By Rod Douglas 

Oh, to sail free of the bonds of the earth. To have one’s perspective broken, as that which limits us is left far below and we see beyond limited horizons that contain us. Oh, so it is to fly. To set free the joy, the sheer adrenalin, of becoming one with the sky. To rely upon the unholy union of man and machine and bend time.

When finally I break away from the inspiring repetition of my life and strap myself into a plane, launching myself into the great blue yonder, it leads me to literature. Poetry, metre and measure. Words that make little sense but convey an emotion that those in the know, in synch, can feel, and it generates desire. The desire to fly.

It doesn’t matter how often I fly, it’s never enough. Every time I’m inspired. After a long and challenging day some people want a cold beer. Others, a good read. For me, a couple of circuits in anything safe will take the worst of days and make it better.

There is no question that I’m a little strange. Maybe mysterious. Sometimes stupid. But I know myself and I know that my poison, the freedom to fly, will set me free from whatever it is that causing me distress.

Last week was a case in point. You’ve got to love flying to put up with the general aviation industry in Australia. After all, you could only call it amateur hour. For an industry where people have to sink huge amounts of cash to partake, you’d think that customer service could be assumed to be a given.

Now some people might think that I’m whingeing. I’m not. I accept the limitations of vast tracks of the industry and smile at every hurdle thrown in front of me which obstructs me from living out my passion. That said, I have to call it as I see it, and compared to just about any industry the customer service is shocking. The arrogance and ignorance of the industry and its leaders constantly amazes me. That’s not to say I don’t like them, I do. It’s just that, across the board, they would fail in any other industry. It’s only in an industry that can make safety an excuse for anything, that you could get away with the woeful treatment of customers that I regularly see.

Back to last week. Three months ago I booked a nice glass-equipped modern single from an organisation that I last year spent in the order of $40,000 with. Now I know that in just about any other Australian industry where an individual spends that sort of money they might get some attention. Some care. A desire to keep said individual customer. Maybe a little service. Maybe a little nurturing. Maybe some questioning as to how the organisation might support that individual to spend more.

But no. Simply a shake of the head and a shrug of the shoulders from the CFI to say that my booking had – wait for it – vanished out of the book. And no. There isn’t any other aircraft available to fly the 15 hour, $4,000 plus spend for the week of flying that was to follow.

This is the same CFI who, after I aborted a flight because of an abnormally high oil pressure reading on the right engine of one of their old twins (engines on condition and only available for airwork), suggested that you should never rely on general aviation aircraft to take you somewhere important.  What an inspiring bastion of confidence in the capacity of general aviation to be the integrated business tool that light aircraft should be to Australian business.

He, like so many of the cranky old dogs with no desire to learn new tricks, who make up the senior ranks of instructors and testing officers, is ex-military. Prejudiced, opinionated and unhelpful, their mission in life seems to be to make flying unpleasant, difficult and challenging.

So clearly, if you’re Australian, and you want to fly, you’d better love it.

So, my shiny white plastic steed unavailable, I was forced to go back a few steps to one of the trusty Grumman Tigers owned by the fantastic people of Brisbane Flying Group. Their three Tigers are in terrific condition for 1979 model aircraft: well maintained by a disciplined group of owners who insist on them being kept squawk free. With great rates for members, I knew I’d be cutting my cost of the weeks flying down by two thirds. The only issue: 180 knots instantly became 120 knots and my range was cut by a third. I would be spending lots more hours getting around in a week of work that was marked by its intensity. Beyond that I was giving up a glass cockpit for a basic IFR panel with no weather guidance.

I blasted off Sunday afternoon with a relatively clear forecast for my Archerfield – Dubbo – Swan Hill marathon. Estimated time, including refuelling in Dubbo, six hours. Comparative time in the plane previously booked – 3 hours 30 minutes. But hey I was flying. In the Grumman you really fly. They are fantastically well balanced and simple fixed gear: fixed prop pocket rockets. The engine is bulletproof, its crisp handling is fighter like and there is nothing more pleasurable on a short flight that to hand fly it and put it exactly where you want it.

Well, as with any 29 year old, sometimes things stop working and, as was my luck on this trip, I had an unserviceable autopilot. So, with a nod of my head to my deep love of flying and a quick thought to how much better my hand flying skills would be at the end of the week, I got going.

Adventure is definitely part of the joy of flying. Oftentimes, the adventure doesn’t come from what we plan but rather what Mother Nature throws at us. After a delightful hour or so cruising into the dusk I’d settled into old ways with the aircraft well trimmed, a very regular scan and a level of attention to flying that, to be frank, is often lacking when the STEC55 is doing the work for you, the traffic screen is blank and the Stormscope is clear.

