‘November Four Seven Three X-ray Papa, Searey amphibian, 10 miles east at 1000 feet, transiting overhead Shemiya for Attu,’ I said.
‘Three X-ray Papa, copy that. Where did you originate?’ they asked.
‘Origin Adak, visiting Attu for three zero minutes, then returning to Adak this afternoon.’
‘Advise when overhead, Shemiya.’
‘Advise overhead, Shemiya. Three X-ray Papa.’
Shemiya was the flattest island I had seen in the Aleutians, which made it a perfect place for an air base. The 10,000-foot-long runway, which could accommodate an Airbus 380 in a trans-Pacific emergency, extended almost the whole length of the island. I couldn’t see any parked aircraft but there was a strange tall building facing Russia, with an array of white radars on one side. Perhaps that was why they didn’t want civilians visiting.
‘Searey Three X-ray Papa, overhead Shemiya,’ I radioed.
‘Three X-ray Papa, copy overhead. We won’t be on station on your way back, so have a good flight.’
‘Thanks for your help, good night. Three X-ray Papa.’
So simple. What a shame I can’t land there and meet the crew, I thought.
Attu was 50 kilometres away. Travelling at 80 knots, the Sun would get there in just under half an hour. More than 1700 kilometres from the Alaskan mainland, Attu is one of the most remote places on the planet, let alone in the United States. I circled the runways to check their condition, but they looked much as I’d seen on the satellite photo taken a few years earlier. Half of one runway was unusable. The larger main runway had tufts of grass growing here and there but seemed in reasonable condition. There was a light misty rain, and turbulence caused by the wind and surrounding mountains.
My aviation chart suggested there would be dozens of buildings. With no population, I figured the island must be a ghost town. I was nervous and excited. As it came into view I realised that only a handful of structures remained, although there were dozens of empty footings, silent monuments to the buildings that had once housed a busy army base, the scene of a battle some seventy-five years earlier.
Attu and the nearby Kiska Island were the only US land invaded and occupied during World War II. The Japanese believed they could block any American attack on Japan from the Aleutians. Their initial success was kept secret from the American public, in order to preserve morale. When the Americans sent soldiers to reclaim the island in May 1943, the men boarded the ship not knowing where they were going. To avoid the secret getting out, the soldiers, who had been trained for desert warfare, were not given arctic clothing. Many suffered severely in the freezing conditions.
The island was expected to fall in three days. On the second-last day of the nineteen days of fighting, the last of the Japanese forces launched a suicidal banzai charge, one of the largest of the entire Pacific campaign. Led by the senior Japanese officer on the island, they broke through American lines and engaged in hand-to-hand combat with rear-echelon troops, losing all but twenty-nine of the roughly 3000 men in the island garrison.
After the war, Attu was converted into a twenty-man Coast Guard navigation station. In 2010 it was essentially abandoned by the US government. The Coast Guard station, which is a robust concrete building on a protected stretch of coast, still stands. There was no vandalism and the building was well secured; I couldn’t find a way to get in or even see inside. An anti-aircraft gun had been turned into a war memorial. But I didn’t find any other military artefacts or signs of World War II.
Someone had the foresight to turn a small temporary building next to the runway into an emergency refuge. There were a few fold-out camp beds, some emergency rations, a crusty old couch and some fat rats, which scurried every which way when I forced the jammed door open. There didn’t seem to be a shelter anywhere else near the runway, so I turned the room into a fuel depot. I put four bags of petrol in an empty closet and latched the doors. I left another on a coat hook. I hoped the rodents wouldn’t like the smell of fuel and try to nibble through the bags.
I wanted to spend more time exploring but I needed to return to Adak before sunset, so left after just forty-five minutes. That would see me arriving at the other end thirty minutes before sunset, or forty-five minutes before it was dark. On the flight back to Adak I had a tailwind and the clearest skies I’d seen all week.
