Air Safety

It was the early 1950s and my brother was to be married in Brisbane the following day. As I was to be best man, and with my mate Jim also a guest, what better way to go than by Club Tiger? Jim wasn’t a pilot, but with misguided faith in my ability, he had jumped at the proposition.

It wasn’t my first cross country of course. Apart from the two mandatory little cross countries in the Sydney area (with a landing thrown in at Camden) that were part of the PPL syllabus (in those days there was no such thing as a Restricted Licence-you were either a Private Pilot or you were not), I had flown out to Forbes and back to look at a veteran car someone had discovered in a shed. But this trip was a more formidable undertaking. It was far longer and the terrain more varied; the major RAAF restricted areas around Williamtown and Evans Head had to be negotiated: and there would be at least one refuelling stop, probably at Coffs Harbour, an airfield frequented by airline DC-3s, no less! Like the sensible young men we were supposed to be, we had planned a morning departure. But as so often happens in private flying, circumstances decreed otherwise.

The occasion of our planned trip somewhat inconveniently coincided with the euphoric first visit of Her Majesty the Queen to Australia. On this particular day as it happened, HM the Queen and her Consort were to fly from Sydney to Bathurst by RAAF VIP Dakota, appropriately escorted by a flight of CAC Mustangs from RAAF Richmond. Thus, on submitting our meticulously prepared flightplan by telephone to DCA at Mas- cot (Bankstown did not yet boast its own briefing office), I was informed in no uncertain terms that all civil air traffic, not only on the route being flown by the royal aircraft, but throughout the entire region, was to held on the ground until Her Majesty’s flying palace had alighted safely at its destination. The Sovereign was not to be subjected to the slightest airborne risk-not even that posed by a humble Tiger Moth going in a different direction! We could therefore have no expectation of being cleared for departure until early afternoon.

The other uncertainty was the weather. Conditions on the coast were under the influence of a moist easterly airstream. A good deal of rain had fallen in some places, and although conditions were improving, cloud and some showers were likely on the ranges.

It was in fact solidly overcast at Bankstown and we waited impatiently for the morning to pass, the Tiger fuelled, loaded and ready to go. At one stage we could even hear the Royal entourage passing on its majestic way above the cloud, the distinctive beat of the Dakota’s radial engines overlaid by the snarl of the escorting Mustangs’ Merlins.

At long last, sometime after lunch, an instructor emerged from the Club office with the glad news we were waiting for Mascot had finally approved the resumption of flying! But, he added as an afterthought, as the weather wasn’t looking any better, we’d better land at Newcastle to check it again before venturing further north.

As with most VFR flights in those heady days, our cruising level was in the “free airspace” available to light aircraft “below 1500 feet” (ie within 1500 feet above all enroute terrain). At this altitude, our hour long flight across the northern suburbs of Sydney to Broken Bay, on to Tuggerah Lakes and Lake Macquarie, and finally to the city of Newcastle itself was uneventful and full of interest. It was only as I joined the circuit for landing that the first of the dramas that were to plague us began to loom.

The aerodrome at Newcastle at that time was not at Maitland, but at Broadmeadow, a pocket handkerchief of an airfield (long since closed for safety reasons), maintained by the Newcastle Aero Club in the very heart of the city’s built up area. How student pilots ever learnt to fly there was beyond my comprehension – the least I could say was that they were brought up in a very hard school.

Roughly an elongated rectangle of grass oriented east-west, it was bounded on every side by power poles and overhead wires. Adjacent to its southern border lay the Broadmeadow railway marshalling yards with their forest of pole mounted overhead flood lamps, and rolling stock disposed variously the matrix of railway lines. Separating the railway yards from the airfield’s southern boundary was a wide concrete lined storm water channel. On the northern boundary, beyond the street and power lines that parallelled it, rose a hill thickly clad in fibro cement cottages. To the east and west lay other built up areas, for the most part light industrial establishments. As we overflew Broadmeadow, there seemed to be little wind, but if anything the windsock was indicating a light air from the south. In a Tiger Moth at that stage of my flying career, it could only mean a landing into the south-across the shorter dimension of the field. As if to support my decision, five radial engined Avro Trainer biplanes were taxying together towards the north-eastern corner, apparently for a formation takeoff into the south. I subsequently failed to absorb the fact that they took off diagonally-not directly across the field.

Joining the circuit, I made a reasonable approach over the houses on the hill and touched down about half way across the little field. But suddenly I was conscious of the approaching storm water drain – and the unbraked Tiger was still rolling fast! Would it stop in time? I was unsure enough to put on power again and go round.

The second approach was hardly more encouraging. Again we seemed to be running out of aerodrome with frightening rapidity; again I went round, this time heart in mouth.

