Hours passed without incident. Imperceptible changes in the weather, in line with the forecast, drew thin wisps of cloud across the sky with the occasional non-threatening rain showers between the shafts of sunlight reflecting off the waves below. Operating routines were, by now, familiar: pumping fuel up to the wing tanks, plotting dead-reckoning positions, communicating with the controllers, calculating speed, drift, and estimated time of arrival.
Six hours into the flight the first loom of landfall came within sight: the European coastline. Transoceanic control transferred me over to the Portuguese traffic controllers responsible for merging streams of air traffic into the country’s major airports. Clipped voices relayed instructions in rapid bursts over the radio. The mix of nationalities speaking English—the international language of aviation—required professional radio procedure and military-like execution of instructions.
The weather deteriorated rapidly as I approached the coast. Late-afternoon convective activity over the warm land swelled into a solid mass of cloud, embedded with thunderstorms. Controllers tried to accommodate repeated requests from commercial airlines to divert around bad weather. At my lower altitude I had no choice but to fly through thick cloud and turbulence. The ferry tank occasionally expanded with the change in air pressure, making a loud bang. It was unnerving. Each time, I thought I had lost part of the plane’s fuselage.
Rain streamed over the windscreen and pummelled the plane, increasing the noise level in the cabin. Turbulence made hand flying increasingly difficult. Commercial airliners at the higher altitudes were also finding it uncomfortable, judging by the number of diversions requested of controllers. Bad flying weather was solid up to thirty thousand feet, far beyond my plane’s climbing capability.
I was vectored into a five-minute holding position while a number of jumbo jets were slotted into final approach for Lisbon International Airport. I sensed the controller was having difficulty finding enough space to accommodate my slower speed. Flying IFR (instrument flight rules), in a holding pattern with no visibility, after nine hours over the ocean seemed unreasonable. I was on the verge of complaining when I received my instructions to pick up the localizer and hold the centre line of the runway; then execute an instrument landing onto Runway 21.
I touched down and, to my amazement, found no response in the left brake. My plane, a tail dragger, can be steered on the ground only by using the brakes. Swerving farther and farther off the runway I fought to maintain directional control, without success. The plane barely avoided a ground loop, hit a grass bank, and slid down a gentle incline to the right of the runway into a flaming carpet of wild poppies.
Recovering, I immediately realized the oversized rubber foot of my survival suit had wedged itself under the brake pedal, rendering it inoperative. Somewhat sheepishly, I applied maximum power and managed to re-enter the runway under the urgent instructions of the controller to proceed immediately to the taxiway in order to make way for a Boeing 747 on final approach.
I was worn thin with exhaustion. Plans to tour the old city of Lisbon faded as I made for the nearest hotel. The smoke-filled warmth of a crowded restaurant had me aching for sleep. Still, I could enjoy the taste of triumph. After all, I had crossed the Atlantic. Now Africa was within reach.
MORNING BROKE with rain sheeting the sixteenthcentury roofs of the old city of Lisbon. Water poured from the terra cotta eaves, sloshed along the gutters of the narrow cobble-stoned streets, and swirled into the small, grilled openings of the city’s drains. Pedestrians hurried past ancient doorways, weaving through a field of black umbrellas, grimfaced people on their way to work. What concern had they about flying weather? Under Lisbon’s dreary skies their focus was on getting to the office. We inhabited different worlds.
Peering out the small attic window of my hotel room, I estimated the freezing levels to be somewhere close to five thousand feet, perhaps higher. A nervous wind lashed the wooden shutters which tugged at their pintles. Clouds tumbled over the city skyline. The day argued for staying in bed or reading a book by the fire. I speculated that my proposed route, south over Algeria to Malta, would permit me to fly low enough to avoid picking up ice, and presumably the weather would clear farther south. It was worth going out to the airport to get a detailed weather report.
It turned out that Lisbon International Airport had little time for a private pilot’s deliberation over weather. Jet airplanes fly in bad weather. Pilots and passengers may have an uncomfortable ten-minute climb after takeoff in a commercial jet, but soon after that it breaks out at thirty thousand feet and all is calm. A propeller-driven plane, in contrast, has no choice but to fly through the bad weather at five thousand or seven thousand feet in order to stay below the freezing level and escape the deadly potential of ice.
Nevertheless, I decided to fly. Predictably, within minutes of takeoff I flew into turbulence and zero visibility and immediately regretted my decision. I was tired from the accumulation of hours flown over the previous two days and I toyed with asking Lisbon for permission to return, but that would have required explanations and a full instrument approach; it seemed easier just to maintain course. Two hours later, jolted and buffeted, nerves weary with strain, the plane sluggish under a full load of fuel, I burst without warning into clear skies over the expansive blue of the Mediterranean Sea.
Small-plane flying with its lurking potential for danger is addictive. An irresistible urge draws pilots back into the cockpit again and again to experience the sweet thrill of speed. The power at one’s fingertips is physically pleasing, sensual, and never more so than when a plane explodes from dense cloud into clear blue sky. The close confinement of the cockpit bursts open into the blue to describe parabolic arcs of bank, loops, and spins, defying the laws of gravity and balance. The dream of unrestricted flight—the early flyers, daredevils swooping under bridges, barnstorming stunt flyers and World War II ace fighter pilots understood it, flying their unsafe machines with giddy recklessness. The seduction lies in the freedom of the sky, where only a hint of hubris can reduce a pilot to mortality.
The Spanish controller suddenly interrupted my thoughts with an instruction to change frequency and register with Algerian control. I was leaving Spanish airspace. I tried contacting the Algerians repeatedly. No joy. I was probably too low in altitude and therefore unable to make radio contact, so I continued flying, on course, out of communication with both the Spanish and the Algerian controllers.
Ten minutes later I attempted contact again and this time the Algerian controller responded. My first contact with Africa sounded unfriendly, demanding my flight-clearance number, authorizing me to fly over Algerian airspace. I did not have one. He asked if I was aware of my current position, and told me to evacuate Algerian airspace immediately or be shot down.
I made a quick calculation. To avoid Algerian airspace would mean flying an additional four hundred miles north and east around Algeria to Malta. A diversion of this magnitude would add another two and half hours to my flight. I thought of appealing; however, the controller sounded uncompromising. I quickly dismissed a fleeting temptation to fly low, hoping to avoid radar detection. The thought of being shot down or interrogated in an Algerian prison argued in favour of diversion.
The flight around Algeria’s northern airspace seemed endless. The border extended beyond Africa’s most northern peninsula, almost to the Italian island of Pantelleria