If permission from the Russians came through, I’d have to fly at 16,000 feet, higher than the Sun had ever been. With the tailwind giving me extra time, and strengthening at higher altitudes, I now took her as high as possible as an experiment. The temperature outside was minus 20 degrees, and the air so thin I had to use an oxygen can. There were beautiful puffy cloud formations for miles either side of me.
At 13,800 feet the Sun started fogging up. I wiped off what I thought at first was condensation. A fine powder had coated the inside of the windscreen, and I became concerned it was deadly carbon dioxide building up inside the cockpit. Later I was told it was a kind of snow. It was so cold and dry at that altitude that my breath was turning into crystals. I descended straightaway and arrived at Adak at 7.30 p.m. under a golden late-afternoon sun.
It had been one of the most intriguing days of the entire voyage. Flying through a remote area to an island no one had landed at for years, nor was likely to, was both daunting and exciting. After initially retracing a flying boat route, I was now making an expedition into remote lands surrounded by treacherous seas.
The biggest step in my long journey was close, and everything depended on the Russians. I had been working on them for months now, but didn’t seem to be making definitive progress. The weather was closing in and time was running out. It was time to ask a favour.
31.
The Way Back
‘So shines a good deed in a weary world.’
WILLY WONKA, WILLY WONKA & THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY (1971)
The logistics agent working on my Russian clearance told me to expect an answer from the Russian government any day. That meant I would be leaving Adak within a week. The question was: in which direction? I’d been advised that my request would have to be vetted by the Russian security services. As the difficulties became clearer, I could sense the enthusiasm of Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk airport waning in our email exchanges.
I assumed the main problem was that the Southern Sun was an American-registered aircraft, and that I was travelling on British and Australian passports. No one had told me the real problem, which frustratingly I only discovered in the fine print at the bottom of an email trail after a week on Adak. It stated: ‘Experimental planes can only be granted permission to fly in Russian airspace with diplomatic approval.’ This vital rule seemed to have been overlooked by everyone involved.
As kit aircraft, Seareys were legally classified as an experimental plane – even though mine had in fact been built by the manufacturer itself. This made the Sun subject to further regulations. The Russian aviation authorities weren’t going to admit it without clearance from their foreign ministry, which meant I needed Australia’s Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade to lobby their Russian counterparts on my behalf. This was depressing news. It sounded like a difficult process, and I figured they would have better things to do.
Waiting on an island at the northern edge of the Pacific Ocean, I didn’t know where to start. I went for a walk to think the problem through. It was clear that whatever I did, there wouldn’t be a resolution quickly. I considered storing the Sun on Adak while I returned to Australia to work on the Russians. It wasn’t a path I wanted to take. I believed I only had a week – a fortnight at best – before Adak would close for winter, and the Sun would have no chance of flying home west. The altitude at which the temperature hit zero – the freezing level – was getting lower every day. Flying above that height would be dangerous, because ice could form on the wings. The westerly winds were getting stronger, too. Soon they would set in for winter, and would reach 100 knots on some days. Flying straight into wind faster than the Sun’s 85-knot cruising spee
d meant she would literally go backwards.
If I couldn’t get off Adak within a week, I had two options: store the plane and return the following year, or fly back to Anchorage and either leave the Sun in storage or pack her into a container and ship her home. My temporary landlord, Mike, said I could store the Sun in an old hangar at the airport – if I could open the doors, which weighed tonnes and hadn’t been moved for ages. But he advised against that option. When people on Adak don’t drive their cars for a while, rats often eat the wiring, and it’s almost impossible to repair. Rats could destroy the Sun if she was left alone. I wondered if I could hang her from the roof inside the hangar so the rats couldn’t get to her. Another option Mike suggested was to take the wings off and store her in his second garage, and Lucky would try to ensure rats didn’t get in.
Mike had made a generous offer, which I deeply appreciated. But there was another problem: my ego. I had travelled a long way. Now that it was a possibility, I was enamoured with the idea of becoming the first person to fly around the world solo in an amphibious plane or flying boat. The solo circumnaviator.
