The Lonely Sea and the Sky (30 page)

  I was taken to the stone guesthouse where I stayed the night alone. I tried to ask about buying food, but our language was not equal to it, and presently a meal arrived, which I think the
gesaghebber
had sent, though I was never able to find out. The guesthouse was in front of a prison guarded by four native sentries who each sounded a bell one after the other at every quarter-hour. Judging by the effect on me I should think it was an excellent way of keeping them from sleeping at their posts. On my way to the jetty next morning I met the prisoners going off to work on the roads. The Dutch official drew my attention to two husky prisoners with beaming faces laughing away and chattering rapidly at each other as they padded along the road. They looked ideal husbands. They were hill men who had formed a habit of coming down to the town periodically, selecting a fat town boy and treating him to a meal of drugged sago before they dragged him back to the hills where they cooked and ate him. The Dutch thought that it was not right to execute them for doing what they had been brought up to believe was the right thing, and so set them to road making for a few years, which they liked, the Dutch official said, because it gave them regular food without the trouble of finding it. (It must be remembered that all this was thirty years ago).

  Time after time I tried to get off the glassy surface of the river in the hot sticky air, and when at last I managed it, it felt like flying a mud­clogged old wheelbarrow with wings. Before I left that sea of tufted palm-tops I was sick to death of them, and my clothes were soaking wet.

  I flew along the south coast of New Guinea and then made a 70-mile flight across the middle of Frederik Hendrik Island. No white man had ever seen the interior of this island. All that was known was that natives attacked any ship becalmed near the coast.

  Blotchy cloud shadows gliding over the ground were overtaken by the seaplane shadow flitting at an uncanny pace across tall reeds like corn or skimming up a wall of forest trees and rushing over the dense tops. In the middle of the island the swamp took on a definite pattern of stripes and cross stripes. I felt sure it must have been cultivated thousands of years ago, though now there was not a sign of man. Later I saw two tiny planted patches.

  The air was uncomfortable, not with vicious bumps but as if pitching into lively short waves. At every pitch my face was showered with petrol from the air vent. By 10 o'clock I completed the traverse of the island and flew over the sea again. I had to navigate the 260-mile sea crossing to the Aru Islands with care, although they were a comparatively wide target. I had flown on a careful compass course for the last 100 miles and found that I had drifted fourteen degrees to starboard. I therefore changed fourteen degrees to port. After New Guinea the sea felt safe and friendly. I felt hungry, ate a good meal, and then sat musing or writing in my log. It did not seem long before I reached my target, and at 12.43 I entered the channel between the main islands Wokam and Kobroor. It seemed full of war canoes with high stems and stern-posts. Some fled, furiously paddled. On either side of the passage was magnificent forest, with tall trees festooned with pink, rose and red creepers. A frightful bump drove the thought of beauty from my mind and I hurriedly fastened my belt for fear of being tossed out.

  I came down on sparkling dark-blue water off the small island of Dobo, which faces Wokam across a narrow passage. I had taken five hours and ten minutes over the 472-mile flight.

  A launch put off with four Englishmen or Australians aboard, and chugged round the seaplane. Hearing English again made me feel like a boy home from school. They shouted jokes, but every time I suggested that they should come nearer, they seemed to be deaf. Presently a launch flying the Dutch flag came up. The Dutch official was exceedingly polite to the Australians, and spoke to me through them, and the Government launch took me to the jetty to get my petrol. A tremendous press of natives, thousands of them, suddenly burst into a shout, a thrilling sound that would have raised the sky. On the jetty the Dutch official proudly showed me the fuel he had had the kindness to prepare for me – a formidable array of big drums, which must have totalled five times the weight of my
Gipsy Moth
. Unfortunately, they were diesel oil, not petrol. I managed to get some petrol, however, and I spent a delightful evening with the three bachelor pearlers, who lived together in an airy ramshackle old structure of two storeys with wide verandas and hanging rattan curtains instead of doors. Next morning, as well as the pearlers, a Malay Rajah and his princess came to see me off. The Rajah was small, quiet, delicate and aristocratic, and he wore white flannels with a Savile Row cut. His wife was perfectly charming with tiny feet and hands, a perfect little figure.

