I was also determined to fix the Sun’s propeller pitch controller, which could help me climb out of dangerous situations. My ground agent arranged access to a large hangar. It was a luxury to work inside on a concrete floor, which is much nicer than tarmac, especially when you drop a nut or cog. I wasn’t sure why the pitch controller kept failing. There were so many small bronze cogs that pulling apart the device was like playing with the insides of a clock.
While I was working, a couple of firefighter pilots introduced themselves. Based at the airfield, they flew the Canadair CL-415, an amphibian water bomber that could carry thirty people or six tonnes of water. They noticed the Australian flag on the Sun’s tail.
‘But you haven’t come from Australia in that?’ one asked.
‘Ah, yep,’ was pretty much all I could offer. I didn’t feel like boasting about my achievements today.
The tough and versatile CL-415 is still manufactured by Bombardier, twenty-three years after its maiden flight. Seeing the beast of a workhorse next to the Sun, I fantasised about converting one into a private luxury plane for exploration – an ‘air yacht’, to borrow a term from the 1930s. The pilots, who were very friendly, offered me a tour, which I was keen to do. I promised to find them after finishing my maintenance.
The work took longer than planned, mainly because I didn’t warm up the engine before replacing the oil. In cold climates engine oil becomes very thick and takes a long time to drain. After a few hours the work was complete, and I had a decision to make: to fly or not to fly, that was the question. My intended next stop was only a four-hour flight away, and if I left soon I’d make it before dark. Or I could just stay another day here and head off in the morning. The hotel was pretty depressing, and I thought maybe the best thing for me was to get back into the Sun and make the short flight.
I fuelled up, filed my flight plan with the agent and taxied across to the runway, past the CL-415. Doh! I thought. I forgot to get the tour of the fire bombers. I was really annoyed at myself, but it was 4 p.m. and I needed to keep going. If the flight went to plan I would land in the Newfoundland town of Botwood an hour before sunset.
Cloud hung over the vast, empty wilderness around 1500 feet. I comfortably skimmed along at 1000 feet. There were almost no signs of human habitation, just millions of hectares of forest, rivers and the occasional river boat.
Botwood was the North American refuelling stop for the transatlantic flying boats of the 1930s. They flew straight from there to Ireland, a distance of 3200 kilometres. It would have been nice to have that range, I thought, but they never got to explore Iceland or Greenland. I’d take the longer route any day. The town, which has a population of 3100, is proud of its cameo in aviation history. Like Foynes, Botwood has a museum dedicated to flying boats, which I was keen to see. While the water landing area on the well-named Bay of Exploits looked calm, there didn’t seem to be any fences or a yard in which I could lock the Sun up overnight. So I landed at a small airfield on the edge of town at what I thought was 8.15 p.m. It turned out that Newfoundlanders pride themselves on being half an hour ahead of those Labrador mainlanders, which meant it was actually 8.45 p.m. No wonder the sunset seemed early.
The weather had been kind. I needed an easy flight to rebuild my confidence after the Goose Bay incident. I had come a long way, I told myself, and I did actually know what I was doing. The fact that a four-hour flight felt short, when only a few years ago it would have been a major undertaking, was reassuring.
After tying down the Sun, I called Mary, a local cab driver, and asked her to take me to the nearest hotel. There wasn’t one, but she suggested a bed and breakfast called the Dockside Inn. Neat and welcoming, it was a very comfortable place to sleep, which was fortunate because Botwood didn’t have a raging nightlife. With almost the entire town closed by 9 p.m., the only food I could find was from a takeaway chicken joint.
The next day – the 100th of my trip around the world – I planned to spend a day checking out Botwood and its museum. I took the short cab trip to the airfield, took off in the Sun and several minutes later touched down on the bay and taxied to a parking area near the museum, which was built on the grounds of the original 1930s flying boat base. Getting up onto the land was easy as the original concrete ramp and hardstand were still in great condition. I taxied out of the water and – something I’d never done before – down the road to the museum.
