N2234Y

Cessna Caravan Amphibian   C-208   Saint Paul, Minnesota to Istanbul, Turkey
Date	Destination	Distance (nm)	Flight time (hh+mm)
When I first got the call for this trip, the airplane was having its amphibious floats installed at Wipaire, with an expected completion date of Friday the 22nd.  I was to pick it up on Tuesday, after the three-day Memorial Day week-end, and fly it to Weaver Aero in Kansas to have the ferry tank installed on Wednesday, continuing towards Turkey on Thursday. Then I got a panicky call from my contact at Wipaire, begging me to consider collecting the airplane on Friday and taking it un-tanked, to save time.  It turns out someone had promised "one of the richest businessmen in Turkey" that the airplane would arrive in Istanbul by the end of the month—never thinking, of course, to consult the pilot who would have to fulfill that promise.  I checked the long-range weather forecasts on Wetterzentrale, and saw I'd have strong headwinds between Greenland and Iceland, and could easily be stuck on Greenland for days; so I called back and turned them down.  The next day they called again to tell me they'd got Carl Weaver to agree that if I'd have the airplane in Kansas first thing Tuesday morning, he'd do his best to have it tanked and the paperwork approved by the end of the day.  I told them that was fine, that all I needed was the key to the airplane; but they promised they'd have someone meet my flight and give me a ride to South Saint Paul airport, where Wipaire is located.  I let a day go by, and when there were no more changes of plan, I booked a dawn flight out of Bangor to Minneapolis, by way of New York and Cleveland, that was scheduled to arrive at 13:40 Central Time.
25 May	Moundridge, Kansas	446	3+11
The airline flight went as advertised, but when I arrived at Wipaire I found a huge pile of boxes next to the airplane:  some 300 pounds of spare parts to be carried to Turkey, about which—again—no one had thought to warn the ferry pilot.  Normally when we tank an airplane, we fold the seats and stow them in the baggage compartment, but the seats in this airplane were rigid.  I told my Wipaire contact I'd carry the freight to Kansas, but I couldn't guarantee it'd all go back on board once the ferry tank was installed.  It struck me as ironic that all these parts had been shipped to Minnesota—at considerable cost, I'm sure—from Wichita, Kansas, 45 miles south of Moundridge. It's about six feet from the ground to the floor of a Caravan Amphibian's cabin, but with the help of a pilot and a mechanic from the Turkish company that's buying the airplane, I got the boxes loaded and strapped down in time to arrive at Moundridge before dark.  I'd expected to lock the plane and leave the key in a secret spot, but there was a Weaver Aero employee there to greet me, having been alerted to my ETA by FlightAware.  He told me the airplane looked very impressive on its approach to the little landing strip.  Maybe so, but I was sorry he'd witnessed that landing:  my preparation to flare had been interrupted by impact with the ground.  Those wheels are a long way down there. I left the key with him, jumped in Carl's pickup, and headed south to the first little town with a motel.

