Three phases of Franchise - Get in on the first, third is worst

 A well-crafted product offering that people want to buy. That’s the one-in-fifty new start businesses, or the result of years of research and development, otherwise known as trial and error. Once you have this utopian restaurant, retail store, or product, you want to clone it and gain more economy of scale.

If you manage to create a clone model that can be operated by the right people, you have a great start as a franchisor. Everyone else want to get involved. At this stage you’ve engaged a consultant and a lawyer to get the franchise offer framed up properly, and invested in marketing the concept.

Quite often those steps have required an equity investor with franchise experience. Australia has more franchises per head of population than America which sends a message but the answer is not obvious – other than that we like to ‘have a go.’

Phase one is the start and in that phase the original designer of the business is engaged and usually quite enthusiastic, which helps the franchise sales.

After an initial group of new franchisees have operated their businesses for a period, some tweaking of the model is bound to happen. Supply chains are modified, branding updated, pricing examined closer. The effect of scale has become quantifiable, costs are clearer, margins are analysed more closely.

During this middle phase, the original owners may have become less enthusiastic or taken things for granted. With the inrush of franchise start up fees also came the need for more operating capital to bridge the cost of expansion and often a reduction in owner’s equity. Having been at the coal face for some time and working long hours, many owners see the merit in cashing out some of their share and relaxing a little.

The franchisees are all beavering away and growing the market for the product, which better informs the system as to what to do next. Pricing decisions are made across the whole network in response to competition or changes in customer tastes. All franchisees are bound to whatever price and selling decisions the franchisor makes. Imagine how the Domino’s store owners felt when head office announced the $5.95 pizza – a loss leader.

In Phase two, the management and shareholders become dominant and the original owner usually slides towards a minority share – with less input. At some point, they exit or the management dominance sidelines them.

Now in Phase Three, the product offering is less important than recurrent sales of franchises. Existing franchisees find selling their franchise difficult because head office won’t cooperate or approve their prospective buyer. Head office is more interested in selling new franchises because an existing outlet changing hands is worth less to them.

In 1989 I looked at buying a Snap Printing franchise and it wasn’t a long analysis. Once I realised that head office would hold the lease and could bone me for any of many little breeches in their lengthy and very binding contract, I wanted nothing more of it. The would control inputs by selling me EVERYTHING I needed at whatever price they decided, and they would control output by pricing the printing and services. They could – and probably did – increase the fees they charged, without any real justification.

If anything the franchise ecosystem has worsened as it expanded. It’s not ‘being your own boss, running your own business’, it’s servitude that most closely resembles legal slavery.

Cuba 2018

With open minds we land in Havana after a 2.5 hour direct flight from Houston. We had purchased the entry card at a stand next to checkin, for US$85 each. The baggage line featured many cling wrapped bundles, goods needed from the USA. The flight was full.

Our colleague Dimas picked us up after a fairly slow baggage collection and an uneventful stroll through customs. He took us to the 'Taxi' which is a euphemism, it appears anything on wheels can be a taxi, without any apparent regulation. Ours was a 1960's Ford something, rattling along with a Mitsubishi diesel sitting small under the huge bonnet.

The old car thing is one of the Icons of Cuba, in part forced by the isolation forced on the Island state after the Revolution. In 1959 Castro and a small force snuck onto Cuban soil in a small boat from Mexico. His rebel forces ousted Fulgencio Batista, a US-backed dictator who had turned Havana into a playground for the mob.

That Revolution is both ubiqtuous and controversial. After all, everything owned by American interests was taken by the new Government. The giant bronze American eagle atop the statue near the water was felled. The column remains, minus the bird.

The haul was immense. A new Hilton hotel, a complete replica of the Capital Building, sugar factories, mines, oil refineries and all the holiday homes and bank accounts of American nationals. For this the Amercian's were understandably very pissed, so they threw on an embargo that partially remains to this day.

Fidel Castro went one further and invited Russia into the fold, producing the Missile Crisis that freaked out my parents who were convinced like most thinking people that we all had just days left before armageddon. JFK thought the same thing, as he kept his hand near the Nuclear Suitcase until a backdown appeared. Shades of North Korea - history can repeat.

Through the new communist regime initial euphoria gave way to regulations and bureaucracy. Dimas is thankful for the opportunity - he could leave his island of Nueva Gerona and go to University in Havana, for free. It was, he says, something that his parents could not afford under the old Government.

But the regulations exist today. There are two currencies, the peso (CUP), sometimes called the "national currency" the other being the convertible peso (CUC), occasionally called "dollar" in the spoken language. CUP is what the locals use, CUC is what us tourists use. It's confusing.

Tourists stay in lodgings with a Blue sign, locals stay under a Green sign. There are queues for some commodities purchased with vouchers - Dimas's retired mum gets rice, oil, daily bread, beans, chicken and 24 eggs month. And of course cigars!

A flight to Havana from her island costs 5 CUC.

Most businesses are state run, leading to ridiculous amounts of paperwork. The Hotel Nacional on the headland in  Havana is one of the best, yet it is overstaffed by serious faced people with forms for everything. The room attendants mingle with the maintenance guys in the hallways, shouting and laughing and doing as little as possible.

