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.

Private Pilot Disasters - 2

This is a Beechcraft B36 high performance single engine aircraft. Since Disaster story # 1, seven years have transpired. I'd spent that time staying legal, usually flying every month. I had one uneventful trip to Frazer Island and one to Noosa, both from Sydney. Uneventful if you discard whinging UK relatives, or poor Jess puking on me from the backseat while we bumped and thumped at 500' up the beach north of Newcastle to avoid military airspace at Williamstown.

This chapter is about the first REALLY big trip, planned by my daughter Jess and myself. She was by now 11, and super keen to be my co-pilot. We did everything together back then, she was like a friendly puppy dog, always at my side, metaphorical tail wagging.

We hired the B36 because it was a kick-arse aircraft. You could plan at 160 knots per hour, which means you'd travel almost 300km in a straight line each hour 'on the clock'. It had retractable gear and a constant speed propeller, which required adjustment for best angle of attack whenever the phase of flight changed.

I'd achieved a night rating which meant I could fly visually at night, and the rating came with ten or so hours of instrument flying practice, which gave me even more confidence than I needed.


MISTAKE 1

June 26 1998 we packed and loaded at Bankstown, Australia's busiest airport with three runways in simultaneous use. With just two of us, the six seat aircraft could be fueled to the max and fly a lot longer and further than our endurance.

We had plenty of stuff - tools, spare booze and two portable EPIRBS (Emergency position indicating radiobeacons). One was attached to my daughter whevever we flew. I had the second in my kit bag. The aircraft had an installed version. If we crash landed, the distress beacon(s) would sound on 121.5mHz. All aircraft, especially commercial airliners, monitor that frequency, all the time. Many aviators have been rescued following a report from an airliner.

VH-XFS was hired from Navair, one of the struggling general aviation outfits at Bankstown. They did flight training, charters, and in this case brokered the rental of the Bonanza which was owned by someone we did not know.

Really busy cockpit, with one entry door on right. Pilot always sits in the left seat, but in a helicopter the right seat. Go figure (Aircraft pilots are often disdainful of helicopters, example: 'several thousand nuts and bolts flying in close formation!')

With pre-flight checks done, load secured, and after engine start checks (control surfaces, instruments, fuel tanks, propeller pitch and radios) all completed, we got clearance and lined up on runway 11L (left). Powering up, the three blade prop and big six engine threw us down the runway. Pulling the nose up and rotating, the cockpit door suddenly burst open with a rush of noise and all the charts flew everywhere. It was deafening chaos.

I did what the training says, and flew the mission. Aviate, navigate, communicate is the mantra and I remained calm. As did Jess, amazingly since the cockpit door was on her side, and she was looking through the gap at Milperra Road, 1,000 feet below.

Light aircraft are not pressurized, meaning we fly in regular air and not over 10,000 feet high. The airflow was disrupted by the door being open. Climbing at 85 knots, we were doing almost 160kph and the door was luffing about 90mm open.

If you're frustrated at the mix of imperial and metric, that's aviation for you!

I called the tower with a Pan message (Pan means a semi important situation, 'Possible Assistance Needed' which is different to a MAYDAY) and flew a circuit to land on the same runway. Pulling off to a taxi bay, we tried to shut the door. It resisted many efforts, and then latched.

We took off again. The door would pop open later, we should have had a delay while it was properly fixed.


MISTAKE 2

Stopping at Roma for fuel, we had another door opening disaster and once fixed we then hopped over to Carnarvon National Park for a couple of nights. The Gorge was worth seeing. The park guide had suggested landing at Ingelara strip, which is a grass runway within a cattle property. There was a second alternative at Rewan. It's about 3.5nm's to the north east of Ingelara, but we chose Ingelara.

After two days of trekking and having fun in the Gorge, we returned to find the Bonanza surrounded by fucking huge cattle. It took Jess and I twenty crazy minutes to chase them far enough away.

They had smeared the sides of the aircraft with dung, but worse had bent the pitot tube (essential for airspeed instruments) and one aileron - the hinged wing surface that allows the aircraft to turn. The leading edge was bent upwards, from a steer or ten rubbing their itches - or their arses - on the thing.

I bent everything approximately correctly, and we took off down the bumpy grass strip, eyes wide for wandering beef. On rotation, the aircraft pulled to the left, so clearly I hadn't done a good enough job. Plus I had low airspeed indication.

Landing again, dodging one errant cow, I finessed the bending of the aileron, and dug crap out of the pitot tube. Mumbling and muttering the whole time.

We took off again and headed for Mount Isa, via Long Reach. It was almost enough to turn me vegetarian.