The Botwood Flying Boat Museum is small and run by enthusiastic volunteers. Its eclectic collection includes photos, models, artefacts and a cinematic news feature from the 1930s about the flying boats coming to town. The original terminal and speedboat house still stand, and are kept in good shape.
Word got around that a flying boat had arrived, and soon the Southern Sun was surrounded by a small crowd, including the mayor, Jerry Dean, and his deputy, Scott Sceviour. Their surprise at seeing an Australian flag on the tail turned to astonishment when they heard where she had come from. The Sun was the first flying boat to fly from Foynes to Botwood in thirty-seven years, they said. Hearing that was pretty good. The mayor presented me with a flag of the city and then asked to meet after dinner for a chat over a drink.
After meeting and taking photos with many locals, I flew back to the airfield, where Mary was waiting to pick me up. After I had a quiet dinner alone at the Dockside Inn, she took me to the local branch of the Royal Canadian Legion, where quite a crowd had gathered. They had decided to do me the honour of an old Newfoundland initiation known as the ‘Screech In’ ceremony. This requires the subject to wear a bright yellow raincoat and talk like a Newfoundlander while standing with one bare foot in a bucket of iced water, and then downing a swig of locally made rum, or Screech. The talking was the hardest bit but I must have come close enough, because I was presented with a certificate that said I had been inducted into the Royal Order of the Screechers. I promised it would go straight to the pool room.
Due to the impromptu nature of the evening, I gave a quick talk. I focused not so much on details of my trip but on the great sense of community I had experienced in towns across the world, including that day in Botwood. The audience was very interested and I moved from table to table casually and answered their questions. It was lovely to be surrounded by such hospitable people. One of the reasons for their enthusiasm was the strong bond that exists between the Irish and the Newfoundlanders.
Sleeping in is only relaxing when you don’t have an agenda. My alarm went off at 5.30 a.m. I then woke again at 6.09 a.m., which left me just twenty-one minutes to get ready for my ride. A shower and morning espresso were not optional if I wanted to fully wake up, so I decided to check the weather and file my flight plan at the airfield, hoping there would be some 3G reception. Mary’s husband, Gary, arrived in his pick-up truck ready to collect eight containers of fuel on the way. He refused to accept payment for their taxi services – not just for that morning but the previous day too, even though Mary had run me all over town. Such kindness from strangers never failed to move me.
The Sun’s destination that day was North America. The city of Bangor, Maine, has an airport that is today used by the US Air Force as a stopover for flights to Europe, and it is also the most common gateway for smaller private aircraft crossing the Atlantic.
The United States is the most defended nation on Earth, even more so in the air since the 9/11 attacks. Which is why I was concerned, as I approached the border at 4500 feet, that I had lost contact with Canadian air-traffic control and couldn’t raise anyone in the US either. If there was anywhere in the world the Sun was going to be intercepted for non-contact at a border crossing, I felt this would be it.
I entered US airspace over the sea and, when the time came, turned right towards the airport, still nervously unannounced. Bangor was forty-five minutes inland. I soon found myself in depressingly familiar territory. The morning weather report said there would be a lot of clouds around, but ‘broken’, meaning there should have been plenty of holes to fly through. But as I clo
sed in on the coast, there was one long, unbroken cloud as far as I could see, and it reached almost to the ground. I had been flying for over eight hours. The chances of the weather forecast still being accurate after that amount of time were not very good.
Almost due east of Bangor, I had to make the same fateful decision I’d faced three days ago at Goose Bay: go under or over. In an instant, I decided to fly over the cloud at 4500 feet. I didn’t have the nerve to do otherwise. If I went under, I could have become caught between a hill and cloud, with no water or runway to land on.
I hoped the cloud would open up before I hit the 30-mile circle around Bangor airport, which I had to seek permission from the tower to enter. If I couldn’t see the ground, I wouldn’t be allowed to land under visual flight rules. The tower might refuse me clearance to enter its airspace, and it would be up to me to find an alternative.