By the third attempt I was thoroughly alarmed. Was our much vaunted Brisbane trip going to end in disaster, here only as far as Newcastle? As I went round for the third time, overflying the railway yards, an ancient tank locomotive was busily shunting a line of trucks, its black coal smoke rising directly into the Tiger’s flight path. As we flew through the smoke, the acrid, sooty smell – familiar and nostalgic from childhood train watching-assailed my nostrils, sheeting home our alien plight. What was I doing up here in this mad situation? How was I to get down without making a fool of myself – or even worse? On my fourth attempt I approached down the hill over the houses as low as I dared, skimmed the power lines on the northern boundary, cut the power and put the Tiger down without ceremony. This time I forced myself to let it roll, heaving a sigh of relief as we came to a stop comfortably short of the storm water drain.

I taxied in, topped up with fuel from the Aero Club bowser, and telephoned the Met officer (“Airmove Priority” trunk call with charges reversed to DCA, of course) at Mascot for an updated weather report. It seemed little different from the forecast I had been given earlier-certainly in my judgement it did not justify postponing the flight. In any case we had to get to Brisbane at least by tomorrow morning. Besides I thought, if it did deteriorate impossibly, we could always turn back then. By the time we were strapped in again and a club member had swung the propeller, the wind appeared to have changed. At any rate the still limp sock was now indicating a northerly component. So this time, oblivious still to what would have been sensible to any seasoned pilot, I taxied out along the southern boundary for a takeoff into the north. The surface here was soft and slushy’ with pools of water lying amongst the grass, but I persisted, checked the magneto switches with the aircraft standing crosswind, then turned into the north and opened the throttle.

On the muddy surface the Tiger was sluggish and it took an excessive time to get the tail up. Even then acceleration seemed slow- and we were eating up the available run. With the northern boundary powerlines and the hill of houses finally rushing towards us, I shot a glance at the airspeed. It was indicating between 40 and 50mph-barely the Tiger’s stalling speed! Too late now to abandon the takeoff, I put my head out the side and concentrated, lifting the machine off at the last possible moment. By some miracle I have never understood, we cleared the powerlines and climbed. The hill and its houses fell away, I breathed more easily, and we settled down on track for Raymond Terrace and Nabiac, a route which would take us safely to the west of RAAF Williamtown.

The cloudbase was lower now, and inland to the west the ranges were no longer visible. Ruing the fact that our departure had been so long delayed, I studied the chart in the increasing gloom, determined to maintain a running check on our exact position.

Half an hour later, about eight miles south of Bulahdelah, we were approaching a 1000 foot mountain spur which crossed our path at right angles. Its tops in places were obscured by patches of grey misty cloud, but in between was a saddle through which an aircraft could apparently pass. Flying just below the cloud base, we headed towards it, the adjoining peaks on either side rearing their heads into the base of the cloud.

But as we approached the main ridge, we were suddenly totally enveloped in cloud – the first time I had had such an experience. I did not panic, had I not done one session “under the hood” totalling 25 minutes? The truth was that I didn’t know enough to panic! Instead I simply held the Tiger steady, expecting it would come out of the cloud as quickly as it had entered. Unquestioning faith can work wonders, for that is just what happened. We had crossed the mountain spur “blind” with its higher peaks above us on either side! But at least I had the nous to realise this sort thing could not continue. Away in the distance to the north-east I could see the watery expanse of the Myall Lakes. They were close to the coast in swampy, low lying terrain. Obviously, the coast was the way to go in these conditions-it was clear of low cloud and provided a faultless means of navigation. And my chart indicated aerodromes almost on the coast at Forster and Nabiac less than 30 miles ahead – if they were needed.

I reset the trusty P4 compass’ grid ring to intercept the coast south of Forster. Within a few minutes my decision was justified by the sight of a bush airstrip on which we could have landed if we had too. It gave me a more comfortable feeling, especially as the cloudbase was continuing to lower. With such “escape routes” readily available, there now seemed no compulsion to turn back. In any case that might well prove more difficult than going on.

Half an hour later we were abeam Taree, making fine progress by following the beaches just inshore from the breakers and skimming over the headlands. The misty cloud we had encountered over the mountain spur had now become general inland, leaving only the coast and the ocean clear to a height of about 500 feet.

The Manning River mouth, Harrington, then Crowdy Head passed beneath us as the evenly purring Gipsy Major bore us on. But I could no longer deny the weather was deteriorating seriously. Even over the sea, the grey overcast was gradually lowering. Inland from the beaches, it appeared to be almost on the ground. By the time we reached Diamond Head it seemed more prudent to fly around the headland than over it-that way I could be more sure of not flying into cloud again. Abandoning any last vestige of an attempt to fly a compass heading, I began slavishly to cling to the seat’s edge, simply “keeping Australia on our left” as we followed the alternating pattern of beaches and headlands. But I held the chart on my knee, mentally keeping track of our precise position as I successively identified each landmark.

Port Macquarie passed to port, but dimly visible in the pervading grey gloom. It began raining again and the overcast crept perceptibly lower. My chart showed only one aerodrome before Coffs Harbour, still an hour’s flying away; Kempsey lay less than 20 minutes to the north, but it was 15 miles inland and it would be folly to attempt to find it in these conditions. At least the Tiger itself was going like a dream and we swept on – Pt Plomer, Delicate Nobby, Crescent Head, then Korogoro Point, its 500 foot top invisible in the overcast. The rain continued steadily, to remain visual we were down now to less than 200 feet, the waves seemingly breaking just below the wheels. What should I do? Go on and risk being caught in cloud at zero feet? Or put the Tiger down straight ahead on a likely stretch of wet sand? I was sure I could land it successfully. But what would the waves and the tide do after that? I shuddered at the possibilities.