Private enterprise is creeping in, after a relaxation that came in the wake of Fidel Castro stepping down in favour of his younger brother Raul. During our visit Raul himself stepped down for his deputy, a bland Miguel Diaz-Canel Bermudez. There was little reaction on the streets, but the USA media all hopped in with reports that welcome changes were now possible.

But the whole country is run down. Havana is like a movie set: row upon row of crumbling, peeling, flaking buildings with one or two restored editions standing out. It's like stepping back into the 1970's - minus the hair. Kids play ball on the street, little ones play marbles. There is no widely available internet, other than at wifi hotspots, often in parks.

We walked home at midnight down quiet streets and came upon a dimly lit park with fifty people standing and sitting, all looking at their phones. It was downright weird. To get online you queue up at a telecom shop and buy a scratch card that gives you five hours for 5 CUC. Only problem is those cards run out, as in, there are not enough cards issued. This opens up the black market, which is the place you get most of the things you need that are not covered by free vouchers. 

Aside from an enormous fleet of 1950's American cars, there are countless old and no so old Lada's. These Russian workhorses seem easy to fix, and fixing cars is a national passtime. As is boxing, the second national sport after - of all things - Baseball. Please note: do not argue with a Cuban in a bar. It may end bad for you.

A visit to a furniture store, in a mall of sorts, lays plain the pain of communism, or socialism, or whatever the fuck this system actually is. A cheap microwave was about 180 CUC and a crappy lounge was 1000. Thin patterned budget linen was about 15, but choice was not an option.

Dimas says you can import goods up to a certain value, things like electric bikes are popular. The Police now have some, they are almost dead silent and handy for zooming up on a miscreant. Crime seems contained: while we were at Callejon de Hamel (a crazy laneway full of bizarre artworks made of reclaimed trash) the Police came in looking for a badass who was hassling tourists. Another time, our 'taxi' was caught in a roadblock while they searched for someone else.

There are certainly enough Police and Military, some in colourful uniforms and accompanied by young dudes in green on their three year national service. While there are plenty of hustlers on the street they generally abide by the same script: asking us where we are from ('Australi.... Skippy!') and then pitching their thing. A cigar can be a black market cigar - or something else altogether.

Havana is a city of 3 million relatively happy souls, a crazy mix of indigenous indian, Creole, Spanish and the descendants of the African slaves who were imported to harvest on the sugar plantations. They have all the alluring charms we see from afar: the tendency to dance without provocation, and a warm and often helpful disposition. They also argue and yell a lot.

The climate can be harsh - avoid Summer! Our April timing was due to climate, Dimas says early November is the other shoulder season without much wind, heat or bothersome cyclones. Just eight months before out visit, Havana had a tree snapping blow called Hurricane Irma that produced 30' waves that made short work of the sea wall and pushed inland, flooding a lot of the lower areas.

The sea wall and coastal road runs about 8km, the USA embassy sat across the road from our first apartment on the waterfront. It is a brutalist design, built in 1953. After the revolution, the Swiss looked after it until 1977 when it was re-opened. 

The Americans installed a ticker-tape sign along the top floor, broadcasting propaganda about human rights abuses. In reply, the Cubans installed 80 flag poles the height of the embassy, blocking the sign.

The food is bland - not much if anything in the way of spices. At the markets are bunches of floppy carrots obviously imported from somewhere south. Beef comes from Argentina. Fuel from Venezuela. The supermarket has sparse choices.

Around the shops I am struck at the total absence of made-in-China. Other than a Japanese tour group, we saw a lot of Russians. We ate at Restauranti Sovietico - a strange outpost that celebrates the union between the former Soviet Union and Cuba. The notes on the menu celebrate the sons that studied in Russia, and the daughters they brought from the snow to the sand.

We moved to the Saratoga Hotel for our final two nights, needing some quiet luxury and a rooftop pool. I wondered: Cuba isn't first world, or even third world. It must be second world, whatever that is. But one thing it is: unique!

Make sure you go to Fustalandia, a fantastic precinct of houses turned into mosaic art!

Some final reflections - it is cheap, safe-ish, and after acclimatisation easy to deal with. Dimas was our guide for the first 4.5 days, with a car and a driver, which opened up much of what I've written above. The rest of the time we walked around or took a taxi. We enjoyed looking at the long lines snaking towards Coppelia, the worlds most successful socialist Ice Cream parlor.

It's a place we will definitely return to.

Party Planning

Tips from the frontline!

(Our most recent party band was put together by Sam McNally (keyboards) and featured the stunning vocals of Diana Rouvas)

I realised as I cleared hundreds of empty bottles the morning after, that we had arranged five parties in just over 3 years. Clearly we do like a party. So what have we learned?

Four of the five we self catered but by this I mean we bought and planned the food, and had a chef do the execution. It turns out he is a chef - Stanley the party chef, I call him. Originally I put a gig on Airtasker, and he popped up. That was our first party, and he has been running kitchen on all but one since.

We let him hire his own helper / server. For 50 people, it is the two of them. For 70 you need a third. Stanley knows what to do, so we don't tell him. He comes in an hour before the people, we show him what we have, and he goes from there.

Food for 70: we spend about $750, broken down this is fresh seafood (in summer);$250 worth of prawns and oysters. Stanley peels the prawns.

