CLOSE ENCOUNTERS
There are many perilous stages during flying training. But the most arrogant stages are: Just after a student’s first solo, and soon after a pilot obtains the Private or Commercial Licences.
I was no different.
[01] KADUGANNAWA PALLAM
Soon after obtaining my Private Licence, things began to get cheery, and got cheerier and cheerier and cheerier as I indulged myself in an incessant spree of sightseeing and joy flights.
On one such flight to Kandy I flew overhead the Victoria dam and, on my way back, approaching Kadugannawa, my private pilot licence was henpecking my conscience to fly lower…” C’mon c’mon you’ve gotta do it…” the nagging continued. So, as the train on my right, with little red carriages and glistening silver tops, snaked around and disappeared into the Kadugannawa hills, I plunged into the steep gap at Lower Kadugannawa.
The golden paddy fields, several hundred feet below, rose up towards me, as I sank below. Soon the contours of the earth began to exhibit more details- the sunny landscape of roads, dwellings and lush trees appearing below.
Keeping Bible Rock to my left, I breezed through the gaps, listening to the warm winds howling over the wings and watching Uthuwankanda zoom grandly up the hillside on my right. Between the magnificent hills I threaded my course — absolutely elated.
Then, passing Uthuwankanda, I suddenly realized that nobody had made radio contact with me for a while! Yanking the controls I made a quick climbing turn over the terrain, picked up the main A1 highway and got my bearings. My eyes were set for the western coast — which seemed only a stone’s-throw from the hills.
Ratmalana was concerned about my long blackout. With complete composure I feigned innocence. I shall promptly get my radios checked sir I assured.
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[02] THE HORNET’S NEST
The next episode was when I almost caused a hornet attack in Sigiriya.
It was my first commercial PA 28 flight — to Sigiriya — with three Japanese tourists. Sigiriya looked very different in reality at a thousand feet, and it took me a while to recognize the rock-fortress at that height. There was no resemblance, between sitter and portrait!
Sigiriya from above had an impressive view of extra detail — a wealth of soft gold, ochre and green colours, of light and dark shades highlighted the landscaped terraces and pools. At first, it was rather difficult to merge the aerial view with its old picture-postcard counterpart. Fascinated — I made a circuit around the rock.
So, from the comfort of this citadel, it seems, Kassyapa reigned high and mighty!
Placing my left wing-tip down on the citadel as a reference point, I maintained a constant radius and circled low over the fortress. There was no wind. The wing tip remained on the rock with the compass spinning, until my passengers had completed their photo clicking.
Breaking away from the steep turn I pulled away — heading towards Pidurangala — not because I felt dizzy, but because the voice over the radio asked me to: “ confirm my intentions”
The view of Sigiriya from Pidurangala was magnificent — towering amidst the wilderness.
Pidurangala! An orient pearl amidst the vast green oyster shell of our island paradise!
Just as the breathless excitement ebbed away, and I began to feel easier, the serious voice over the radio notified me: “Four Romeo Charlie Alfalfa you are required to return to Ratmalana immediately!”
I knew right then that I was in trouble. Big trouble!
The Air Force had reported my low flying overhead Sigiriya. My irresponsible flying manoeuvres “could have” disturbed the hornets’ on the fortress which in turn “would have” provoked a hornet attack on the visitors to the rock!
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[03] WIND CALM FIVE KNOTS
The third incident was not exactly my fault.
Soon after the ethnic conflict erupted, all civil aviation airfields were taken over by the SLAF except Katunayake — the international airport. The control towers at these restricted airfields were manned by inexperienced makeshift SLAF airmen — who were a far cry from the professionally trained Air Traffic Controllers.
It was a perfect morning, seemingly crystal-clear to the four horizons. I browsed round the North-Central countryside, flying overhead Kaudulla, Minneriya, Giritale and Parakrama Samudra — my first proper aerial view of the tanks in the area. Crammed with me in the tiny PA 28 were three hefty tourists who were absorbed in the beauty of the miles and miles of green bristle landscape that receded to the far horizon.