We should have taken a portable electric fence.


MISTAKE 3

Spending the night in Mount Isa was fairly ordinary - it was very bland. The next morning I was appalled to see low cloud, in fact it was hanging over the top of the mine smoke stack. The refueller said he had never seen it that low! The stack is 150 metres tall, which is less than 500 feet - the final approach height in the circuit.

The 'circuit' is the name of the flying pattern over an airport.

About the circuit: the three legs of the circuit start with a fly-over at 1,500 feet on the 'dead side', or the side not used. Most circuits are 'left handed', some are 'right'. Then you join the circuit at 1,000 feet downwind, fly up the 'active' side of the circuit, parallel to the runway which is about 45 degrees down to your left, turn 'base' when you are well past the end of the approach runway, so you then are at 90 degrees to the runway for the 'base' leg, and descend to 500' to join 'final', where you are lined up to land.

Cloud at 500' is impossible, as a visual flight rules (VFR) flight one must be at least 1,000 feet UNDER cloud.

This was a major bother, as we had a lot of flying to do that day. Pacing around didn't make the cloud lift. I called the refueller in Borroloola up at the Gulf. His wife answered.

'How is the weather there?' I asked.

'Glorious', she said. That's what I wanted to hear!

I figured we could fly low out of Isa, as there are no obstructions and I had a new GPS that had earned my respect the previous few flights. I was still flying with charts and computations, and using the GPS to validate ground speed and drift from crosswinds. I never stopped flying this way - relying on one device is dangerous.

There was no control tower to dob us in, so off we went, following the road out of Isa to the north-west. It was low, gloomy, and bumpy.

Eventually the cloud stabised at about 2,000 feet but we wanted clear air for cruise, so we punched through the layer and headed up to 8,000 and sat up there until top of descent, almost 5 hours out of Isa. But all I could see was a carpet of cloud under us! We'd had the cloud since Isa.


Not a lot to see at Borroloola

I descended to 2,000 feet above ground (AGL), and approached what I figured was the location of the airstrip, but the town was cloaked in cloud, so we could not proceed. I needed to enter the 'circuit' or the approach pattern for the airstrip at 1,500', and without visual anything, could not descend into the clouds. When the clouds are close to the ground - and these were at circuit height - it is insane to descend into them.

I pulled the chart to plot the distance and heading to our only alternate, which was an Aboriginal mission about 70 miles away that did not have fuel. We would be stuck there until we could pay someone to haul a 200 litre drum and a hand pump from Borroloola, which could take days. The idea made me shudder.

I had a satellite phone for that contingency.

Suddenly the clouds parted, and there was the runway!

The refueller wandered over from his house nearby when he heard us land.

'So your wife told me the weather was glorious', I said with a hint of frustration.

'Yer mite, it's the fuckin' dry season so any rain is fuckin' glorious don't yer reckon?'

We should have stayed in Mount Isa an extra night.


MISTAKE 4

By now we'd jammed the cockpit door shut forever, and were climbing over the seats to enter and deplane via the coach doors.

The B36 has two doors, as the picture shows, on the starboard (right) side. The pilot position is port (left) side, all planes are left-hand drive.

From Borroloola we flew to Jabiru, the town on the border of Arnhem Land which is a vast Aboriginal Reserve about 500km east of Darwin. We fuelled up again, and took off for Davidson's Arnhemland Safari Lodge at Mount Borradaile. Located within Arnhem Land, Max Davidson obtained a lease from the traditional owners.

He or more likely his family now, as he is quite old, clearly have a special affinity with the place. It is a 700 square kilometre reserve centered on the mystical Mount Borradaile and the massive lagoon that sits under it. When we went, Max had a lucrative sideline in hunting trips, with mostly European tourists paying him a motza to shoot pigs or whatever. That part of the business appears to have closed these days.

Words can't describe the landscape and the wildlife - it seems to be the most densely populated part of the world, with every kind of water bird, crocodile and creature possible. At sunset a million magpie geese take off, a classic icon for the Northern Territory. It is really, really good there in the dry season, we visited in early July. Don't leave it too late in the season, as the water holes dry up.

The hidden rock art and relics from the traditional people tells a vivid and sad story. This is the best rock art in Australia, some of it tells of European explorers well before Cook. The tribe there had contact with Makassan trepangers (traders) from the southwest corner of Sulawesi (Indonesia). Remnants and pictures in the caves prove it.

It is eerie in the caves. The tribe put their dead up a tree for the birds to feed from, then took the skeletal remains and wrapped them in paper bark. Some of them still rest in rock crevices in the caves. You can hear their ghostly voices distant in the depths, if you stand still long enough.

