I had only one job left to do – to install the fuel tank into the aircraft. The regulations in relation to fitting additional tanking into the Cirrus were very strict, and the operation had to be carried out very close to departure. With only days left I flew north to Kempsey in central New South Wales, where Darren and the crew at Macleay Aircraft Maintenance began fitting the tank into the aircraft. I watched every move, learning where each fitting went and why it was there. There was a good chance I would need to understand this if something happened to go wrong during the trip, so now was the time to learn. Along with the tank, a HF radio used for long-distance communication was fitted for use over water when the normal aircraft radios were out of range. To service the radio inside the cabin a long wire aerial was fitted to the exterior of the aircraft, running from nose to tail underneath the belly of the plane before extending at waist height to the right wing tip, where it was secured.
From the front seats rearward the aircraft was stripped, the trim and seats were taken out, leaving room for the tank. The ratchets, all six brightly coloured straps, lay across the tank like netting. A selection of fuel lines ran under the seat and into the right foot well where they joined an array of fuel and hand pumps. These would take fuel from the bladder tank inside the cockpit and let it transfer via a fuel line running under the wing into the right-wing fuel tank. When the switches were turned on, the right tank would fill with fuel, increasing the aircraft endurance from five hours to a whopping seventeen without stopping.
We filled the tank with a small amount of fuel, I clambered into an aircraft that now smelt like fuel and took off. I circled over Kempsey to test the system. From what I could tell the tank worked okay with a reduced fuel load, but the real test would come when the tank was full. Unfortunately that was not an option at this time due to Australian aviation regulations defining when and where the tank could be used, so I packed up, said goodbye and flew the aircraft home.
With the Merimbula airport undergoing maintenance, the Cirrus was put into a hangar at Frogs Hollow. I worked between home and the airport, finishing up the final jobs at home while I zipped back and forth to the plane. We installed cameras into the aircraft and spent an afternoon with Rex, Eddie and the maintenance boys changing the oil and learning a few more skills. With the engine covered up and wiped down, the last equipment fitted and tested, we closed up the hangar. The next time I would see the aircraft would be the day I departed for Wollongong.
The clock was ticking away, rushing by a little too quickly. I had packed all I could, we had checked everything over and over again and now I was left with little to do except go to bed. Finally, after years of work, I was nearing my comfort zone, sort of. I checked the weather and planned to depart Merimbula the next morning. It might have been the beginning of an unknown adventure, a type of flying that I had never experienced before, over water and through outrageously different environments, cultures and situations, but it was flying. That was all that mattered.
I woke up early after a night of little sleep and a lot of thinking. Showered, dressed in the flight suit, packed toothbrush and bags in the ute.
The plan was to fly the aircraft from the little Frogs Hollow grass airstrip to Merimbula early that morning. The Merimbula runway was opening just in time for my planned departure celebration. Constant rain had been battering the Sapphire Coast so a quick check of the runway at Merimbula would be required before attempting a landing in the Cirrus. This was not the day for taking chances and mine would be one of the first aircraft landing on the newly upgraded runway.
Dad and I set off for Frogs Hollow while everyone else planned to meet us at Merimbula. As we drove past home, I spun around and wondered: ‘Will I ever see this place again?’ I knew from a mathematical and logical point of view, considering our planning and priority towards safety, that I would. But my mind was playing games; there were times when it took absolutely no notice of common sense.
I opened the hangar and Dad and I wheeled the Cirrus out into the open air. It was a cloudy, dreary day with skies threatening another downpour. One by one other pilots arrived at Frogs, all members of the aero club who would be flying to Merimbula to see me off. I completed my thorough pre-flight inspection and packed the aircraft in the quiet surrounds of the little grass airstrip, knowing Merimbula was beginning to fill with locals. I started up and taxied away.