I edged round slowly, as they tried to fit to their maps, the cobalt lakes, and clusters of towns beneath us. I flew on for roughly thirty minutes. A light wind was picking up as I approached Hingurakgoda (VCCH) and everything seemed perfect. I landed more or less on time and accompanied the tourists to the waiting rental-car, which would take them on a road tour of the ancient city of Polonnaruwa — while I opted to hang around the airfield to fly them back to Colombo later in the day.
Later that humid afternoon, while walking back to the aircraft for the return flight, I felt the super-heated air near the surface — and noticed the windsock fully extended. A sudden gust of strong wind rocked the airplane on the apron. The sky was filled with puffy clouds and seemed especially buoyant as they hurried toward the horizon.
The blazing sun was baking my overly tanned face through the windscreen, and as we strapped-in, I noticed the trees along the edge of the runway — struggling to stay upright. The bitter wind was whipping them mercilessly! Wiping away any negative thoughts that could stand in the way of my impending take-off, I fired up the engine. I was keen to get back to RML soon, as one of the tourists had to fly back home that night.
I made a non-standard ATC call — as the standard communication was too overwhelming for the airman turned traffic controller.
“Confirm surface winds”.
Pat came the response: “wind calm… 5 knots.”
I taxied away from the apron, and called the tower once again. This time I spoke in Sinhalese to explain to him that according to the windsock, the winds seemed stronger than 5 knots. The mournful monotonous voice responded once again.
“Wind calm… 5 knots. Cleared for Take-off”
Clearly, the phrase had been programmed into his system!
Being a low-time pilot, I was not very good at guesstimating the cross winds, but continued to steer and keep the aircraft on the imaginary centre-line. Then making sure that the ailerons were fully deflected into the wind, I opened the throttle. The airplane struggled on take-off — with the powerful gust hitting us and tossing us violently as we got airborne. Within seconds the aircraft veered towards the line of agitated trees.
The controls were absurdly sloppy, and I was damn careful not to stall, as I staggered over the thicket — barely clearing the treetops underneath me. Turning round till my compass showed South-West, I took a cursory look at my tourists — who were too busy admiring the artistry beneath, blissfully unruffled by the hair-raising crosswind take-off!
[04] THE KALPITIYA SPIN
Encounter #4 was off Kalpitiya flying the Upali Aviation Cessna 152.
It was April Fool’s Day in 1987, and I was at five thousand over the old Pallavi airfield in Puttalam that morning when I suddenly got the urge to turn North-West and explore the area. I breezed over the Puttalam Bay that stretched all the way to the Dutch Bay and on to Portugal Bay.
Flying low abeam Kalpitiya, I passed the Dutch Fort below and then flew abeam a solitary ‘toy’ fishing boat -on the beach close to the Velankanni church. I was spoilt for choice for emergency landings — if the engine decided to quit on me!
Flying further across Portugal Bay, and approaching the tip of Baththalangunduwa where the beautiful Indian ocean and the dazzling crystalline sky were united with the blessing of the sun, I sat in a tight climbing spiral turn to the South and perhaps pulled too tight in the turn.
The aircraft began to kind of mush down and in a flash I realised that I had entered a spin! With my heart in my mouth, I promptly pulled the power off and broke the spin, saw the ocean below and pulled like crazy almost causing a secondary stall!
At the moment of full recovery, I was almost touching the water!
Turning south-west I swept off home — wanting to shout with relief! Phew!
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[05] THALAGOYA CURRY
On 12th January 1985, I lined up 4R-UAB neatly on the centreline of Runway 22. It was another cloudless blue-sky-day and I was instructed to carry out a few circuits at RML and then fly around the surrounding aerodrome area and south of the field to locate useful landmarks.