The tribe eventually succumbed to the lure of the missionaries at Gunbalanya - Oenpelli as then known. They walked off the land for a soft life, and soon many died as they couldn't cope with white man food and diseases.

Goodle Davidson's Arnhemland Safari Lodge at Mount Borradaile to find some amazing stories about the place.

The tracks through paper bark forests and hidden billabongs are blissful.

At night, in our (supplied) tent/cabin, we heard the howling of dingos on the full moon. I highly recommend this place, as it connects you with the ancient land like nowhere else.

After a few nights here, we headed to the airstrip to depart. A charter pilot came in, and we had a chat about landing on roads ahead of storm fronts, and ways to start the cantankerous Continental engine in the Bonanza. 'Just crank her fully lean, and pulse the fuel pump continually to squirt juice in there, then go rich', he suggested. It worked.

A one hour flight north took us out of Arnhem land, and into Midjari, on Vashion Head. We stayed at Seven Spirits Bay for a couple of nights, then headed to Darwin via Jabiru for fuel.

Darwin air traffic control is run by the military, as the airport is a shared facility. Inbound at Lake Finniss, you get clearance. This is where my troubles began.

The controller at Darwin was short tempered, and short on directions. I knew I was to track to Adelaide River, then Hope Inlet. He read my clearance at machine gun speed, then left me to figure what he said. The guy was refusing to read back, or acknowledge my calls to confirm my clearance.

I should have 'required' him to do so, and reported him. His conduct made me less confident, and thus less safe. In crowded airspace, there can't be uncertainty. You have to 'fly the mission'. Australian Military controllers are notorious for poor conduct towards recreational pilots.


MISTAKE 5

We had a night in Darwin in the best hotel we could find. Room service and a regular bathtub cannot be beaten. Then it was off to Ayers Rock, with an early departure from the confusing taxiway system at Darwin, allied with another gruff and unhelpful clearance from the tower.

Tennant Creek was our fuel stop, on what was a very long flying day.

West of Alice Springs, near West MacDonnell National Park I spotted a crashed aircraft. We were at 6,000 feet, so I circled down for a better look. It was on obvious smashed single engine aircraft, painted white. I got onto Air Services in Adelaide on the high frequency radio, and they took the co-ordinates and asked me to orbit.

Which I did.

Ten minutes later I was onto them again, they still had no info and asked me to continue orbiting. I declared a fuel contingency and told them I was resuming my flight, we climbed out and continued on to Ularu (Ayers Rock).

Eventually in the late afternoon we arrived, landed, and on opening the door were greeted by the largest and most annoying flock of flies I've ever met. We got a shuttle bus over to the overpriced resort, climbed the rock the next day (before the ridiculous politically correct 'ban' on climbing Ayers Rock come to be) and vowed never to return.

My mistake? I forgot to cancel SARTIME. When you submit a flight plan (which is not mandatory but a VERY GOOD IDEA, you nominate a time that is at least an hour after your latest possible arrival time. If you don't call in, they activate a period of uncertainty, and eventually start looking for you. Aviation time is always GMT, which is the current time in ENGLAND. My SARTIME was 5pm local, which was 7.30am GMT, on the same day. We had left at 8am (Darwin) which was 10.30pm the previous day (GMT).

Anyway, a terse call to the resort from Adelaide flight services put me on notice. When I asked about the crashed aircraft, the guy said 'yes of course, EVERYONE knows there is a Piper in those hills, that's why we had it painted WHITE'. Like, I am an idiot?

WRAP

Hometime and we punched through scattered cloud and set the auto pilot for Birdsville. Much desert passed under the nose, and I took a couple of power naps while Jess monitored the flight. We refueled, had lunch, and plugged the heading for Bourke into the autopilot.

Out of Bourke the clouds built up, and we got underneath, only to run into a wall of clag near Warren. We landed, got a taxi to a Motel, and the next day flew in the clear to Banksown, via Dubbo.

Hiring a plane you pay only for hours flown, 'on the clock'. You pay around $425 an hour 'wet' (including fuel) in 2014 dollars, and they subtract the hourly fuel at the Sydney cost of fuel. For example, current cost is about $1.80 per litre for fuel within the hourly rate. It gets confusing. This trip was to burn about 2,000 litres and take 29 flying hours. In todays cost that would be $12,325 for the hire, and another $3,000 for fuel excess, or the difference between the 'Sydney' price of fuel, and whatever you pay en-route.