It was a short flight but an enjoyable one, leaving Frogs with a quick look over the shoulder at an airstrip and aero club that had played such a huge part in my flying life. I headed through a gap in the surrounding hills before descending into Merimbula. Normally it was a sunny coastal town but today it was overcast, and a glance to the north confirmed low-lying cloud in the direction of Wollongong. I touched down at Merimbula and taxied straight to the bowser; all that was left to do was to refuel and apply some of the last stickers before departure.
The aircraft was wheeled into Rex’s hangar at Merimbula Aircraft Maintenance and Bruce, who had organised much of the sign-writing, was on hand to apply the last decals. I zipped away to put in a flight plan, an official notification to air traffic control as to who you are, where and when you are flying, and to check the weather. As I walked back I spotted the ever-growing crowd pushed up against a makeshift fence, all squinting for a look into the hangar and the Cirrus.
It was vital to me, however long it took, to have the last of the sponsors’ logos added to the aircraft, including the aircraft’s name – The Spirit of the Sapphire Coast, encompassing the hard work put in by both the Frogs Hollow Aero Club and the local area. Without the support of each and every sponsor: the individuals who passed on small amounts including international currency for food; the clubs and organisations teaming together to raise funds; the hundreds of members of the 500 Club; the shops that fundraised through a ‘loose change jar’; up to the large organisations such as Telstra and our other corporate sponsors including Snap, Dick Smith Foods, Jeppesen, QBE, Dale and Hitchcock and many others, the flight would have simply not gone ahead. This support showed the world that a young person with a dream, courage and commitment, can and will find support within the community to help their objective become a reality. All of us represented that it was possible to leave Merimbula with a common dream to conquer the world.
We disconnected the fence, parted the crowd like the Red Sea in the Bible and had the aircraft towed to the taxiway. We had a quick chat standing on a makeshift stage and with a thank you to all involved, I said goodbye and hopped into the Cirrus. I started up and as soon as the aircraft was firing, both Mum and Dad cut a ribbon – evidently a structurally sound device keeping me within the confines of Merimbula airport – then I was free. As I began my checks, a lengthy process, everyone began cheering and a stream of water shot from the fire truck. I have no idea whether everyone was excited or they just wanted to get rid of me so they could go and grab breakfast. However, finally I was finished and taxied towards the end of the runway.
I lifted off, turning immediately to come back around over the airfield once more, and with a pass overhead I rocked my wings to wave goodbye and focused on climbing ahead through a low cloud base en route to Wollongong.
Although I would officially depart from Wollongong early the following morning, it was safe to say I had truly left home. The familiar coastline and surrounding areas where I learned to fly were behind me, the cloud that engulfed the aircraft made things a little easier as, with no sight of the ground or water, I could have been anywhere. Each memory, whether a first solo, my first navigation flight or the fun times flying the coast with family and friends were all based around this area. Hopefully the next memory, the successful end to a solo circumnavigation, would happen in these skies in just a few months’ time.
I touched down in Wollongong after an approach through the rain-filled clouds from the south and taxied to a large hangar. The doors were only just cracked open, sheltering the contents of the building from the pouring rain, yet within that small crack w
as a bunch of media personnel and cameras filming my arrival. I climbed out, said hello and for the next twenty minutes proceeded to walk back and forth to the aircraft in the rain for the benefit of the cameras.
We filmed that afternoon with a number of people, ticking off the media for the evening news stories. Again Dave took control and told me where to go and what to do. Without that I would have been lost. Telstra filmed for a few hours, calmly holding an umbrella as I stuttered my way through various interviews.
As I worked away I received a text message from Dick Smith. He wanted to know whether I would be in Wollongong that afternoon. He would be off overseas early the following morning and therefore miss my departure.
Months earlier Dad and I had visited Dick at his property in Canberra; in a fast low-wing wooden Falco we had borrowed from a friend, Ian Newman, we had touched down on Dick’s airstrip only two hours after he called to invite us over for lunch. We parked the aircraft and climbed aboard a nearby train, a real train, and rode through Dick’s property to the front door of his house. At lunch Dick had asked whether I was superstitious. I bluffed through the moment wondering what he meant, and then he offered something amazing.
