With a lot of competition across Europe for tourists, Split’s airport is a well-oiled machine. Staff from its General Aviation division had looked after all my arrangements: filing my next flight plan, nine days’ parking at the airport, tie-downs to make sure the Sun didn’t blow away, a transfer from the terminal, refuelling and other organisational details. All for just €80, when ground handlers at other airports had charged hundreds of dollars. And they couldn’t have been nicer or more efficient.
After a week of sailing under sunny skies, I was looking forward to seeing Croatia from above. At the same time, the Sun’s difficult arrival in Split had left me feeling apprehensive and had shaken my confidence somewhat. Luckily, it was a perfectly clear day.
Croatia from the air didn’t disappoint. The first couple of hours were along the western edge of Croatian airspace, and the Adriatic Sea glowed a glorious blue. There was not a single cloud. My destination was Lake Como, in northern Italy. One of the most romantic locales on this wee planet held an extra allure for me: Anne, rather than meeting me in London, was now coming to Como, where we’d be reunited after nearly seven weeks apart. It was the perfect place for a rendezvous.
The wishbone-shaped body of water was not on the Qantas Imperial flying boat route, but it does have the oldest continuously operated seaplane base and school in the world. It looks rather exquisite too, which is why it has been the backdrop for so many movies, including Star Wars: Episode II – Attack of the Clones, Ocean’s Twelve and James Bond’s Casino Royale. Famously, at the Lake Como village of Laglio is the holiday home of George Clooney, whose film Tomorrowland was playing in cinemas as I landed. I had hoped to meet with the actor and receive a personal apology for the two hours of my life spent watching it which I can now never get back. But the lights weren’t on at his home.
As I got closer to the famous lake, the snow-peaked Dolomites mountain range came into view, overlooking flat and intricate farmland. Down there is some of the most wondrous scenery and food the world doth know, I mused admiringly, feeling confident in my flying again.
The standard seaplane approach route to Lake Como is at 2000 feet, which means the nearby mountains tower a few thousand feet above the planes. My destination was the town of Como, at the lake’s south-western tip. I had been under the directions of an air-traffic controller since leaving Split. As the lake came into sight, he closed my flight plan, which meant I was free to fly where I wanted to make my way onto the lake. It was time for some old-fashioned water flying. There were still radio calls to be made, but with no tower at Como, like at most small airfields, the calls are made simply to let other planes in the area know where you are and your intentions. Often these calls go unanswered, as you may be the only one there, but Lake Como was a hive of activity.
‘Como traffic, Searey November Four Seven Three X-ray Papa, 10 miles south, leaving 2500 feet for 2000 feet, inbound,’ I broadcast.
‘Searey X-ray Papa, welcome to Lake Como. I think is your first time?’ a pilot in a Cessna called back. The imperfect English spoken with an Italian accent was as romantic as the villas along the lake’s edge.
‘Si, um, affirm, first time,’ I replied.
‘Okay, you see I am doing circuit – follow me downwind when arrive and I show you the runway.’
A runway on a lake? This was interesting. A few minutes later I was over the historic town of Como, behind a Cessna that had floats instead of wheels.
‘Searey X-ray Papa, overhead Como, 2000 feet, joining downwind, following Cessna, for water operations,’ I said.
‘Ah, Searey, hello – just follow me and you will see the pattern and runway,’ he replied.
‘Searey following.’
As I descended, I aimed the Sun towards a sea of terracotta roofs. The Cessna seemed to hug the mountain to our right, the eastern side of the lake. While concentrating on flying was important, it was hard not to be distracted by the scenery. Bellissimo!
Ahead of me, the Cessna turned towards the landing zone. When I reached the same position a minute later, the ‘runway’ became clear. Large yellow buoys marked the perimeter of the landing area. The Cessna in front touched down briefly on the water, skimmed for a few seconds and then climbed over the shoreline and back into the sky.
Waves and slop caused by ferries crisscrossing between towns were churning up the landing zone. Having learned from the Sun’s bumpy equatorial landing, I levelled out just above the water, took my time and slowed to just 40 knots before planting her firmly on the water.
