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 last 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.
I levelled off at 9000 feet above sea level, still zooming in and out of cloud. It was time to start transferring fuel from the ferry tank for the first time. The aircraft had three fuel tanks, one in each wing and the ferry tank in the rear cockpit. This 600-litre soft tank strapped in place of the back seat was connected with a fuel line to a contraption of pumps in the right-hand front foot well. Two electric pumps, along with a backup hand pump, would propel the fuel through a pipe running from the cabin to the outside of the aircraft, under the wing and into the right-hand tank. When the pumps were switched on the fuel would transfer and the right-wing fuel gauge indication would slowly climb.
With the plane settled I checked the valves and taps on the fuel system; everything was in the correct position. I then switched on both electric pumps, and heard a loud harsh rattle coming from the foot well. During testing I had been able to tell the difference between the sound made by the transfer of fuel and the noise when the lines were full of air, which meant the pumps were running dry. I knew that this rattling sound meant that fuel was not being transferred from the tank.
I waited, thinking that the fuel might take a minute to run through the lines, but the sound persisted. This was far from what I needed. We had tested the ferry system with a very light fuel load but regulations had not allowed for a full test with the aircraft operating over weight. My heart began racing. What if there was something wrong?
With the aircraft now on autopilot I unbuckled my belts and turned to kneel backwards in my seat. I knew that air could become trapped in the top of the bladder, not allowing fuel to reach the lines. As the pumps rattled I removed the filler cap for the tank and shuffled the bags that were sitting on top; I could hear a burbling sound as air escaped the tank. I twisted back around with the filler cap secured once again, adjusted the air vents to push the fumes and smell of avgas to the rear and waited, praying that the pumps would now pick up the fuel.
No luck. I crunched a few numbers and worked out just how far I could fly with the fuel I had in the wing tanks alone. I wouldn’t be able to get as far as Norfolk Island, but I could reach Lord Howe Island. I had chosen my flight route to track directly over the top of Lord Howe, as it was a secondary landing destination in the case of engine trouble or average weather at Norfolk Island. I decided that if I could not manage to get the fuel to transfer I would land at Lord Howe instead.
Not wanting to give up and change my first destination just yet, I decided to use the hand pump. If I could get it started manually I hoped the electric pumps would then do their job. With the correct valves and levers turned, I pumped the fuel by hand for ten minutes or so. I put the hand pump away and flicked the switches that brought the electric pumps to life. There was an immediate and familiar loud rattle but only moments later it became muffled. The fuel gauge indication increased, it took a little encouragement but the fuel was now transferring. The relief was instant. Destination: Norfolk Island.
As the flight continued I carefully monitored the fuel gauge, switching on the pumps from time to time to ensure that the right wing always had sufficient fuel. I began working on trend sheets, taking note of all the engine’s figures and indications in detail every fifteen minutes; a change in one would be easily noticeable on paper. Coming close to the distance from the Australian coast where I was expecting to lose radio coverage, I switched on and attempted to tune the HF radio.
This was an external radio fitted purposely for the flight and the controls and screen sat on my knee with an attached handheld microphone. I had been warned by ferry pilots that the HF was not a nice piece of equipment to use. Even with the long and cumbersome aerial attached to the outside of the aircraft it was still unbelievably difficult to get a good signal. It made hearing others and being heard quite frustrating. I had to have the radio on and to be in contact with air traffic control at all times, never more important than when crossing between the airspace of different countries.
The sky above Australia is simply Australian airspace that extends a certain distance from the mainland in all directions. At the point where it ceases, known as an FIA, or Flight Information Areas boundary, the airspace changes to that of the neighbouring country. On my leg to Norfolk Island I would be crossing into New Zealand’s airspace and therefore I needed to contact Auckland on the HF radio that was now switched on and tuned.
I said goodbye to the Australian controller, wondering when I would hear another Aussie accent under the same circumstances, grabbed the handheld microphone for the HF and attempted to call Auckland. ‘Auckland radio, Auckland radio, Victor Hotel Oscar Lima Sierra…’ Almost instantaneously a voice with a Kiwi accent replied with my clearance through their airspace. Another new task was out of the way and I sat back to take a breath. As I crossed into New Zealand’s airspace I smiled: I was now an international pilot.
All seemed well, but in the rush of the morning I had made an important mistake. My lunch box, filled with dozens of muesli bars, was in the aircraft but sitting well behind the ferry tank at the rear of the plane. I was hungry. I promised myself I would never, ever do that again.
What with the business of the fuel supply and the HF radio, time had sped past and I was more than halfway to Norfolk Island. Still suffering from nerves I was eager to get the aircraft on the ground, to have some time to myself to forget the hype of the day and to prepare for the next leg. As I approached my destination I tuned the radio for Norfolk Island and made an inbound call to let any other aircraft know of my whereabouts and intentions. It seemed an odd thing to do, I thought; who on earth would be flying out here? A woman at the aerodrome responded, providing an update on the weather in return for an updated arrival time.
Before I could descend I had one last job. Ken had explained that some countries required an insecticide spray to be used inside aircraft before landing. The ‘top of descent’ spray, which he had organised, was a can of insecticide to be used before commencing descent towards the destination. By the time you touched down any potentially living organism would be dead.
I grabbed the can from my bag, had another quick read of the instructions and removed the lid. I started to spray the insecticide around the cabin. Ken had provided a few cans and we had agreed I would top up in the USA if required. With this in mind I continued spraying until the can was empty. I can assure you that every living thing inside that aircraft was dead and that nearly included me. I pushed the nose of the Cirrus towards the ocean and began my descent.
In the distance I spotted a small green island protruding from an ocean that seemed endless. When I had reached gliding distance of the island I felt a combination of excitement and relief: the realisation that I had reached my first goal, one that had seemed so distant for years. I turned overhead to have a look at the airstrip and windsock before joining the approach to the runway. It was a rough approach; the wind that flowed across the ocean unobstructed was now streaming over this elevated rock sitting in the middle of nowhere. I closed the throttles and touched down, taking a deep and well earned breath.
As I rolled out on landing and the aircraft slowed I completed my after-landing checks, then glanced around to see what Norfolk Island had to offer. There were either some very poorly placed car parks and no one in Norfolk Island knew how to drive, or the dozens upon dozens of cars scattered randomly across the hills surrounding the airport were all there to see me and the Cirrus arrive.
I parked the aircraft on the corner of the main apron and waved hello to the two young women who had come out to the aircraft. I knew I was to keep the door shut until Customs and Immigration had acknowledged the correct use of the insecticide, I was then given the okay and raised the door to an enthusiastic welcome. I handed the used can to one of the women, who took note of the batch number on the label and handed it back. When I asked whether I needed to keep it she queried whether, being only my first stop, I would use it for the next few destinations. Turns out you only spray the insecticide for a few seconds before putting it away, and when they found out I had emptied the entire can they nearly cried with laughter. If there are any foreign insects or bugs now living on Norfolk Island, you can be assured they did not arrive there with me.
I unloaded my bags and followed the Customs officer inside. I was tired and had just completed the longest non-stop leg of my life. After signing the Gen Dec from Wollongong along with another for my next leg, I was taken out through the arrival gate of the terminal. As the doors opened a sea of people let out an almighty cheer, they had watched me land and now stood patiently waiting to welcome me to their home.
I had landed in Norfolk Island. Leg number one was complete, and although there were many more to come, I was simply proud of the day’s achievement, shattered and ready for bed.