  The flight of 450 miles from Dobo to Amboina was uneventful. There were islands at intervals for stepping stones, and the longest water flight was only 110 miles. One thing that I recorded in my log has been strongly disputed by aerodynamic experts – I knew that the favourable trade wind had died away because the throbbing roar of the engine suddenly changed its note. Although I have been assured since that it is theoretically impossible, I could tell if I was flying upwind or downwind in a fresh breeze by the note of the engine; I think it may well have been due to a Doppler effect when flying low down. Naturally, flying for such long periods on the same course and at the same engine speed, I became extremely sensitive to the slightest change in note of the engine noises.

  I had left the Aru Islands that morning in the middle of the dry season and reached Amboina in the middle of the rainy season. All evening the clouds dropped down, discharged their load of rain and lifted. There was not a breath of wind next morning and my attempts to get off never had the slightest hope of succeeding. I gave up trying for the day and went ashore. Next day I left ashore all the clothes, tools, sailing directions and papers that I possibly could spare, amounting to 19 lbs, and jettisoned petrol until I only had six hours' fuel. I had intended to make Menado, in the Celebes, my next halt, but switched to Ternate in the Moluccas to give me a shorter flight. I raced to and fro across the water opposite the town. It was sprinkled with praus, and it was nervy work dodging them, as well as keeping a constant watch for fishing stakes. Finally I told the officials in the launch that my only chance of taking off was from the broken surface of the open sea; would they tow me out? The young assistant
gesaghebber
was troubled; it was a long way. Volumes of Dutch were poured out. In the end we started off with the seaplane in tow. Five or six miles down the inlet there was a slight swell; I cast off the tow and bounced into the air at the second attempt.

  At the mouth of the Amboina inlet I flew into clear bright weather over a sparkling blue sea. I waggled the wings with joy, but it was premature. Thinking only of escape from Amboina, I had discarded every possible ounce of weight, including the map given me by the Dutchman, at Merauke. So I had a 140-mile sea crossing to make without a map, before I got back on to my own chart. I had taken a look at the big map in the Resident's office, read off the bearing of the first landfall, which was uninhabited Ombira Island 150 miles to the north, and thought that nothing could be simpler than to fly on this one bearing until I reached the island. But on turning the corner of Amboina Island I flew up against the tail of a big island right in the middle of my route and which I could not remember having seen on the map. The east side ran more nearly in the right direction, so I followed that. It was black-looking country, with high, densely forested slopes, rising several thousand feet in a bluish haze before disappearing into cloud. When I had flown along it for 20 miles and saw no end to it I grew anxious, and a few minutes later I was dismayed to see land loom up ahead of me through the haze. Soon I found that I was blocked by a massive range of mountains, black and threatening, with the tops hidden in cloud, and stretching away to the east as far as I could see. This put me in a fix, for if I went back to try the other side of the land I should use up my reserve of fuel and would have to return to Amboina for more, a horrid thought. I had no idea how high the mountains were, so dared not attempt to cross them flying blind through the clouds. My only chance seemed to be to climb to the cloud ceiling and fly along beside the mountains to the head of the bay, hoping to find a gap. If I failed, I should have to return to Amboina.

  As I flew on, slowly climbing, I was tempted to try crossing the mountains blind, but I was afraid. Then, turning a headland, I came on a saddle between two mountains on my left, with a rain squall above it. I was below the level of the saddle, and could not see if there was a passage through. I opened up the throttle. My climbing pace seemed deadly slow, as I watched the squall dropping down to the pass. Suddenly I got a glimpse of blue water over the saddle, and putting down the nose of the seaplane I scuttled for it at full throttle. The dropping rain caught me, but in a few seconds I was through, and out in the sunlight again. I made allowance for the distance I thought I had been deflected to the east of my route, and headed for where I now thought Ombira to lie. I felt hungry and fossicked out the remains of the excellent jam and egg sandwiches given me at Dobo. Alas! they had fermented. I tried the tin of biscuits, but the contents were saturated with petrol. I found some mouldy bread, age unknown, and ate it with butter. I longed for a smoke, but my pipe was broken, and the cigars were in the front cockpit. When eventually I sighted Ombira right ahead, I wondered how I could ever have worried about not finding it, it looked so huge. It was 25 miles wide, well watered, fertile and healthy, but it was uninhabited because it was said to be haunted.

