The Lonely Sea and the Sky (20 page)

  The chart I used was one that I had drawn up myself, on Mercator's projection. I made it of a suitable scale, so that it would fit into a map case of aluminium that had a small flat surface and a roller at each side. I rolled the chart on as I flew along the route. There was not room in the cockpit to use an ordinary folded chart or map. The wind I was getting was an ideal tail wind, which seemed wonderful. I worked out how long it would take me to reach the 'turn off point' if this wind held. I made it 5 o'clock.

  The flap I had got into before starting had now disappeared, and my brain was ticking over coolly and steadily. I knew that everything depended solely on accurate work. Conditions were perfect; the sun shone in a cloudless light-blue sky. The exhausts gave off a steady rolling roar. The needle of the revolution indicator might have been the hand of a clock, it kept so steady. The time for the sextant work on which everything depended was rapidly approaching. At the end of the hour I observed the drift again three times, and after plotting the results found that the wind had drifted the seaplane twelve and a half degrees off course to the right. I altered course another ten degrees to the left to counteract this. This meant that the seaplane was in fact headed nearly 200 miles to the left of the island. It was difficult to convince myself that this was right. At 1.00 p.m. I had made good 103 miles in the past hour. Using the transmitting key strapped to my right leg, I tapped out a message in Morse to the Auckland air base operator, who should be listening as the hour struck. 'Position by dead reckoning at 01.00 hours GMT 33° 15 S., 171° 35 E. Wind 24mph from 162 degrees true.' I used exactly the same drill for the next hour, and at the end of it the wind was much the same though slightly stronger, and I had made good 105 miles in the hour. The wind had increased to 30mph from 155 degrees true; it was giving me a great lift forward, but I could not help thinking of the mountainous seas such a wind must be raising round Norfolk Island. I had to try a sextant shot to find out how far I was from the turn-off point, and at the same time to check my dead reckoning. I trimmed the tail as delicately as I could to balance the plane, but she would not stabilise, and I had to use the control-stick the whole time while adjusting the sextant. I sighted the sextant to catch the sun above the top wing and a piece of horizon underneath it. To be quite sure that I was using a piece of horizon vertically below the sun, I had to wipe out the plane's balance from my mind, and concentrate only on the sextant. I had just got the sun and horizon together in the sextant, when terrific acceleration pressing my back made me drop the sextant. I grabbed the stick and eased the seaplane from its vertical nose dive into a normal dive, and then flattened it out. I reset the tail trimmer till the seaplane was bound to climb as soon as I left the control-stick alone. I tried again, and this time managed well enough, easing the control-stick forward with my left elbow whenever the seaplane climbed so steeply that the wing cut off the sun from view. I noted down the time to the nearest second, but when I turned to read the altimeter it showed 2,500 feet. Looking over the side I felt sure the height was not more than 400 feet. I must be mistaken. I had bought this altimeter especially for accuracy, and had been observing it every morning and night for six months. To prove whether it was right I dived down to the water surface. The altimeter still read 2,500 feet.

  I tugged at the sextant to make sure that it was securely held by the lanyard round my neck. I still had the dashboard altimeter that had failed me over the English Channel. It would have to do after I had reset it at sea-level, although the height ought to be more accurately known for sextant work. I skimmed the surface, fascinated by the heaving sea. The seaplane was going fast enough to make each wave appear motionless as I passed, whether it was heaving up, leaping high, or with its top flicked into a white crest. It was like looking at the individual little pictures in a cinema film. The effect was to make the seaplane seem motionless, as if it were dead still over a dead sea. Glancing ahead, I was astounded to find that I was below the water­level, as if in a whirlpool with the rim of water above me; then I realised that in skimming the surface I was unconsciously rising to a huge swell, and dropping into the valley the other side. It was solitary down there, as if I was winging my way between this and another world. I was being hypnotised, and came to with a start.

  I rose to 400 feet by the old altimeter, and took five shots at the sun. I had the results worked out and plotted twenty minutes later. They showed that I still had 230 miles to fly before turning off to the island.