In order to complete my round-the-world flight and claim a world record, my deadline to reach Longreach in northern Australia was 13 April, which would mean leaving Adak by mid-March at the absolute latest. I returned to the weather records. February and March looked nasty. April wasn’t much better. It probably wouldn’t really be safe to fly until May. If I waited, I would have the satisfaction of having flown around the world, but the trip would not be formally recognised as a record.
There was another option, but it was one I had resisted thinking about. The Australian minister for the environment, Greg Hunt, was a university friend. Greg had chaired the student council at Ormond College, where we lived as undergraduates. I was always a bit in awe of his maturity and intelligence, and still am today. Raised by a father who was a career politician, Greg was genuinely committed to public service: he had turned down opportunities to make much more money in the private sector. I thought he was the perfect person to be minister for the environment in a Coalition government. At university he had been a passionate conservationist, committed to making a difference in the world. He was a natural leader, consultative and communicative, who genuinely had empathy for both sides of politics. For the past twenty-five years I had thought he would one day make a good prime minister.
I was reticent to ask for Greg’s help, even though I was lonely and desperate. Many years earlier, Greg had been an adviser to Australia’s foreign minister, Alexander Downer. I knew he still had a strong interest in international affairs, and a network of diplomatic contacts. But I hadn’t seen Greg in nine months; like most of my friends, he had no idea I was even on the journey. I felt terrible intruding on his time and using a personal relationship to seek a favour.
Gingerly and apologetically, I sent an email asking if he knew anyone at the Australian Embassy in Moscow who might approach the Russian foreign ministry on my behalf. Even if he could give me a name and contact details, I wrote, that would save me a lot of time trying to work it out from Adak, where I didn’t have a phone and the internet was so slow.
After spending the day trying to solve what had become the toughest challenge of the whole trip, I went to bed deflated. For the first time I was starting to accept that my ambition of completing the first solo circumnavigation was probably not achievable. Mechanical problems I could overcome. Russia and the weather were out of my control.
The next morning was a normal day: cold and overcast. Still despondent, I checked my email. There was a note from the Australian Ambassador in Moscow, Paul Myler. ‘How can we help?’ he asked. There was an email from Greg as well.
Relief flooded through my body. Thanks a million, Greg, I thought as I read his brief email. Greg congratulated me on the trip so far, and told me he’d sent a note to the embassy and asked them to get in touch.
I explained my predicament to the ambassador, who connected me with an aide, Jake Barhonein, who promised to help however he could. I was proud to be a citizen of a country that sees adventure as a great pursuit rather than a frivolous waste of government time. In some small way, I felt a little more connected to the broader world. I wasn’t so alone. There were people out there looking out for me. Helping me.
Jake came back a couple of days later with double bad news. It would take at least a month for me to gain diplomatic clearance to fly through Russian airspace. And the chances of approval were only 50 per cent in any case. By then, the icy winds coming across the Bering Sea from Siberia would make a trip almost suicidal. The Russian option was finally shut.
I came to the grim realisation that, if I wasn’t to give up, I had only one option left. From Adak, I would have to bypass Russia and fly all the way to Japan, a distance of 1800 nautical miles, or 3300 kilometres. The Sun didn’t have the range to make it in one go. Success depended on almost perfect weather conditions and the fuel bags stored on Attu. Even if they weren’t damaged by rats, I would then have to fly hundreds of kilometres out into the Pacific Ocean – over some of the most treacherous and remote seas in the Northern Hemisphere – to avoid Russian airspace. I really didn’t want to be intercepted by the Russian Air Force.