We do frozen finger food that is heated, he knows to serve everything at finger food temperature, not straight out of the oven. We allow about 18 packets, two per variety. Fresh fruit (strawberries, pineapple, melon) goes well, as does a couple of large boxes of mixed chocolates. Several trays of tiny ice cream cones from the deli. If it's winter, we leave out the seafood and substitute some noodle cups.

Cheeses, dips, chips, and plenty of sauces, herbs and garnishes. Plan to pay $100 an hour for chef + 1, or $150 for the three of them. For a day time party, we get a female greeter at the door, for night time, 2 x professional security. You give them a good briefing about who is coming, who might not be on the list (like, they know our names), and the neighbour status.

Because we like to hire a band, the night party is better if you letterbox people within a few blocks, and also drop in to the local Police station and word them up. Daytime we don't think that is necessary, but we tell the most immediate neighbours in case anyone is working shifts or has a new baby that is trying to sleep.

A home party is usually BYO, but we do buy a case of French Champagne, which runs at about $25 a bottle from a boutique wineshop. Ask around to get the best value.

We buy soft-drink (Lemon squash, Coke, Coke Zero, Lemonaid), some soda water, a slab of bottled water (actually get two since we ran out), a bottle of fresh OJ, and a base load of wine and canned beer (mainly for us). Cans are easier to deal with afterwards. 12 bags of ice and you are off and running!

The guest list and RSVP management is hard since many people don't RSVP in the prescribed manner. We've used an online web based system that was pretty good, and we've used Facebook events which is getting better. We still have a handful of friends who don't use Facebook, so we follow them up. We have two lists - reliable friends and 'others'. Of the former, around 70% will turn up. Of the latter, around 15%. If you have 70 confirmed, 10 will not show, and another 10 will roll up without an RSVP.

Our biggest party was our wedding, where we hired a town hall, a caterer, a bunch of bands, and did the rest. I begged, stole and borrowed lights, audio and drapes. My friends at ATS gave me a truck and driver as a wedding present. I paid for some loaders in and out, rather than rely on freinds - although some did help out!

The caterer comes at you different if it's a wedding. That's why I told them it was a birthday! They have 'packages' and you can usually customise these but inevitably they charge per head. For 200 people we paid about 13,000 which included bar staff and glass hire - but no drinks. They always try to sell you a drinks package. NEVER BUY THAT!

If it's a licensed venue, demand drinks on consumption. Unless you are Irish, or related to a bunch of serious drinkers, you'll never come near the package price if you stick with drinks on consumption. Because this was a hall, I was free to go buy my own. Here's what I know:

You can never have too much champagne. I got a box of ultra nice, $60 a bottle, and three boxes at $25 a bottle. And we ran out. 3 boxes of good Chardonnay, 2 Semillon Blanc, 3 boxes of different red wine, 10 slabs of beer (we ran out), and a lot of soft, water, and juice. 25 bags of ice and a van to go get it all PLUS you need to allocate the time and deliver it into the loving hands of the caterer's bar dudes who also need to bring tubs for the ice.

The technical production can cost a lot, that's what my mates all do for a living after all! Doing it myself (with help from some mates) was a no brainer - and the kindness of the people who loaned the gear is well noted and remembered. But I would not expect delivery, that's why we got the truck.

Finally the band(s). You have to pay musicians, (because you should) and if you don't they will naturally take a paying gig in preference to yours. How much you pay is up to you, I would not pay less than $400 per player, on a 'mates rate' basis. A regular commercial gig usually runs at more than that if they are professionals. If there is a singer you REALLY want then you pay them more.

They usually require that you provide the sound and lights, so you need to manage expectations since some bands may want more foldback than you had in mind! As to lights, I'm all for static and tasteful lighting. If you want a light show, then you gotta find the gear and the operator.

I'm lucky one of my best mates is also an outstanding sound engineer who owns his own little PA.I usually supplement it with a few bits that I can borrow.

Hiring a band from an agency means you are dealing with a seasoned hustler who will hustle you out of as much money as possible! It's what they do. In my case I know enough first class musicians, and I get one to arrange a band. That way they pull in those they know and like. You discuss the general style you want, and leave them to it. I never review a song list or demand anything. If they know what you want and what you don't want, everyone wins.

Stay on them for details though, I like to know who they have playing and give them very specific times and directions. Balmain Town Hall was not sufficient address, two of them were sitting in the Town Hall Hotel calling me.

Several weddings ago I had a wedding DJ that was bundled with the reception venue. In that case I got VERY involved because I really, badly, did not want the regular horrors they serve up. Sure enough the dope had all the bad stuff lined up - Nutbush, Time Warp and other vomitous horrors that were nuked before they aired.

Be ready for contingencies - power failure is a show stopper - what would you do? I am super fussy about knowing all the power circuits, where the breakers are, and getting spare circuits.

One of our local pubs has a function room and they got a panicked call at 5pm one Saturday because a road crash outside another venue had brought down power lines. The caterer had everything ready for reheat. There was no way to change venue, so the hirer lost a lot of money and had a weird night.

If you've empowered the musicians, briefed the door greeters, properly chosen the catering crew, and got all your drinks on ice, then you should be relaxed and happy. That's when we open that first champagne.

As for guests, I'm lucky to have some step kids so we get a good representation of young guys to balance out our age groups!

