and direction were verifiable by sighting the size and angle of the waves relative to the plane’s heading; at night, one had to rely on forecasts. In addition, hourly course adjustments were necessary, based on magnetic variation. I dutifully recorded my calculations and the GPS instrument times and positions on my aviation map, comparing the two: they were remarkably close over the first five hours.
I had virtually no room in the cockpit. Behind the front seat the large spare tank known as a ferry tank held 120 gallons of extra fuel, leaving almost no space for storing gear. The co-pilot’s seat held the life raft on top of which was the HF radio. The fuel pump for the ferry tank occupied the floor of the cockpit. Where to store the flashlight, the emergency flares, the fresh-water container, the EPIRB (emergency position indicating radio beacon), the hand-held radio, and the thermos? More importantly, I needed space for the navigational charts, plotting charts, calculator, protractor, ruler, pencils, along with reference lists for HF radio frequencies, reporting positions and ETA (estimated time of arrival) calculations; the Jeppeson flight supplement; approach plates; emergency reading glasses. They all had to be within immediate reach. Having no autopilot, wing leveller, or co-pilot meant that I could not just abandon the controls to search for some vital piece of equipment or information.
Three hours and twenty minutes out of St. John’s I encountered my first serious problem. I was flying through thick cloud with no visibility outside the cockpit, not a star nor horizon to rely on. Flashes of light reflected off the murk of cloud from the plane’s navigation lights. The engine rumbled over a range of harmonics as the plane laboured through increasing turbulence. Suddenly, the LED (light-emitting diode) of my number-one radio blanked out. Presumably, the radio still worked, but it was utterly useless if I could not read the frequency numbers. LEDS are illuminated by gasemitting diodes, normally reliable. This was an unexpected development, hard to fathom. Particularly worrisome was the prospect of having to rely on my number-two radio, a twenty-three-year-old vintage Cessna 120 model. Its limited range was useful around airports only. My HF radio, of course, was designed for transoceanic radio communications over long distances, but it had not worked since I left St. John’s. The prospect of having to rely on a hand-held emergency radio of limited range all the way to the Azores was unnerving.
Should I turn back or continue flying for another eleven hours, unable to communicate? St. John’s would assume I was proceeding across the ocean with all equipment functioning, since I had left their control zone. Gander, on the other hand, handled all trans-Atlantic flights; they would be waiting for me to establish contact.
I remembered reading in an avionics journal that diodes were affected by pressure changes; perhaps it was worth changing altitude. I descended from eleven thousand feet to nine thousand feet, noting the last frequency on my plotting chart before turning my attention back to the HF radio.
The HF radio raised different questions. Were the HF receiver and antenna system incorrectly installed, or was the problem caused by my inability to manipulate the latest interlocking features of the Kenwood receiver? I felt like a novice facing the complexities of a computer for the first time—only I was flying an airplane, at night, over water, with no reference points or horizon. Five hundred miles off the coast of Newfoundland, unable to raise Gander, Halifax, or any other station, I had to concede that if I continued on to the Azores it would be without communication with the outside world.
Thickening banks of cumulus cloud reduced all visibility to the wing tips. Turbulence increased from light to moderate. Flying became more difficult, requiring my full concentration. The GPS instrument silently recorded an accumulating bank of nautical miles off the North American continent. I had become a tiny speck inching farther and farther out over the Atlantic, alone and vulnerable.
Still, I had faith in my plane and ultimately in my own ability to reach the Azores and then Africa. It was blind faith, perhaps, but enough to hold me on course. Surely, I mused, the idea of faith was blind, more akin to instinct, and subtle in that respect. Faith in God, faith in yourself; you either possessed it or you did not. For me it provided comfort. Not that I could ask God to look after me, only that He not abandon me. The parable of the lost sheep was intriguing: the lamb never alone in its lost-ness was infinitely more reassuring than the lamb rescued. Faith embodied so much more than fate. I knew God’s mercy paid no heed to merit, had no court of justice. And I never thought of God as determining the outcome of my flight. There was more to it than that. Faith provided the strength to endure, to survive the consequences, whatever they might be. Faith kept me flying with hope, and hope knew no boundaries.
Suddenly, without warning, the sky cleared. The planet Jupiter hung under the soft light of a lambent moon. My spirits lifted and, flying into a star-filled night, I rejoiced at my refusal to turn back. The Milky Way spread across the sky like a jewelled carpet reflecting a path over the silver ocean. First-magnitude stars wheeled on their prescribed passages across the firmament, like a giant clock recording the slow passing of the night. How many navigators, I wondered, over how many centuries, had put their faith on sightings from these selfsame stars? Ancient seafarers, desert nomads, Arctic explorers, even modern-day astronauts all relied upon these heavenly waypoints. The celestial chart, a construction of the first order, exquisitely beautiful, mathematically precise, utterly divine, held for me the reconciliation of faith and the secular world of science.
The LED display on my number-one VHF radio flickered and came alive again, filling the cockpit with its orange glow—the change in altitude worked. VHF (very high frequency) radio operates on line of sight and with the curvature of the earth its range is limited, while HF (high frequency) radio waves bounce off the ionosphere and their range is virtually unlimited, although the signal degrades with distance and atmospheric interference. So, while I remained without communication with a defective or inoperable HF at least within range of the Azores, I would be able to transmit and receive on my VHF radio. I offered a silent prayer of thanks, eased the plane back to my assigned altitude of eleven thousand feet, and willed the LED numbers to hold firm.
It was now five-thirty in the morning, three and a half hours into the flight, time to switch to the left tank and to start pumping reserve fuel from the ferry tank behind my seat up to the starboard wing. As I turned on the electric fuel pump, eyes glued to the fuel gauges, I thought of Dave McDevitt, my mechanic in Toronto. Dave had helped me prepare for the trip; it was his installation—this was his moment. He was probably asleep, no doubt confident that his workmanship could be relied upon. Sure enough, as if his thick, stubby fingers were pushing the fuel gauges, the needles crawled up to the full mark. The wing tanks would require two more replenishments before I reached the Azores. Dave’s insistence that “fuel and engine— them’s the only things that count out there” reverberated through my mind like a mantra.
Dawn broke, spilling light under my port wing. A sleepy grey sky drew a veil of cirrus cloud across the promise of morning. The last shades of night slipped over the plane’s tail and my spirits rose. At that moment, I could think of nowhere else I’d rather be than alone in the cockpit, hundreds of miles out over the Atlantic, within range of the Azores, reaching for Africa. I poured myself a cup of coffee and watched the sun inch over the razor-thin horizon, cutting sea and sky, ten thousand feet below. I never felt more alive.
It was the first time since leaving St. John’s in the dark that I felt in control of my destiny, reassured by my decision to fly to Africa; a moment of calm, to reflect on why I was here, midway across the Atlantic, flying solo in a single-engine plane.
For years I had been caught up in the business and personal ambitions of life in Toronto. Toronto was like that: money, career, power, and who you knew; it all seemed so important. I was never really interested or particularly successful in making money, in spite of repeated efforts to set some aside, enough to be independent. I was president