After fifteen minutes I was close to the 30-mile marker, 50 kilometres to the airport, yet there was no break in the cloud. I had always felt more comfortable descending over water, because I knew there would be no nasty surprises in the shape of mountains or radio towers. The chart said the Sun would be safe from obstacles as long as we didn’t go below 1300 feet above sea level, which would mean we were a good 500 feet above the nearest obstacle. A sizeable lake ahead was a landing option.
I came up with a plan. I would descend through the cloud to 1500 feet. If the sky wasn’t clear, I would drop another 200 feet. If that didn’t work, I would climb out, continue towards the airport and think of something else. I reduced power and put the Sun into a slow descent. I concentrated on the altimeter, the rate-of-descent gauge which indicated how fast the Sun was falling, and on the artificial horizon. I even deployed the flaps, which slowed the Sun down and made the handling more docile and the wings less likely to stall.
After a few minutes, at a descent rate of 350 feet a minute, I entered the cloud. Just like near Goose Bay, the cockpit was enveloped in an impenetrable white. This time, though, I was in control. The Sun was flying in a straight line, and was level with the horizon. Her speed was only 70 knots, which slowed everything down nicely and gave me more time to react and keep the situation under control.
I reckoned it would be two to three minutes before we emerged from the cloud. After three it was still a whiteout. Approaching 1500 feet, I looked out the side window for signs of land. It might as well have been the middle of the night during a power blackout. In the back of my mind, the memory of Goose Bay haunted me. But I stayed calm and focused. Okay, I thought. I’ll give this another thirty seconds. If I can’t see through the cloud by then, I’ll climb back out.
I slowed the Sun’s descent rate to 200 feet a minute. After thirty seconds that put her at 1400 feet, which meant there could have been a hill just 600 feet below. I glanced sideways and downwards. There was nothing but white. I gently opened the throttle, moved the control stick back a few millimetres and jabbed the electric switch with my thumb that trimmed the tail and locked in the climb. Within seconds the Sun started gaining altitude, and was soon climbing under full power at 500 feet a minute. I felt a surge of relief as she emerged from the cloud into safe blue sky.
I levelled off at 3500 feet. Having spoken to no one for a couple of hours, I felt quite lonely as I tried, for the umpteenth time, to raise the Bangor air-traffic controllers on the radio.
‘Bangor approach, Searey November Four Seven Three X-ray Papa,’ I said.
This time a voice came into my headset loud and clear: ‘November Four Seven Three X-ray Papa, Bangor, go ahead.’
I requested permission to land, stated my position and advised the transponder code I had been given at Botwood. ‘X-ray Papa, 35 miles east, 3500 feet, VFR flight, from Botwood, Canada, request inbound with ETA two-three [twenty-three minutes past the hour].’
I was soon ‘identified’, which meant he had me on radar and I was allowed to continue towards the airport. I still didn’t know how I was going to get through the cloud, though, which made me nervous. There were no holes in the white. Nature didn’t seem to have read the morning’s forecast.
I advised the controller I was ‘VFR on top’ and asked him to help me find a way through.
‘Are you IFR-equipped?’ he asked. He was asking if the Sun had navigational instruments for flying through cloud, which it did, although they were basic.
‘Affirm,’ I replied.
I girded my loins for another scary descent. But with his assistance I found an opening in the cloud a little to the left. Phew, I thought. This landing was going to be a lot easier.
While I could have flown through the cloud with the controller’s guidance, it was much more comfortable and safer being able to see the ground. As the Sun descended to 1500 feet two nautical miles from the runway, I thought to myself: That’s it – I absolutely, positively need an IFR rating and a fully equipped IFR plane. This is not the place to be messing with weather.
Two minutes later I was rolling along the runway. A customs officer was waiting for me, and took only took ten minutes before handing me over to two US Immigration agents.
Although Bangor is probably the most popular entry and exit point for small planes in the US north-east, these two guys, employing some sort of ‘good cop/bad cop’ routine, subjected me to over an hour of mindless grilling, badgering me about my reasons for entering the country. They didn’t care that the Southern Sun was registered in the United States, or that I had flown there dozens of times. They treated me with suspicion and disdain. It was fascinating that the most hostile welcomes I received during my whole trip were in the United Kingdom and the United States.