Next day you swear you'll never do it again as you pull it all down and try to deal with the mess.

Costs? $40,000 for a wedding for 200. $4,000 for a party at home, with a band and 70 people. (Based on paying nothing for technical production!)

Little Boys Alone

The Accident

July 19, 1965

The heavy overcoat on patient 15344 saved his 6-and-a-half year old life. “Young boy was admitted after being run over by a car”, read the report from St Vincent’s Hospital.

Tim was under the care and supervision of his brother at the time. That was me.

It wasn’t a car it - was a one tonne Hertz van. Our intersection was a busy black spot. That day I was sitting on the doorstep at 186 Palmer street East Sydney unable to enter.

I was waiting for the unreliable babysitter arranged by my unreliable father. Just a few weeks past my eighth birthday, I walked Tim home every day from school at Crown street in Surry Hills. It was a considerable distance, crossing major roads.

This cold Monday afternoon – it had snowed in the mountains - the sitter didn’t materialise, so Tim sat on the door step and I perched on my upended Globite school bag. Heavy traffic came off the Harbour Bridge and up Palmer street in those days, turning left into Stanley street. It was three lanes becoming two, and a dangerous intersection. A van ran out of control, and up onto the footpath over the top of us.

I jumped out of the way, because I was seated higher than Tim. I could vault off my bag. He didn’t have a chance.

The van ground along the stone wall, and came to a halt in a cloud of smoke.

Tim was lying low across the step, wearing his heavy woollen coat, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. I ran at the driver, yelling at him and trying to hit him. A crowd of people materialised, yelling different things. A lady tried to comfort me, but I was attempting to drag Tim upright, telling him to wake up so we could go inside.

A yellow ambulance arrived, and a police car.

The Police took me to St. Vincent’s, behind the Ambulance.

I couldn’t go into the emergency room.

“On arrival he was semi-comatose, pale and shocked. While in casualty his condition deteriorated, he became more shocked. His abdomen became rigid and bowel sounds disappeared. Emergency operation was given after a blood transfusion”, wrote Dr. Graham.

Someone bought me a Strawberry Flavoured Milk, I took a sip and almost threw up.

Dad arrived, in a terrible state.

Next morning we had a phone call, via the shop over the road, as we had no phone. Dad took off up the hill, almost running, me dragged along, he mumbling and muttering. Tim had died on the operating table, and been revived. They wanted to give him his last rights.

He had lost a kidney, some of his liver, had a ruptured spleen, stomach damage, a broken leg and – we already knew – was deaf in one ear.  He smelled sick, looked sick, and was surrounded by worried doctors and nurses. He had tubes coming out of his little body, and couldn’t stop vomiting.

He had three more operations, and spent three months in hospital.

(Picture: us boys, at the scene of the accident prior)

HOME ALONE

This was the selfish 60's. Mum had run away to Europe, chasing her lover, the otherwise married Reverend Douglas Cole. She was away for two months at least, or so it was planned. She had already divorced dad, and he lived over the hill at Potts Point.

Someone needed to care for us two boys. Dad moved into Palmer street, and as he had a job at the time, he needed to get a baby sitter.

A lady with a love of Sherry was to meet us at home after school, she didn’t turn up.

Mum was in Greece and took a message at the hotel. Dad didn’t have a phone, so he called back on a payphone, on a really bad line and a limited number of 2 shilling coins. They connected, and she got an idea that one or both her children were involved in an accident, condition unknown.

24 hours later, they spoke again, and she heard about Tim.

She told me a few years before she died that she went into shock, and then hid.

She took a week to get back home. She was matter of fact when she said it. She was in denial, and then didn’t want to come home. Tim was crying for his mum every hour. His dad didn’t know what to do, how to comfort him, or me.

Eventually life became a routine of hospital visits.

When he was released, she took him to an island off Mackay, owned by a friend of hers. They stayed there for several weeks so he could convalesce, and so she could drink and screw Andrew, the sailor.

My little brother was weak and prone to sickness forever more.

As for me, when my parents died I went through an angry phase over each of them, for leaving us, and for not managing our recovery. They didn’t talk about it. They just got on with their selfish lives, and left us boys to fend for ourselves emotionally and often practically in our slum.

 

Private Pilot Disasters - Finale

This is a Piper PA32R Lance, a six seat, six cylinder high performance single engine aircraft. After 3 hours of familiarisation flying, mostly under the supervision of an experienced Lance pilot, Jess and I loaded up VH-JIY for our biggest trip ever.

The load and balance calculations this time included my wife, Jess's mum Caroline. We planned for her to sit in the back row, which allowed awesome legroom since the middle row was empty.

The long nose on the Lance allows a small storage compartment between the engine and the cockpit, and this was where we stashed the emergency booze. A carton of beer, and six bottles of wine fitted the load profile perfectly, along with some of my hand tools.

Weight and balance in an aircraft is critical, and must be plotted against all phases of flight since you take off heavy and land a lot lighter having burned fuel. The Lance had outboard auxiliary tanks as well as the main wing tanks. I didn't use the outboard, as I never needed more than 5 hours range. Plus managing two extra tanks added workload I didn't want.


