This book is a true account of my flight to Africa and the two years spent in Nairobi with my wife, Krystyne, working with the Flying Doctors Service there. The book is an accurate record as seen from a personal perspective; only the mission flights have been constructed in a dramatic format as a story to hold the reader’s interest.
I have abandoned any attempt to disguise names, with a few exceptions, since it would be too easy for those featured in the book to identify themselves. I accept responsibility and offer apologies to anyone who believes they have been misrepresented—the intention, in every case, was to portray Africa’s characters, who are legion, as accurately as possible; seen, of course, through my own eyes. I continue to hold feelings of warmth and affection for all those in AMREF, the Flying Doctors Service, and for those I met over our two and a half-year period in Africa.
Finally, I owe, as most writers do, an enormous debt to my wife, Krystyne, who not only features as an impressive person in this book, but has provided both the patience and the support to ensure that it was written.
Scott Griffin
Toronto
Ex Africa semper aliquid novi. Africa always brings something new.
— PLINY
THE NIGHT was Bible-black, cold and forbidding. Sea and sky were fused into a huge, inky void. Outside my Cessna 180, the darkness held no earth, no stars, no departure point, no feeling of movement—a world suspended. Only the warm glow of the instrument lights and the throb of the engine gave hint of the plane’s small progress through the slow heartbeat of space. I was reaching into the unknown, a mere speck over the cold Atlantic. It was the first time I ever sensed vertigo.
The cockpit was crammed tight, like the inside of a space capsule, fragile and claustrophobic. My breath quickened, firing the imagination. Extrication in the event of an emergency would be impossible. Squeezed into a rubber survival suit and strapped into my seat with the doors locked, I was flying in a coffin with no means of escape. Streams of digital information curved over the Perspex windscreen: altitudes, airspeeds, nautical waypoints, reflecting my fear with split-second precision, shooting it deep into the starless night.
It was 2:10 a.m. The Newfoundland coast slipped beneath my right wing, inducing a sense of panic as I struck out over open water. I was losing my nerve. I fought for a legitimate reason to bank the plane and return to the safety of St. John’s airport. A navigational miscalculation, an operational error or misjudgment from this point forward could lead to fuel exhaustion, mechanical failure, or loss of direction, forcing me to ditch into a fearsome sea. Somehow, in spite of all the careful planning, all the preparation, I was not yet ready to penetrate the night, to fly solo over fourteen hundred miles of ocean to the Azores. How to explain this sudden loss of nerve? With every passing minute I slipped, inch by inch, farther out over the ice-cold water, deeper into a private world of fear.
The coast was my lifeline. Like a drowning man I watched the faint outline of the shore receding into darkness. It was my last chance to turn back to safety. If I pressed on, I would lose the ability to investigate a snapping cable torn loose from the controls, an insidious airlock in the fuel line, an unexpected illumination of the alternator light, sudden loss of communication, or worst of all, catastrophic engine failure. Minutes drained away, inexorably, into the night. I had an overwhelming need to rest, just for a moment, to collect myself, to take stock, before pushing forward. Demons of doubt crowded in on me. Was this not foolhardy, courting unwarranted danger? Was it fair to my wife, Krystyne, anxiously waiting for news? Should I not turn around while I was within reach of the coast? I wavered. Then suddenly, from somewhere deep inside, a certain resolve took hold and I knew that my course was set. I was committed to trying to reach the Azores, the first leg of my solo flight from Toronto to Africa, whatever the risk.
It was 1996, and I was beginning a two-year mission with the Flying Doctors Service of Africa. I had decided to fly my own plane from Toronto to Nairobi, Kenya. I knew that flying a single-engine plane solo across the Atlantic left little room for error. On the other hand, once there, flying my own plane in Africa would make the experience unforgettable. It was a calculated risk, one I felt I could manage.
St. John’s airport tower transmitted final instructions over the radio and signed off. At 5:00 a.m., two hours from the coast, I had passed beyond normal VHF (very high frequency) radio range. I tried contacting Gander via HF (high frequency) radio, a long-distance radio used for transoceanic flights, without success. Perplexed as to why I was unable to make contact, I fiddled half-heartedly with the knobs for another five minutes and then gave up. There would be time later to concentrate on communications; I needed to turn my attention to navigation.
I planned to navigate across the ocean by hand, calculating my position hourly by dead reckoning and not relying solely on the GPS (global positioning system) instrument in the unlikely event it should fail. Manual calculations involved interpreting direction and strength of the wind to determine how far the plane would be blown off course. Gander provided St. John’s with detailed forecasts of upper winds, which were printed for pilots an hour prior to departure. In daylight, wind force 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