There was no doubt that I had found myself in a challenging part of the world: a place where simple things could become complicated, where the language barrier could cause problems and vital yet straightforward requirements such as keeping track of available fuel could take a turn for the unexpected at the very last minute.
During the planning, after speaking with dozens of ferry pilots, I learned that the main logistical challenges would most likely occur between Egypt and home. This had already come true. Greece had provided a surprising challenge because of the strange woman. We had diverted to Jordan because of the crisis in Egypt but not until after six hours and two dozen flight plans had been rejected because of restrictions around Israeli airspace. Muscat turned out to be a fort, the security changed our refuelling plans and coupled with a late fuel truck the departure was pushed back, causing the arrival into Sri Lanka to take place at night. Now our fuel plans in Indonesia, which had been in place for months, had fallen away from us.
The question at the moment was: what had happened to the fuel we had been told was safely in Padang, Indonesia? We had confirmed the availability of avgas via email only days before.
A full day of phone calls and emails with ‘Uncle Mike’ from White Rose ended in a solution. I would now fly from Colombo to Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia. We had organised a handler to meet upon my arrival and refuel immediately. Because I was adding a leg to the journey and was already a day behind schedule, I would take off early the next morning and fly to Jakarta. There I would refuel and depart the following morning for Broome. It was constant flying, but it was best to move quickly through these countries and make it back to Australia, something I was looking forward to beyond anything I could explain.
I woke early the following morning with a freshly assembled flight plan; more importantly, I had to set my mind on a new destination. It was pretty depressing. All I could think about was returning to stand on Australian soil but it seemed to be getting further away. I had been counting down the legs until that happened and using it as my source of inspiration to take another flight over water, but now we had added another stopover.
When I arrived at the Colombo airport my handler led me to the weather briefing room, and after fifteen minutes of currency exchange enabling me to pay my bill I went through security. My large supply of US cash had disappeared with great speed, and finding a place to withdraw money throughout the last few destinations had been a bigger challenge than I had imagined. With the cash finally sorted we made our way outside and onto the tarmac, where I boarded a bus and set off towards the Cirrus to prepare it for a departure.
I kept glancing at my watch as I removed the covers and completed a pre-flight inspection by torchlight. The flight plan submitted before every leg of the trip not only outlined details of the aircraft, the pilot and the route, but gave a designated time for departure, allowing air traffic control to sequence you in with other aircraft leaving around the same time. For once I was early and though I had a few more little jobs I still had forty-five minutes before my scheduled takeoff.
My handler, who had been on the phone while I worked on the aircraft, ran towards me with a worried look on his face. The prime minister of Sri Lanka was due to touch down in fifteen minutes. If I was not airborne by then I would be grounded, they couldn’t tell me for how long, just for a ‘significant delay’.
No one should have to move that quickly at that time of the morning. I clambered into my seat and had the aircraft running while I was still trying to put my seat belts on. As soon as the engine was warm I was on the move and programming the avionics as I went, a tip passed on to me in Oshkosh by Jack Weigand, the then world record holder as the youngest pilot to circumnavigate the globe. Jack’s advice about programming the avionics meant that putting in a flight plan wasn’t such a mind-numbing job. It wasn’t the only piece of advice he gave me; in an hour of casual conversation he passed on many little tips and tricks concerning the flight. Jack congratulated me on the flight so far and expressed his belief and trust that I would finish it successfully. My ‘what was it like to…’ questions had all been answered, and I had left Oshkosh with the most important tool of all, a little more self-confidence thanks to his encouragement.
With a clearance in hand I sat ready at the end of the runway. After a Sri Lankan Airlines jet touched down only metres from the Cirrus I lined up on the centreline and waited for it to taxi clear. Soon I was airborne. It was dark and within minutes I was hidden within a thick layer of cloud. I tracked for my flight path and climbed towards 9000 feet as the land disappeared and the ocean began. It was a fairly standard departure for me.
