By DELL ARTHUR
For airline pilots flying
across the Atlantic Ocean the trip is routine. Sitting in the cockpit aided by
a co-pilot, automatic pilot, sophisticated radio and navigation gear, all the crew
needs to do is make routine radio position reports, sip coffee and watch the
blue placid sea below pass by. It’s a great job and all the pilots I know
wouldn’t trade what they do for anything. The flights themselves are no
particular adventure but the job enables the crew the privilege of visiting
foreign lands, eat great food and meet interesting people. Rested after a
couple of days they cram another hoard of people into their aluminum tube for
the return trip home.
And they get paid for it!
Theirs’
is a far cry from Charles Lindeberg’s flight in the “Spirit of Saint Louis,”
that in 1926, took him 33 hours to reach Paris non-stop from New York. And for
three of us making such a similar flight, the attraction was overwhelming. So
on a bright sunny day we climbed aboard a 6 passenger Palatus P-12 airplane
powered by a single Pratt-Whitney turboprop engine and headed for Europe. Most
pilots I have talked with after the flight thought we were nuts flying across
the expanse of the Atlantic in a single engine airplane.
Our
departure was from a small airport located at Boundary Bay, British Columbia,
Canada, located just a few miles from the United States boarder in the farthest
northwest corner of the continuous United States. The sky was clear and blue.
We took off at around 10 a.m. and climbed to an altitude of 23,000 feet and
headed east over the Canadian Rockies. The weather couldn’t have more
beautiful—not a breath of turbulence. Once established at altitude the ground
seemed to pass swiftly. Comparing our indicated airspeed we were astonished to calculate
our actual ground speed of 300 m.p.h. We had entered the jet stream which gave
us an incredible tail wind.
The
first leg of our adventure was serene and comfortable. It took a little over 5
hours to reach Churchill, Manitoba, where we landed to refuel for our next leg.
Churchill, during World War II, was a major airbase for military aircraft.
Settled at the edge of the Hudson Bay, it was a perfect location for long-range
observation planes and housed several thousand military people. But now the
area is nearly abandoned. The airport itself housed a small staff of airline
employees who suffered from boredom and loneness. All were happy to see fresh
faces even though we were there for only an hour.
Once
back in the air we continued towards Baffin Island, halfway between Canada and
Greenland. We again climbed to 23,000 feet and headed towards the Arctic
Circle. Peering down I could see hundreds of small islands and icebergs. My
thoughts ran back at how Lindeburg must have felt when he looked down and saw
the same sight. Here we were comfortably flying at high altitude in a
pressurized metal airplane in shirtsleeves, clipping along at nearly 300 m.p.h., while he covered the sea at groundspeed of only a little above
100 m.p.h. Years earlier when I was visiting the Smithsonian National Aircraft
Museum, at Washington, D.C., I recalled looking up at the small Ryan monoplane
he flew. How, I wondered, did Lindeburg have the courage to fly a small fabric
covered single engine airplane for 33 hours and make it all the way to France?
Approaching
Baffin Island we started our letdown. Again weather was with us and we could
spot the airport miles away. When we touched down the tower directed us to park
at the far end of the taxi area. “Why so far away from the terminal?” I
wondered since there were virtually no other airplanes to be seen! Once parked,
the airplane was secured and we started to trudge down the pavement to the
terminal building. It was about a mile away! We got about 100 yards down the
taxi strip dragging our gear when a God given automobile headed towards us.
“Can I give you guys a lift?” the driver asked and we gladly consented to his
invitation.
After
clearing customs we called for a taxi to take us to the “town.” It turns out
that the only paved road in the area was the one form the airport to the hotel.
By this time it was evening and after checking into our rooms we headed for the
dining room only to find that the kitchen closed at 7 p.m. After begging for
about 15 minutes the hotel managed to provide us with the worst hamburgers I
have ever eaten in my life! The beer however, was good.
While we were eating one
of the locals came over to our table and asked where we were from. Sitting in
an unobtrusive manner he continued to chat and, with no permission, help
himself to our French fries! Apparently neighboring on the island is a virtue.
Actually we didn’t care. He was a decent guy and it was fun to learn something
about his home and the folks that lived there. It turned out that there was
only about 11,000 total population on the entire island and for the locals
there wasn’t much to do on Friday nights but meet at the hotel and drink beer.
According
to the travel brochures Baffin Island is noted for its polar bear sights, the
northern nights and kayaking among the ice flows. We didn’t do any of the
above. It was only since that morning we had left Boundary Bay, flown across
the entire length of Canada and now holed up in an obscure hotel in the middle
of nowhere. It was time to hit the bed.
Getting
up early the next morning we collected our gear, called the taxi and headed out
to the airport. The next stop, Reykjavik, Iceland
(To be
continued)
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