‘Searey X-ray Papa, clear of the runway. Taxiing for Aero Club Como,’ I broadcast as I turned right and began making my way to the shore.
Arriving at the Aero Club Como was one of the great moments of my life. I taxied the Sun up a wide concrete ramp. Swans swam past.
Sure, I hadn’t exactly summitted Mount Everest, but I had wanted to visit this place for many years, and I felt proud that I had flown a flying boat all the way there from Melbourne. Many pilots and their friends at the club seemed surprised at the size of the Southern Sun and the Australian flag on her tail. I don’t speak Italian but overheard them mention Australia while shaking their heads many times.
I was even complimented by the club’s chief flying instructor. He told me he thought a small plane like the Sun might struggle to land in the relatively rough water, but from the air he saw my landing and was impressed.
A past president of the club, Cesare Baj, who now serves as its librarian and historian, had arranged space for the Sun in the crowded hangar, and for three immigration and customs officers to meet me shore-side to check my British passport. They all seemed to come from the one gene pool, having the same lean physique, olive skin, two-day growth and cleanly shaven head.
Cesare, wearing a chic linen summer jacket, showed me round. The art-deco building and cavernous hangar were built in the 1930s, when Italy was industrialising under Benito Mussolini. The club allowed me to use an apartment in the building that had once been the manager’s residence.
Cesare is a world-renowned historian in seaplane circles and has amassed what must be the most thorough collection of books, magazine articles, newspaper cuttings, paraphernalia and original airmail letters relating to flying boats and seaplanes. He proudly showed off some of his prize possessions, including one I think he knew would have special meaning for me: a letter sent on the inaugural Sydney to Southampton Flying Boat Air Mail service in 1938. The specially made envelope was exquisite and exciting to hold. Covered in postage stamps and inked rubber stamps and with a typed address, it was a unique if esoteric part of aviation history. All of a sudden, Lake Como felt connected to my flying boat journey.
After a walk around the gorgeous town it was time for dinner, my last solo meal before Anne arrived the next day. I decided there was no better place to eat than the Yacht Club di Como, which was on the waterfront next to the Aero Club. They accepted my Royal Yacht Club of Victoria membership card and welcomed me as a guest. I sat for a couple of hours, writing some postcards and in my diary, while enjoying the vista of boats under the long twilight after the sun dipped behind a tall mountain.
The next morning, with Anne not due until late afternoon, it was time for a joy flight. I flew the length of the lake and back, including some brief landings and take-offs on water. I was most excited to stop on the waters at Bellagio, a medieval town that juts out into the lake. Villages along the bank were packed with old Italian villas, separated by surprisingly large stretches of woodland.
There were plenty of other pilots out, and they filled the radio with business-like chatter. Some were seaplanes on charters. Others were pilots training from the base at Como. I broadcast my position at key points so the other pilots would know where I was. It was the busiest seaplane activity I’d ever seen, in the most spectacular of settings.
The Aero Club could only accommodate the Sun for one night, but club officials had made arrangements for me to store her at a private airfield in the nearby town of Lecco w
hile Anne and I enjoyed a lake-front holiday. The airfield, which was so small it was actually tricky to spot, was owned by the factory that manufactured Kong outdoor equipment, such as abseiling harnesses and rigging fittings.
The Kong runway was 430 metres long. According to the Sun’s manual, she needed only 200 to 300 metres to land or take off. But as I’d been using runways that were as long as 3 kilometres for most of the trip, the grass-surrounded concrete field looked very, very short.
I decided to do a complete lap and have a really good look from the air before making a cautious approach. After I did so, the Sun touched down right at the runway threshold – known in pilot-speak as landing ‘on the numbers’ – and pulled up with a quarter of the runway spare. That felt good, I thought. But I knew landing was one thing; how would I go taking off with more fuel on board?
Adding to my concern, the Sun’s pitch motor – the device that adjusts the angle of the propeller to make take-offs easier – wasn’t working; it was like driving a car without first gear. I knew I was going to spend the next week worrying if the airfield was long enough. So I got on the radio and advised whoever was listening – no one seemed to be – that I was taking off again for a ‘circuit’. I followed the textbook procedures for short runways, which is basically to deploy full flaps, lock the brakes on, push the throttle all the way forward and let her rip.
