Gulp! The LEDs were invisible. It was raining and I couldn’t see through the windscreen. When the Sun moved forward, I simply wouldn’t be able to tell where the runway was.
Okay, this is really uncomfortable now, I thought. Slow down and have a good think.
I knew from watching the weather for the previous few weeks that it often rained on the islands for hours at night. A few kilometres out to sea, though, it would usually be clear. There is almost always some rain in the Aleutians. On the days the weather report says no rain, it seems to rain a few times. If it says it will rain a little bit, it rains a lot. And just don’t go outside if they ever predict bad weather. I had waited for the best weather window, taken Burke’s advice on patience, and thought that this would be the best shot I had.
Prudence called for a test run. The Sun has a very good landing light, which should have helped. Without going to full power, I rolled forward to see how visible the runway was. There was too much rain on the windshield and I couldn’t see a thing.
I stopped and thought. I could see through the side window, just not the front. Experience told me that rain washed off the windshield at speed, which meant it would only be a problem when I started to move forward. So I opened the side window and, looking out, began taxiing forward. Even though my head was getting wet, the runway was well lit by the landing light. I could see the closest LED blinking halfway along. I took off my headset so it wouldn’t get saturated; it wasn’t like I had anyone to speak to on the radio out here.
I taxied back to the start point and applied full power. The wet wind pricked at my face, but I forced my eyes open and concentrated on steering straight. The Sun lifted off the ground halfway along. I pulled my head inside the cockpit, focused on the instruments and climbed gently to keep up our speed. As soon as her wheels left the ground, the Sun jerked 30 degrees towards the wind, which meant the landing light was no longer illuminating the runway. Within seconds she was over the sea anyway, and all I could see was black. I felt a deep sense of dread. I had been so focused on taking off and getting clear of land that I hadn’t thought about the next step. The sky was overcast, which meant there was no moonlight. I couldn’t see where the sky met the sea.
The view out the window was uselessly black, just as opaque as the white of the clouds that had enveloped the Sun off the coast of Canada. I had replayed that earlier mishap in my mind hundreds of times, and I wasn’t going to make the same mistake. Carefully and calmly I looked at my instruments and deployed my training. I kept the artificial horizon level, the speed with plenty of safety margin and gently climbed at a slow 100 feet per minute south, towards Japan. After fifteen minutes the Sun was at 1500 feet, the highest I was prepared to fly; the icing level was forecast to be 2500 feet. Fifteen hundred feet wasn’t even double Melbourne’s tallest building. I needed to stay low enough to remain ice-free, and high enough to be clear of the ocean. The prospect of ice forming at night is particularly scary because it is that much harder to detect. I figured the aluminium struts between the hull and the wings would be the first to develop ice, and I shone my torch on them from time to time to check.
The bumpy air gradually became smooth and the rain cleared. Within half an hour the Sun was travelling at a groundspeed of 110 knots. This was faster than I expected, so I throttled back to conserve fuel and not arrive too early. After an hour there was just enough moonlight that I could see clouds ahead. The ocean glistened in patches here and there. After several hours all the clouds disappeared, revealing an almost full moon. For six hours I enjoyed the delightful sight of a perfectly clear vista and an ocean sparkling in the moonlight.
In the hours before dawn, though, I became incredibly tired. I could feel myself falling asleep, which I recognised from my young days of driving in the country – back when I thought I was invincible. One night in England I dozed off and sideswiped a roundabout at 2 a.m. Now, memories of that accident helped motivate me to concentrate on staying awake. Without an autopilot I could not risk sleep, even momentarily, because it could take as little as ninety seconds for the Sun to hit the water. I nibbled on food, drank and used the red bottle. I splashed water on my face. I slapped myself. I opened the window to let in the freezing air.
Then, far out to the east, I saw the first glimmer of refracted, rather than reflected, sunlight. I was filled with a great sense of relief. Even a small amount of daylight would make it easier to stay awake. But my good fortune was about to end. The weather on the horizon was looking, to quote an old chum, ‘cloudy, rainy, no sunny’.