As I passed Inverell I heard the first of the diversions for weather calls from a myriad of jets on Brisbane Centre who were bringing home the weekend players into Brisbane. Forty five minutes later I was starting to see the amazing lightshow of over the horizon lightning cells. A quick search for the Flightwatch frequency and the reality was before me. One line of thunderstorms was moving easterly from out beyond Cobar and another line stretched from Mudgee south and was moving in a southwesterly direction.

As I topped the mountains behind Coonabarabran the sky was a fireworks display both to the west and the southeast. I wasn’t feeling very brave in the comparatively poorly equipped cockpit of the Tiger. It quickly reminded me that, while pilots might be seen to be adventurous in our technologically advanced and pathologically safe century, the true adventurers were the men who, like Smithy, simply believed in themselves, pushed the boundaries of discovery and often paid with their lives.

With five kids sitting at home with a patient and forbearing wife who was none too happy to hear that I had to take the Grumman, I started searching for help. It came from a Centre controller and the first officer of a Qantas 747 at 39,000 ft. Using their on-board weather they assessed the location of the line of storms and provided me with a fair indication of the picture. A pilot’s, a pilot’s, a pilot and, given the opportunity to help, they usually do.

It took me about five minutes to realise that I’d be racing the fronts and about 10 minutes longer to be on the ground in Coonabarabran. As I stood on the ground between the two fronts in the stillness between the storms, I marvelled at the beauty of the night where astronomers go for the clear air and lack of light pollution. It seemed so benign and safe apart for the truly amazing lightshow in the distance. Like many country airports, the 1960’s terminal was open, clean and waiting for an itinerant pilot like me to shelter from the storm. The cabbie wasn’t excited to have to come and get me but, nevertheless, dragged herself away from the NFL grand final to come and help out.

By the time we’d got into town and found a motel with a night bell, the rain was spitting and the downpour threatening. A character emerged to register me and tell me his life story. I was more interested in the bed. With a promise from my new best friend Cheryl the cabbie to pick me up at the ungodly hour of six am daylight saving time, my head hit the pillow hard.

When it comes to night flight in a single I don’t take many risks. Some would say that night flight in a single is a risk. When it’s a Cirrus I figure that the parachute gives me the same chance as the second engine in a light twin. In the Tiger it’s only having flown them for a long while and knowing the way they’re maintained that gives me the confidence to even think about it. Maybe I do have a little adventurer in me.

I woke with the sparrows and a commitment to be in the air at first light. Most lines of thunderstorms lose their potency by the morning and I was banking on that to let me be in Swan Hill to start work at nine am. As we hit the highway and my eyes opened fully, I realised that I might be waiting awhile when a flash of lighting struck the paddock ahead of the cab.

The two fronts had occluded and become a stationary dump of life-giving rain over Coonabarrabran with a 500 ft ceiling. The terminal became my playground. It’s single strip heater the only luxury on a cold morning with coolest art deco airport seats for me to try and kip upon. I’d just fallen asleep, having decided that I was in for a long wait, when my beloved called to make sure I’d made it. Having not read my SMS to her of the evening before she assumed I’d be safely in Swan Hill. I laughed.

A good book, a laptop and aircard, and the guessing game of breaking weather became my lot. My saving grace was knowing that I was on the lee side of the mountains and that the run downhill to Dubbo would be fairly simple once I knew I had a 1,000 ft ceiling. One false start saw me on the keys ready to go, as a new rainstorm blew through, getting my heart racing as the joy of the constant decision-making that is aviation bit again. Safety first, back to the terminal and some more emails.

One of the great gifts to all pilots is the Bureau of Met sit, and mobile internet. I was able to watch the movement of the storms and, about midday, I finally saw my opening. Into the plane, I leapt into the air to discover a 1,100 ft ceiling. As I ran downhill to Dubbo, the ceiling followed me down. I was soon on the ground and with tanks filled I headed over to the terminal for my first feed of the day.

Bodily needs dealt with, I was back in the air and heading for Swan Hill. The sun had burnt a nice big hole over Dubbo and, once again, the weather looked reasonably benign. And it was. Until the speci’s started. Big winds. ‘That’s ok’ I thought. The Grumman is one of those aircraft with which it’s a pleasure to go and practice crosswind landings on days where the trees bend. A little wind wouldn’t stop me.

Well the wind didn’t stop m, but the dust storms did. About 50 nm short of Hay, I ran into them. I’d been monitoring their progress with flight watch. I saw them coming. They didn’t look too intense but I was struggling to understand how deep they were. As I got closer I started to realise how big they were with a 5,000 ft ceiling and every ounce of the sky, from the surface to the underside of the clouds, a swirling mass of dust. I had requested radar flight following and was talking to Melbourne Centre, so I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have a look. If need be I could upgrade to IFR. Having flown through dust storms before I wasn’t particularly concerned. That changed as I entered the front edge. Where previously I could see the ground and see an obscured horizon within moments of entering the dust, I couldn’t see the propeller. I didn’t bother upgrading; I simply made a rate one turn on instruments and headed for Griffith.