There was nothing to worry about. The Sun was in the air about two-thirds of the way along the runway, in still conditions. A headwind would make the take-off even easier.
My experience getting to the town of Pognana Lario, which is halfway between Como and Bellagio, felt like an Italian version of Planes, Trains and Automobiles. It was just fifteen minutes directly by plane yet four hours by foot, taxi, bus, train and another taxi. Exhausted, I got to the rented villa just before Anne arrived by taxi from Milan. It was wonderful, if a tad surreal, to meet her on the steep driveway leading down to the lake. The small villa Anne had booked, right by the water’s edge, was perfect. We had a quiet night catching up, with a small dinner and champagne in our front yard, which looked across the lake to – of all places – George Clooney’s house, and planned some activities for the week ahead.
We decided to spend our first day in Bellagio. There was a ferry stop close by, and we ventured off mid-morning. It took ninety minutes to cover just 13 kilometres. There are two ways to view this form of travel, I thought, charming or tedious. Bellagio was splendid. But relying on three ferries a day had me seeking more independence. By the end of the day we had rented a small boat.
Anne and I quickly settled into a routine which we kept up for the whole week: setting off by water to a corner of the lake, energetic exploring, a long Italian lunch, slow afternoon meandering and then a salad at home for dinner. It felt like a second honeymoon, especially after so many weeks apart.
Luckily, Anne and I share a love of films, and we were keen to visit two famous movie settings. Villa del Balbianello had featured in a Star Wars and a Bond film and was open to the public for tours. Villa La Gaeta, however, a lakeside mansion that appeared in Casino Royale, was a little more difficult. In the closing scene, the villain, Mr White, is shot in the leg by Bond, and dragged off for an interrogation – a plot line that leads into the follow-up film, Quantum of Solace. Once a private home, the villa is now divided into apartments that aren’t accessible to the public. But a couple were up for sale or rent. Some were even on Airbnb, so I contacted one and requested to inspect it as a potential renter. An appointment was scheduled for later that day.
On the last day of our most splendid week together, Anne and I arrived in our little runabout and tied up to the jetty. The beach was private, the grounds exquisite, the apartments spectacular and the cost affordable, even for a few nights. We loved it. Without a hint of an Austrian accent, I made a silent vow: We’ll be back.
16.
The Flying Squad
‘Don’t tell me I can’t do it; don’t tell me it can’t be done!’
HOWARD HUGHES, THE AVIATOR (2004)
For a quiet town, Saint-Nazaire played an important role in French economic and military history. Situated at the mouth of the famous Loire River, it was a major German submarine base during World War II. The U-boats were housed in concrete bunkers, the most monolithic and brutal structures I had seen. Sitting there, unloved for such a long time, they were kind of cool – in a historical and construction sense. I had sailed into the port in 2003 while competing in the Tour de France à la Voile, on the first boat I christened Southern Sun, a Mumm 30 yacht, with a young Williamstown crew racing as ‘Team Australie’.
Perhaps ironically, the river is now home to a French naval base, and large sections over the water are reserved for military pilots. Europe’s biggest aircraft manufacturer, Airbus, builds fuselages at the airport. Once finished, they are inserted, like big Russian dolls, into a giant Beluga plane and flown to the south of France for final assembly.
The Sun arrived in Saint-Nazaire at 8.30 p.m. on 10 June, a day later than planned, via Marseille, where the Qantas Imperial flying boats and many others once refuelled. I had hoped to land on the water runway just off the shore of Marseille airport. But it was rough and wasn’t worth the risk when a long concrete runway was available too.
My small delay was due to the twenty-four hours I found myself at St Lucia airfield, in Lombardy, Italy, where I had planned a quick pitstop. By good fortune, on enquiring with the Southern Sun’s propeller manufacturer in the United States whether they had an agent in Europe who could service the pitch motor, it turned out that Aviare S.R.L. was only an hour south of Como. On arriving, I was helped by aero mechanic Luigi Grasselli, who discovered it was a bigger job than it first seemed: he would need all day to collect the necessary parts and then repair the propeller hub properly. It turned into a huge day and night of work – although not without a classic ‘get your priorities right!’ long Italian lunch in the middle. But the work was done, and very well, as Luigi sorted out a few other things he noticed along the way. Reaffirming my wonder at the generosity of strangers, not only was he a lovely chap and fantastic engineer, but he refused to let me pay for the long hours he had worked, just the parts and fuel used. Thanks, Luigi.