The darkness began to lighten up and within seconds I had reached the top layer of the thick cloud, only to pop out into thin air to one of the most amazingly beautiful and colourful sunrises I had ever seen. I juggled the art of analysing the foreign-sounding air traffic control transmissions while taking photos of the sunrise and flying the overweight aircraft. I was well on my way to Malaysia.
I continued with my usual jobs. It was strange to think that flying a single-engine aircraft with just under 1000 litres of avgas on board, including 600 in the cabin, continuously over water for ten hours, could be regarded as anything near normal. But by then it was. I was far from comfortable, but after well over 20,000 nautical miles I was as comfortable with the situation as I would ever be.
The forecast for Malaysia was for isolated thunderstorms. Although I had managed to depart early, the fact of a ten-hour leg meant that a late afternoon arrival couldn’t be avoided. As I flew I transferred fuel, radioed through position reports using the HF, recorded engine trends and briefed my arrival. And I watched the sky morph into a dark cluster of ever-growing and towering clouds. They looked menacing: no way I could be complacent about them, yet again.
Approximately seven hours after leaving Sri Lanka, with three hours to go until I reached Malaysia, I spotted my favourite sight of all time. A sliver of dry land appeared on the horizon: Indonesia, partially hidden by the developing thunderstorms. As I was now nearing a solid and dry surface, I gladly packed away the HF radio and continued chatting with air traffic control on the VHF or standard aircraft radios. I began to hear dozens of aircraft requesting ‘traffic’ to fly left and right of their original route in order to stay clear of the thunderstorms. Flying high over the Indonesian mainland, I was sandwiched between several massive ones. I joined the other aircraft and requested approval to fly left and right of my track. As we were all being overseen by air traffic control, any diversion of our planned route would have to be approved before we set about flying around the weather.
The day was becoming darker and the blanket of solid land soon turned into water again for the relatively short stretch of ocean that separated Indonesia from Malaysia. I was told to expect an ILS approach into Kuala Lumpur, a very precise instrument flying procedure that would bring me extremely close to the ground and hopefully all the way down through the bad weather. The instrument approach procedure was outlined on a piece of paper, or ‘plate’. As well as having an electronic copy on the iPad I had with me hundreds of hard copy plates all sponsored by Jeppesen, an American aviation company specialising in aircraft navigational information as well as other aspects of aviation. I briefed the plate, a casual conversation with myself to outline exactly what I would do and when, because local terrain and airport position made every approach different in some way. With that job out of the way I continued dodging the storms before being given a clearance to descend.
I left my cruising altitude and within only a couple of thousand feet I had entered solid cloud. It was a thick layer extending from 8000 feet towards the ground. I was vectored left and right, given distinct headings to fly by air traffic control that would ensure I was sequenced correctly for my approach. I kept descending before intercepting ‘the extended centreline’ of the runway, meaning I was lined up for a landing and could continue my descent through the cloud.
It was a little exciting and unnerving but I had been in cloud for a long time, zigzagging through the sky as I listened to aircraft of all sizes requesting diversions around the storms. I had managed to stay clear of most of the turbulence and only been shaken around a little, now I was number one in the sequence for a landing into Malaysia. I kept going, approaching my ‘decision altitude’, an altitude where if I was not visual with the runway I would be required to ‘go around’, meaning I would need to climb away from the airport and follow distinct instructions to allow me to either try the approach again or divert to another airport.
Only a few hundred feet from my decision altitude, the solid cloud began to flicker and I glimpsed a phenomenally long and well-lit runway. Malaysia!