Some of the refuellers had a handy rort going, they would only sell you a 200 litre drum. If you needed 100 litres, you paid for 200 - at the remote rate, which could be double Sydney - and left the rest there.

We were so happy with our trip, we talked my wife into coming on our next one.

Private Pilot Disasters - 1

A License to Learn

This is VH-CIY, a Cessna 172 four seat light aircraft, and in 1989 it was the pride of the fleet at Bathurst Aero Club. This is where I learned to fly, over 81.3 hours across 19 months. I was freshly minted as an unrestricted private pilot in April 1991.

As Chief Instructor Jerry Trevor-Jones shook my hand, he said the immortal words that haunt me today.

'This isn't a license to fly. It's a license to keep on learning'.

The decade that followed shaped my strategic thinking.

June 30 1991 dawned cold and cloudy. I'd risen earlier, and received a weather fax from the call back service. I was flying my family to Queensland to escape the mountain winter, we were packed and excited. Weather would be the only thing stopping me.

Since being licensed I'd done some local flights, and taken the wife and kids to Dubbo zoo for a day, round trip 2.1 hours. To drive would have taken around 6 hours.

I was 44, my wife Caroline was with me, along with Sarah (13) and Jess (4).


MISTAKE ONE

Brimming with confidence I loaded us into the Cessna, having weighed everything and planned where to stash what. I had full fuel, the tanks held 150 litres which clearly took take our weight over limits. That gave me a little over 5 hours safe flying time.

I guess my reasoning was that I had a long runway, cold air which makes for a shorter take off, and safe weather to the west as the cloud cover was reported as thinning out in that direction.

The clouds at Bathurst were 6 octa's, which means 6/8ths overcast. Not a good start, but they were 1,500 feet over the airport, itself at 2,400' elevation. Bathurst is fairly high for an Australian airport.

Planning to fly to Lismore for fuel, the track took me slightly east of Mudgee and the clouds thickened. I was licenced for Visual Flight Rules, which meant I had to be at least 1,000' BELOW cloud, or 2km AWAY from clouds at my level. I could not fly over the top of cloud, unless I could see the ground through the gaps.

I took off over overweight.


MISTAKE TWO

Sure enough, the clouds came down over Coolah. I was compressed between cloud and terrain, and could only turn back. So I punched up through the clouds, as I could see the layer was thin. Once through, I adjusted track north-east, to take us away from the clouds.

Once in stable cruise at about 8,000 feet, I re-planned the route on my charts. This was before the age of GPS. All navigation was visual, with the track drawn in pencil on a chart, and progress measured using time intervals. Landmarks should come under the nose of the plane on time, and if delayed that means a head wind. If we are off track and the landmark is left, then we have a crosswind.

Calculations were done using a 'computer' like this:

Being freshly trained, I was proficient and the flight track and planning was all happening perfectly well. Eventually we arrived at Lismore, having tracked via Gunnedah, Armidale, and Grafton. The cloud was behind us.

We landed after 4.2 hours, one of my longest flight legs. I taxied direct to the toilet block.

According to training, and following flight rules. I should have turned back at Coolah.


MISTAKE THREE

Next leg, after sandwiches and thermos tea, was to Coolangatta, which is in controlled air space. I got clearances and managed to land and vacate the runway in between Qantas and Ansett 737's. My training had taken me through Canberra airport a few times, so this wasn't an issue.

After fuel, we flew a long leg which included Moreton Bay. We were in the light aircraft lane, but near Peel Island a huge black mess of rain sat in our way. I put the nose of the aircraft inside, to 'have a look', and didn't like what I could not see. We looped back and I got clearance from Brisbane Centre to track in towards Wynnum. They vectored me low over the bay, under the Brisbane Airport traffic and away from the weather.

We flew over Bundaberg, and landed at Gladstone for fuel.

At this stage, I planned to stay on Great Keppel Island a few days. Just 80km from Gladstone, I was fueling up for the next leg, either north or west, depending on what we decided after we had had some quality time in the winter sun.

I had the airstrip data for Great Keppel. It was 700m long, which wasn't super great but I could get airborne from that with my load. So I filled the fuel to the lower marker, to give me about 3.5 hours flying time.

Here's the runway, looking from the beach. Note it has quite a slope. On departure several days later, I pondered this. I'd watched the windsocks, showing a reasonable wind from the south whipping down the runway.

I did the calculations based on the forecast wind - 15 knots - and added a fudge factor. I put the published slope data into the calculation too. I should be fine!

