felt an overwhelming sense of regret over my cavalier parting with Krystyne; we had not said a proper goodbye. Leaving Toronto in a blush of self-confidence and eager to get started on my flight to Africa, I had thought it a bad omen to dwell on the possibility of ditching, wrong to invite the unthinkable.
Lightning flashed incandescent through cloud, each electrical discharge spraying the storm-scope with a myriad of small crosses. There was a sudden, shocking, pistol-like report. A lightning strike slammed into the cockpit, knocking out the ADF (automatic direction finding) instrument and firing the cockpit with an acrid smell of burnt electronics. A thin curl of blue smoke rose from under the instrument panel to settle beneath the concave hood of the windscreen. I was more surprised than frightened. The storm’s ferocity seemed out of proportion to the neatly defined cold front recorded on Gander’s seven-hundred-millibar weather chart prepared nine hours earlier. High over the Atlantic those same small, thinly spaced isobars had translated themselves into forces of nature that threatened to pull me down into a raging ocean with little chance of survival.
I descended to an altitude of four thousand feet, searching for higher temperatures that would herald the melting point. A thick accumulation of ice on the plane gradually turned soft and began to run. Large chunks of ice, thrown by the prop, struck the fuselage with a terrifying noise, like the spray of machine-gun bullets. The warmer temperatures drove sheets of rain onto the plane, so thick I thought the engine air intake might choke with water. The windshield became a river, like being trapped in the underside of a waterfall.
I had passed the point of no return with not enough fuel to make it back to Newfoundland. I was committed to reaching the Azores or ditching into the Atlantic. Proper navigation had now given way to mere survival. I needed to punch through the cold front, ride out the turbulence while trying to maintain control of the airplane. In the meantime the satellite-directed GPS instrument continued faithfully to record my progress from North America, seemingly unperturbed by the surrounding chaos. I was ten degrees to the left of my course, three hours away from the Azores.
My shoulders ached. I longed for relief. The relentless struggle to control the plane had become a series of linked crises. It was important to maintain a light touch on the controls, since I feared the cables might snap under the stress of increasing turbulence. Technically, there comes a point when it is better to give the plane its “head,” minimize corrections, and fly with the rudder pedals only. The plane pitched and climbed in such an erratic manner I feared I might involuntarily enter a high-speed stall. I battled on, thrown sideways, rolling first onto one wing and then violently back onto the other, nerves on edge, hoping, praying for a change in the weather.
Three-quarters of an hour later I broke into still air and an unreal calm took hold. Suddenly, it was as if I were suspended, floating through space, like some orbiting planet. Only the drone of the engine gave a hint of movement. The first peeping stars and a threequarter moon emerged from the remaining wisps of cloud—the storm’s spent traces departing gracefully like the beat of angels’ wings.
Too tired to sort out the mess in the cockpit I simply sat there staring at the instruments, relishing the calm as the last of the day tumbled into darkness. A sense of peace descended over my small world. The familiarity of my surroundings, the instruments, the competent sounds of the motor, even the rush of wind through the fuselage provided me with a renewed sense of confidence. I was comfortable in my plane, having flown her thousands of miles; I knew her idiosyncrasies by heart and by instinct, which manoeuvres she could handle, the safe limits of her performance. And she almost certainly knew my personal flying characteristics both good and bad. There was a bond that had us relying one upon the other.
My heart leapt as I sighted, far in the distance, tiny pinpricks of light. It was certain to be Flores, the first of the small islands of the Azores. I had only three hundred miles to go before reaching the most eastward island, Santa Maria. I marvelled that body, soul, and engine, flying non-stop thirteen and a half hours over the vast expanse of ocean through mixed weather, had found these small islands in the middle of the Atlantic. Weariness overwhelmed me; still, I could rejoice. I had completed the first leg of a seven-thousand-mile flight to Africa. The relief was palpable.
Santa Maria coordinates: latitude, north 36 degrees, 58 minutes, 04 seconds; longitude, west 025 degrees, 10 minutes, 03 seconds—how could I ever forget them? Pilots for over fifty years had concentrated their wits and physical endurance on this waypoint, the refuelling crossroads for piston-engine airplanes crossing the Atlantic: America to Europe, Europe to South America, and vice versa. For the first half of the twentieth century, this remote little group of volcanic islands in the middle of the Atlantic grew in importance along with the expansion of air travel. No other refuelling stop lay within a thousand miles. Not until the arrival of the jet engine in the 1950s and the introduction of non-stop transatlantic flights did the Azores lose their strategic importance.
Having landed at Santa Maria, I walked over to the airport office to clear customs and pay landing fees. The captain sitting behind an old-fashioned oak desk, chin resting on a hammock of laced fingers, looked dignified and intelligent. He read my papers and then twisted the ends of his moustache. “We don’t see many planes coming through here any more,” he said, thoughtfully, in perfect English. His ice-blue eyes, fine features, and quiet demeanour gave him a natural air of authority. “May I buy you a drink?” he added, closing his desk drawer, pushing back the chair, and rising to his feet. My arrival had coincided with the end of his workday. I hesitated, surprised at the unexpectedly generous offer. “Perhaps you are tired and wish to retire.”
“No, it would be a pleasure,” I replied, “but first I should register at the hotel and wash up.”
“Yes, of course, you have had a long flight. I’ll wait for you downstairs in the bar. Please, take your time. No hurry.”
I had met Captain Helder Fernando da Silva Borges Pimental, head of airport operations. His career was bound to the Santa Maria airport, as controller, immigration officer, and now captain of operations. Over the years he had seen many pilots pass through theAzores.
After I checked into the hotel and washed up I wandered down to the bar to find Helder crouched over a whisky. I joined him, ordered a beer, and asked him to tell me about flying into the Azores. He related the story of Clarke Wood—everyone called him Woody—a great pilot. Woody was an American, a professional ferry pilot, transporting other people’s planes across the Atlantic for a living—a risky business. He had gone down two hundred miles off the Azores in a Lake Amphibian nine months before. It had been a wild night, and the waves were twenty feet high: no chance in that kind of sea. Helder was the controller on duty when Woody radioed through that he was having engine problems and that he could not maintain altitude. That was at 18:00 hours. Then mysteriously, the engine settled and Woody indicated that operations were back to normal. Could it have been carburetor icing? Twenty minutes later, the trouble recurred and this time he had to ditch. He radioed his latitude and longitude and then silence.
I shuddered. Sad to think of Woody hanging on out there in the middle of the night, hoping to beat the odds. Helder told me he had sent two planes out to look for him, hoping to see a light near his reported position, but it was a storm-swept night, pitch black— making rescue impossible. In the morning, reconnaissance planes sighted the ferry tanks floating just below the surface, and bits of wreckage scattered near his reported position. No sign of Woody. There was no doubt in Helder’s mind that Woody had died in the crash. A Lake Amphibian with all that fuel and the engine mounted above the fuselage is a tough airplane to glide into a stormy sea. He probably didn’t even see the water before he struck the first wave, like hitting cement.
One drink and my head was swimming. I needed sleep. Helder insisted we meet again, the next day. I agreed, said good-night, and stumbled towards my hotel room. I placed a call to Krystyne who sounded