I landed at Griffith with 25 knots gusting 30 down the runway and taxied across to park outside the aeroclub. I’d parked next to a Jabaru which was tied down even tighter than I’d tied down the Tiger. The pilot was in the club contemplating the weather and the bloody long way he had to go as he was tracking for Adelaide.

My only thought as I spoke to him was, “How much fun is this?” I’d already lost a day’s consulting fees but I was having a ball. One of the members offered me a lift into town and I thought, “why not?” I’d never spent a night in Griffith and, hey, an adventure is an adventure. The local pub was clean. ‘Exxies’, the local returned service club, put on a good smorgasbord and I had a great long walk around what is a beautiful, green and abundant town.

First light saw a truly beautiful morning and I was in the air as the sun broke the horizon. By 7.30 I was in the café in Swan Hill having breakfast ready for work. Man, I love the adventure of flying. It took me a long while to get there: I got to see a couple of new towns and I got the best that mother nature could throw at me and I loved every single minute.

The rest of the week flew past. Friday morning saw me back at the airport at first light. With the aircraft refuelled I couldn’t help but head out for a quick circuit in the cold stillness of the morning. One was sufficient and the smile was wide enough to make my cheeks hurt all day. As the work day came to an end I shot out to the airport to dash home.

You wouldn’t believe it but the aviation adventure God was smiling upon me again and, after a week of beautiful severe clear days, there was another line of storms moving through the middle of NSW. Just another opportunity for adventure. A new plan. Direct Wollongong for fuel and then up the coast. It was a lovely flight apart from a little hot afternoon turbulence over the Hay Plains. As I got closer to Sydney, I could see the line of storms and felt confident enough to creep north and slip between a couple of cells and into Bankstown. Once on the ground I fired up the laptop and discovered extensive storms north of Newcastle and through Coffs.

It’s a tough life when you have to spend Friday night in Sydney. I quickly booked a room in the Royal Automobile Club at Circular Quay and went to watch the beautiful people partying. Spanish at the tappas bar in Captain Torres was superb and my people-watching walk around Sydney left me awed at the beauty of the city, the harbor and the people who populate it.

For the fourth time this week I was at the airport at first light. Four first lights at airports was almost worth everything I’d been through. The magic of the dawn light. A world awakening. The peace shattered only by the clatter of a piston starting or the whine and smell of turbine igniting. Man I love airports.

Into the air I leapt. I’d checked the weather and there were still some heavy showers in a line through Coffs. Mother Nature clearly decided that this was going to be an adventure. I called in at Taree and topped the tanks to give me a little extra margin and, while I was there, I had a great chat with a couple of pilots at the Taree Aero Club where they are very welcoming of visiting pilots.

By the time I’d reached Coffs the weather was clearing up. Further north I was hearing about heavy rain in Brisbane and squally showers crossing the coast. It always amazes me that a flight that at night would be positively scary is quite delightful in daylight. With a clearance through Coffs airspace at 1,000 ft over the beach I was having a ball. I kept plugging my way north with the overcast slowly lowering. As I arrive over the beach at Evans Heads the clouds had pushed me down to 500 ft. It was time to stop and a quick call to a real estate agent I’ve been negotiating to buy a property from soon had me in town and reconnecting with the real estate market. It’s a great town and a bit of lunch and a half dozen house inspections had me ready to keep going into the improving conditions.

Of course my regular calls to my wife were met with increasing mirth. Apart from the fact that our property in the mountains behind the Gold Coast was in cloud, I doubt she would have believed me that the weather was holding me up. I’m sure I would have been accused of just finding excuses to keep playing in the plane. After a week away, the kids were a bit keen to see dad, as I was keen to see them.  I was wearing the Lightspeed Zulu’s with the Bluetooth function doing a superb job of connecting my mobile phone. This turned out be a fantastic addition to my flying safety with the capacity to phone ahead to the AWIS at the airports ahead.

North I headed. Five hundred feet up the beach. Great flying. Showers of rain to add interest. Pitot heat on, add a little carb heat. Finally I popped up at Hasting Point and grabbed an overwater clearance through the Cooly zone. I love flying up the Gold Coast beaches, past the high rises looking up at the penthouses. Just north of the zone the rain became a squally wall. I’d had enough. With a clearance to track back to Coolangatta for landing I called the family. Come and get me. I landed behind a Virgin 737 and taxied to parking. What a great day flying.

Today’s Tuesday. I was back out at the airport at first light. It’s a beautiful morning. I’ve got a busy day ahead. The plane needs to get back to Archerfield, I need to pick my car up, do a couple of board meetings and officiate at the Arbor Day Awards in my role as Greening Australia Queensland president. The flight was short. Point four of an hour. Twenty four minutes. Fourteen hundred and forty seconds of pure pleasure. Finally the trip, the adventure, is over. I love flying. I would do just about anything to be able to fly. Is there anything better in the world than to fly?