DAY 1

June 26 1999 and exactly a year to the day since our previous trip, we took off from Bankstown into 3/8 octa (8 is full cloud, this was slightly less than half a sky full of cloud). Once we hit Penrith to the west, the airspace opened up and we could climb through the half cloud cover to 6,500' for the cruise leg to Keewong Station. Like many large properties, it had a dirt landing strip.

South-west of Cobar, this 50,000 hectare station was ravaged by the drought that started in 1992. They had de-stocked the cattle and re-equipped for tourism. Rob and Robyn Francisco were great hosts, they showed us the dry lake - never in history had it been dry, but it was now.

Rob told us about a certain property owner who flew his Cessna 182 to and from Dubbo for shopping trips - without ever holding a license! The cocky was sly and cunning, he knew when a ramp inspection might happen, and made sure he wasn't around when it did. The C182 was properly maintained - you don't skip that. Every 1,000 hours, you recondition the propeller. One engine means one chance, so no one cuts corners.

Next day we hopped over to Bourke for fuel - 258 litres at 79c. Then we settled in for the long haul to Birdsville. The river land gives way to cattle stations, and then desert, with the cobalt sky meeting the ochre earth on the curved horizon.

It was our first look at the GAFA. Earlier we'd been in the cockpit of a Lauda Air 777 returning from Europe. My AOPA (Pilot) card made it easy to visit the flight deck in those days. As we entered Australian airspace over Broome, the Australian pilot Kev said 'there it is, the GAFA!'

First officer Fritz looked quizzical.

'GAFA? Vot is GAFA?'

'The Great Australian Fuck All, son', said Kev.

'Ya', said Fritz, nodding his head in approval, repeating his newly learned acronym. 'GAFA. GAFA'. Hilarious.

At Birdsville we took on 200 litres at a dollar a litre, and set heading for Ross River Station which is about 60k north-east of Alice Springs.

The runway was hard to find amongst the little hills and in the late afternoon light, you can see how indistinct it is, above. We spent a day there, riding horses. Jess remembers hers, 'Psycho', so named for its facial tic that made it look like it was about to go berserk.

Ross River is worth a stop.

JUNE 29

We untied the aircraft, checked the fuel tanks for water in the bottom (you drain a little from the drain under the wing into an inspection tube, if there is water present you drain the tank until it is gone!). I was very careful and thorough on my preflight inspections. I checked all moving surfaces, inspected the undercarriage, and made sure the pitot tube was free of bug mash.

There's a lot of checklists in aviation. Many are remembered, like this one before turning final for landing: BUMFISH. Brakes, Undercarriage (down and locked), Mixture (fully rich), Flaps extended, Instruments read all clear, Switches (fuel pump on), Harnesses tight!

Then on final: PUF. Pitch fully fine, Undercarriage, Fuel pump.

Pre engine start there is a checklist. Post engine start there is a runup, with a checklist, where we run the engine at 2,000 rpm with the brakes on, of course!

We were right to go, so we taxied carefully to the very end of the strip, looking for pot holes or rocks on the way.

A propeller strike means grounding until it is inspected, a hairline crack spells disaster when it is spinning at 2,000 rpm in flight. I used every metre of every runway, every time, because if you have an engine failure on takeoff, you have a better chance if there is some un-used runway beneath you.

We punched up and headed north-west to hell on earth, Yuendumu.

This is one of the larger remote aboriginal communities. We landed behind a flying doctor King Air, and took on 250 litres at $1.42. The fueller was a grizzled old whitey, with an equally grizzled old black dude in overalls and no shoes doing the pumping from 200 litre drums.

The Flying Doctor pilot told us his was the scheduled morning evacuation flight, his doctor and nurse would soon appear from town in a Troopie (Land cruiser) with one or two bash and slash patients headed for hospital in Alice Springs. That town had troubles.

We took off, and as soon as I lifted the nose POP! The front compartment lid sprang open, upsetting the airflow. 'Tell mum to stay calm, we will land and fix it', I yelled to Jess over the headset. She took hers off and repeated the instruction to our nervous passenger down the back.

I banked left and flew a low loop over the town, noting a flock of indigenous dudes waving to us from the oval at the top left of the picture.

On landing I was relieved to discover the emergency grog was all there and we had not dumped any on the town or its inhabitants!

Secured we thus headed for Kununurra, way up on the top corner of Western Australia. This was a long flight leg.

This leg was notable as we flew over Lake Argyle, Australia's largest man made lake which is the centre of the Ord River irrigation scheme. It's easy to see the potential of the Ord, as Kununurra is a thriving centre of agriculture in an otherwise empty land.

We took 88 litres there, at 69c, because we needed to land light at the Diamond Coast.


DIAMOND COAST

This is what they say, on the Far Away Bay website:

The Location is 280kms north west of Kununurra.  Faraway Bay is a soul-enriching hideaway on Western Australia’s remote and spectacular Kimberley coastline – otherwise known as Australia’s Diamond Coast.

Accessible only by air, a maximum of just 16 guests share this isolated and immaculate wilderness in secluded cliff-top cabins, with uninterrupted views of the Timor Sea. So guests experience a true authentic Kimberley adventure in a personlised exclusive retreat like no other.

Your journey here is all part of the adventure – you’ll enjoy a pleasurable 70-minute flight from Kununurra, taking in spectacular scenery along the way.

