One moment Steve and I are discussing the Maningrida meeting, cruising at 5,000’ on our way back to Darwin. Below, are the green watery floodplains bordering the Arafura Sea. Next thing, a thin watery stream of vomit traces down Steve’s shirtfront, he is clutching his chest and slumping sideways across his seat. It all happens in the microsecond it took for the Cessna 150 to lurch; I think the official term is to ‘yaw’ steeply to the left, as his left foot heavily nudges the rudder pedal.
This is just great! Steve and I, alone! I briefly note how quickly I have developed a sweat across my brow. Steve grunts at me. He is semi-conscious, trying to tell me something. I reach over and take his headphones, hoping someone in a control tower, somewhere, anywhere can hear my panicked ‘Mayday’ calls.
A crackle in my ears. I concentrate and hear a voice asking me to identify myself. “It’s George – oh, ah, Victor Hotel, Mike Alpha Zulu. The pilot looks like he’s had a heart attack. What should I do?” I am gripping the control column as if my life depended upon it. I realise, with a brittle chuckle, it did!
The Cessna continues to yaw, losing a little more altitude and continuing to drift to the left. I grab Steve’s foot and push it off the pedal.
How many times have I sat in this right-hand seat, watching the pilot, observing the dials, the altimeter, the horizon dial, noting the craft’s response to setting the throttle at peak revs, as we took off, adjustments to achieve a cruise or reductions to get us back onto the ground. I had often had fantasies of controlling the plane myself. Shit, why hadn’t I asked more questions, paid more attention to the realities of guiding this machine through its take-off, cruise and landing?
Somebody was in the headphones again. A steady voice “Mike Alpha Zulu. Can you hear me? “Yep!” “Can you tell me your name?” “George.” “OK George, my name is Phoebe. What is your altitude? Look at the dial with the two hands.” “4,500 feet.” “That’s good George. Now I want you to take the control column and gently bring it back towards your stomach. Can you feel the plane rising?”
The little plane responds slightly. I see the horizon starting to drop away, fluffy, patchy clouds up ahead. “OK George, now just try gently pushing the column away from your stomach.” I see the greenery below starting to fill the windscreen. “OK George, I now want you to ease the column gently back towards you, take the plane up to 5,000’ and hold it there.” My grip hasn’t loosened but my concentration has been diverted away from my immanent death, now hanging on to Phoebe’s every word.
Steve gurgles and vomits again. “George, you are about ten minutes away from the Darwin strip. I will work with you to bring the plane down safely. OK?” “Yes, please. Thank you, Phoebe.”
The Adelaide River passes below, snaking its way across the flood plains. Darwin’s hinterland, a grid of gravel roads, cleared blocks, and houses poking out from the bushland. “George, OK I can see you. Can you see the throttle lever on the dash? I want you to unwind the encircling nut a quarter turn to the left, just a bit. The throttle lever can now be pulled back towards you about half an inch. You will feel the motor slowing slightly. You are starting to descend nicely, that’s it. Nice and slow. Now turn the encircling nut on the throttle to the right and lock it off.
“Excellent, George! Can you see the runway in front of you? OK, so George, the plane is just descending nicely. Keep your feet balanced on the rudder pedals. Yep that’s great.
The plane continues to lose height, but it is drifting off my line of approach. Phoebe directs my footwork; I straighten and the runway is below me. I am still 300’ above it. “George, release the nut and ease the throttle back another half inch. Yep, that’s it. Almost down. Easy. Yep!”
We bump and shoot up into the air again but we shortly bump again and taxi. “George, you’ve done it. Wonderful job. Pull the throttle all the way back and put your feet on the brakes. We have an ambulance on the runway behind you.
They find me in the cockpit, a gibbering ball of sweat, as they manoeuvre Steve into the waiting ambulance. I never do meet my saviour but we name our firstborn Phoebe!