I taxied out a fair way into the harbour because I wanted ample room to build up speed. Ferries plied their routes in the distance. Just as I was about to line up for take-off, the Sun bumped into a sandbar. I felt a shudder go through the plane, but thankfully we passed over it and continued on.
The momentary collision could have been a lot worse. If the water had been just a few inches shallower, the Sun might have got stuck. If she’d hit the sandbar while accelerating at full throttle during take-off, the hull could have been damaged, or even holed. It was worrying that, at the symbolic start of my trip, things were already close to going wrong.
Every pilot – amateur, commercial or military – must conduct several basic checks before taking off. In my case they were known by an acronym, GIFFTT, which stood for ‘Gear, Instruments, Fuel, Flaps, Trim, Trim’ – or, in slightly longer form, landing gear, instruments, fuel pumps, flaps, elevator trim and propeller trim. The wheels had to be up to reduce drag, the instruments had to be working and set correctly, both fuel pumps had to be on, the flaps had to be lowered to make the wings more effective at low speeds, the elevator flaps on the tail had to be trimmed (or adjusted) for climbing, and the propeller had to be angled for maximum thrust. But in a hurry to get started, and flustered by the sandbar bump, I foolishly skipped these essential checks.
The Sun ploughed through the harbour into the wind. Everything seemed fine, although she took longer than usual to build enough speed to take off. As she climbed through the sky, I reached for the lever to reduce the amount of flaps, which are used at take-off and landing because they provide more lift, allowing the plane to fly more safely at a slower speed. The lever was already in the upright position. I hadn’t extended the flaps, which meant the Sun had been forced to go about 10 knots faster than otherwise needed to take off. The higher speed had increased the dangers if she hit a big wave or sandbar. By cutting corners, I had committed one of the ultimate rookie errors in aviation: an inadvertent flapless take-off.
Through gritted teeth, I berated myself. ‘I must follow procedures and take my time – there really is no rush,’ I told myself.
It was an inauspicious beginning.
My destination was Longreach, the town where the Queensland and Northern Territory Aerial Services Ltd was founded – the airline that came to be known as Qantas. For me, the day’s route would function as a kind of test flight: the 800 miles, nearly 1500 kilometres, was likely to take ten and a half hours. It would be the longest leg of my journey to London, and the longest of my flying career. I wanted to be on home ground for this physical and mechanical test.
After quickly refuelling at Cessnock, in the Hunter Valley, we climbed easily to 8500 feet, where a tailwind propelled the Sun along. We climbed another 2000 feet, where the winds were even more favourable. The original Qantas flying boats generally cruised at around 5000 to 8000 feet. (By contrast, modern airliners operate at around 30,000 feet and above.) It wasn’t long before I found that the Sun’s wings weren’t designed to perform in the thinner air. Any lapse in concentration by me at the control stick and she would slip a few hundred feet, which was neither professional nor efficient flying. I found it easier back down at 8500.
To my frustration, I discovered the propeller couldn’t be adjusted in flight because of some fault. Altering the angle of the blades at different speeds can make them more efficient, much like changing gears in a car. I was becoming concerned that the Southern Sun wouldn’t make it to Darwin, let alone to London. (It turned out the problem was easily fixed by re-crimping a loose cable.)
I arrived at Longreach fifteen minutes before dark, and circled a few kilometres from the field while a Qantas passenger flight landed. The Sun had three hours of fuel left, which was incredibly reassuring. Fuel exhaustion was one of the biggest killers of early long-range pilots.
A charmless motel was adjacent to the airport. I checked into a basic room that would turn out to be the most expensive of the trip. I spent the evening quietly; in what would become a typical routine for the journey, I prepared my next day’s flight plan and dined alone.
The next morning I walked over to the airport before dawn, refuelled and made another stupid mistake. I dragged a small aluminium ladder to the side of the Sun, climbed it and checked the oil level in the engine. There was plenty. Reassured, I got into the plane, performed my pre-flight checks and started the engine. Immediately there was a loud clunk from outside the cockpit.