It's all true! Host Bruce Ellison met us at the dirt strip and took us down to the cliff top eco resort, which caters for a maximum of 16 guests in 8 little cabins overlooking the Timor Sea.

A dining room and bar with a little pool, here, is the hub.

We settled down for some drinking, as you do, and Keith pointed out the little billabong just behind the beach, not far away and down the cliff. 'See those crocodile tracks?' he said.

We sure did.

"Well that old salty is a crafty bugger. He chewed the water line so we lost water and I looked down there to see a geyser where the black plastic agricultural pipe was busted. Had to wait 3 hours for him to wander off before we could fix it...."

Next day they took us by boat to King George Falls which is way up the King George River. The coast around these parts is not surveyed, so not too many yachts or boats dare to come in. It truly is the most remote place I've been.

Highly recommended!


JULY 2ND - A BIG EMERGENCY

We took off from Far Away Bay and as we rotated the Lance was caught in a wind flurry that pushed the tail left, and required a half bank to maintain runway heading on the early climb. This was dodgy due to trees either side of the runway, and it was my good airmanship that got us out OK.

The true emergency happened hours later. We had stopped again, this time at Wyndham which was a little closer than Kununurra. We were headed to Arnhem Land, and took on 272 litres at 80c. The leg across the Norther Territory was over the middle of the day, the air was hazy from fires.

Australia's north often gets a lot of smoke haze in the dry season, as indigenous tribes burn off scrub. This is an ancient custom. A lot of haze from Indonesia can come over too, if the wind is right. This made for a boring flight, and about an hour from Jabiru (Kakadu), I was startled to smell cigarette smoke from the back seat.

Caroline had lit up for whatever reason, and there was no law against it. The aircraft had ash trays. You can smoke on a private aircraft, anywhere, any time, at the pilots discretion. That's why rock bands like to charter flights.

25 nautical miles out of Jabiru I put us into a cruise descent, throttling back from 2200 to 1800 rpm using the propeller pitch control, and adjusted the throttle manifold pressure to match.

We made visual with the runaway at this fairly busy general aviation airport. It is the hub of the region, and serves the uranium mine nearby. Charter flights come and go, often taking cashed up tribal elders to Darwin, to gamble community money at the casino. No kidding, every time I'm in Darwin I see this happening.

I did a flyover at 1,500', and joined the circuit at 1,000' from the 'dead' side after putting out a call on the radio. I'd done an inbound call earlier, and been listening to see who was where.

"Traffic Jabiru, Juliet India Yankee joining circuit crosswind, Jabiru".

I dropped RPM and put out some flap did my checklists, on base put more flap out, and throttled back a little more. As I turned final I was a little below 500', so I kept the RPM and lined up before dropping engine speed again.

BANG!

The plane is shaking badly.

We are running rough, and I need more power. I forego the radio call for final approach, as I am too busy. Rule 1: aviate. Rule 2: navigate. Rule 3: communicate. I was now in sensory overload and working by the book, which is what you are trained to do.

Always fly the mission to the plan.

I push the pitch forward, and am rewarded with exactly nothing more than I have, which is a badly degraded engine and the piano keys of the runway are higher than I want them to be in the windscreen. I am headed for the swamp at the end of the runway, and it is presumably full of things that eat people.

I pull back more than I should, the stall warning goes from bleeping to non stop, and I sweat that the margin between stall warning and actual stall, where the plane drops vertically, is sufficient. I just squeak over the threshold and land hard, engine banging, farting and popping. I switch off everything, especially the fuel, as we grind to a messy halt in the middle of the active runway.

'Get out girls', I yell, but they are already on the way. I've never seen such a fast exit.

We stand in the blistering sun beside the runway, looking at the disabled aircraft which has fuel dribbling out of the bottom of the engine compartment.

The air charter guys run over and help me push the aircraft to the apron. We open the cowl and the other guys whistles. One of the fuel injection lines is adrift, having lost its bolts somewhere in cruise. The venturi effect has held it all together until I throttled down, whereupon the fuel line went wild and sprayed Avgas all over the hot engine for the final half a minute.

We probably should have caught fire on final.

The picture shows Jabiru in flood. Caroline later said she had a premonition during the flight, which is why she lit up. It may well have been at the time the fuel system was falling apart. Always trust female intuition?


WHAT A MESS!

Clearly we weren't going anywhere. I call the aircraft owner in Sydney and tell her where her Lance is located. She sounds despondent and undertakes to get a mechanic over from Darwin 'ASAP'. He will have to fly himself in and out, with tools and parts.

We are due at Davidson's Safari Camp in Mount Boridaile (see previous Blog here) and I don't really want to hang around Jabiru. So I do what you must be prepared to do when partaking of this ultra expensive hobby called aviation. I charter a plane.

The charter mob at Jabiru quote me an obscene amount, knowing I am stranded, and we load their Cessna 210 and debunk for the 50 minute run over to Davidsons. We spend a few days there, then the charter guy takes us up to Seven Spirit Bay at the tip of the Coberg Peninsula.

This is about 300km east of Darwin, and above the traditional lands that form most of Arnhem Land. There really is nothing much up here, the Seven Spirit Bay eco resort was built by some idealistic European architects, as the legend has it, who were not acquainted with the local termites.

