To boldly go…By Jannie Matthysen“It’s life, Captain, but not as we know it.” Spock’s words seemed curiously appropriate in these unusual circumstances. No alien spacecraft were visible on radar, no cosmic mist, or black holes threatened our little craft. Yet, we were rapidly approaching a very unfamiliar and unexplored sector of my universe. The only snag is that we were not on board the Starship Enterprise, and Captain James T. Kirk was thankfully not calling the shots… Unusual circumstances indeed. Consider all the perilous flying conditions that we as helicopter pilots normally try our best to avoid: strong winds, turbulence, darkness, high altitude, driving rain, zero visibility, icing! Yet, there we were: a dark and rainy night, one small helicopter, two nervous pilots. Helicopters are almost exclusively used in VFR conditions. The exceptions are the IFR certified helicopters used by the offshore oil operators and Emergency Medical Services (EMS). Their missions are flown at relatively low altitude and often with a custom designed procedure for instrument conditions specific to a particular route. What we do not often see, however, is a helicopter flown in IFR conditions to the same set of procedures as any turboprop, jet, or airliner. This kind of mission poses its own set of unique challenges. It was already raining at East London airport. The wind was 20 gusting 28 knots; cloud base was around 400 feet, with visibility no more than 2000 meters. Official sunset was less than one hour away. The other helicopters that accompanied us on this charter were all safely tucked away on the apron before the weather deteriorated, their pilots no doubt having a number of cold beers in the dry cozy comfort of the hotel. After completing our charter in East London, we needed to ferry the Agusta Westland 109S to Cape Town for a charter flight the next morning. Of course the days’ activities finished later than expected, and we were now under pressure – as usual. I made the decision to head for Cape Town in spite of the weather and darkness. We planned to fly to George to refuel, and thereafter proceed to Cape Town, expecting to arrive just before midnight. The first leg of the flight would be very tight if the winds were not true to the official forecast. The Agusta’s IFR endurance is not one of its strong suits. Port Elizabeth was filed as alternate landing airfield, as it would be relatively simple to divert to, being only slightly off track, and just under half the distance to George. We each ordered one more coffee while re-checking all our meticulous planning. Trembling hands punched calculators and nervously shuffled flight logs, weather forecasts and flight plans around the table. The minimum IFR altitude for the last segment of the flight to George was over 8000 feet, requiring us to opt for FL100. The freezing level was forecast to be at 11 000 feet. Close, but not too much of a problem… yet. The forecast winds at altitude were surprisingly not very strong, but we expected to be in cloud for most of the two-hour flight. Captain Kirk would have been impressed by the depth of planning and analysis evident around our control centre… er… I mean coffee table. The Agusta 109 is certified for single-pilot IFR. It is a light twin-engine helicopter equipped with all the modern toys that should make this sort of flight a mere formality. It’s the closest thing to the Starship Enterprise that we’ve seen in this galaxy. The IFR procedures should not prove to be a major obstacle, but we knew that we faced a few additional challenges. Most helicopters are not very happy cruising at 10 000 feet. Although the 109’s performance graphs did not reveal any specific concerns, I knew that we were approaching the extremities of its performance envelope. The next issue was that we anticipated rain and cloud for most of the trip with the temperature dropping below 0°C at 11 000 feet. The Agusta, as most helicopters in its class, is not equipped with any form of anti-icing or de-icing system for its rotors or other aerodynamic surfaces. Any ice forming on the rotors could have disasterous consequences. The final concern is our IFR range. We would have to keep two pairs of beady eyes on the fuel and groundspeed and be ready to make appropriately conservative decisions along the way. We finally departed East London as the warm glow of the runway and city lights disappeared within seconds after takeoff. What replaced it was pitch-black night. The radio was eerily quiet and the occasional instructions from ATC seemed ominously sombre. Did he know something that we did not? The turbulence could best be described as mild – certainly a welcome relief as we were expecting much worse. As we climbed, the 109 autopilot flew through layers of cloud, hardly discernable in whatever