Back out of the basement window and move away silently into the darkness. Don’t hurry. Count steps and wait for your eyes to adjust. Rods and cones. It’s a clear night and there’s a new moon caressing the afterimage of the old. There’s the dull gleam of the iron gate. Don’t open it! Sounds like a soprano sax. Climb. Just under a kilometre to the beach. Count steps again.
Last bend on the track, strewn with sand. The surging swell of the bay, periodic, like a slumbering animal snoring in its lair. Off-shore breeze, maybe five to ten knots. Here’s the little gully hiding the blessed Slingsby camouflaged under foliage. Cast it all aside. Port wingtip, leading edge, fuselage, dome of the canopy, prop, starboard wing leading edge, wingtip, trailing edge, fuselage, tail fin, fuselage, port wing trailing edge. So much for a pre-flight.
Now jump up on to the port wing root and turn the clasp of the canopy through ninety degrees and pull the canopy back. Release the port joystick where you’d secured it to the rudder pedals with elastic rope – an age ago – to stop the control surfaces from flapping in the wind. Parking brake off. Back down to the nose of the aircraft and grasp the prop in both hands and heave. Not too far. You’ll need every inch.
There are old aviators and there are bold aviators. What would an old aviator do now? Retrieve the aircraft documentation from its pocket behind the pilot’s seat and work out a ‘P’ chart. Take off performance, slope and distance of the strip, nature of the surface, all up weight, wind speed and direction, ambient temperatures and pressures … Forget it. One way or another, I’m leaving.
Now all of a sudden there’s a light drizzle. At least access the oil dipstick under the aperture in the engine cowling. Five litres.
Get into the cockpit and don’t think about it. Just do it. Left seat, hood closed and locked, rudder pedals out to length, five point harness secured low on the midriff. Put the key in the ignition! Start-up checks, hard-wired. Fuel on, brake on, throttle closed, switches off, instruments left to right … flicking on the masters, setting the mags on both, carb air cold, fuel pump on … Prime the engine with fuel using the throttle lever. Give it six strokes and set the throttle open half an inch.
Now to wake people up.
I pressed the starter.
There was a fractional pause, then the prop gave two great scything coughs, and then sprang obediently to life. Automatically I glanced at the oil pressure; it rose immediately. I set 1000 rpm and suppressed the compulsion to get on with it. I needed the engine to warm up to maximum efficiency. Never mind the fact that people would be opening their blinds, coming out to investigate. Get all the temperatures and pressures up. Therefore you have time to check the magnetos, for the pre-take-off checks, the vital actions. Keep the nav lights off. I set 1800 rpm and pulled the carb air intake to warm. The revs dutifully fell off by 100 and returned again to 1800 when I reset cold. Mag 1 – drop off 50. Mag 2 – dropped 200 and the engine started to run rough. I set mags on both and ran the engine up to full power. That would wake up the whole bloody island! I wished now I’d put my headset on. I was deafened. I gave it thirty seconds and then dropped back to 1800 and checked each mag in turn. This time there was a drop of 50 on each mag and the engine note was sweet.
Vital actions … I ran through the mantra automatically. Trim neutral, throttle friction nut finger tight, mixture rich, carb air cold, fuel pump on, instruments set, half a stage of flap … It may have been my imagination but I caught a glimmer of torch light out of the corner of my eye, and how could I have heard a shout above the engine note? But I abandoned the rest of the checks and thrust the throttle on to full power with my feet on the toe brakes. The engine roared to 2200 rpm. I glanced ahead. There was very little to see. A rock face ahead, alarmingly close, and a glimmer of light off the ocean on my left. I whispered under my breath, ‘Dear Christ Almighty.’ I do believe it was more of a prayer than a profanity. Then I released the toe brakes.
The aircraft surged forward. I used rudder to stay parallel with the line of the bay. The crosswind whipped at me. More right rudder, more right aileron – keep the wing down. Ignore the great slab of blackness ahead. Just get the nose wheel off the ground. There she goes. That’s all you can do. Just wait for the machine to get airborne. How far ahead was that stream that cut across my runway on its way to the sea? Come on baby lift off … We’re off! Keep the nose down. Get some speed. The pale silver of the stream flashed under me. Now the line of the seashore had vanished from view and the rock face occupied the whole of my existence. It was about to smash into the cockpit. Right aileron, right rudder, as much as you dare … keep the nose down! The stall warning light flashed and the stall warning horn screeched at me. Hold it there … hold it! I was hissing at myself through gritted teeth. Then the blackness of the cliff wall fell away and I could see a horizon ahead at the top of the valley and, above it, a blue black sky. Get the wings level. I had 50 feet and 60 knots. Bring the nose up, very, very gently. The screeching stopped and the stall warning light went out. The big house fell away to my right. There were a few lights burning in the cottages of the tiny hamlet inland. 70 knots. I put the Slingsby Firefly back into a climbing turn to the right, back over the house. Pick up the beach again. I could just make out two figures, one bulky and untidy with hands on hips, staring upwards, the other slim and fit, trying to make a call on his mobile. Would he get a signal down there? He’s probably scrambling a jet to shoot me down. Surely they’d alert the police now! 500 feet. Release the flap. Climbing on full power. Fuel pump off. There’s the beach, the surf. Turn south. You’ve done it. You’ve made it.
All the danger and tension fell away as the bay with its waterfalls and scarred rock basilisks disappeared behind. Prosaically, I retrieved my headphones from the tiny luggage space behind me, put them on, plugged them in, and turned on the radio. Not that I had any intention of talking to anybody. I thought I’d catch the seven o’clock news headlines.