The first leg, from Adak to Attu, would take five to six hours. It wouldn’t be safe to stay on the uninhabited island overnight because of the changeable weather, let alone the purportedly hungry rats, which could start eating the Sun or even me while I was sleeping. The lack of a layover on Attu meant I would have to fly through the night to Japan. There would be no place to land along the way, no autopilot and no toilet. Of the estimated twenty-five hours of flying, with an hour on the ground to refuel, some fourteen to fifteen would be in the dark. Over such a long flight, the weather could easily turn nasty. Sleep deprivation would impair my judgement and ability to fly. I would arrive in Japan’s crowded airspace physically and emotionally exhausted. It was the aviation equivalent of an ironman race – after running a marathon overnight and before a triathlon the next day. Okay, perhaps I’ve overstated it slightly, but you get the idea.
There were several Russian islands along the route about 100 to 200 kilometres to the north and west. International aviation protocol allows any aircraft to land at any airport in an emergency. If the weather deteriorated or the Sun developed a mechanical fault, she would legally be permitted to divert to Russia. Even so, would I be comfortable flying into Russian airspace at night, probably out of radio range, and in an aircraft that used the same engine as a Predator drone? No way. Having tried to convince the Russians to let the Southern Sun in, Jake at the Australian Embassy in Moscow now did the next best thing: he communicated my flight plan and the emergency airports I might need to use to the Russian authorities through official diplomatic channels. If the Sun had to divert, at least they would know in advance what this unidentified aircraft was. The information could mean the difference between being received cordially, spending days in jail, or even being shot down. More than anything, though, Jake’s actions helped my mental preparation.
Bizarrely, the Japanese authorities required ten days’ notice to alter the route. Any change reset the clock. In a country very fond of bureaucracy, it had been almost impossible for experimental aircraft to fly through Japan until a couple of years earlier. A German flight instructor who lives in Japan, Peter Steeger, had all but singlehandedly convinced the government to adopt more flexible rules. He now arranges flight clearances and planning services for aircraft transiting through Japan, an incredibly drawn-out process. The Japanese wanted detailed information about Searey aircraft. Not just the Sun’s fuel capacity, weight and speed, but also her original configuration – before she was modified in the Florida hangar.
Thanks to Peter’s perseverance, permission came through from the Japanese aviation authority on Friday, 23 October 2015. The Sun was given the official okay. Now she just needed a little clear sky.
32.
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
> ‘Only if you find peace within yourself will you find true connection with others.’
PALM READER, BEFORE SUNRISE (1995)
Twenty-four hours, once a week. Perhaps every ten days. The conditions that would make a flight to Japan possible were rarer than Sundays. The prevailing westerly winds would cripple the slow-flying Sun’s ground speed on most days. She needed a nor’easter, and soon.
Two weeks later and it would be November, and the moisture in the air would turn into ice when it hit the Sun’s airframe. Instead of raining, it would snow, weighing her down and covering her windshield like white paint. (Or, as has oft been murmured of late, ‘Winter is coming.’) I obsessively watched weather systems roll across the Bering Sea on my iPad.
By choice, I was stranded on a Pacific island. Used to a life of constant activity, I had been forced to slow down. I did so many sit-ups, squats and push-ups that I was the lightest and fittest I’d been in twenty-five years. I mingled with the residents of Adak Island, feasted at a Community Crab Feast, went on hikes, took residents on joy flights, explored bunkers that once stored nuclear weapons and reread Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I befriended the local school’s teachers, Julie, Ruth, Molly and Christopher, and talked to their pupils and others about my quest.
I met Ruth first, while walking down the street near my digs on the second day. She was returning home from school. Seeing a new face, she wanted to know the who, where and why of my presence on Adak. I was equally surprised to find a woman in her twenties out here, her Dutch accent suggesting a story of her own. She was in the final year of her studies in Holland to be a teacher, and had taken a four-month placement at the Adak school as part of her practical training. Ruth offered to introduce me to the other teachers and show me a bit of what she’d found on the island. Because she was there temporarily, she was eager to explore as much as possible after school and on the weekends. She had found the permanent residents less enthusiastic: for them the bizarre had become normal. I was pleased to have someone to show me around.
Voyage of the Southern Sun Page 23