By contrast, after landing at Marseille airport, I was chastised by an official for not having hired a ground handler to escort me the eighty metres to the terminal building. I apologised, but part of me was resentful at the criticism. I didn’t know the rule, and many light aircraft, including a flying school, used the airport. That meant there were a lot of amateur pilots like me walking around the place all the time. It was hardly Dubai or Heathrow. Later that night, making the most of the long summer days and 10 p.m. sunsets, after a long day of flying I arrived late at Saint-Nazaire’s airport and found it completely empty. I locked up the Sun and caught a taxi into town. The Loire River here was the final stop for the Qantas Imperial flying boats before Southampton, where the passengers disembarked and caught trains to London. Of course, the atmosphere in France in 1938 was tense. World War II began on 1 September the following year, when Germany invaded Poland, but the Spanish Civil War was well underway, and Germany had already absorbed Austria, and in Ocotber 1938 annexed part of Czechoslovakia.
For me, Saint-Nazaire brought a mixture of nervousness and excitement. The following day would be the last of my two-month-long trip, much more leisurely than the Qantas Imperial ten-day passage, although even slower than the six weeks the Cunard line took at the time. I would briefly touch down on the water at Southampton, and then fly to a nearby airport to clear customs. Anne would be waiting for me in London. The Southern Sun would be disassembled, placed in a shipping container and sent on a lonely, slow journey home.
My ambition to re-create one of the great and little-travelled routes of international aviation would be complete. I would return home to Williamstown and resume my life running our cinemas. Is this really it? I thought. I didn’t dare ponder going further than London for fear o
f jinxing the last leg, which would be a long flight.
The French payments system tried hard to stop me getting to London. The fuel bowser at Saint-Nazaire airport only accepted French credit cards – a problem encountered nowhere else along the route so far – and no one at the airport would take my euros and help out. The Southern Sun didn’t have enough fuel in her tanks to make Southampton, which meant I had to find an airport on the way where I could fill up – a kind of aerial pitstop. Appreciating my problem and wanting to help, the Saint-Nazaire control tower telephoned little La Baule-Escoublac aerodrome, which was 10 kilometres away, and confirmed that it was technologically advanced enough to accept payment from a foreign credit card.
The five-minute flight to La Baule-Escoublac was the shortest of the entire journey. Established as a military airfield during World War I, it is located in a gorgeous spot by the seaside, and has a classically French cafe and picnic tables. The Sun caused a minor sensation at the aerodrome’s flying club, where she received that oh-so-French pouty look and a remark I heard regularly: ‘No! In that?’
Some respect, please, I thought. She’s looked after me very well.
Wanting to look my best for England, I polished my boots on the clubhouse’s shoe-shine machine, the first I had ever seen at a flying club; I expected to see that sort of thing in England, but hey, vive La France! After taking off, I looked across at the Loire River and was reminded that it was once the last stop of the flying boats’ epic journey. The breeze was moderate and the water calm, so I turned, descended and eased the Southern Sun onto the river near some boat moorings and a lovely beach. After kissing the water, we turned north.
The flight took me over Brittany, one of my favourite places from previous sailing travels, and the famous Mont Saint-Michel monastery, surrounded by tidal flats. I looked over the rocks and islets that surrounded the island of Jersey and thought about how treacherous they must be to sail. About an hour from the British coast, at 2500 feet midway across the English Channel, the Sun hit turbulence so severe it would have launched me out of my seat if I hadn’t been strapped in. The gentle tailwind was replaced by a strong headwind, which slowed her down. I didn’t care, as long as it wasn’t too rough to land on Southampton Water. I was euphoric at the thought of finishing the trip – alive and with the Southern Sun in one piece – and couldn’t stop grinning.
Voyage of the Southern Sun Page 12