“4R-UAB cleared take-off”
Aah flying alone! ‘Nothing gives an aviator such a sense of mastery over mechanism’ I thought as UAB moved forward at speed. Suddenly, just before rotation, there was a loud thud noise and a shudder as the aircraft slipped slightly, which was enough to make a 20-hour greenhorn like me panic. “What the heck was that?”
I continued the take-off, maintaining runway heading and she climbed pretty well. Levelling off at 500’ I informed the tower that I hit something on take-off.
A few minutes later I was reassured that I had hit a ‘Thalagoya’’ (Monitor lizard) and I could make a quick turn back to the field.
Thank heaven! Down I came.
Everybody fussed over me as I stood on the tarmac, watching the engineer check the propeller. Just then the Chief Fire Officer walked up to inform me that the doomed ‘Talagoya’ had been cooked and turned into an aromatic hot pot. I cringed inwardly when the Fire Department cordially invited us to join them for a late lunch!
From then on, for a good two, three hours I was a vegetarian — declining all efforts by the friendly Fire Department to feed me their gourmet ‘Talagoi Mas’
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[06] THAT DARN DOOR!
It was one of my early solo flights on the Cessna 152 at Ratmalana.
My instructor completed one circuit with me — and we landed. He then hopped off at the intersection and instructed me to carry out three circuits and landings. Backtracking to the end of RWY 04, I began my auspicious flight on a perfect January morning.
On the tarmac together with my instructor, stood a small group of people: two air force officers who were waiting to cross the runway — to the Attidiya side, a few other student pilots, uncle Hetti from the Petroleum outlet and the Fire Department officers with their truck. So, there was an added tension for me to fly neatly — without goofing up!
I set off, turned crosswind and on to the downwind leg. As I did so, there was a loud thud from the right side of the aircraft. I concentrated on my flying but the thuds got steadily worse.
“Yes! There it was again! Something serious!”
Taking my gaze off the horizon, I focused my attention towards the starboard wing. Damn! It was the right-side door that was banging. The aircraft revolted against each bang and my entire downwind leg developed into an awful journey.
Now what was to be done?
I turned in my seat, leant over and tried reaching across with my right hand, but was unable to pull the door quickly enough to latch. In the process I was unwittingly banking the aircraft to the right. This effort was altogether too tricky for a few-hour pilot like me.
“Uniform Alpha Bravo report position”
That was the worried voice from the Tower.
With my concentration fully on the banging door, I had flown a steady course along the extended downwind leg ending up utterly alone in the sky over the ocean — and completely forgetting to make ATC contact!
“Uniform Alpha Bravo your instructor would like to talk to you” — the worried ATC voice once again!
“Uniform Alpha Bravo 1000’ extended downwind, over the ocean. The right-side door is banging against the aircraft and I’m flying over the ocean — trying to pull it shut” I responded.
My instructor, who had rushed up to the control tower to check on my bearings, yelled on the radio: “Forget the door — let it bang. Return to the field immediately”
I descended from 1,000 feet, reduced speed, skimmed over the Ratmalana Railway Yard, floated on for what seemed an eternity, touched the ground and slammed brakes. As I backtracked, I expected a posse on the tarmac waiting to greet me, pat me on the back and shower me with accolades.
Then I saw my instructor at the intersection.
He held up his hand in a stopping gesture, walked up to the aircraft, opened the starboard door, peered in, told me to carry out three more circuits, and banged shut the door!
I should never have married him!
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[07] SUZUKI AND I
One day Upali Aviation had a Japanese visiting pilot — Mr Suzuki. He possessed a Cessna 206 rating — validated by the Department of Civil Aviation Sri Lanka. Suzuki wished to fly to Koggala — but there was one small issue. He was not comfortable with RT communication in Sri Lanka. Consequently, because of my familiarity with local RT and the fact that I knew the SE region backwards, the honour of acting as Suzuki’s RT mouth-piece fell to me.