I was taking off to the South, into the wind, which is what I was trained to do. But the takeoff roll, up that slope, with a legal full load, was slower than I liked. I had an abort point picked out about 2/3rds up the runway, and hit that point at about 45 knots - well short of the 63 knots I needed. I pressed on, and at the end of the runway pulled up with an immediate stall horn.

I hadn't had that before, I was at a shade under 60 knots but the wind at the crest of the hill was playing tricks. Instinctively I pushed the nose down, and we flew over the top of the hill at about 10' off the deck. Luckily there were no obstacles, and I could disappear off the end of the island and fly level over the rocks and ocean until I had enough speed to climb. Slowly.

I should have taken off with a tail wind, down that hill, at enormous speed.


MISTAKE FOUR

I was freaked out by the first three. We refueled at Emerald, stopped at Long Reach, navigated across the wastelands to Charleville, and refueled there.




The two runways gave me a choice, I took the longer one but again didn't factor the lethargic performance of the Cessna 180 hp engine. We passed over the trees at the end of the runway far too low for comfort.



The weather again closed in as I headed towards the mountain ranges, forcing me to stop for the night at Narrabri, where we took a taxi to a motel for the night. Next day was slightly better, but again clouds hung low over the Warrumbungle Ranges, so I had to go low and track west over the Pilliga forest until I crossed the Coonamble road. Then I followed that to Dubbo.

Clouds sat east, and we had to go east to get home. So I took off and had a look. Over Wellington it was nasty, so I flew back to Dubbo for another night in a motel. The next day was clear enough, and we returned home on July 14th.

I'm not sure how many mistakes were made here, but the choice of runway at Chareville, with the obstruction factor at the end, was the most glaring.


CONCLUSIONS

We made it back, safe and happy. I broke various flight rules, and made various poor airmanship decisions. There was still 14 years of flying ahead of me, and I plainly survived to write this, in 2014.

Thanks for reading!

Suicide hurts the living

Lighting Suicides Continue

Why do good people do the worst thing?

By Julius Grafton

(I published this in 2013, and it resonated with a lot of readers).

Veteran Australian lighting guy Scotty Duhig, otherwise known as Scotty Dot from when he toured with Paul Kelly and the Dots, took his life late in 2013.

The statistical suicide rate for men aged between 55 and 64 in Australia is 19 deaths per 100,000 men. As a percentage this is a number almost too low to measure.

But the suicide rate for men who have worked as professional road crew in the golden era of Australian rock (mid 70’s to end of the 1980’s) is a staggering 5%, according to Ian ‘piggy’ Peel from the Australian Road Crew Association.

Of the 22 known deaths by suicide, out of 80 deaths across 420 crew, most were lighting guys. So why are they predisposed to suicide?

When news of Scotty’s untimely death broke, an outpouring on the Australian Road Crew Association Facebook led to dozens of former crew posting their private mobile numbers online. ‘Call any hour’, was a common message to anyone feeling what some describe as ‘the darkness’.

The question of why this is happening is possibly as simple as what Ian ‘piggy’ Peel from the Australian Road Crew Association describes as adjustment disorder. “He lived the dream, struggled through and he got back and nothing much happened”.

Piggy has spoken up on the issue many times, and characterizes the career of a roadie from the 1970’s or 1980’s as a circus that ends suddenly by the roadside. “The crew sit on the curb, looking for a ride home, while the band move on”.

With Scotty Dot there were stories of depression, working in the mines, a girl in West Australia and then Scotty ‘went to the shed’, and came out in a body bag.

SUICIDE

A counsellor close to this topic told CX that most people telegraph their intentions in some way in the earlier stages.

But most people don’t know how to interpret the signals, which can include depression, negativity and more ominously people start to give their things away.

A sudden sense of calm and happiness after being extremely depressed can mean that the person has made a decision to commit suicide.

“People also don’t know how to react if they suspect someone is suicidal”, the counsellor (who prefers not to be identified) said.

“If someone is overt about the idea of suicide, it should be talked through at the time. Most people who commit suicide don't want to die - they just want to stop hurting.”

Yet not every suicide comes with warning signs, although most do.

LIVES WRECKED

Thirty years ago promising young lighting guy Jeffrey Merryweather was working with Misex. He killed himself in a fit of drug induced despair over a girlfriend who had just appeared with a staple through her stomach as a naked Penthouse Pet.

Jeffrey’s little sister Lisa was 14 years old when he hung himself. Today she is divorced with three sons and works as an office manager. She lives in Tewantin in Queensland.

They were obviously close. “He did the lights for my 10th birthday party, with a smoke machine too. I felt very special. He doted on me, he used to call me Periwinkle. Then he left home at 16 to work with Phil Cullen.”

