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 relieved to hear my voice, though she seemed distant— on the far side of a dream. I told her the remainder of my flight to Africa was without danger, but her instincts said otherwise, and so our thoughts remained hanging. Minutes later, I fell into sleep and immediately began to climb through cloud, rudder and ailerons guiding me through a tangle of dreams.
Dawn broke, uncertain, through a pearl haze of light. A twenty-knot wind funnelled down Santa Maria Runway 36. The tarmac stretched three thousand feet to the north, ending abruptly in a fifty-foot cliff overlooking a cobalt sea. The plane’s nose pointed upwards, ready for takeoff, the engine idling, the two-bladed prop describing a blurred arc against a worried sky. A sweep of clouds raced before the north wind.
I had tried for an earlier start, but the hotel was empty and the old night watchman’s eyesight was unable to handle the checkout. In future I vowed to settle accounts the evening before departure. Helder had found me a technician to help repair my HF transoceanic radio—a functioning HF radio was absolutely mandatory flying into Europe. It turned out that there was a hairline break in the antenna lead where it joined the HF receiver. The repair was simple. A further delay was caused by the chaotic state of the cockpit from the previous flight and the struggle to squeeze into my oversized rubber survival suit. I was now two hours behind schedule. Mine was the only airplane on the island, and yet the clearance seemed to take forever.
Flying over open water in daylight was a good deal more comforting than the 3:00 a.m. plunge into darkness off the coast of Newfoundland. Although my departure was delayed, I estimated arrival in Lisbon, Portugal, before nightfall. A light tailwind was forecast to last the day and then gradually dissipate near the European coast. I expected a trouble-free flight.
Navigating the second half of the flight across the Atlantic, from the Azores to Portugal, was considered easy compared to flying from St. John’s to Santa Maria. Unlike the first leg, navigating to small islands in the middle of the ocean, all one had to do was maintain an easterly heading and you were bound to land somewhere in Europe. Nevertheless, eight hundred miles of ocean and nine hours of flying to Portugal are not to be taken lightly; anything can happen and usually does flying an airplane. The radio airwaves would be thick with North American flights arriving in Europe, as pilots reported positions to the oceanic controllers whose job it was to coordinate hundreds of airliners crossing the Atlantic twice daily. I would be slotted into the traffic at a lower