The tailwinds dissipated and turned to headwinds. I began to begrudge Russia. In order to stay out of Russian airspace, I was flying around an imaginary point in the ocean, meaning I had to go many extra kilometres. The Sun’s ground speed at one point slowed to 32 knots, or 60 kilometres an hour. In an act of defiance, I cut the corner and entered Russia for about a minute. I can’t remember if I actually blew a raspberry in their general direction, but I definitely wanted to.
As it turned out, the tailwinds I’d waited for had been too effective, and the Sun arrived a couple of hours earlier than planned. I used the satellite device to get an abbreviated weather update: it was currently impossible to land at Kushiro, which was covered in fog.
The Sun was so close to safety, yet ahead of me all I could see was a line of cloud almost down to the ocean. The rain once again started falling on the windscreen.
34.
The Terminal
‘I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.’
CASEY JR, DUMBO (1941)
I was by myself in the cockpit, but I wasn’t alone. At his home on the other side of Hokkaido island, Peter Steeger was following the Sun’s progress on his computer and comparing her position with a radar map of the rain front over northern Japan. He called my satellite phone and suggested I head a little more north, a course that would avoid the worst of the weather.
I was still a long way from land. Although the visibility was not great, I was comfortable that I could see sufficiently well and felt under control. The Sun’s groundspeed was now down to 60 knots. With about an hour and a half of flying to go, she had four hours of fuel, which was reassuring. At 160 kilometres from the coast I was not within radio range of the airport. Peter called back with an update. Kushiro was still fogged in, leaving me with two options: circle for a couple of hours, or divert to another airport.
Peter was proving to be a most efficient and concerned handler. He had already made a call and arranged permission for the Sun to land at Nakashibetsu airport, further to the north, where the weather was good enough to land without using instruments. This was a relief, because turning north towards that airport triggered a jump in the Sun’s ground-speed and meant I only had an hour left to fly. I was exhausted, and just wanted to get on the ground.
It was a bumpy hour. While there was no rain and the cloud had lifted, the turbulence was the worst I had ever experienced. I slowed right down and took my time. At one point I heard another aircraft on the radio. Relieved, I waited for them to finish speaking and then called the air-traffic controller.
‘Fukuoka Radar, November Four Seven Three X-ray Papa, Searey amphibian, six zero miles south-east Nakashibetsu, squawking one two zero zero, inbound for Nakashibetsu,’ I said.
‘November Four Seven Three X-ray Papa, advise your elevation and origin airport,’ came back the answer.
‘Four hundred feet, Attu, Alaska,’ I replied, thinking, I bet you don’t hear that every day.
‘November Four Seven Three X-ray Papa, you are identified, continue direct Nakashibetsu,’ he said, rather deadpan.
The further I flew, the more the cloud lifted. I was able to slowly climb to 1500 feet. Twenty-six hours after leaving Adak, with a classroom of kids waving with their placards, I was directed by the air-traffic controller to change frequencies and contact the airport tower.
‘Nakashibetsu, November Four Seven Three X-ray Papa.’
‘November Four Seven Thre
e X-ray Papa, track direct Nakashibetsu, expect runway twenty-six,’ they replied.
Fifteen minutes later I landed on a huge concrete runway and taxied to a lonely parking spot. I could have gone to sleep right there in the cockpit, but I waited in my seat for the airport officials to arrive.
I had just flown across the Pacific Ocean, setting a record for the longest ever flight in a Searey – and, I suspect, the longest solo flight in any amphibian aircraft. After flying through the night, I was physically and emotionally spent. All I wanted to do was go to a hotel and sleep. But Nakashibetsu was a domestic airport and didn’t have any immigration officials who could legally admit me to Japan. I would have to get back in the Sun and fly the 85 kilometres to Kushiro when the weather improved.
