By Daniel Wegmueller, EAA 1181369
Well this was definitely a first — in all my years of flying, I have never had to clear the approach of snorkelers or turtles.
I could feel the airplane in my gut as it approached. The big radial growled its throaty, deliberate roar as the airframe rolled across the tarmac toward the Australia by Seaplane office adjacent to Gladstone Airport. A true amphibian, the de Havilland Beaver would depart from pavement and arrive on water. I had brought along my certificate and logbook specifically for this occasion — perhaps I could get some stick time?
On pavement, accessing the Beaver was like climbing scaffolding. As per my request, I got to sit as co-pilot. I situated myself up front, relishing the feel of a new cockpit. Every airplane I’ve had the privilege to fly, from a Fairchild PT-19 to a U.S. Navy T-6B simulator, has fit like a glove. The Beaver was no exception. I turned and grinned to the honeymooning Italian couple and gave them a thumbs-up. “Looks like I’ll be your pilot!” I joked. The husband suddenly looked worried.
I cannot think of a more perfect name than Vance for an Australian aviator. His grin, his swagger, and his authoritative booming voice were all packaged into an immediately likeable guy. Hoisting himself up with both arms, Vance slid into the pilot seat. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have brought beer,” he said with a grin. Thus kicked off our brief but highly memorable interaction. Vance went through the prestart. The starter motor whined as the prop turned, a cylinder fired, and the engine came to life. No longer was I seated at the helm of an inanimate object — the airframe pulsed and roared with a vivacity of its own.
As we taxied, I caught snippets of the highly familiar dialogue between pilot and tower, made simply delightful by Australian accents. Vance obtained his clearances and positioned the Beaver at the end of the runway. The radial thundered through the run-up, and with a release of the brakes, we were off. With the deliberation of a freight train, the Beaver rolled forward. Gradually, it picked up speed. Impossibly, it hoisted itself into the air and began a skyward crawl. We seemed much too slow to be airborne, yet I marveled as I looked out the window to watch the Earth sink away. I felt no sensation of climbing. Rather, our takeoff felt as though the Beaver was pushing the ground away from us. What a privilege the experience of flight can be!
This day was particularly humid and muggy. Only a storm, which was forthcoming, would break the atmospheric stagnation. The airplane performed accordingly, doing its job with the necessary vigor, yet I could tell it was winded by the time we reached altitude.
“She’s all yours, mate,” Vance announced. And then, in impeccable Australian-ese, he added, “I’m going to take a nap.”
“My airplane,” I said as I felt the controls slip into my grip. With a full load of fuel, passengers, and the equivalent of a boxcar as undercarriage, we were going nowhere fast — but that was the point. I admired the art deco interior. The controls, the sweeping glide of the panel, the experience of the flight was reminiscent of a golden age. Out my window, the sea was only slightly troubled. Tiny whitecaps punctuated an otherwise featureless blue expanse as we cruised toward our island destination. Above the ocean, smears of white clouds broke an otherwise clear bluebird sky. In all directions, the horizon was obscured by an angry gloom. The ocean seemed to be encroaching upon the territory of the sky, and vice versa, to the point where it was impossible to discern where the one began and the other ended. Soon enough, the two would duke it out.
Despite his joking desire to nap, Vance and I struck up a lively conversation. I envied his office, and especially his view. Vance confirmed what I had read, which was that Australia is facing a pilot and aircraft maintenance shortage. Quite literally, the burgeoning Chinese economy seems to be scooping up Australian pilots and mechanics alike, leaving a deficiency of both.
He continued to patiently answer my rapid-fire line of questioning. Seaplanes are a tough gig — in this highly corrosive environment, figure one engine overhaul per year. With the exorbitant cost of aircraft maintenance in Australia, figure $80,000 for each engine rebuild in addition to the preventive maintenance required on the airframe.
“It is literally cheaper to physically remove the engine from the airplane and ship it to China for work than to get someone in Australia to wrench on it,” Vance said. “No one in this country wants the liability anymore.”
I flew on, the controls heavy but trimmed in my grasp. Gradually, the featureless expanse of the Coral Sea yielded a blemish. Small at first, Heron Island grew as we set up our approach. I throttled back, bringing the airplane low across the leeward side of the island to check for snorkelers and turtles — a definite first for me. Adding power, we swung lazily around for final approach. At treetop height Vance took over. Regulating engine power, he set the Beaver down on the ocean surface as smooth as anyone could on a grass airstrip. At first, the ripples slapped angrily against the floats, as though resisting their intrusion. The airplane slowed, and then settled. Now, the ocean rocked us gently as we taxied toward shore.
As Vance cut the engine, the propeller slowed to a stop.
“Welcome to Heron Island!” he said, grinning. For the next several days, Heron would be my home. This was one case where getting there was definitely more than half the fun.