I touched down and made my way off the runway to allow for the dozens of other aircraft waiting for their turn at the approach. I taxied for my recently organised handler and almost immediately spotted him waving an orange-lit baton around the sky. I also spotted another familiar face, Malaysian James Tan, the youngest pilot to fly solo around the world at twenty-one. Prior to my departure James had been one of only four young pilots in their twenties to have taken on a solo circumnavigation. Like me, James had watched American Barrington Irving fly solo around the world in 2008 at just twenty-three, slashing fourteen years off the world record, and had been inspired. With Barrington’s extraordinary achievement fresh in our minds several young aviators – Swiss pilot Carlos Schmidt, James, Jack Weigand and I – had found a new goal. Not only had James successfully broken the previous record, he was now there to welcome me to his home.
As always at the end of a long flight I was eager to hop out and stretch my legs before catching my breath and looking around. Another leg was over, another water crossing behind me, another step closer to home. I shook hands with James and was introduced to my handler, Jeff. He was a big guy with an even bigger smile and they were all so happy to be there.
I unpacked as James looked through the Cirrus, the fuel truck arrived and we topped up with fuel that was extremely cheap in comparison to the price in Muscat and Jordan. The next day’s flight was not too long and I still had fuel left in the ferry tank, so I worked through a few calculations to confirm that we would only fill the wings, leaving the ferry tanks as it was. This was a decision that would save time and stress.
After making sure it was neat, tidy and ready to depart the next morning, we secured the plane then walked under the wing of several corporate business jets and into the terminal. Jeff led me through Customs and Immigration before setting me free. We had a simple plan. James was determined to take me for something to eat before quickly showing me the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur. He promised it would be a quick trip and he would have me to my motel in no time, I would head to bed as early as possible and grab a taxi early the next morning in order to meet Jeff at Starbucks for a wake-up beverage.
After a bite to eat in the terminal I threw my bags into James’ car and we set off for the city centre. There are few ways to explain what happened next. I had flown the majority of the way around the world and James had done so completely. He also happened to live in Kuala Lumpur and yet somehow we ended up lost. Really lost. We were looking at the city skyline in the distance, both mobile phones were flat and we had no way of looking up anything such as Google maps or using the GPS so instead, we just drove and took several slightly less than educated guesses.
A full four and a half hours later, nearing the middle of the night, I checked into my motel. I had a photo of myself standing in front of the Petronas Towers, which was no doubt kind of cool, but I also had the experience of actually finding the towers. It had been quite funny and a little frustrating, but it was a great story and nothing a good night’s sleep couldn’t fix.
I collapsed into bed and quickly ran through the emails and paperwork for the next leg. Fortunately I had only recently planned the flight to Indonesia while in Sri Lanka so it was still all fairly fresh in my mind.
Just as I was about to pack up and get some sleep another email made its way to my computer: PLEASE HOLD AIRCRAFT AT WMSA UNTIL WE HAVE INDONESIA LANDING PERMIT (PERMIT STILL UNDER PROCESSED) AND PLEASE DON’T MAKING OVERFLYING OR LANDING INDONSEIA WITHUT PERMJIT ON HAND, HOPE PERMIT CAN APPROVED ON AUGIST 29, 2013 BTN 1200 – 1300 UTC AND IF I HAVE EARLY WILL INFORM YOU A.S.A.P
DUE TO PERMITS NO. 4887, 5567 AND 6075 ARE NOT VALID ANYMORE
I re-read the email several times. Through the capital letters and imaginative spelling the message was clear: I had to hold the aircraft in Malaysia, a pre-planned permit was now invalid and a flight through Indonesia’s airspace without a permit could end in a little involuntary formation flying with a fighter jet. As a requirement I had the ‘interception from a military aircraft’ paperwork printed off and in the Cirrus. A list of signals, such as the fighter aircraft banking away or flying across the flight path, were outlined with their associated meaning. If you were intercepted by a jet they most likely wanted you on the ground. I had no wish to have to pull out that piece of paper to interpret what the angry guy with missiles strapped to his wings wanted. It sounds funny but it is very serious stuff.