The airport staff welcomed me with a few words of English, which was a lot more than the Japanese I knew. I was escorted to the terminal but was not permitted to leave their offices. They seemed to understand what I had just put myself through, and kindly led me to a small room with mats on the floor. I slipped into a deep sleep almost instantly. A few hours later, at 1.30 p.m., someone knocked at the door. I didn’t hear them. They came in and shook my shoulder. Three-quarters asleep, I panicked, fearful that I had slept through the whole day and night. ‘What day is it?’ I asked. They gestured that someone wanted to speak to me on the telephone.
It was Peter. The fog had lifted at Kushiro and it was time for me to complete this mission. The officials were anxious that I clear customs and immigration as soon as possible. I went to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face and neck. The short sleep had done the trick. I was ready to venture forth.
In yet another example of the incredible generosity encountered during my trip, the airport staff had bought me some welcome presents while I was asleep: products from their region, including Hokkaido gouda cheese, dried beef and baby sausage. Their gifts were humbling and I thanked them profusely.
The rain and cloud had vanished, revealing a clear sky. The short flight to Kushiro was straightforward, assisted by the air-traffic controllers’ excellent English. I was greeted on the tarmac by my agents from Japan Airlines, who were very helpful and detailed. It felt like being back in India, with dozens of pieces of paper all needing stamping and signing, except that everything was spotlessly clean and immaculately presented. The care taken with the placement of each rubber stamp highlighted why origami is a popular artform in Japan.
Clearing customs and immigration took a couple of hours. I had to pay tax on the three hours’ worth of fuel left in the Sun because it was regarded as ‘imported’. After a lot of paperwork, reference books, calculators, more rubber stamps and a supervisor checking, the tax was 100 yen, or about a dollar.
It was thirty hours since I had left Adak. I’d flown for twenty-four hours over three legs, the longest being seventeen hours. I was rather glad to be on land.
Later, some people wondered if I had properly considered the risks of such a long flight. I had. Over and over. I didn’t want to die, and wasn’t taking the risk to look brave. I’d physically and mentally prepared myself for the challenge and its dangers, including the dreaded prospect of landing on the ocean at night. If that happened, I knew my chances of surviving would be less than 50 per cent. Would I take that risk again? No. If there’s ever another time, I will ensure that I don’t have to undertake such a perilous flight.
On reflection, though, I realise that I had painted myself into a corner. While stranded on Adak, I had developed such a laser-like focus on getting home that I put the risks to one side. I was certainly determined, and I remained calm through that whole day, despite some testing moments.
I had come a long way since nervously leaving Darwin six months earlier. With 900 hours flight time, I was still a low-time pilot, but the experiences I had been through, while flying low and slow in a little plane that never let me down, went way beyond flying. It had been as much a test of my mental fortitude as of my physical endurance and flying ability. Out there alone, I could apply all my resources and climb the highest mountain.
The snow and rain that now came to northern Japan had an upside: an enforced break. After nine hours’ sleep, I woke still exhausted. My morale was high, though, helped by congratulatory emails that poured in from people who had been following the Southern Sun online, and were happy that I had continued on and made it across the Pacific.
I needed a haircut. I looked like a cross between Krusty the Clown and a mad professor. I found a barber who, it turned out, was fascinated by Australia. He insisted on having a conversation while holding sharp scissors or a cut-throat razor in one hand, and Google Translate on his phone in the other. The haircut was successful; the conversation not so much. But we had fun.
At the Kushiro City Museum I learned that the city had been a trading port for centuries. The residents had once worn clothes and shoes made from fish scales. I couldn’t imagine how that would smell on a summer day. There was one cinema in town, an Aeon eight-screen Multiplex. I hadn’t had much experience of Japanese cinemas, and was interested to find that the huge building in fact housed a department store, which operated the cinema. It would be like Myer, Marks & Spencer or Macy’s deciding to build a cinema inside their stores, and sell popcorn and pretzels covered with caramel.
