VIP flights tend to be later than planned and something is bound to go wrong. Too much self-made stress of too many people having too much to say in the organizational stages, leaving common sense behind. Especially when you're operating into gravel strips with no lights and have to factor in the early African sunset. Passengers from Europe, for example, can be quite surprised by how quickly the sun actually dips below the horizon and how incredibly black the darkness can be.
So, this particular day's flight sounded easy enough. Fly English VIP to Location X and wait there and bring him back after a few hours. Great stuff. Our corporation had just been invested in by some Poms, and so their security exec needed to visit each sight and get filled in on particular security realities and concerns whilst also giving us briefings.
He was joined by some management and our group security chief for Africa, let's call him "Grys Baard", so that our important guest could be shown around adequately. The prevalent smell of expensive leather was mixed with a bit of burnt avgas entering the storm window, as we taxied out for the first take-off of the day. I love my job when everything is going smoothly.
Following the now familiar huge river and keeping the well-known ridges of the mountain range just under the window to our left, we flew towards the valley, enjoying the cool air blasting through the round vents. I was waiting to see one of the dams in a certain triangular shape amongst the crops, descending slowly, listening out to the crop sprayers and drone operators, then landing on the farm's well-maintained airstrip. A typical silky smooth, been-there-done-that landing and after shutdown the doors were popped open with a thud and a squeak for the greetings and the welcomes.
I re-iterated the absolute last take-off time to the gentlemen and waved them goodbye, waiting for the driver to come back and take me to an airconditioned chalet for the required hours I had to wait. The poor aircraft had to wait in the burning sun at 45 degrees the whole day. Its wings were still glistening where the cold fuel caused instant condensation on top of the high-speed wing in this severely moist valley at 150-foot elevation above mean sea level.
Nothing had glistened more than the face of the Englishman, however. It wasn't only sweat pouring down his face, but an extremely fat white layer of caked insect-repellent cream that was on the move into his shirt and tie, following the laws of gravity. Or it might have been too much blockout suntan lotion, or both. When he turned his head on his tall and lanky frame, returning the greetings one by one, he made me think of a lighthouse and the home-made birthday cakes dripping melted icing sugar at pool parties of times gone by.
After an exceptionally long wait it was time for departure. The very late afternoon was hot, the aircraft was hot, the breeze was hot, the fuel in the tanks and fuel lines was hot and so was the VIP. The skin colour of his face had changed from white to red, as if on holiday in Ibiza. I couldn't see where the icing had travelled to, as his entire shirt was slick with sweat and sticking in discoloured big patches.
I wanted to get the engines started as soon as possible and get into the cooler air up high as quickly as possible. The first engine started like the fantastic beauty she is, but the number two wouldn't stay lit. Fuel pumps on low, like the book says to get the vapour lock out of the fuel line, and let's try again. Sputter sputter, almost, no...yesssss....ah, splutter splutter, no... nooooo.
Sherbet.
I really, really, really! needed to get that engine started now, before we would have to give the starter motor half an hour's rest, which would delay our departure in the heat. The sky was changing colour in the west, a bit of pink interspersing the yellows and orange.
"Is there a problem?" a South African accent asked, followed by a few taps on my right shoulder and the distinct smell of failed deodorant. Maybe Old Spice.
"Yes, sir, I think the fuel might have cavitation bubbles and we might have not gotten rid of all the vapour locks in the fuel line of the number Two." I always used shop talk in situations of doubting passengers, so that THEY at least would think I knew what I was doing. Paired with a toothy smile, they normally stayed in the plane.
"Yes, there was a problem!" I thought, cursing the circumference of the fuel pipes.
I didn't want to feed in more fuel before start, as this would surely cause a bit of flooding and detonation, but I also didn't want to wear out the starter motor... In my head I started talking to the second engine, willing her 300 horses to come alive for me and get ready for the third start attempt.
"Come on, baby, you can do it... Just for me... one more time today..."
"I say, what happens if the second engine doesn't start?", a VERY British accent asked loudly above the drone of the left engine.
To lessen the tension, I turned around to my passengers, who were leaning forward anxiously in their club seats, and told them: "No worries, sirs. The next flight is so short, we only need the one engine, we'll get going momentarily, please fasten your seatbelts again." turning back to the task at hand.
"Come on baby, ... you ... can do it... please..."
The second engine hummed to life with great noise as if there had never been a problem. Immediately taxiing and lining up I went through my flows and took off. The sun already reflected orange off the mighty river, if we would have had to wait for the starter motor to cool down, we would have had to stay overnight instead of departing.
Our guest of honour in the meantime was apparently quite unrelaxed during the flight back, with white knuckled hands gripping his armrests, clenched jaws and eyes closed hard. I only heard about this a couple of weeks later. "Grys Baard" was sent to the new head office to meet the team and "the lighthouse" regaled the room with this story with as much exaggeration as he could muster. Amongst much laughter, setting a jovial mood, he also had the pilot start to taxi on one engine to the threshold for take-off shouting "No worries!" towards the rear, etc...
This story is dedicated to "Grys Baard". Thanks for all the laughter over the years, boet...
Low level coastal flight Quest Kodiak Bishops Cove to George