Helpfully it is all made of wood.

Having battled the elements and the vermin, they ran out of money. The place has had several owners since and I'd bet no one has or will make a profit up there. But is is divine!

This is what they say about the place:

Seven Spirit Bay is one of the most remote wilderness lodges in the world. Situated in Garig Gunak Barlu National Park on the Cobourg Peninsula in Arnhem Land, Seven Spirit Bay's stunning location is legendary. It is closer to Indonesia than it is to most Australian cities. Guests arrive at the Seven Spirit Bay Wilderness Lodge by a chartered plane to luxuriate in upmarket accommodation while enjoying the unique bird, marine and wild life and tropical environment of the Coburg Peninsula.

The resort's guestrooms have been designed to 'let nature in' while delivering the height of civilised comfort. The Lodge organises activities such as fishing, bushwalking and bird watching while a world class chef delivers fine dining experiences for breakfast, lunch, dinner and every meal in between. Despite all the trimmings, one of the highlights of any stay is viewing of one of the Top End's million dollar sunsets.

The highlight is a tour of Fort Victoria at Port Essington (1838-1849), of which the ruins are still accessible today. This was the folly of the early settlers who tried to get established only to die of malaria and starvation.

The stupid poms built a village, and as the picture shows, they had stone fireplaces inside their houses! The local aboriginals must have been amused to see soldiers in full dress uniform strutting around, planting English gardens.

Here's a good website for more info.

On July 7, we were picked up by the charter pilot, and flew to Jabiru to be reaquainted with the now repaired VH-JIY.

Then we flew to Darwin, again enduring the hostile and abrupt lack-of-attention of the military controllers at Darwin Airport. Read the previous Blog for details on this! Hopefully this has since been addressed, as it was really contrary to the safe operation of a major airport.

We put Caroline onto a Qantas flight to Singapore, Business Class of course, which was always the plan. She looked happy as she waved goodbye. Jess and I would continue alone.


JULY 8

Today we did the long haul to Broome, via Kununurra for fuel. It was a day of flying, with a lot of bouncing around the afternoon thermals. I can't imagine what it is like in the Summer wet season up there! Winter dry was bad enough.

Broome was fairly busy, and like every other airport so far (other than Darwin and Bankstown at Sydney) it has no control tower. You listen out on the area frequency before you arrive to gain a mental picture of who is doing what. You also monitor the CTAF (Common Traffic Advisory Frequency) for aircraft leaving or departing the airport you are headed for.

We entered the pattern behind a Qantas 737, and tied down in the civil aircraft area. A taxi took us to Cable Beach Intercontinental Hotel, and we had an excellent daddy-daughter day or two.

Next couple of days we hired a car and drove an hour down to Eco Beach Resort. All up, we had four days in the area, and loved it. Eco Beach is worth a look, it was flattened by a cyclone after we were there, but is now rebuilt.

HEADED HOME

Before dawn on July 12, we packed up and drove up to Broome. We had some food and a thermos from the resort people, and took off in the first light. We climbed and set heading for Patjarr Community, a fairly amazing and confronting isolated place.

Here's what they say about it:

Patjarr is located 243 klms north north west of Warburton by road, or 92 nautical miles by direct airline, and located in the Clutterbuck Hills area. It is a small community that was established in 1992 as an outstation of Warburton, with an Advisor and a population of 30 people. The community, including its water supply and airstrip, are at present illegally located within the Gibson Desert Nature Reserve. The Western Australian Conservation and Land Management Commission is proposing to rectify the illegal land tenure problem by enlarging the size of the Patjarr Lease by some 6804 hectares to be taken from the Gibson Desert Nature Reserve.

In the mid 1960's the Pintubi people from the Patjarr were moved from their Gibson Desert Homelands by the State Government and Federal Weapons Research Establishment and relocated in surrounding communities. With other desert people, they were relocated to protect them from death or injury from the "blue streak" rocket debris, which fell over a vast area of Central Australia during the rocket research programmes of the 1960's and 70's.

We were headed there because it was the only logical fuel stop on the way to Alice Springs that fitted with our range and airspeed. After we crossed the Canning Stock Route, we saw no signs of civilisation for several hours. It was disconcerting. I knew we would be OK if we had to do a forced landing, as the terrain was mostly sand dunes and I had emergency everything on board - including some left over grog!

We eventually spotted the little place, and overflew to get the administrator's attention.

When we landed, he drove up in his white Hilux, followed by what looked like several set pieces from a Mad Max movie. One car was driven only in reverse gear. Most had no glass, many no doors. All had multiple locals stacked inside. They pulled up in a cloud of dust 50 metres away and just stared at us.

'Umm, why does that car have no bonnet but a rope over the engine bay?' I asked the admin guy as he filled the tanks.

'That's because they think the bonnet holds the engine in, so the rope is there to hold the engine in. By the way, don't let your daughter look to the east, as that is a burial ground, and if they see her look at it, they will want to poke her eyes out.....'

He invited us down to his compound to buy some artifacts, and as we drove up, someone had set a little fire against his steel security door. 'They are trying to burn me down', he said. Nice. Steel doesn't burn.

Apparently the Pintubi people are remarkable desert survivors, and it is said the old women 'gins' can dig feral cats out of their burrows and kill them for food. That's tough!