I swung my head from side to side, frantically trying to work out what had happened. There was no sign of anyone or anything around the plane. In the dawn light, the airport was completely still. I shut down the engine and got outside. My heart was racing.
The Searey has a single rear-facing ‘push’ propeller sticking out from the middle of the wings, which form the roof of the cockpit. Suddenly I realised what had happened: I’d left the ladder next to the engine. Normally I checked the engine oil from the left side of the plane, but this time I had put the ladder on the right, closer to where I’d got it from – but that meant I couldn’t see it from my seat, which was on the left of the aircraft. When I started the engine, the propeller hit the ladder. This was a serious mistake. It was only day three.
Luckily, there was only a tiny nick in each of the three blades. If the metal ladder had been just a centimetre closer, the propeller could have been destroyed altogether. Fixing it would have required the whole engine to be overhauled. My trip would have ended on the tarmac at Longreach.
I knew that making a quick lap of the plane – which should be a standard check anyway – would have avoided the mistake. I felt sick, and hugely annoyed with myself. Who the hell did I think I was, planning this trip? How was I going to make it to London if I kept stuffing up like this? I spent an hour sanding out the nicks and applying a quick-drying epoxy glue to the tip of the propeller blades. But I was still so flustered that I left my BP fuel card in the bowser. I wasn’t looking like a guy capable of flying halfway across the world on his own.
All this was really out of character; I’m usually cautious and methodical. I realised that I was deeply apprehensive about the journey ahead. I simply had to calm down and focus. I made a vow. From then on, the ladder would only go on the pilot’s side. No matter how small the job, and no matter how much of a hurry I was in, I would always walk a lap around the Sun before take-off. Those thirty seconds could save a lot of time, embarrassment and perhaps my life.
While the epoxy glue set I took a photo of the Southern Sun in front of the large historical planes at the Qantas museum: a Boeing 707, a 747 and a Catalina. The morning sun cast a delicious golden hue. The Sun’s metallic silver paint was glowing. She looked beautiful in front of those beasts of the sky.
6.
Wake in Fright
‘To see the world, things dangerous to come to, to see behind walls, to draw closer, to find each other and to feel.
That is the purpose of life.’
WALTER MITTY (RECITING LIFE MAGAZINE’S MOTTO), THE SECRET LIFE OF WALTER MITTY (2013)
There’s not a lot of water north of Longreach – rather, plenty of red desert. But a trickle brings life. Veins of green vegetation follow the faintest pulse of water through the spectacularly harsh land. As Karumba came closer, those trickles of water became broader and more plentiful. The contrasting desert, saltpan, water and greenery together made the most striking vista.
The Norman River is a gentle giant by the time it empties into the Gulf of Carpentaria at Karumba. The isolated town was once a refuelling stop for the Qantas flying boats: a long, straight section of the river in front of the town was the perfect landing spot. The boat ramp and visitors’ building still exist. I landed briefly on the river and took off again, and flew a few circles around the town before continuing west along the remote coastline to Burketown airstrip, where I refuelled briefly. My destination that day was a reunion.
Three families live in their own near-subsistence settlements on Vanderlin Island, in the G
ulf of Carpentaria. Somewhere in those 263 square kilometres of scrub, swamp and forest was my brother, Chris, and his wife, Amanda, a descendant of the ancient Aboriginal owners of the land, and their sons, Peter, Casey and Bryson.
There wasn’t a street map of the place – in fact, there were no streets – so I was relying on a few photos I’d seen of their beachside property. When some people on the ground waved, I landed on the water in front of the house, but quickly realised it was the wrong place. I waved back and took off again. Ten minutes later I found a pristine crescent-shaped bay which I recognised from a photo. I landed on protected waters and drove up the beach. After just three days of my journey, I was already almost overwhelmed by what I had experienced and seen. I was looking forward to a couple of days with family. It had been too long.