  I did not use log tables for working out the sight, for I had found that I always made mistakes when trying to use logs when flying alone: I would read a six-figure log in the table, glimpse a dashboard instrument while glancing from the tables to my notebook, my concentration would be broken, and I would record one of the six figures wrongly. Instead, I had a circular slide rule called a Bygrave position-line slide rule. This consisted of three cylinders revolving one inside the other, and they had over fifty feet of trig logs scaled off on them. This slide rule had to be used step by step, and I seldom made a mistake with it. When fully extended it was about nineteen inches long, and could just be used in the cockpit if held sideways.

  At 3 o'clock I got four more shots at the sun, now dead ahead, and behind the petrol tank between the top wings. I had to use the sextant fast, setting the seaplane into a dive so as to get the sun above the tank with the horizon below the wing beside the motor, and immediately I had the sun touching the horizon in the sextant I jogged back the control to climb, while I recorded the sextant, watch and altimeter readings. My handling of the Moth was already becoming automatic – I was getting the feel of her as a seaplane. I worked fast at the computing, and made it 127 miles from the turn-off point. My brain felt over-stretched. With the two sets of drift readings, plotting them, and sending a wireless message every hour, I was being too hard-pressed. It would be no use getting an accurate position if I let the top tank run out of petrol, or something equally stupid. Suddenly I thought I could hear a muffled knocking in the motor; it must be that cursed No. 3 cylinder again. If the motor failed, I must turn right about immediately to face into wind before the seaplane hit the water. I knew that I must not let myself get hustled, and I decided to cut out the next set of drift observations, and think instead. I relaxed for a while, and then reviewed everything: fuel gauge, oil pressure, engine revs, height, compass, chart. I was getting near the turn-off point. With the big lift I'd had from the tail wind, I might be ready to turn off earlier than anticipated, so I must make a fresh set of calculations for 4 o'clock instead of 5 o'clock. And I had to hurry, for I could see some fleecy clouds ahead, though not thick, thank heaven.

  I worked out in advance the sun's position, and how far I should be from it at 4 o'clock so that when the moment arrived I should have only to take the sights, and the results would tell me at once how far I was from where I expected to be. I was getting intensely excited, but it did me good by keying me up for the vital work ahead. At 4 o'clock I took four shots from between 100 and 150 feet up, turning the sea­plane in a steep bank to the right, so as to catch the sun abeam between the wings. After each shot I turned on course again, while writing down the sextant and watch readings. I quickly plotted the result, which showed my dead reckoning to be 19 miles out. There must have been a mistake somewhere: where? If there was one mistake, why wouldn't there be several? (My outboard air-speed indicator was over-reading by 5mph which had built up to 20 miles in the four hours of flying.)

  But there was no time to worry about that; I had to put my faith in the sextant. According to that, I was only 45 miles short of the turn-off point. I still had the same strong tail wind, and as a result I was travelling faster than I had expected. I cut the seaplane's speed back to 60mph, so that I should have half an hour before reaching the turn-off point, and hurriedly computed the work for another sextant sight at the end of that half hour. It would be the critical moment of the flight, for when I turned, it must be exactly towards the island.

  The calculation gave me the true bearing of the island at the turn­off point, because it would then be at right-angles to the direction of the sun. The clouds were rapidly forming into dense cumulus, and I watched them anxiously. A few minutes before the end of the half hour I realised that there would be no sun available for a shot. The clouds ahead were darker, and I could see no opening. Could I rely on the previous sight? No, I must have another, for a check. The whole enterprise depended on turning at the right moment. The clouds looked whiter away to the left. Close to the half hour I turned left, away from the island instead of towards it, and opened up the throttle. After 3 or 4 miles I spotted a round patch of sunlight on the sea ahead, and slightly to the right. I opened the throttle wider still. I was so impatient that time seemed to stop while I raced for that sun-patch, yet it could not have been more than 5 miles away. The area of sunlight was small, and I set the seaplane circling in a steep bank. I used my feet on the rudder to fly it while I worked the sextant with both hands. After each shot I straightened out the seaplane, and flew out of the patch while reading the instrument. I got four shots in this way, while the seaplane was chasing its tail in a tight circle. I corrected them for the lapse of time since 4.30, and compared them with the figure already computed. They agreed. I was on the line! I had expected to be, and yet it was a great surprise, and immense relief. I turned round and headed for where the island should lie 85 miles away.