“Not a day goes by where I do not think of Jeff – ever. I’m f**ked”, she told CX. “Every man I have known has betrayed me in some way and it started with Jeffrey”.

“It’s so bad. It’s such a waste. It destroys everybody that's left behind. I’m destroyed from it. My parents never talk about it.  It broke my family apart, my mum and dad split a few months after. They lied to me about how Jeffrey died. They said he had a heart attack. But found the death certificate.”

“Mum and dad were trying to get him away from (the girl). They pleaded with him to come overseas with us. He refused. Then we tried to get him to come to Fingal Bay for a while but he refused that too.”

“I’ve never had counselling. I’m too scared”.

PUTRID HOLE

Dolly was a singer who worked the rock biz and knows its dark corners. These days she works for the Government in Sydney. Four years ago she moved in with Derek, knowing he suffered Bipolar disorder and thinking her positive influence in his life would make things work.

“I cannot imagine living the two hemispheres of Bi polar disorder from periods of manic to the darkness of depression”, Dolly told CX. “In manic I saw the untouchable confidence, the fantastic highs, irrational behavior, anger, violence, hyperactivity and in Derek’s case it was all rolled up with alcohol abuse. Then came the depression - the crash was like hitting concrete. A spiral down to a dark hole and into a pit of putrid darkness that I could not even imagine.”

Over the period of a year, the alcohol took a greater hold and the medications prescribed to Derek were cut in half, taken every other day or not at all.

“The person you adore changes in front of your eyes”, says Dolly. “He was drinking at least a six pack of beer, bottle of red wine and straight scotch whiskey to complete the self medication. Every night. With this came a fear in the pit of my stomach that I could not articulate. I think you have to live it to understand.”

“There were nights where I would say something completely innocent in the middle of a conversation and he was gone. Literally. Something I did or did not say triggered the response that would take him back down that hole. His eyes would glaze over, he would physically push me away, sometimes shove me to the ground and become completely unreachable. He would then put the ear pieces of his ipod in, pour another scotch and shut me out completely.”

“It was on one of these nights that I left him downstairs and went to bed. Hoping as I did every night that he would drink one last scotch and pass out. I didn’t sleep much these days.”

“I got up the next morning and looked at him sleeping on the couch in the living room and found to my relief that he had indeed passed out. Upon nearing the couch my relief turned to disbelief and horror. Sitting on the coffee table was a thick piece of rope about 10ft long and a plastic bag. I could only draw one conclusion and it was unimaginable.”

“I shook him awake in tears, my anger starting to overtake the fear. “What is this”? I asked fumbling through my tears. The answer was cutting. “I felt like I had no other option last night”.

Dolly did not call the police, the doctor or a psychiatrist.

“I did not know that I could. Over the next few days I tried to get him to go back to the doctor. I suggested a mental health plan where we would surround him with the right people, like psychologist, psychiatrist, try yoga, Pilates, meditation, get him back on medication. But nothing changed.”

“I became hyper vigilant. I slept with one eye open for two years. I was exhausted. Helplessness is watching someone you love suffer right in front of you and there is f**k all you can do about it. All the love in the world will only go so far. Watching them disintegrate into a monster takes its toll on you too. You live your life in unpredictability and fear. This does not happen overnight. You wake up one morning and discover that the person you were is now a pathetic excuse for the strong, happy, resilient and balanced person you used to be. It eats at you slowly, insidiously, and the pain and heartbreak become normal.”

“Eventually I found the strength to run. It was in the middle of the night and it took every ounce of courage I had to go. The guilt was immeasurable but the instinct to survive was stronger. I was leaving behind a potential suicide but I could do no more. I made the decision that I will go no further into that putrid dark hole.”

Several years on, Dolly feels she has confronted and dealt with her disaster.

AT THE STREET

George* is close to CX and toured with some of the guys who’s suicides inspired this story. His ex wife Amanda had all the signs, and despite people around knowing the problem, the attempt on her life was made.

This is his story, freshly told since it happened in 2013.

“I was at my new home a year after splitting with her. We had sorted everything except our co-owned house, where she stayed on. Amanda had a failed relationship after me; and he dicked her around financially and emotionally. It was in the end of winter and it was cold in that house.”

“She was in an impossible place – financially rorted by him; and then strung out by his exit and his protracted lazy departure where we would come and take a few things, and leave open the next appointment. So his stuff was lingering while she was hitting the bottle and crying all night.”

Work became hard, she wasn’t eating and lost weight. The kids (aged 12 and 16) were worried. George got a text message at 2am one weekday saying she needed him to drive across town and take the kids to school that morning. He dashed over and roused her, she’d taken six Valium and a raft of pain killers on top of a lot of booze.