source of light that managed to find its way into our isolated little space in this dark universe. “Was that the airport again at 10 o’clock high? Are we inverted?” All our senses were working overtime. This was a very unnatural place for a helicopter crew to spend any amount of time. Although the autopilot was doing an admirable job of maintaining attitude, we found ourselves frantically scanning the instruments for any unusual indications. We heard things that we had never heard before, and I would also swear that I could smell something burning. My senses seemed to reach a critical level of sensitivity, or were we being affected by a mysterious Klingon nerve gas? Intermittent patches of rain battered the helicopter, and at times seemed capable of causing serious damage. It usually sounds worse than it really is, especially in the dark of night. We finally reached the cruising altitude of FL100. To our amazement, we achieved a ground speed some 25 knots faster than expected. The GPS was showing a constant 175 knots – as close to Warp Speed as we were likely to get! We could now see the occasional star and distant galaxy through broken layers of cloud. We seemed to be above most of the rain and turbulence. Everything was going according to plan. Well, almost. Any helicopter changes character at 10 000 feet. A familiar vibration seems to become a violent battering, a comforting whine from the engines seem like squealing banshees, gauges show unfamiliar values, and the controls are positioned where you do not usually expect to find them. We were flying a machine at the uncomfortable extremities of its design parameters. One instrument in particular demanded my constant attention: Outside Air Temperature. When we first settled into the cruise, the air temperature was a palatable 5° C. It did not remain constant, and I knew that as we approached 0°C, we would need to make some serious decisions. At an indicated freezing temperature, we could safely assume that some surface areas of the helicopter would already have dropped below zero. Any contact with moisture, such as flying in cloud or rain, would immediately form ice. The critical lack of the Agusta’s anti-icing equipment meant that there was no way for us to safely continue flight if the temperature were to reach these low levels. After staring at the OAT indicator for several minutes, it became obvious that the prevailing temperature trend was negative. It finally reached 0°C, but I decided to continue as we were now flying above a surreal layer of moonlit cloud. We were still in with a chance as long as we remained clear of cloud and the temperature increased again as we descended back into the black, damp mass that engulfed the airport at George. Our hopes were finally obliterated when the battering rain returned. Our next actions were carefully rehearsed and planned, but a mild sense of panic nevertheless filled the cockpit. How soon would ice form, and what effect would it have? What would Captain Kirk have done? We contacted ATC and informed them of our dilemma. We requested immediate descend into warmer air and a direct track to Port Elizabeth as our nominated alternate destination. The controller probably sensed the stress in my voice and seemed very eager to accommodate our request. I imagined a cheer emitting from the control tower celebrating the end of this helicopter crew’s foolishness. An airline crew enthusiastically congratulated us on our prudent decision. Were we ever in that much trouble? The approach procedure and landing at Port Elizabeth was uneventful for your average airline crew. The frazzled Agusta crew, on the other hand, had their work cut out as the runway eventually appeared at only 400 feet! The rain continued as we finally parked the helicopter at Port Elizabeth Airport. We failed to reach Cape Town, or even George, but I somehow felt a great sense of achievement. I realized that my many hours as a helicopter pilot over the years sadly represent countless bad decisions. Many of these should have ended in disaster, but somehow didn’t. I was lucky. This particular flight was so far removed from our normal type of helicopter operation. It offered the opportunity to accurately plan a flight using relevant information based on approved procedures. There was no guesswork, and it was a rare pleasure not to make important decisions applying a “let’s give it a go” approach as we’re normally obliged to do in helicopters. This was helicopter flying, Captain, but not as you know it. Dawn broke into a crisp, bright day. No wind, no weather. We departed at first light and again appreciated the privilege and wonder of rotor-wing flight at low altitude. We were back in harmony with our craft and the universe was a friendly place once again. Warp Speed, Mister Sulu! Home. |
