always thought, worked out for the best. In this case, it was for the worst.
It was exactly at that moment that the starboard engine died on us. For a heart-stopping moment, there was a plume of black smoke, and then it faded away.
Dupont seemed to get into a state, wrestling with the controls, frantically making adjustments, but to no avail. We started to go down. In a panic, he started to shout in French to the air traffic control at Bournemouth, but my wife waved a hand at him and took over, calmly, sweetly reasonable.
‘We have fuel for perhaps an hour,’ she reported. ‘Have you a suggestion?’
The air traffic controller happened to be a woman and her voice was just as calm.
‘I can’t guarantee it, but Cornwall is your best bet. It’s not closed in as fully there. Cold Harbour, a small fishing port on the coast near Lizard Point. There’s an old RAF landing strip there from the Second World War. Abandoned for years but usable. I’ll put out your details to all rescue services. Good luck.’
We were at 3000 for the next twenty minutes and the traffic on the radio was confusing, often blanked out by some kind of static. The fog swirled around us and then it started to rain very hard. Dupont seemed more agitated than ever, the sweat on his face very obvious now. Occasionally he spoke, but again in French and, once more, Denise took over. There were various voices, lots of static and the plane started to rock as a thunderstorm exploded around us.
Denise spoke, very controlled, giving our details. ‘Possible Mayday. Attempting a landing at airstrip at Cold Harbour.’
And then the static cleared and a voice echoed strong and true. ‘This is Royal National Lifeboat Institution, Cold Harbour, Zec Acland speaking. No way you’re going to land here, girl. Can’t see my hand in front of my face.’
For Dupont, this was the final straw. He gave a sudden moan, seemed to convulse and his head lolled to one side. The plane lurched down, but Denise took control and gradually levelled it out. I leaned over and felt for a pulse in his neck.
‘It’s there, but it’s weak. Looks like a heart attack.’
I pushed him away from her. She said calmly, ‘Take the life-jacket from under his seat and put it on him, then do the same for yourself.’
She put the 310 on automatic and pulled on her own life-jacket. I took care of Dupont and struggled into mine.
‘Are we going into the drink?’
‘I don’t think we’ve got much choice.’ She took manual control again.
I tried to be flippant, a personal weakness. ‘But it’s March. I mean, far too cold in the water.’
‘Just shut up! This is business,’ she said and spoke again as we went down. ‘RNLI, Cold Harbour. I’ll have to ditch. Pilot seems to have had a heart attack.’
That strong voice sounded again. ‘Do you know what you’re doing, girl?’
‘Oh, yes. One other passenger.’
‘I’ve already notified Royal Navy air sea rescue, but not much they can do in this pea-souper. The Cold Harbour lifeboat is already at sea and I’m on board. Give me a position as accurately as you can.’
Fortunately the plane was fitted with a Global Positional System, satellite linked, and she read it off. ‘I’ll go straight down,’ she said.
‘By God, you’ve got guts, girl. We’ll be there, never fear.’
My wife often discusses her flying with me, so I was aware of the problems in landing a fixed wing light twin aircraft in the sea. You had to approach with landing gear retracted and full flaps and reasonable power, a problem with one engine dead.
Light winds and small waves, land into the wind, heavy wind and big waves, land parallel to the crests. But we didn’t know what waited down there. We couldn’t see.
Denise throttled back and we descended and I watched the altimeter. One thousand, then five hundred. Nothing – not a damn thing – and then at a couple of hundred feet, broken fog, the sea below, small waves and she dropped us into the wind.
For those few moments, I think she became a truly great pilot. We bounced, skidded along the waves and came to a halt. The shock was considerable, but she had the cabin door open in an instant.
‘Bring him with you,’ she called and went out fast on to the wing.
I leaned over, unfastened Dupont’s seat-belt, then shoved him head first through the door. She reached for him, slid off the wing into the water and pulled him after her. I went then and slipped off the wing. I remembered some statistics she’d shown me on landings at sea. Ninety seconds seemed to be about par for the course before the plane sank.
Denise was hanging on to Dupont as they floated away in their yellow life-jackets. As I followed, the plane sinking, she shouted, ‘Oh God, Tarquin’s in there.’
This requires a word of explanation. Tarquin was a bear, but a unique bear. When we found him sitting on a shelf in a Brighton antique shop, he was wearing the leather flying helmet, flying boots and blue flying overalls of the Second World War’s Royal Air Force. He also wore Royal Flying Corps Wings from the First World War. He had had an enigmatic look on his face, which was not surprising, the dealer informed us, because he had flown repeatedly in the Battle of Britain with his former owner, a fighter pilot. It was a romantic story, but I tended to believe it, and I know my wife did, because he had the appearance of a bear who’d done things and been places. In any case, he’d become her mascot and flew with her frequently. There was no question of leaving him behind.
We’d placed him in the rear of the cabin, in a supermarket shopping bag, and I didn’t hesitate. I turned, reached for the handle of the rear cabin door, got it open and dragged out Tarquin in his bag.
‘Come on, old lad, we’re going for a swim,’ I said.
God, but it was cold, like acid eating into the bones and that, I knew, was the killer. You didn’t have long in the English Channel, as many RAF and Luftwaffe pilots had found to their cost.
I held on to Dupont and Tarquin, and she held on to me. ‘Great landing,’ I said. ‘Very impressive.’
‘Are we going to die?’ she demanded, in between gagging on sea water.
‘I don’t think so,’ I told her. ‘Not if you look over your shoulder.’
Which she did, and found an RNLI Tyne Class lifeboat emerging from the fog like some strange ghost. The crew were at the rail in yellow oilskins and orange life-jackets, as the boat coasted to a halt beside us and three men jumped into the water.
One old man stood out, as he leaned over the rail. He was in his eighties obviously, white-haired and bearded, and when he spoke, it was that same strong voice that we’d heard on the radio. Zec Acland. ‘By God, you brought it off, girl.’
‘So it would appear,’ Denise called.
They hauled us into the boat – and then the strangest thing happened. Acland looked at the soaked bear in my arms, a look of bewilderment on his face. ‘Dear God, Tarquin. Where did you get him?’