“I spoke to a counsellor who had experience with suicide”, he told CX. “I followed his advice – I confronted her and asked whether she intended to take her life. She said no. I asked her to promise me she would not do it again. She promised.”

Three nights later she texted and seemed irrational. It was school holidays and she was home alone with the kids. George suggested they all go boating in a few days and un-usually she agreed. He was delighted he’d found some hope for her and that she had something to look forward to.

But several hours later she sent the goodbye text to George and her ex husband John who had the kids with him. It was clearly a suicide note. They all raced to the house after calling emergency services, to find six coppers and an ambulance in attendance with gawping neighbours. The Police had kicked in the door, the dogs were going off, but they held the family at the street for an agonising twenty minutes before wheeling a semi conscious Amanda out to the ambulance.

Her frantic parents followed the ambulance to the hospital leaving George, her other ex husband John and his kids – George’s step kids – to collect their sanity while inspecting the house for clues about what she had done. “I fell to the kitchen floor in tears”, George said. “I’d been the strong guy right through everything with her, and the kids had never seen me cry, let alone wailing on the floor.”

At the hospital they admitted her, and next day she was ringing George and John, demanding someone come and check her out. She hadn’t yet been assessed by a psychiatrist and when he did the rounds, he scheduled her. Later they let her call George and it was a very unhappy sedated Amanda on the line.

“You’ve caused me to be locked up. This is like a jail”, she said of the mental unit at the public hospital. “They won’t talk to me. The bed is hard. No one will tell me anything. You have to get me out. If you don’t I’ll never talk to you again.”

Two days later she was released into the care of her parents and promptly moved back home alone, against all advice. The kids spent two weeks away with their Nanna and cousins, but were not referred to a child psychologist. The damage to them is unknown. George had to withdraw totally from the situation, and John bore the weight of her calls and despair.

Amanda sailed close to the edge for weeks, drinking and sending hundreds of text messages through the night.

It took many worrying weeks until the darkness had passed, yet those close will now always worry. Suicide and its attempts gravely hurts the living.

“It is the ultimate selfish act”, says George. “Everyone around the person has their lives affected.”

*Names changed to protect Amanda’s privacy as she rebuilds her life. Derek’s name changed, no one knows what happened to him.

RESOURCES:

Lifeline 13 11 14

http://www.helpguide.org/mental/suicide_prevention.htm

https://www.facebook.com/groups/EoAROADCREW/

http://www.australianroadcrew.com/

Man diagnosed with prostate cancer. What then?

I'm 56 and I wrote in January 2014 of my amazing recovery after having my prostate removed on January 12th. But a dear friend just asked me, 'what did you think when you were diagnosed?'

This is what Zoe wrote:

"When you were first diagnosed I came across a few blogs for men post prostate surgery – they were really heart rending in some cases. Men feeling like there was no point to their existence, even committing suicide. I feel (without much proof,possibly) that instead of being incredibly empathetic and understanding and doing everything they can for the psychological and physical well being of their patients the predominantly male doctors just focus on removing the cancer and wander off thinking the patient should be grateful for being given back his life without cancer".

(I'm on the right, obviously, with one of my 'brains trust', youngish Jason Allen. Pic on Feb 18 on our CX Roadshow tour)

So here's what happened.

First there was the rush to diagnosis. My lovely GP is Pam Goodwin, a den-mother kind of doc who doesn't muck about. She strongly recommended Manish Patel, he got down to business by establishing I understand the mechanics of the condition. We scheduled a biopsy, to be done under a general anesthetic. It came and went, I went back for the results a few days later.

'Sorry, you have cancer', he said. We discussed the options - there was only one in my case, removal and as soon as possible. He referred me to Sean Mungovan, a physiotherapist who was to manage my post operative incontinence. There was a blizzard of things to do, and as I left his room I found myself in a very strange state. I was confused, overwhelmed. His secretary looked up, and asked me what I needed to do. I actually couldn't talk properly.

She understood, and helped me with the bone scan appointment, the hospital appointment, the physio appointment, and a mountain of forms and reading material, including a DVD on robotic surgery.

When I walked out, I slumped onto a bench seat and looked at the western afternoon sky.

I texted the girl I was going out with, and she called straight back. God bless her. She encouraged me, asking what I knew, and hearing my fears.

They were that I would die, that I would be incontinent, and that I would no longer either get a boner (erection) or ejaculate. Unspoken was that she would pack up and bail out.