We loaded up and took off for Alic Springs.

The deserts changed all the time, a lot of wild flowers were out following the wet season.

Outside Alice we skirted the United States operated Pine Gap spy base, as it is restricted airspace and I always avoid that. these days you would be insane to violate the space. You'd end up renditioned to a dark cell in Poland for some gentle 'interrogation' subject to the Geneva Convention. Not. It is a spooky big white thing with a series of huge white domes. The yanks fly a Galaxy airlifter in there every week stocked with Budweiser, supplies and home grown food, such as processed cheese. You can see it transit and stop the night at Richmond air base in Sydney.

We landed at dusk, and took a taxi to the motel. I didn't know it, but the next day would be my most challenging day of aviation.

JULY 13: THE DAY WE ALMOST DIED

We left Alice at 4am, and did a night departure. Toggling a radio frequency three times turned on the runway lights. On leaving the airport the night before, I'd written down the combination sequence for the gate to the tarmac. We had fueled up the night before. It was cold and quiet on the hard stand, no one was around.

We lined up on the big strip and pushed the throttle to the wall. As soon as we rotated, I was on instruments until we were in cruise.

Night flying is utterly awesome.

The gorgeous dawn came, and some hours later we landed at Birdsville for fuel and breakfast. We were busting to use the toilet, having not left so early before. It must have looked funny, seeing the aircraft taxi as close as possible to the toilet and us jumping out so fast! We were both yelling in delight once we unloaded our bladders.

Now full of everything, especially a big Birdsville Hotel brekky, we took off for Bourke. An hour out of Bourke we encountered some cloud that quickly went to 8/8 Octas. I was on top, and took note of where the cloud had started.

I knew Bourke was at a low elevation, on the Darling River, and the only obstruction was a radio tower. That meant my lowest safe altitude was a comfortable 1,000 feet above ground level, and that presumed I was going to descend through clouds - contrary to the visual flight rules.

My discontent grew by the minute as we approached Bourke, with no let up - just clouds below us. A carpet of them without break. I was getting quite disturbed, but hid this from the happy 12 year old next to me.

She was the best co-pilot, sorting and handing me the WAC charts (maps) and local area charts, along with frequency charts and the ERSA - En Route Supplement, a book of airfield information. Flying requires a LOT of paperwork, and organisation.

My alternate airport was Cobar, and I had maybe enough fuel to get there.

Over Bourke, I let down into the cloud, full of unease. There was no one around on any frequency, so I put out a radio call and just prayed. Had some cowboy decided to also do what I was doing, we may well have met in that cloud.

At lowest safe I looked up from the instruments and had no visibility at all.

I had no choice, I had to climb back up and abort all ideas of landing at Bourke.

I came out of the clouds, and set course to Cobar. 'Fly the plan', I told myself. I got onto the area frequency and asked if anyone had a weather report for Cobar. A guy flying a charter said 'yer, eight eights to the ground', meaning worse than Bourke.

My heart sunk. My daughter I adore was sitting next to me.

I turned towards Dubbo, knowing we had less than 70 minutes fuel left, and 2.0 hours flying time to get there.

What choices did I have? At Bourke, I should have turned west again and found the cloud edge, slipped under, and done a precautionary landing on a road. If I could find one, without power lines. If the cloud hadn't built up further to the west. If, if, if.

Now I was too committed.

I flew on to oblivion, keeping my daughter's spirits up as I did it. Ever see the movie where the guy convinces his little boy the prison camp they are in is just a big joke? You a parent? You know how I felt.

Nyngan was coming up and I resolved to do another descent into cloud to the LSALT. What did I have to lose? I grabbed the ERSA from Jess and looked at the WAC chart to find obstructions. I calculated a LSALT and was on descent when the clouds opened up to show me the runway!

Like at Boroloola.

We were saved! Do you see some divine intervention here? My daughter Jess grew up to become an ordained church minister, she is now 28 with children of her own.

THE FINAL DAY

July 14 dawned grey and wet at Nyngan, but we could fly legally under the cloud to Dubbo. I'd decided ahead of time that given my previous experiences it was unlikely we could fly VFR over the mountains, so I had a commercial pilot fly up on a scheduled flight (at great expense) to meet us at Dubbo.

He walked out of the terminal and we shook hands.

'Looks very marginal, even for me', he said. It seems the weather at Bankstown was the problem, below legal minimum even for an instrument approach!

We took off anyway to 'have a look', and once airborne got some sit-reps from others. It was not going to happen. Back we went.

Our big trip ended at Dubbo. We hired a car, and the three of us drove 5 hours to Sydney.

Two days later, when the weather lifted, the commercial pilot drive back to Dubbo and flew the Lance home. The trip cost a LOT of money!

EPILOGUE

In 2005 I came up for another biennial flight review, did the theory exam and decided on the spot not to take the flight test. I hung up my wings, reasoning I'd done all I wanted to do.

I don't regret it. I wasn't flying enough. The legal minimums were three take off and landings per three months, which is no where near safe enough. I was losing recency, hadn't flown nights for a few years, and felt my life was moving on.

I'd just met Karen, who was to become my third wife. She has two lovely boys, and I didn't want them or her in a light aircraft.