  The moment I settled on this course, nearly at right-angles to the track from New Zealand, I had a feeling of despair. After flying in one direction for hour after hour over a markless, signless sea, my instinct revolted at suddenly changing direction in mid-ocean. My navigational system seemed only a flimsy brain fancy: I had been so long on the same heading that the island must lie ahead, not to the right. I was attacked by panic. Part of me urged, for God's sake, don't make this crazy turn! My muscles wanted to bring the seaplane back to its old course. 'Steady, steady, steady,' I told myself aloud. I had to trust my system, for I could not try anything else now, even if I wanted to.

  The clouds were darkening, and hung above without a break. The wind was dropping; I was now drifting only fifteen degrees to the left. I allowed for that amount of drift. I felt that I had to get another sextant shot. I throttled back the motor again and again, watching the clouds as well as the horizon. Suddenly I picked out the shape of the sun through a thinning in the clouds, but it was covered almost at once. I adjusted the sextant to the angle I expected, removed the shades necessary for strong sunlight, and held it ready. Five miles went by, when suddenly I could see the rim of the sun through a wraith of black cloud. I got a good shot before the cloud closed over it again. This was ten seconds before 5 o'clock, so after all, I used the calculation I had made before the start of the flight. I got the same result as before, that the seaplane was dead on the line to the island. Fair enough! I put the sextant away in its case for good. If the island wasn't there, it must have moved. The excitement was terrific. Every minute seemed a lifetime, as I scanned the horizon ahead. The wind was dropping with approaching nightfall, and the drift now was only ten degrees. The sea looked grey-blue, cold and hostile. If I missed the island, what should I do? My brain was numb, and I could think of nothing. At 5.08 p.m. I ought to have sighted the island 10 miles earlier. Well, I thought, this is a grand finish; risking everything on the cool working out of my own system. At 5.09 I thought I saw land away to the left, but it changed shape as I watched it, for it was a cloud on the horizon. At 5.12 the island ought to have been in sight 15 miles earlier. Surely that was land to the left – two hill cones, above a narrow band of grey cloud with a dark-purple coast below? But it was only another cloud. Suddenly I relaxed, feeling that worrying was stupid when there was nothing I could do. The cloud lifted, and there was land. I felt like bursting with thrill and elation. My navigational system had proved right. I thought, 'I bet Cook wasn't as excited at discovering this island from the sea as I am at discovering it from the air.'

  I studied the chart of Norfolk Island, and decided that Cascade Bay would be most sheltered from the SSE swell. The bay was scarcely an indentation of the coast, with a road carved out of the rock cliff and leading to a small jetty. At last I spotted some people; they were standing on the jetty. I closed the throttle, and glided down to inspect the surface. The propeller still beat the air like a plover's wing, but it seemed an eerie silence after the endless roar. The wind had now died right away. There was a swell breaking on the rocks, but the surface of the sea seemed calm. I was just thinking how marvellously lucky I had been with the weather, when there was a violent bump below the cliff top. I was left in the air above my seat, as the seaplane whizzed down. I grabbed at the dashboard with one hand and clung to the control-stick with the other, feeling hot and damp all over. I ought to have fastened my safety-belt, though I had been warned never to do so when alighting for risk of being dragged under water if anything went wrong. I flew on to the next bay, hoping that the air would be smoother there, but the cliffs looked even higher and more precipitous; there was no road, and the whole place looked deserted. I turned back to Cascade, and found a boat moving slowly through the water. I glided down, hanging on tightly for fear of another bump, which did not come. I was still gliding when the seaplane flopped unexpectedly into the water. A swell had risen under me while I was looking ahead at the trough. It could not have been easier. I switched off the engine. It was 5.40 p.m., and I had made it in good time. Everything had gone right, and I had had tremendous good luck. The wind had been exactly right, and now had died away to a calm at the right moment.