Suzuki could fly all right. I was very comfortable with his flying and noticed that he treated the aircraft with respect — never tossing it all over the vast blue gazebo of the afternoon sky. It was all plain sailing. Overhead Hikkaduwa we passed the small fishing boats and within minutes we were abeam the Dutch Fort in Galle. Beneath were the crimson ‘kabuk’ trails along the edge of the Galle Fort.
We headed over the Koggala field and I briefed Suzuki that we should fly low over the runway — to check for any animals on the airstrip. Predictably there were buffaloes sunbathing on the strip! Back then, the Koggala ATC tower was not manned, thus I had to make several calls to alert the tower about the buffaloes on the runway. In the meantime, we circled the village and headed out towards Ahangama until the runway was cleared.
Eventually we turned towards Koggala and throttled down. Suzuki, of course, sat 4R-ACU down perfectly. I jumped out and everything looked pretty good — but the desolation! Not a sound broke the stillness at the airfield. Especially after the drone of the engine, the sudden silence was profound.
We then made a twenty-minute walk to a beach front cafe for a cuppa tea and returned to the airfield around 1630 hours. Suzuki went ahead to complete the walk-around. I opened the door to store my backpack, and just then Suzuki let out a sharp cry of lament. Quickly walking back to him I asked him what was wrong. He pointed woefully to the port main wheel tyre — which was absolutely flat!
I managed to get a message across to Upali Aviation — then prepared to live in discomfort for some time until another tyre was flown in.
The Upali C152 landed around 1800 hours, bringing us a new tyre and uncle Vincent — one of the technicians — for help. And so began the arduous task of replacing the tyre. In the meantime, the sun began to sink solemnly and within the next half hour the aerodrome was in pitch darkness — save for the bright gleam of a torch which shone on the wheel. Suddenly, startling me, were apparitions of two SLAF airmen beside the door! They were in charge of lighting the kerosene gooseneck flares for our impending take-off — they said.
Finally, we were ready to start up. Waiting for Suzuki to power up, I noticed that he was busy diving into his bag — frantically searching for something. Then hugging his bag with one hand, he began bumbling with the starter key. Within a minute he grew quite bewildered and asked me apologetically if I could start up the aircraft.
Yelling “Clear Prop!” to no one in particular, I started the engine, completed a run-up, and turned to Suzuki. He was totally different from the calm guy who flew in that afternoon.
In the meantime, the C152 took off ahead of us.
Our revs were holding but not Suzuki’s nerves. Turned out that one of his detachable spectacle lenses had come off and he could not find his duplicate pair of glasses inside the bag! Staring at me as if my eyeballs were going to fall out of my face — he asked me if I could carry out the take-off and if we could take turns in flying the return leg.
I finally summoned the nerve to sprint abeam the wicks-in-kerosene fire balls. It was my very first gooseneck flare assisted take off, in an aircraft I was not rated on, and flying from the right-hand seat!
The next thing I knew, we flashed past the first flare. Then the second loomed up. It is not pleasant to fly an unfamiliar aircraft on a pitch-black night! I held the controls back and must have been about twenty feet off the ground when Suzuki took control and yanked towards the North. His movements were rough and sudden.
We hugged the coast, as it was the safest option. The machine was all right. Altitude, Airspeed and heading were constant. Suzuki was squinting and flying the ball. Soon we were abeam the beckoning beam of the Beruwala lighthouse and my thoughts turned to the landing scenario in Ratmalana.
Then as we passed abeam the Kalutara Temple (Bodhiya), Suzuki asked me if I could ‘assist’ him in the landing. Happy that he asked me, I gently directed 4R-ACU towards Ratmalana.
We turned right towards RML and carried out a long steady glide inland towards RWY 04 — where the golden pinpoints were shining along the airstrip. Suzuki throttled down letting the machine sink a little — then handed over the landing to me! ACU floated steadily and an instant later the wheels touched the runway. The steady rumble told its tale of a perfect landing.
It was such a relief to be down again!