I called Mike, who was on call in the UK twenty-four/seven. It was always a surprise to see where exactly he was in his day. Was he having breakfast or had I just woken him up in the middle of the night? Mike had been sent the same email and explained what I had feared – we were in a similar situation as in Sri Lanka where we were unable to fly the next day. It was disappointing and frustrating but it was a non-negotiable fact.
I emailed everyone about the change of plans. We were all awake but it was important to all be on the same page. I didn’t want Jeff to turn up at Starbucks at some ridiculous hour to find out I was still in bed or have Mum and Dad watching the live tracker wondering why it wasn’t moving. Sixteen emails later we were all sorted. I called reception, booked in for another night and went to sleep. Completely alarm-free.
I was staying in a small and well equipped unit and after a sleep-in and a cold shower I set to work again, spreading paperwork and charts out across the table before sitting down to compile a job list. I had one full day in Malaysia, and there was nothing I could do about the Indonesian overflight permit: others were sorting the problem and all I could do was wait. I had no wish to venture outside my motel room, not because I didn’t want to see Malaysia but because I had so much to do. There were many little jobs that hadn’t been a priority but would become so very soon if not seen to. Over the last few weeks I had been trying to juggle endless emails, some of which had fallen through the cracks and some had been only partially seen to. I needed to sit down and clean everything up, to regroup before setting off on the final stretch towards home.
After a day of constant emails, efforts to update blogs and organise the finer details of the homecoming, I sat back with a more relaxed attitude. The job list that had been compiled that morning was now a list of obliterated items, all enthusiastically scribbled out with a ballpoint pen.
I consumed some form of mildly heated room service meal before packing my bags. The overflight permit had been sent through midafternoon and our plans for the following day mirrored those that should have gone ahead on the previous day. I set my alarm and went to sleep.
The taxi driver I had organised the day before must have slept in; I waited in the lobby as they phoned another, who came. Fortunately it was a short trip through the dark Malaysian countryside to the airport, we pulled up and I began to unpack my bags again with the help of my handler Jeff. We grabbed a quick bite to eat before setting off through Customs and Immigration, then walked across the tarmac to find the Cirrus waiting, ready and willing to take on yet another leg.
It was a dark and wet morning, the aircraft was covered in dew and the cloud sat so low that it partially covered the lights that shone down on the apron from the tall light poles. While Jeff stood by and chatted I worked away to pre-flight the aircraft and to ensure everything was in order. Soon afterwards I clambered in and kicked the aircraft into life. Regardless of how long I had spent in it, I would never get sick of the loud rumble of the Cirrus as it ruined the early morning silence.
I waved goodbye to Jeff and taxied from the apron before taking a number of turns to find myself at the end of the runway. I took to the air and flew through the now ever-lifting cloud layer and into a sky that was growing lighter as the night became day. I set course towards the south and settled in for what would be a short flight in comparison to the others, a hopefully leisurely four and a half hours down to Indonesia where I would find the much-anticipated and much-required avgas.
I settled in for the cruise, focusing on emptying every drop of avgas from the ferry tank to make sure I would know exactly how much had been added in Indonesia and therefore exactly how much was in the tank for the eleven-hour flight to Australia. Just after I had finished transferring around ten gallons into the right wing, I saw the ‘estimated time to run’ sitting at three hours and thirty minutes: I was nearly there! It was interesting that this time now qualified as a short flight. I took notes and looked out the window at an endless picture of rolling green hills, extremely high by the standards of those back home, but nothing in comparison to the French Alps.
It was all very simple. I tracked for the next waypoint on the list and kept in contact with air traffic control as I went. Each moment saw me edge a little closer to Indonesia. As I tracked south Jakarta was just off to the right-hand side of the nose, but I was asked by air traffic control to turn left and fly out over water because of the other traffic in the area. I would be put into a sequence of aircraft waiting to fly an instrument approach and when it was my turn I would descend through the cloud layer for a landing on Indonesian soil.