Chris was on his way back from the nearest town, King Ash Bay, which was three hours away by boat. He had a load of gear, including a new water heater. Money was tight and visits to the mainland were limited to one a month. I was astounded by his resourcefulness. The family compound consisted of their home, a teacher’s hut, a beach hut for visitors, and storage sheds. Every morning they had to pump water from a spring to a tank positioned on a hill of sand, where gravity would generate water pressure for the house. From before first light until after dark, Chris had to manage a diesel generator, a battery bank and solar panels to maintain power for the refrigerators storing their food.
Chris had assembled or built everything. All the building materials had been brought out piece by piece in his tiny tin boat over several years: steel beams and sheets of corrugated roofing iron, beds, fridges, an oven. Many of the items were bigger than the boat itself. A utility vehicle and quad bikes had been delivered by barge, and when the tractor he needed was too heavy for the local barge, he brought it out in pieces and reassembled it. Did I mention he was resourceful?
The children were educated by the School of the Air, which formerly broadcast lessons over a UHF radio channel, but these days taught classes over sketchy satellite-delivered internet. Visitors coming for a few months would be given free accommodation in return for helping the kids study each day.
The children’s lives illustrated the rich potential of an Indigenous upbringing. Outside of school, they spent their days fishing for barramundi from tidal creeks, catching wallabies for the barbecue or shooting bulls with their father. They travelled around the island on quad motorbikes. Their upbringing reminded me of growing up on my parents’ farm.
Once a wild animal was shot and caught, the children would light the dead fronds of a nut tree. The fronds would burn intensely for a minute and smoke in a distinctive tall plume – a signal to Amanda to come and skin the animal, at which she was expert. Who needs mobile phones, I couldn’t help but think as I witnessed this ancient yet efficient method of communication.
I took Chris, Peter and Casey for joy flights in the rough tropical air. It was the first time they had seen their home from above, and Chris spotted a new waterhole. I was chuffed to have helped out my younger brother.
We also drove around the north of the island in an old, beat-up 4WD ute. Peter showed what an incredible storyteller he was, taking me through his ‘backyard’, exploring multiple landscapes and vegetation types. Witnessing the skill and joy of a ten-year-old catching a barramundi with his spear was wonderful – a world for kids beyond iPad games.
Dinnertime comes earlier in remote Australia than in the cities. The days start earlier, too. Chris had smoked a type of a winged fish that I had never seen before, in a smoker he built himself. It was one of the most delicious dishes of my life, and was followed by some tough bull steaks, which were memorable for a different reason. I’d read about early settlers who got lost in the desert and became so hungry they ate their boots . . . Now I know what that would be like.
After dinner, Chris and I reminisced about growing up and talked a lot about our father. Although he’d died in his fifties, he’d clearly imbued both of us with a strong work ethic, and a sense of the broad scope of life’s possibilities.
Chris wished me well before I left at 7 a.m. the next morning. He spoke casually, as if I’d be returning soon, but we both knew it would probably be a long time before we next met. It had been great to see him and learn more about his life, even if I felt remiss for taking so long to get there. I hoped I’d be back more often. Chris and I have taken different paths in life, but he is my brother and we have a strong bond. Each of us admires the other’s lifestyle, while knowing we’ve each found the path in life that suits us best.
My enjoyment of Arnhem Land and Kakadu National Park from the air was disrupted by a violent vibration from the engine. An engine failure is the second-worst thing that can happen in a light aircraft – the worst is probably a fire – and my immediate concern was that there had been a catastrophic failure, perhaps a small explosion.
I throttled back. After a few seconds the vibrating eased, and I began to prepare myself for an emergency landing. Within a minute, though, the engine seemed better, even if I could still detect a slight vibration. I reduced the power to 65 per cent and scanned the map for an airfield. The closest was behind me, and extremely remote. My current tailwind would increase the time it would take to get there. I found an airfield on the map ahead of me, and closer to my route.