It was only 2 degrees one afternoon when I arranged to change the oil in the plane, which proved to be slow and tricky while wearing gloves. But the real fun came with refuelling. Kushiro did not have any avgas, nor did they officially allow petrol to be brought into the airport from outside. Generally I’ve found the plane will fly much further with full tanks of fuel, so I developed a cunning plan. I took my fuel containers in a taxi to a petrol station, but earlier that day I’d gone to a department store and picked up those cheap bags people buy when they have bought too much on their trip for their luggage. I worked out I could fit two fuel bags in each. I felt bad walking my luggage out to the plane past the ever-polite Japanese handlers, but it wasn’t hurting anyone and the smuggling solved the problem, even if a little cheekily.
A few days later I flew over several snow-capped mountains and descended into Kobe’s island airport just as the sun dipped below the horizon. From that point I planned to spend two nights at every stop. As keen as I was to get home to Australia, I knew they were places I might never see again, and I wanted to continue experiencing new cultures, towns, food and cinemas. Also, every flight from then on was 1200 kilometres or more, and a day off was a nice break.
My agent in Kobe was a retired corporate pilot for the Sony Corporation, Taco San, who showed me where to park and refuel. He had booked me into a hotel at the city’s port; ‘Please enjoy the hotel; please experience Japanese culture,’ he urged me. The hotel was more of a bathhouse and restaurant, with a few floors of rooms for those wanting to stay the night. No shoes or Western clothes were allowed. Once checked in, guests were given traditional dress to wear throughout their stay.
In my room I felt a bit odd looking at myself in the mirror – except that, of course, deep down I love dressing up. All the other diners in the restaurant were Japanese, and dressed accordingly, so I would have been out of place in Western clothes anyway.
After dinner I went to the eighteenth-floor rooftop for a foot bath, which turned out to be a long, hot pool for your feet, with views over the city. I was the only single person. Just when I thought that might make the other people feel uncomfortable, one couple asked me to take their photo. Then another did, and another, which made me realise that no one minded my presence. It seemed surreal, especially after where I’d been just a week before.
From Kobe, I flew seven and a half hours to Okinawa, a Japanese island close to Taiwan. The further south I flew, the more the Pacific looked liked the ocean I had always imagined it to be. There were stunning sand islands and sparkling blue seas. Something else happened too, something I hadn’t experienced since Florida: it was warm. In fact, it was hot enough for me to take my woollen jumper off, which wa
s a blissful feeling. Maybe I can even stop wearing two pairs of socks, I mused.
Arriving at Naha, the capital of Okinawa, was stressful. A Boeing jet was landing in front of me, several planes were waiting to take off, and a controller told me to hurry up – and then, just before I landed, instructed me how to exit the runway. It didn’t help that there were heavy and gusty crosswinds.
If you’re told to exit to the left when you’re five feet above the tarmac and about to touch down, you can’t help but look left, which is what I did. The act of turning my head led me to pull the stick slightly to the left just as the wheels touched the ground. The tyres squeaked and squealed and I was forced to urgently correct the steering to stop the Sun from fishtailing down the runway.
Anne was wondering when I was going to get home, and I was finalising what route to take. The most efficient way seemed to be through the Philippines to the island of Ambon, in Indonesia. I could then fly across the Timor Sea to Horn Island, on the northern tip of Queensland. That would mean a comfortable flight to Longreach, where I wanted to explore the Qantas Founders Museum, which I had skipped on the way out. Longreach seemed appropriate for another reason: it would be the first place on the trip I returned to, and so would make the circumnavigation official. I was pleased about that, given this enormous undertaking had started with the simple idea of retracing the Qantas Imperial Sydney–Southampton flying boat route.
Even though I was relatively close to home, I still had several days of flying, each longer than any flight I had done a year before. Such long overwater crossings were not to be taken lightly. It was too early to celebrate. I needed to stay focused. I couldn’t know that, after serving me so well for such a long time, the Sun was about to suffer two potentially fatal breakdowns.
Voyage of the Southern Sun Page 25