Before long it all started to become a little less simple. The controllers were very hard to understand, I would reply to their transmission and in many cases I just hoped it was correct. If not, they were sure to come back to me and repeat themselves, each time a little slower than the last. I turned towards Jakarta and continued inbound, descended as requested and was told to intercept a localiser, an imaginary extended runway centreline that would see me perfectly lined up with the runway. I was then transferred to a different frequency.
All the frequencies around the world had names depending on who you were speaking to, ‘approach’, ‘clearance delivery’, ‘tower’, ‘ground’ and so on. But the frequency I had been told to contact was completely new, one that I had never heard of, not even after flying through fourteen different countries. I transferred across and spoke with the controller, who was hard to understand. I was now tracking towards the instrument approach procedure where I would soon need to descend. He quickly transferred me to another frequency and along with his instructions provided the frequency itself. I had no idea why I had even been told to speak with this guy!
‘Victor Hotel Oscar Lima Sierra, Contact tower on 123.4.’ I set up the frequency, whatever it might have been at the time, and quickly contacted the tower. At this point I was only miles away from the airport and had not been cleared onto the approach I had been told to expect. I called the tower but heard no response. I tried again and again. I flicked back to the previous frequency to let my contact know that there had been no response, he confirmed the frequency and I tried once more.
As I flicked back to the tower frequency I heard a call for ‘Victor Hotel Oscar Lima Sierra’. There was traffic information, a ‘traffic alert’ for an aircraft in my two o’clock position. As I peered over the nose a large white Boeing 737, a private business jet, zipped by the right wing of the Cirrus. It was phenomenally close and phenomenally large, it was on climb out of the airport in the opposite direction to the localiser I had been told to track inbound on. I had never seen an aircraft pass so close and in the opposite direction. My heart-rate skyrocketed. My hands began to shake. The picture was all wrong.
I gave the Cirrus full power and climbed away from my altitude. I’m a person who rarely gets angry but this time I was absolutely fuming. I called the tower to inform them of just how close the ‘traffic’ had come, also the fact I was not going to remain flying along a localiser that was obviously opposing the active runway. I climbed away and asked them firmly just what they would like me to do. They could tell I was far from happy.
Due to my position I was given another approach to fly, from overhead I set up to fly an approach where I would track away from the airport on descent, turn back inbound and continue down through the cloud. The controllers did not seemed fazed at all, even though the crew of the Boeing 737 also called the tower to inform them just how close they had come to another aircraft. Their response was simple: ‘That was another aircraft transferring between frequencies, he is on an approach and nothing to worry about.’
I could not believe it. I was trying to fly an approach but my hands were still shaking, I really knew something far from normal had just taken place and began to wonder what might come of it. The whole episode had well and truly frightened me. Would there be someone on the ground waiting to have a ‘chat’? Would I have to recount what had happened?
I broke through the last of the cloud and spotted a runway, banked slightly and lined up on the centreline. I was so fixated on landing and getting out of the aircraft that I looked at nothing except the painted touchdown markers on the runway. I could not have described what Jakarta looked like from the air if it had been the last thing I had to do.
I taxied from the runway and towards the marshal. There were a few people standing around waiting for my arrival but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I parked up and shut down before opening the door to say hello. ‘Welcome to Indonesia, sir,’ he said. That could have gone worse.
Although I believed what happened had been the fault of air traffic control, there was nothing said about a near miss with traffic outbound from Jakarta and I was happy the issue had not escalated into anything significant. I was, however, a little surprised someone hadn’t at least mentioned it. Was this a regular occurrence? Did they consider it okay? I had already decided I would never fly a light aircraft in Indonesia again, except to leave the place of course, so someone else would have to find that out.
I stood by the aircraft and took a breath, I said hello to my handler and discussed what the afternoon would bring. I needed to clear Customs and Immigration and if we were departing the next morning we would also have to refuel. I grabbed my passport, a large black folder that had held every important document for the last two months, and the bundle of US dollars, and set off for the terminal.