  At 3 o'clock I reached Gilolo, the largest of the Spice Islands after Ceram. I saw few signs of habitation, and the steep hills were smothered in jungle. Flying only a wing-span from the hillside, I disturbed countless snowy white doves. Their wings beat the air, but they never seemed to get anywhere. On the other hand, the birds of paradise, black-coated with long tails like trains trailing behind, glided gracefully and without any hurry, but always managed to be out of sight by the time I drew level with them. I never caught more than glimpses of their sheeny black spread sailing through the trees.

  Here I had trouble with a tropical rainstorm that lasted for 45 miles, and when I flew out of it I thought I was looking at the twin islands of Ternate and Tidore. But I could not see any sign of Ternate town. This made me anxious, as I had only an hour's petrol left. The truth was that Tidore's volcano was in cloud or smoke. This had flowed down to the sea in the middle of the island, so that really I was looking only at the one island of Tidore, divided in two by smoke. As soon as I reached the north-east point of Tidore I could see Ternate plainly ahead, and flew over to it.

  I had no diplomatic standing here, because Ternate was not one of the halting places I had nominated. At the other places, instructions had been received from the Governor-General of the East Indies to lay down moorings for me. Here there was nothing, but I managed to anchor, and was conducted to the hotel by a thousand yelling children and the Captain of Police. He spoke no English; no one at the hotel spoke English. In the morning, with 35 gallons of petrol on board – five more than the day before – I taxied to the windward side of the islands and took off from the lively blue water there. Ahead of me was a water jump of 175 miles to the Talauer Islands. When I tried to test my magnetos I found that both the switches were stuck, and later, as I was writing up my log, the engine cut out for a fraction of a second. After I had been in the air for nearly three hours, I was attacked by sleepiness, and I decided to come down on the open sea. For 1,500 miles my curiosity had been growing to see whether I could come down on the open Pacific, and get away afterwards. I felt sure I could do it on that day. The danger was in swell that might make it impossible to rise again, but I felt confident that I could detect a swell if there was one. I headed the seaplane into the wind, and watched the surface intently as I glided down. There was no drift and no swell, an ideal sea with short choppy waves. When the seaplane came to rest I could not stop the engine, because the magneto-switches were stuck. I had to turn off the petrol, and wait until the carburettor ran dry. There was more sea than I had expected, and the
Gipsy Moth
rolled heavily. I logged, 'Funny how she always rides beam to wind', then lit a cigar, and took the magneto-switch to pieces. The tiny springs had corroded, and the make and break had jammed. I fixed it as well as I could.

  We bumped the waves hard taking off, and every impact shocked the whole seaplane from end to end. It was an anxious time, but at last she rose. I had misjudged that sea; it was too deep for safety. (Although I think it would have been safe enough if the bilge compartment in the starboard float had not been full of water.)

  As I left the Talauers astern, I logged, 'Can see water running from the tail of the starboard float all the time; so evidently it empties in the air from the same leak.' I thought that it came from the bilge compartment which I pumped dry every morning, and I still did not then realise that it came from a compartment which was full up. Sixty miles north of the Talauers, I was writing in my log when suddenly the engine cut out. I was jerked instantly from a tolerant philosopher into a primitive animal. As I began turning into wind to alight, the engine cut back in, and I slowly settled after the shock. After I was on course again, the engine cut out briefly several more times. I tried the switches, but they were functioning perfectly. I thought that it must be due to the carburettor. After a while, in the drowsy sticky heat, I forgot about it.

  I made a bull's-eye landfall of Cape St. Augustine in the Philippines, and full of the joy of living I switched off the engine and circled the lighthouse in a steep spiralling glide. When level with the lighthouse I switched on the engine again. Nothing happened: the shock was like a stab from a red hot wire. I took in the lie of the water under me, and started manoeuvring to avoid the cliff beside me and to alight into wind. Then I looked at the switches and saw why the engine had cut; both switches were down, which meant that they were switched off. They must have dropped again as soon as my finger left them after switching on. I strapped them in the up position with the garter I used to hold the log-book on my knee, and flew on to Mati, my next port at the south-east corner of Mindanao.