My training kicked in. I constantly scanned the land below and the horizon for a place to land if the engine cut out. The options weren’t great. There were no large bodies of water, and the ground in the national park was irregular and covered with rocks, trees and scrub. Operating at reduced power, the Sun could just maintain altitude, which was concerning because she would have to glide to a landing site if the engine quit. The lower I was, the shorter her range would be.
As the minutes passed, I became more confident the Sun would make it. But I was still desperate to get on the ground and work out what had gone wrong. I assumed the damage to the propeller from the ladder strike two days earlier was the cause. When I landed, I expected to see a big chunk missing, which would explain the vibration.
After seventy minutes of nervous flying I arrived over the airfield I’d seen on the map – but it was completely grown over and could no longer function as an airstrip. There was no sign of civilisation at all. ‘This can’t be happening,’ I groaned.
The Sun’s engine hadn’t got worse for the past hour. I seriously considered making a precautionary landing anyway, as it was possible the propeller had suffered a major failure. But a bush landing could have caused even more damage, and forced me to wait for rescue. ‘It’s better to keep going,’ I told myself. ‘Whatever it was, it seems to have stabilised now.’
I continued directly towards Darwin on a heading past several airstrips and small towns, taking it slowly the whole way, but sensing that, as the issue seemed to have gone away, I’d be better off landing somewhere I would have the resources to fix whatever the problem was. At Emkaytee, a small airfield on Darwin’s outskirts, I was relieved to park and shut down. I climbed out and apprehensively walked to the back of the plane, expecting to see a ruined propeller. In fact it was a minor problem. The protective tape on the leading edge of a propeller blade had been thrown off. Nothing else was wrong, and it would be easy to replace. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Searey propeller blades have a thin stainless-steel adhesive tape along the leading edge to protect them from water and debris. This was not the first time some tape had been thrown off by centrifugal force. But it was the first time it had caused the propeller to vibrate so violently – which I’d mistaken for an engine vibration. The metal tape must have partially unstuck, disrupting the airflow, before detaching altogether. There had been no need for me to slow down; if I’d resumed normal power the Sun would have been fine.
I had several spare tapes in the plane, and replaced the missing one immediately. I borrowed a ute from a guy who lived at the airport and drove to the Boomerang Hotel, where I spent the evening planning my next flight, reading
procedures and watching a video produced by the Civil Aviation Safety Authority on how to land at Darwin airport.
Darwin was only fifteen minutes away. But it would be my first arrival at an international airport. I would have to lodge an international flight plan, clear customs and immigration, and head off for my longest flight over water ever. Then I would be landing in Dili, the capital of East Timor. Anxiety was tingling in my stomach.
I woke up at 4 a.m., adrenaline having replaced fear. Over my espresso and muesli bar I reread for a fourth and fifth time the procedures for landing in Darwin, and then I drove to the airfield and dropped off the loaned ute – leaving a few beers on the passenger seat, the international currency for a loaned car thankyou. I was quickly ready, climbed in and started up the Sun. I pressed the button on the radio to advise our taxi to the runway.
Silence. The radio transmission button on my control stick wasn’t working. I tried the button on the passenger-side controls, and it didn’t work either. Seriously? I’ve never had a problem with this radio, and here I am about to fly into Darwin International Airport, and it’s gone out on me! I shut down the aircraft completely and restarted – a bit like rebooting a computer – and disconnected and reconnected the lead from the radio to the control stick. Hey presto – the radio was back in action.
I suspected the morning dew was responsible. The Sun had been parked in long grass, which was wet from the moist tropical air. The only other time she had experienced intermittent electrical faults was at the Point Cook airfield, between Melbourne and Geelong, when she also was parked on longish wet grass. It was a minor electrical fault, but potentially dangerous and definitely disconcerting, given what was ahead.
Many people look forward to their first overseas trip with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Try making your first landing at an international airport amid massive passenger jets and military aircraft.
Voyage of the Southern Sun Page 5
