COMPARATIVELY FEW things in the creation of a pilot are actually hilarious. Okay, the instructor will make the odd crack, and the student – if he has any sense – will split his sides regardless of the actual comedy of same.
But learning to fly is more a matter of deep inner satisfaction than high mirth. On this afternoon nearly 40 years ago I am suppressing mirth, keeping my mouth shut, and most studiously looking everywhere except where we are actually going. Beside me my student – a Canadian engineer by the name of Malcolm and one of the best students I ever had – is distinctly uncomfortable. My name for Malcolm is Canada. He calls me Teach. And Canada has small beads of sweat are running down his temples. Why? Well, no obvious reason apart from the ever-present tropical heat. We are on fivemile final approach to Piarco International Airport in Trinidad, and the circumstances are greatly benign. The weather is Caribbean-perfect and the wind straight down the runway, as it almost always is at Piarco.
Canada is aware that something is wrong but cannot decide what. Okay, we are a bit high and he has not realised that yet. But that is as nothing compared to his heading problems. When we started the approach Canada did confidently point the Cherokee’s nose 20 degrees to the left of the runway – whereupon we promptly drifted off to the left. Canada frowned. I did my best to look innocent. After a few moments Canada decided the error must be the wrong way and eased the Cherokee round to point 20 degrees to the right. As we drift off to the right I find an absorbing interest in the scenery passing below.
At about three miles out it finally occurs to Canada to try the outlandish experiment of actually pointing the aeroplane at the runway. Where, of course, it obediently stays pointed….. A phenomena which Canada has never encountered before.
Indeed, nor has he ever encountered a fivemile straight-in approach in his entire flying career, which to date consists of about 20 hours dual and one hour solo. For I have been teaching Canada to fly at a small aerodrome called Blackburne on the West Indian island of Montserrat. And Blackburne has some – well, interesting features. One of which is that a five mile straight-in would involve flying through a small mountain. And another of which is….. Well, I personally blame a man called Frank Delisle. If the legend has any truth in it. We’llcome to the legend in a moment. Firstly, visualise Montserrat – a small, pearshaped Caribbean island which rejoices (or frequently fails to rejoice) in its increasingly rare status as a BOT: a British Overseas Territory.
Montserrat is very mountainous indeed, dominated by the Soufriere Hills rising to 3 000 feet at the southern end of the pear. It is nearly impossible to find any part of the island flat enough for even an eensy-teensy airport. In the late 1950s there was a small strip near the Plymouth on the western coast at the foot of the Soufriere Hills….. Which was a problem. The West Indies has a prevailing easterly trade wind. And if you have a prevailing easterly hitting a 3 000-foot mountain it is not the brightest idea in the world to locate an airfield on the western – downwind – side of the mountain, where all the downdrafts, rotors and turbulence vent their spleen. You will – and Montserrat did – have accidents. The proper place for an airport is on the windward side, where there is a smooth sea-tracking wind. If you can find anywhere flat enough to put it. Enter Frank Delisle who founded Leeward Islands Air Transport (LIAT) in 1956, out of Montserrat. While starting LIAT – which grew into one of the biggest airlines in the Caribbean – he also founded a radio station.
And also negotiated with the British Air Registration Board for a new airport on Montserrat. He had found this new site on a flat(ish) coral beach on the eastern side of the island…. The ARB travelled up from their base in Trinidad to look at it. “No”, they said. “The only possible layout here would be a runway 15 / 33, and the prevailing wind is 090. Too much crosswind”. “No, there isn’t”, said Frank. “Because here the prevailing wind is south-easterly”. “How can that be?”, said the ARB. “All the wind in the Caribbean is easterly”. “Must be a local effect – maybe topographical,” said Frank, staring out over an ocean most distinctly devoid of any topographical features whatsoever for at least 4 000 miles.
The ARB shook their heads. Frank persisted. Eventually the ARB said: “Look – we’ll put a recording anemometer on the site for a year, and see what the wind really does.” Which brings us to the legend. Understand I cannot vouch for this legend. I knew Frank fairly well in the 1970s but when I asked him about it I got a piercing glare down his eagle’s-beak of a nose and an abrupt change of subject. But legend says that the day after the recording anemometer was installed, one F. Delisle did land a LIAT Twin Otter on the beach in a flurry of coral dust, shin up the anemometer pole, unbolt the wind-vane from the top of same, turn it round by three splines, and bolt it back up again. Then 360 days later did the same thing again and bolted the vane back into its original position. And so Montserrat got its small airport complete with mini-mountains on the extended centre-line to R/W 15 to ensure that all approaches were gently curving and a more or less permanent 60o degree left crosswind.
On this runway Canada and my other Montserrat students learned to fly. There came a day when I was expecting to send Canada solo but the wind was a solid 15 knots across the runway. The following week it was 18 knots across. The third week it was 20+ knots across and I was running out of excuses. This was a student who could use a combination of crab and wing-down in a 20-knot crosswind and top-off the performance off with a one-wheel touchdown right on the numbers. “Okay, Canada. Pull into the taxiway and let me out. You’re off solo.” As I watched him line up, one half of me said: “You had to send him off or start destroying his confidence. The other half said: “Fine and dandy, Buster, but how’re you gonna tell the accident investigation that you sent off a first solo with a 20-knot wind straight across….” And I thought – thanks, Frank Delisle. Malcolm was, of course, fine. What would have been a howling crosswind to any other student was perfectly normal to him – he’d never landed in anything else. Which is why his weaving approach on Piarco this afternoon is causing me such inner mirth. I have seen plenty of students have trouble with crosswinds – but this is the first time I’ve seen a guy having trouble with a no crosswind.
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