Seriously, guys, I thought. Loosen up! Every other country is friendlier than you – even the ones you think are your enemies!
25.
Su11y
‘“First Officer Skiles, is there anything you’d like to add? Anything . . . you would have done differently if you . . . had to do it again?”
“Yes. I would’ve done it in July.”’
ELIZABETH DAVIS AND JEFF SKILES, SULLY (2016)
‘New York radar, November Four Seven Three X-ray Papa, Searey amphibian with one POB [passenger on board], inbound for Westchester via Port Washington,’ I radioed air-traffic control.
‘Four Seven Three X-ray Papa, you are identified,’ the controller replied. ‘Turn heading two one zero to overfly, then expect to join downwind for Westchester runway three four.’
‘New York radar, request touch-and-go at Port Washington, as per my flight plan. Three X-ray Papa.’
‘Three X-ray Papa, what are you requesting?’
‘Three X-ray Papa is an amphibian seaplane. Final destination is Westchester, but flight plan includes a touch-and-go on Port Washington waters en route.’
‘Three X-ray Papa, proceed to Port Washington, which is OCTA [outside controlled airspace]. Contact me on the way back.’
‘Cleared for a touch-and-go, Port Washington. Three X-ray Papa. Thank you very much for your help. G’day.’
The number of planes under the supervision of the New York air-traffic controller I had just spoken to was insane. From huge passenger jets down to the tiny Southern Sun, coming and going from five or more airports, he moved us around like chess pieces. The controller seemed relieved to get me off the air. He had a lot more to worry about than a small plane planning to kiss the water at Port Washington, a fancy outer New York suburb on the north shore of Long Island, and America’s equivalent of Southampton Waters on the transatlantic flying boat route. Did he realise how far I’d come, or what a wondrous moment this was for me? Of course not.
Port Washington is a picturesque and busy little harbour. It was a Wednesday in July, and the water was full of small yachts and dinghies. I’d been advised in Foynes (and it was confirmed in Botwood) that the last flying boat to cross the Atlantic from Southampton to New York was in the 1950s. Today, visits from flying boats are rare, as I realised when the Sun touched down. A small fleet of school-aged children sai
led over to say hello, and a guy in a speedboat raced over too. I could tell by the way he was looking at me that the phone in his hand was dialling 911. I gave him a thumbs-up, he hung up and sped off.
The Sun had now completed the four water landings of the original London–New York flying boats: Southampton, Foynes, Botwood and Port Washington. I felt enormously pleased. Not because I thought I had achieved a great aviation milestone – I hadn’t – but because I had wanted to re-create two important flight routes from history that held a deep personal fascination for me.
Once the schoolkids were out of the way, I eased the Sun back into the sky. I then flew to Westchester, a secondary airport for New York City, and landed behind one private jet and in front of another. Because it had been an internal flight, I didn’t have to clear customs or immigration. I tied down the Sun and casually walked over to the airport building, ignored by all. Hold on, I thought. This is what flying at home is normally like!
I felt like I had just finished my high-school exams. Sitting on a couch in the pilots’ lounge, I didn’t know what to do with myself. What’s next? I wondered. I decided to get coffee first, red wine soon and then a good night’s sleep. After the coffee, it didn’t take me long to settle on my next move, and right now: fly the Sun around one of most photogenic and awe-inspiring cities on the planet.
The Hudson River stretches along the western side of the island of Manhattan; famously, it was the site of a water landing by a US Airways plane in 2009. Aviation authorities have established a route above the river for private VFR pilots like me. The maximum altitude allowed is 1300 feet, which is lower than some buildings in the city. Because the airspace around New York is so crowded, there is a very regimented procedure for the route, which intimidates some amateur pilots, including me. Even though I had never flown a plane over or near New York, it was too good not to explore.
Voyage of the Southern Sun Page 18