Talking to her helped. I withheld everything from my adult daughter, as I needed to get the bone scan out of the way. I emailed my closest colleagues and friends, and got love in reply. My girl friend came over and helped me get drunk.

My visit to  Sean Mungovan, the physiotherapis, was fairly brutal as his method is to freak you out with a big bag of sanitary pads and a stern warning to do everything he says. If I didn't do all the pelvic floor exercises and walk 10,000 paces a day, the inference is my post operative world would be awash with urine. He did an ultrasound and showed me how my pelvic floor contraction was not yet sufficient.

I believed him, and I did everything he said. Don't get me wrong, he was nice about it, and had his methods.

Several days later I had my bone scan, and decided that if the cancer had escaped from my prostate then I would just die in style. I didn't want to go like my friends Ian and Ross who had radiation and chemo and died horribly anyway. I would die in a manner that ensured my life insurance would pay out, so my daughter and her family would live in comfort on my legacy.

Once the bone scan came back negative, I knew removal would or should end the nightmare.

I went into Christmas almost OK, but when my daughter and her husband and my grand kids left later on Christmas day after I cooked lunch, I felt terribly alone. That was a slump.

I'm tremendously emotionally resilient, according to Mel my psychologist.

So to answer Zoe, no I wasn't emotionally supported or counseled by the prostate removal gang. Yes I was very carefully looked after, but no one asked how I was feeling.

How do I feel since? First of all, yoyfully once the operation was done, a few days later the catheter was removed. Dr. Patel's nurse Marnie said the immortal words: 'everyone is incontinent from this moment on'. But she was wrong. (See my story) I'm the odd one out, without a shred of incontience.

I've had moments. I can get half a boner, which is encouraging. I have had an amazing 'dry orgasm' just the other day which was both intense and a big happy surprise.

I do miss ejaculation. It was to me an intensely primitive male moment, putting my 'seed' or mark into a woman. It elevated me, made me feel like a real man.

I worried about my girl and whether she'd persist with me in my less enabled state. I paid a lot of attention to her needs and her satisfaction, but it wasn't the same without the breathless excitement and the full function of a glorious erection.

She - adorable supportive girl - did indeed depart a few weeks after the op, and I completely understood. My thinking is that we had a variety of things going on BUT the sexual issue was just that - prior to my operation, I was at a certain level of performance, and post I was different. I wouldn't for a minute think she seized on that at all - she is far too nice a soul. Hence I feel that when (and I will) I enter a new relationship, it is on the basis that everything forward from now is an evolution and an improvement on what is. So good vibes all around, OK?

Likely the boner will return, although the word is that it can take a year or more.

Now it is six weeks post-op, I do not have cancer nor will I get this form of cancer ever. So I am relieved. My general state of joy and happiness is as good as usual. Next week I resume Pilates, and will step up towards my pre-op level of fitness. Plus I'll do some extra swimming and fix my pushbike.

My only fear is that I'll remain alone, in which case I need to get a dog.

FOOTNOTE: I recovered. See my BLOG here.

Not safe in Balmain. Exchange Hotel bouncer bashes mature patron

Keith Stallard is a friendly, sociable and generally sober guy who likes to organise social groups in Balmain (inner city Sydney, Australia). Keith works on improving third world water sanitation, and is the last guy you'd expect to end up in a pub assault. Yet that is what happened, around 8pm on Friday 24th January 2014 at the trendy Exchange Hotel in Beattie street Balmain.

Keith alleges he was assaulted by a bouncer, after being told to move out of a 'closed area' as he talked on his mobile phone.

"I was taking a telephone call from my boss in France and discussing how to improve water supplies and sanitation in Liberia and Indonesia when the hotel manager asked me to leave the part of the pub I was in because it was closed. I was there because it was the only part of the building where I could hear my caller. I said I would leave within 5 minutes when I had finished the call. A few minutes later, I had a similar discussion with the bouncer whilst still on the call. I promised to stand within 1m of the open door to the ‘closed’ section where they could see me."

But it all went horrifyingly bad.

"Suddenly, I was thrust against a wall or a door - I cannot remember - smashing the wine glass in my right hand, cutting my hand, pouring wine all over myself, hand and injuring my knee."

Keith called the Police, but as there were no witnesses and the CCTV didn't cover the incident, charges were not laid.

The attitude of the manager rankled with Keith. "Rather than apologize, the hotel manager defended this inappropriate use of violence by saying that he had known the bouncer for several years and he had never done anything like that before."

There are 21 hotels within 3km. Clearly the Exchange Hotel is not a safe destination while managers and bouncers such as these remain unchecked.