Attempts to discuss our plight with my passenger via the doubtful advantage of the Tiger’s Gosport speaking tubes proved fruitless. All I could gather was that he remained blissfully trusting of my command judgement.

Before I could make a decision, I became engrossed in negotiating the series of high cliff faces immediately to the south of Arakoon, Trial Bay, and the mouth of the MacLeay River. Too far to seaward and I might lose them in the murk. Too close in and it could be risky. Even the Jerseyville Light-house perched on the cliffs was invisible in the overcast. Finally passing Lagger’s Point, desperately hanging on to its misty headland whose top was in the cloud, I saw to my consternation from the compass that we were actually heading south-west over the sea! But this soon sorted itself out as the headlands fell behind and the beach curved west, then north-west and finally north again.

I relaxed a little, conscious of the tension that had built up, and studied the chart again. The most formidable barrier to our passage along this part of the coast was now successfully behind us, with Coffs Harbour only half an hour away. Futhermore, its aerodrome appeared to lie right on the beach, with an elevation of only three metres. Approaching it, even in these conditions should not be too difficult. And in between lay only Scott’s Head and Nambucca Heads, neither of which could rival the daunting geographical features we had just passed.

We would go on I decided – there was nothing to lose now. The coastal townships of Urunga and Repton passed unseen in the mist, then came the village of Sawtell, right on the coast. Between us and Coffs Harbour now lay only beach and low scrub. With the daylight beginning to fade, I kept a little to seaward, watching for the aerodrome on the port side of the aircraft. The sight of the main north-south runway emerging out of the gloom was better even than I had imagined-it was indeed right on the coast, with nothing to obstruct our approach. But as we came abeam the airfield buildings-Bellman hangars and standard ex-RAAF huts-I was aghast to see an Ansett Airways DC-3 rolling fast on the runway into the south, clouds of spray rising behind it.

Convinced the DC-3 was taking off (and that I had better be quick about getting out of its way), I flung the Tiger into a tight turnto the right out overthe sea. Nursing it round then in a wide left hand orbit, at the same time keeping a wary eye on the heaving ocean below, I turned inland and overflew the runway at right angles, checking all was now clear. The DC-3 had not taken off after all-it had just landed and was taxying in! The sodden windsock was indicating a light breeze from the south, so turning left again over the inland boundary of the field, I crossed the upwind end of the runway and flew normal left hand, circuit-normal that is, except that our altitude was 250 feet! On the downwind leg Ieyed the runway warily-it was wet enough to be reflecting like a mirror. I had never landed on a wet runway – would it be a problem? Mustering all my limited skills, I somehow managed to pull off a quite satisfactory “wheeler”. It helped restore my confi- dence and I taxied in towards the hangars, one of which was wide open with the lights on inside.

The nearby ex-RAAF hut, connected by overhead cables to various radio antennae, was obviously the Communications Office (Flight Service in later parlance), and as I switched off and clambered out, a fierce looking Departmental officer put his head out the window, gesturing in a manner that left no doubt he thought my throat should be cut.

I was saved from having to respond to this doubtful welcome by the appearance of a more kindly soul in “Driza-Bone” gear (he later turned out to be the airport groundsman) who helped push the Tiger out of the rain into the snug cavern of the hangar.

So while my mate Jim set about unloading our luggage and ringing for a taxi, I went with some trepidation to the Comm Office to make my peace. They were all obviously waiting for me: by what authority had I continued to Coffs Harbour in such appalling IFR weather? They had my flight plan and were convinced I would have long since turned back to Newcastle: why had I not done so? Did I not realise my rash and unexpected arrival in the circuit in such conditions could have conflicted dangerously with that of the DC-3, landing off an instrument approach? Indeed, the captain of the DC-3, still rolling on the runway when he spotted me skating low overhead, had angrily demanded to know on the radio where “that bloody Tiger Moth” had come from.

No doubt fortunately for my self esteem, the DC-3 captain, with a Sydney bound schedule to maintain, had left the Comm Office moments before I entered it. In any event, in that more relaxed, friendly era of civil aviation, the Comm Office staff evidently considered a “good talking to” sufficient retribution for my misdemeanors, if only because I contritely assured them I had “learnt a lot” from the experience.

And learn I did-sufficiently at least to go on to a modestly successful (and survivable) professional aviation career over the ensuing four decades. Yet when I think back on that eventful trip so early in my flying experience- and compare it to the horror stories so graphically told over those years in the Aviation Safety Digest-I can only marvel at the way Jim and I were favoured.

Fools can indeed rush in where angels fear to tread. By any sane measure, our never to be forgotten flight between Bankstown and Coffs Harbour that day could so easily have been the end of us both-not just once, but several times over! PS: The following morning dawned fine and clear and we reached Brisbane’s Archerfield without further incident-just in time to play our parts at the wedding!