively wide target. I had flown on a careful compass course for the last 100 miles and found that I had drifted fourteen degrees to starboard. I therefore changed fourteen degrees to port. After New Guinea the sea felt safe and friendly. I felt hungry, ate a good meal, and then sat musing or writing in my log. It did not seem long before I reached my target, and at 12.43 I entered the channel between the main islands Wokam and Kobroor. It seemed full of war canoes with high stems and stern-posts. Some fled, furiously paddled. On either side of the passage was magnificent forest, with tall trees festooned with pink, rose and red creepers. A frightful bump drove the thought of beauty from my mind and I hurriedly fastened my belt for fear of being tossed out.
I came down on sparkling dark-blue water off the small island of Dobo, which faces Wokam across a narrow passage. I had taken five hours and ten minutes over the 472-mile flight.
A launch put off with four Englishmen or Australians aboard, and chugged round the seaplane. Hearing English again made me feel like a boy home from school. They shouted jokes, but every time I suggested that they should come nearer, they seemed to be deaf. Presently a launch flying the Dutch flag came up. The Dutch official was exceedingly polite to the Australians, and spoke to me through them, and the Government launch took me to the jetty to get my petrol. A tremendous press of natives, thousands of them, suddenly burst into a shout, a thrilling sound that would have raised the sky. On the jetty the Dutch official proudly showed me the fuel he had had the kindness to prepare for me – a formidable array of big drums, which must have totalled five times the weight of my Gipsy Moth. Unfortunately, they were diesel oil, not petrol. I managed to get some petrol, however, and I spent a delightful evening with the three bachelor pearlers, who lived together in an airy ramshackle old structure of two storeys with wide verandas and hanging rattan curtains instead of doors. Next morning, as well as the pearlers, a Malay Rajah and his princess came to see me off. The Rajah was small, quiet, delicate and aristocratic, and he wore white flannels with a Savile Row cut. His wife was perfectly charming with tiny feet and hands, a perfect little figure.
The flight of 450 miles from Dobo to Amboina was uneventful. There were islands at intervals for stepping stones, and the longest water flight was only 110 miles. One thing that I recorded in my log has been strongly disputed by aerodynamic experts – I knew that the favourable trade wind had died away because the throbbing roar of the engine suddenly changed its note. Although I have been assured since that it is theoretically impossible, I could tell if I was flying upwind or downwind in a fresh breeze by the note of the engine; I think it may well have been due to a Doppler effect when flying low down. Naturally, flying for such long periods on the same course and at the same engine speed, I became extremely sensitive to the slightest change in note of the engine noises.
I had left the Aru Islands that morning in the middle of the dry season and reached Amboina in the middle of the rainy season. All evening the clouds dropped down, discharged their load of rain and lifted. There was not a breath of wind next morning and my attempts to get off never had the slightest hope of succeeding. I gave up trying for the day and went ashore. Next day I left ashore all the clothes, tools, sailing directions and papers that I possibly could spare, amounting to 19 lbs, and jettisoned petrol until I only had six hours' fuel. I had intended to make Menado, in the Celebes, my next halt, but switched to Ternate in the Moluccas to give me a shorter flight. I raced to and fro across the water opposite the town. It was sprinkled with praus, and it was nervy work dodging them, as well as keeping a constant watch for fishing stakes. Finally I told the officials in the launch that my only chance of taking off was from the broken surface of the open sea; would they tow me out? The young assistant gesaghebber was troubled; it was a long way. Volumes of Dutch were poured out. In the end we started off with the seaplane in tow. Five or six miles down the inlet there was a slight swell; I cast off the tow and bounced into the air at the second attempt.
At the mouth of the Amboina inlet I flew into clear bright weather over a sparkling blue sea. I waggled the wings with joy, but it was premature. Thinking only of escape from Amboina, I had discarded every possible ounce of weight, including the map given me by the Dutchman, at Merauke. So I had a 140-mile sea crossing to make without a map, before I got back on to my own chart. I had taken a look at the big map in the Resident's office, read off the bearing of the first landfall, which was uninhabited Ombira Island 150 miles to the north, and thought that nothing could be simpler than to fly on this one bearing until I reached the island. But on turning the corner of Amboina Island I flew up against the tail of a big island right in the middle of my route and which I could not remember having seen on the map. The east side ran more nearly in the right direction, so I followed that. It was black-looking country, with high, densely forested slopes, rising several thousand feet in a bluish haze before disappearing into cloud. When I had flown along it for 20 miles and saw no end to it I grew anxious, and a few minutes later I was dismayed to see land loom up ahead of me through the haze. Soon I found that I was blocked by a massive range of mountains, black and threatening, with the tops hidden in cloud, and stretching away to the east as far as I could see. This put me in a fix, for if I went back to try the other side of the land I should use up my reserve of fuel and would have to return to Amboina for more, a horrid thought. I had no idea how high the mountains were, so dared not attempt to cross them flying blind through the clouds. My only chance seemed to be to climb to the cloud ceiling and fly along beside the mountains to the head of the bay, hoping to find a gap. If I failed, I should have to return to Amboina.
As I flew on, slowly climbing, I was tempted to try crossing the mountains blind, but I was afraid. Then, turning a headland, I came on a saddle between two mountains on my left, with a rain squall above it. I was below the level of the saddle, and could not see if there was a passage through. I opened up the throttle. My climbing pace seemed deadly slow, as I watched the squall dropping down to the pass. Suddenly I got a glimpse of blue water over the saddle, and putting down the nose of the seaplane I scuttled for it at full throttle. The dropping rain caught me, but in a few seconds I was through, and out in the sunlight again. I made allowance for the distance I thought I had been deflected to the east of my route, and headed for where I now thought Ombira to lie. I felt hungry and fossicked out the remains of the excellent jam and egg sandwiches given me at Dobo. Alas! they had fermented. I tried the tin of biscuits, but the contents were saturated with petrol. I found some mouldy bread, age unknown, and ate it with butter. I longed for a smoke, but my pipe was broken, and the cigars were in the front cockpit. When e
ventually I sighted Ombira right ahead, I wondered how I could ever have worried about not finding it, it looked so huge. It was 25 miles wide, well watered, fertile and healthy, but it was uninhabited because it was said to be haunted.
At 3 o'clock I reached Gilolo, the largest of the Spice Islands after Ceram. I saw few signs of habitation, and the steep hills were smothered in jungle. Flying only a wing-span from the hillside, I disturbed countless snowy white doves. Their wings beat the air, but they never seemed to get anywhere. On the other hand, the birds of paradise, black-coated with long tails like trains trailing behind, glided gracefully and without any hurry, but always managed to be out of sight by the time I drew level with them. I never caught more than glimpses of their sheeny black spread sailing through the trees.
Here I had trouble with a tropical rainstorm that lasted for 45 miles, and when I flew out of it I thought I was looking at the twin islands of Ternate and Tidore. But I could not see any sign of Ternate town. This made me anxious, as I had only an hour's petrol left. The truth was that Tidore's volcano was in cloud or smoke. This had flowed down to the sea in the middle of the island, so that really I was looking only at the one island of Tidore, divided in two by smoke. As soon as I reached the north-east point of Tidore I could see Ternate plainly ahead, and flew over to it.
The Lonely Sea and the Sky Page 22