Date	Destination	Distance (nm)	Flight time (hh+mm)
26 May	Warrensburg, Missouri	178	1+11
The airplane was tanked by noon, and Carl was back from Wichita with the paperwork around 14:30.  We installed the seats behind the ferry tank, crowding them together to leave room for the cargo.  Even so, we ran out of tracks for the aftmost seat and had to secure that with a cargo strap.  The baggage compartment was full to the ceiling behind its net; three heavy boxes were strapped behind the aft seat and another one in the seat atop a layer of cardboard to protect the upholstery from chafing; lightweight articles went under the seatbelts of the other seats; the tires and wheels and brakes went in a baggage hold in one of the floats; and by golly, we got everything back on board.  But I still don't have a load manifest or Shipper's Export Declarations for these parts, so if Customs doesn't like the "aircraft spares" designation, I could be stuck in Bangor for days straightening out the paperwork. I jumped in and headed for the airport with the cheapest jet fuel on the whole route, at $2.26 per gallon; an airport staffed by friendly and accommodating students from the University of Central Missouri.  When I arrived they were using their short runway, with the last turn-off 1400 feet from the threshold.  I warned the Cessna behind me in the pattern not to follow me too closely, since this was only my second landing in a Caravan Amphibian in many years, and I might have to make a 180 on the runway and taxi back.  But, having been schooled in eye-height-on-touchdown at Moundridge, I made a decent landing, hauled the power lever back into reverse, and made the turn off with ease.
27 May	Bangor, Maine	1187	7+21
The power setting table for the Caravan Amphib goes up to 20,000 feet, which led me to hope I might reach FL190 even with ferry fuel aboard; but I didn't think I'd reach it without burning off some fuel first, so I filed for 17,000.  I didn't make that altitude either:  at 13,000 feet my rate of climb was down to 100 fpm and I stopped my climb there.  An hour later, after my true airspeed had built up from 140 to 147 knots, I asked for and received a climb to 15,000 feet; and once again the poor bird struggled to get there.  This time, though, the airspeed stuck at 140.  Then, passing between two thunderstorms near Cleveland, Ohio, I flew through the top of a cumulus cloud—a baby thunderstorm—and from the rattle of rain on the windshield I knew I'd picked up some ice.  I was only in the cloud for 15 or 20 seconds, but when I popped out, sure enough, I had a good quarter inch—half a centimeter—of lumpy mixed ice on the leading edge; and as soon as I lost the updraft from the cumulus, the airplane started slowing down.  Now, most airplanes, when they pick up any ice at all, will lose ten knots of airspeed.  A really clean one will lose 20 knots.  This one lost considerably more:  as I was adding power to save what speed I could while waiting for the ice to "burn off" (which shouldn't have taken very long at -4° Celsius) I saw the airspeed passing 97 knots indicated, then 90, and then—bam!—she stalled, breaking hard to the left.  I killed the autopilot and shoved the nose down and called Center to cancel IFR, and by the time I got the airplane under control again I was down at 14,000 feet.  Center said that was okay, I could stay IFR, so I descended to 11,000 feet where above-freezing air melted off the ice, then climbed back to 13,000 to stay on top of the ragged scraps of stratus that were cluttering the spaces between the storms.  And there I stayed until, a couple hours out of Bangor and well east of the thunderstorms, the stratus clouds coalesced and thickened, and I went back down to 11,000 to get those "plus temps".  I'd already, in those twenty seconds, picked up all the ice I wanted on this trip.
28 May	Saint John's, Newfoundland	693	4+41
I somehow managed—without lying—to avoid piquing the customs inspector's interest in my aircraft spares.  Then, after filling out a new electronic form for the U.S. government, which took for everrrrr, I lifted off into a wet gray sky with the cloud bases at 2,000 feet, and broke out on top at 4,000, on the way to 13,000.  That was the weather story all the way to Prince Edward Island, where the clouds broke up.  Saint John's had some of the nicest weather in the Northeast.  I'm glad I lived to see that.
29 May	Santa Maria, Azores	1378	8+28