After the awkward joy of Customs, a lesson in international translation, we wandered up a set of stairs to the airport refueller’s office. I ordered three drums of avgas but was told I would have to pay for them in cash before the locals would wheel them across to the Cirrus. I counted out the US bills and handed them to the lady, who took each note and carefully examined them before saying something to my handler in a foreign language.
There was a small problem. She would not accept three $100 bills of US cash as each note had an imperfection. One had a small stamp in the corner and the other two had been folded in half at some point in their life and therefore were now apparently worth less. I didn’t have an ironing board and iron in the Cirrus to rectify that so I took the notes back, held my breath and handed her three new bills. We had a deal.
I left the flawless bills in the office and made my way back to the Cirrus in a small van to find three drums of avgas already sitting on the tarmac on a small cart. We parked close by and began unpacking the plane. A small army of locals had gathered around and as I handed items down from the wing they carefully stacked them around the aircraft. Within minutes of having everything unpacked the heavens opened up and the sideways rain I had experienced in Pago Pago had now found its way to Indonesia. Everyone grabbed something, anything, and threw it into the back of the van before clambering in soon after. Within minutes all the equipment and each person was in the van and keeping dry, all except one guy who thought standing outside with an umbrella would be sufficient. It wasn’t, but it sure was amusing to see.
The refuelling process had begun. We had three forty-fourgallon drums of avgas, one hand pump and eleven people. Yes, eleven people – nine ‘helpers’, two firemen and myself. The already complicated task was now made harder due to the rain. Avgas and water don’t mix and if water was to make its way into the fuel tanks it could have disastrous results. I made it known that we would only be refuelling when the pouring rain had ceased, and even then we would have to dry the drums, pump and area around the fuel cap on the aircraft’s wing before beginning. With this in mind, we waited.
When the heavens finally stopped emptying themselves, my small army clambered from the vehicles surrounding the Cirrus and started work. With everything dry, the locals set about pumping the fuel. The pump was a manual one, meaning the handle had to be rotated by hand for the fuel to make its way into the aircraft. I was in charge of the fuel filler and the wings were not too much of an issue, but the ferry tank was a different story. I was definitely the only person going to be pointing the fuel hose into the cabin of an aircraft I didn’t own.
It was a slow process. We watched as the showers neared and rain began to fall, we would seal the drums, put the cap back on the tank and hop back in the van. Once it had stopped we got out and started again, only to partially fill a tank before the rain returned. It was a ‘rinse and repeat’ task.
From the first drop pumped into the wing tanks to the last strap being secured on the internal ferry tank it took a full five hours, longer than the flight from Malaysia to Indonesia, and longer than any refuelling venture to date.
I was exhausted and never wanted to refuel an aircraft ever again, not in Indonesia anyway. The only incentive to keep moving was the thought of touching down on home soil in only twenty-four hours’ time. I packed up the Cirrus, wandered through the terminal, met the little van once again and climbed in for the ride to the motel.
I sat back and admired the local culture as we crawled through a late afternoon traffic jam that barely moved, something that gave the locals a fantastic opportunity to sell anything they could through the passenger windows. I watched as the scooters zipped in and out of the traffic, some carrying more people than we would normally see in a car, plus the family pet. I took in the sights and smells of the local streets, businesses and way of life. It was now going on two months since I had departed the east coast of Australia and I was tired, not just from the sport of endurance refuelling but also from the trip as a whole. That said, it was a humbling experience to take in the sights and sounds of Indonesia and compare them to the phenomenal opportunity I had been able to pursue, the sights I had seen and the people I had met.
I checked into the motel, but not before going through security. This was something new: at the motel entrance was effectively airport security. I put my bags through the X-ray machine and wandered through the metal detector, my bags were taken and I was directed to the front desk.
It was bedtime, but not before food and the usual update of emails, blogs and a quick read through the consistently encouraging social media posts. A late night but an early start. Next stop Australia.