Dick explained that he had an original piece of fabric from Sir Charles Kingsford Smith’s plane, the Southern Cross, which he had acquired many years before. Dick had taken it with him on five around-the-world flights, it had gone with Gaby Kennard when she became the first Australian woman to circumnavigate the globe solo and it was given to Jessica Watson, the youngest person to sail solo around the world. Other adventurers had also had it as their good luck charm. It had always come home. That day Dick asked whether I too would like to take the fabric with me, and I was naturally honoured to accept.
However, a little later Dick had called to let me know that the fabric, which he had taken with him on a recent helicopter trip, had been left with the helicopter in an inland town. It was a major disappointment: the symbolic value of that piece of cloth, reminding me of my grandfather and the stories of him flying in this very airplane, the Southern Cross, with Kingsford Smith himself, was immense.
At Wollongong we kept filming in the wind and rain. We then heard a whine of a jet engine and walked outside to see that a Cessna Citation business jet had just touched down. The jet taxied up to the hangar and parked only metres away. Behind the window was Dick Smith, smiling from ear to ear and waving something in his hand. Dick jumped from the jet and ran across the tarmac towards me. In his hand was the fabric from the Southern Cross.
He said he had woken up that morning and driven to the Bankstown airport just south of Sydney. With a member of his crew he had climbed into his jet and flown out west to the helicopter, solely to bring the fabric back to Wollongong. He explained that he did not want to see me leave without it even if that took ‘the most expensive retrieval mission I have ever been on’ to make it happen.
It was a small grey square of fabric two or three inches across, and I secured it to the cockpit dashboard where I would always be able to see it. It joined granddad’s pilot logbook which I had hidden away in the aircraft.
Dick wished me well and flew off, we finished filming and then with the help of friends we filled the aircraft’s ferry tank with enough fuel for the first leg of the flight, to Norfolk Island. It was a challenging task, one I hadn’t completed before and I was grateful for sets of extra hands, especially in the rain. I strapped in the tank, covered it with sheets of foam ready for my bags to be put in the next morning. We pushed the Cirrus back into the hangar, took the bags to the car and headed to the motel. That night, after checking the forecast weather several times, we dressed up and set off for dinner with a huge number of family and friends. We relaxed and chatted but called it an early night. Everyone was leaving very early the following morning for the Illawarra Regional Airport for something that had sometimes seemed impossible – the beginning of a 24,000 nautical mile, 45,000 kilometre journey that would take me, hopefully, solo around the world.
CHAPTER
10
On the way
The next morning the alarm went off at 4am. I climbed out of bed and headed for a cold shower. My mind was racing with a feeling that overpowered everything else, a feeling that I would come to know well in the months to come. It was fear: hesitation in moving ahead into the unknown while at the same time realising there is no other choice.
I pulled on the flight suit, a grey full-body fireproof Nomex suit tailor-made by Sisley Workwear. It was covered in epaulettes, name patches, security cards and the Australian flag, all meant to convince the authorities in different countries of my position, professionalism and rank. I rolled my other clothes – bare minimum casual gear to see me through my non-flying days – and crammed them into a small duffel bag. I had to strain the zipper shut while squishing the bag with one knee – a series of actions that became very familiar in the weeks to come. Before heading outside I sat with the computer one more time, looking at the weather forecasts for the overwater trip to Norfolk Island. They were far from great, but not bad enough to delay my departure. I packed up my laptop and headed to the car.
We arrived at a large hangar at the Illawarra Regional Airport, which was filled with vintage aircraft being displayed, restored, maintained and flown by the Historical Aircraft Restoration Society. At the very front was the Cirrus, the latest in small single-engine aircraft, equipped and ready to set off around the world.