I'd gotten a late start out of Bangor, so instead of getting up early to reach Santa Maria in time for supper, I'd take off in the evening to arrive Saturday morning after the fuelers came to work, then continue to Portugal.  I slept as long as I could stand it, and awoke to an absolutely gorgeous day, full of sunshine and smiles.  I ate lunch at a quirky little restaurant in downtown Saint John's called the Press and Bean, took a stroll around the harbor, then headed for the airport.  I spent the afternoon flight planning, refueling, and installing my HF radio, luxuriating in the absence of rain as I climbed up and down the airplane:  three steps to the top of the float, three more to the cockpit, back down and way around and up again to get to the other side.  Next best thing to Gold's Gym.  The flight plan called for a departure at 23:30 Zulu, or 21:00 local, but when I went to settle up I had two credit cards refuse me in a row, panicking at the thought of someone using my card to spend $1100 "at a gas station".  That's why I carry several.  The third card worked, but by the time I got the first two re-activated I was half an hour late. It was a clear night until I was two hundred miles from the first islands of the Azores, where there was a low to go through.  Better that one than the following low, which was a tropical depression with an ambition to acquire a name.  I picked up a bit of ice at 13,000 feet, but only enough to cost me 10 knots.  The freezing level was down around 7,000, and after several minutes I popped out of the clouds, with Venus a few degrees above the horizon to show the way clear ahead; so I stayed where I was and waited for the ice to burn off.  In another hundred miles I began to see an edge to the darkness—slate gray above coal black—the horizon, the dawn, the arrival of a new day.  With daylight to steer by, I was able to avoid most of the clouds, and I gradually won back my airspeed.
30 May	Faro, Portugal	826	5+43
I had originally planned to stop at Portimao, a little VFR-only airport in Portugal I'd never visited but about which I'd heard good reports.  I noticed in their NOTAMS, though, that only light airplanes were allowed.  Now, the Caravan Amphib. has a maximum take-off weight of 8360 pounds, so it's technically a light airplane—but it's twice the size of a typical lightplane, so I wasn't sure if I would be welcome there or not.  The one thing I felt confident predicting was that they wouldn't have a ladder tall enough for re-fueling:  the Amphib's fuel caps are on top of the wing, and that's nearly 14 feet—4 meters—above the ground.  So I went to Faro instead.  They were busy!  I had to wait almost an hour for the fueler.  He didn't have a ladder, but we were able to borrow one from some mechanics who had come out to take pictures of the airplane.  Then the fueler told me he wasn't allowed to climb the ladder, so I did.  After all that I was beginning to wish I'd gone to Portimao after all, and just put the fuel in the ferry tank if I had to, instead of filling the wings.
31 May	Palma de Mallorca, Spain	552	4+01
The sea-breeze pushed a low stratus deck onshore this morning, and everyone seemed alarmed.  I guess for a sunshine destination like Faro, that's a serious matter; but for me, it meant a pre-flight inspection in the shade, followed by a couple hundred feet IMC before popping out on top into a brilliant day. My destination was Son Bonet, another VFR-only field, just north of the international airport on Palma, and another new stop for me.  After checking that I was able to descend in visual conditions, Palma Approach cancelled my IFR clearance about fifty miles out, and had me descend to 1,000 feet AGL to pass underneath the Palma Traffic Management Area inbound to Son Bonet.  There was no-one working the Son Bonet traffic frequency, so I just reported my position to traffic in the area, coordinating my landing on Runway 23 with a German lightplane on a long straight-in approach from the east.  While I was taxiing in I saw him make a second pass through the parking area as if looking for a spot.  As I got closer I saw he'd found one, and there was just one other in sight, between two low-wing airplanes so the Caravan's wing could overlap a bit.  But I'd have to push the plane back into there, which meant I'd need to find some help with this beast.  I kept going:  nothing; nothing; nothing.  I thought I might have to fly on to Menorca.  Finally, at the far end of the ramp, in the last possible spot, I found a corner I could pivot into.  Perfect! There was one more surprise in store for me before I got away from the airport:  fuel was available only from 11:00 to 14:00 and from 17:00 to 21:00.  That meant I'd get a late start tomorrow.  On the up side, it meant I could afford to spend a few hours enjoying Palma.  Real tourism, and I didn't even have to break an airplane to get it!
01 Jun	Brindisi, Italy	717	4+38