As I ran around flustered, completing the most thorough pre-flight inspection of my life and packing the aircraft, family and friends started to arrive. It was still dark and the hangar doors were closed, yet dozens of people surrounded the aircraft in matching Teen World Flight shirts. Charles Woolley and the 60 Minutes crew were there, and Nan and Pa stood by with a ‘Good Luck Ryan’ banner, patiently waiting while the last preparations were completed.
Two men from Australian Customs arrived at the hangar and issued me the paperwork required to fly out of Australia. After I had signed the General Declaration, or Gen Dec, a Customs form I would use every time I entered or left a country, we opened the hangar doors. The Customs officer handed me a card to fill out just before I re-entered Australia. It felt strange to think about returning to Australia before I had gone anywhere.
We swung the aircraft around and I glanced at my watch: nearly time to go. With nothing left to do, I started to say goodbye. With each goodbye the realisation of what was just about to happen hit me. As the farewells became harder to say I moved more quickly, finally reaching Mum, Dad, my brothers and sister-in-law. All of them, with Mum leading the charge, were in tears. I was doing all I could to keep it together myself, and so I needed to keep moving as quickly as possible. When I had finished I clambered up the step and into the Cirrus.
I strapped in and made myself comfortable, telling myself to relax, go slow and move through each step as if I was going flying on any other day. As I flicked switches the aircraft’s avionics came to life, but so did my mobile phone. I was used to constant phone calls and now I wonder why on earth I chose to answer it at that delicate, nerve-racking point in time when everyone was watching me with bated breath. But I did.
‘Hi Ryan, it’s Tony Abbott here,’ – it was the man widely tipped to be the next Australian Prime Minister. He was calling to wish me well on the trip. Just the fact that he had taken the time to acknowledge Teen World Flight was a great feeling.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket and with a ‘clear prop’ call out the open door, ensuring the area was clear, the Cirrus came to life in the cool morning air. I worked through the checks and slowly taxied the aircraft a little further away from the surrounding crowd. And with my run ups complete – the routine checks of the aircraft’s engine undertaken before each and every flight – I turned and waved goodbye for the last time.
I was extremely nervous, yet I felt that this wasn’t really happening. At the same time I knew I had to go, I had to take off, whatever might happen. I had to trust that the l
ast two years had given me the experience and knowledge to take on the trip, along with the unknown challenges it would provide, that I as a solo pilot had the ability to make crucial decisions without the input of another crew member. I would just have to take it step by step, leg by leg, or it would all just become too much.
I taxied to the end of the runway, realising that the power needed just for that showed how heavy the aircraft was. I also knew that the ferry fuel tank was only half full and at some point in the coming month I would be taxiing with the tank full at 120 per cent of the normal maximum takeoff weight. I stopped just prior to the runway, checking and double checking everything once again. I lined up and pushed the throttle forwards, the engine roared to life.
I was airborne. Only 24,000 nautical miles to go.
I climbed 500 feet and slowly banked to the right; the dry land that had filled the front windscreen became the Pacific Ocean and the coastline edged closer. The Cirrus began to skim through the first layers of the low-lying cloud, giving me a little relief from the unknown and unnatural feeling of nervously tracking towards the water. If I couldn’t see it, I thought, maybe it wasn’t there.
I asked air traffic control how far from the mainland I could go before expecting to lose contact with the standard aircraft radios; at that point I would have to use the high-frequency long-distance radio for the first time. I was surprised at just how far I could fly from the Australian coastline before needing to use the HF. This was good. I could settle in and concentrate on completing the first ferry fuel transfer without worrying too much about other jobs.
As I skimmed in and out of cloud I looked back. The coastline was a distant smudge of green grass, the grey skyline and the rocky cliff faces blurring into the horizon. I tried not to think about being over water in a single-engine aeroplane – the one thing most pilots said they had thought about constantly during their own journeys.
Born To Fly Page 9