I waited longer for the weather than I did for the fueler:  there was a mass of thunderstorms over central Italy drifting slowly northeastward, and forecast to be north of my route by 1800Z.  Well, I couldn't wait that long, or I'd miss supper, even in Italy.  I took off at 1330Z and scooted across the island under the Traffic Management Area until, once offshore, Palma Approach cleared me to continue IFR and to climb to FL120. I figured I'd have to deviate some to avoid the storms, and I did, too.  I zig-zagged between a couple of build-ups over the northern end of Sardinia and then had clear sailing till I was approaching the Isle of Ponza.  From there I spent 60 miles flying south of my course—even heading due south for a goodly while—to avoid the storms that were crashing into the south-facing mountainsides on which Naples, in sunny weather, basks above the sea.  As I skirted all the excitement I heard one airliner break off the approach, and others in holding patterns, waiting—while they still had fuel to wait—for a reasonable chance to try it.  I didn't hear anybody land.  East of Naples I was able to converge with my course again.  The clouds had all been cumulonimbus, which I could avoid; but now I encountered a stratus deck I couldn't get around, and had to descend from FL120 to FL080 to get out of the ice.  That was all right, though:  I was nearing my destination, and still in good time.  Brindisi was reporting a low, broken layer, and I was cleared for a VOR approach to runway 31; but as I passed the airport at 4,000 feet I saw those clouds had dissipated, and I made a visual approach, a big, plunging 180-degree turn to the runway. That saved some time, but an airliner landed right after me and needed a quick turnaround to get his passengers on their way, so I had to wait my turn for fuel.  Then (for the last time) we had to deal with the height of those wing tanks.  The fueler ended up standing precariously on top of the railings of his ladder/platform.  By the time I made it into a taxi it was late indeed. You may have heard that, while pizza is an Italian invention, it has become an American dish; but the good folks of Brindisi apparently haven't heard the news:  on the ride to the hotel I passed one pizza shop after another, and some of them were still open.  As soon as I had dropped my luggage in the room I asked the hotel proprietor where I could find something to eat.  He pointed across the street to a tiny restaurant where, on another occasion, I'd had the best pizza of my life:  the crust brushed with olive oil and baked bare, then sprinkled with chunks of fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, and arugula.  But they were closed.  So I went around the corner to a place not quite so tiny, that was still open, and there I had the new best pizza of my life:  the crust baked with a little shredded mozzarella, then sprinkled with tomatoes, arugula, and "prosciutto crudo", with a little parmigiano grated over the top.  As good as that topping was, though, it was the crust that made this pizza.  A pizza crust needs to be cooked quickly, and that takes a lot of heat.  They must have had their oven up around 1000° Fahrenheit.  That crust was amazing!
02 Jun	Istanbul, Turkey	509	3+10
This morning things went slowly at the airport.  The weather office had closed, and now briefings and flight plans were handled over a phone line to Rome.  That took a while.  Then the airport office's connection to the internet broke down, and they couldn't process my credit card for airport fees.  After much conferring, they took down the company address and promised to send a bill.  It was nearly 11:00 local by the time I took off.  But I had a good 35-knot tailwind across the Adriatic Sea and over Albania and Macedonia, with glimpses of the rugged terrain between cumulus clouds that topped out near my altitude, FL130.  And it was almost a straight shot to Istanbul, maybe the most direct route in Europe; so even with the late start I arrived in plenty of time for the mechanics to remove the ferry system before the end of the work day. Ataturk International was landing to the southwest, on Runway 24.  As he vectored me to the east across that vast city, the approach controller asked what speed I could maintain on final.  I promised him 160 knots—15 knots below Vne—and I increased the power to reach it.  I maintained that speed like a good boy until I was three miles out, then hauled the power lever back almost to flight idle, dropped the gear and 10 degrees of flaps (both of which are available at Vne), and put out the rest of the flaps as the decaying airspeed made that permissible; and landed; and taxied clear across the whole airport to reach the general aviation hangars, where I was met by a crowd of happy people.

Comments

[Bob Echols]

Nice narrative, Gerald. Keep up the good work.

[Bob Echols]

The previous compliment was calculated to elicit more narrative, not a cessation of writing. Let's get back to work on the blog - like, what happened between the Azores and Portugal?

[Gerald Childers]

Hey, how about a little food and rest for the poor pilot, huh?

[Bob Echols]

Well, a guess a little food and rest is OK. Gerald, I fell and broke my hip and I am recovering nicely, but the problems of blood clots got into the discussion. That led us to speculate as to how you cambat this risk during a 17 hour crossing in a tight single engine plane. So enlighten your blog followers as to how you handle blood flow, exercise, etc. during flight.

[Gerald Childers]

When you've been flying for a while, Bob, your legs want to go for a walk. But you can't do that, so you wiggle your feet, flex your muscles—isometrics, basically. It works.