Flying the Bahamas in a Grumman HU-16E

By Joe Thompson

 

Part One – Following a Dream from Mankato to Marsh Harbour

 

 

The advertisement in the aviation trade magazine read:

 

“First Officer Wanted: Low pay & long hours, must be willing to relocate to overseas base. Requires: Commercial w/Instrument, Multiengine Land & Sea, minimum 1,200 hrs – 100 instrument (no simulator), current medical & passport, experience in Grumman Goose, Mallard, or Albatross preferred, 4 yr college degree required. Fax resume to Mercator Airlines Attn: Human Resource Dept. – FltCrews, Position: NAS 723.”

 

The young woman took another bite of her crab sandwich and then a sip from her mug of Root Beer. She had left Anchorage that morning flying a Grumman Goose and after a couple stops on the Kenai Peninsula she was now in the snack bar at Kodiak Airport enjoying a little respite before returning to her home base in Anchorage. “Leaves a lot to your imagination,” she said to herself….and as she rose to leave, almost in a full voice, “maybe I’ll just fire in a resume when I get home just for grins.”

 

A month later, after submitting her resume, Cassie Larson was pleasantly surprised by a phone call from the Mercator Human Resource (HR) Department in Phoenix, informing her she had been selected for additional screening. She was savvy enough to know that it was a no-no to try to pry additional information out of them over the phone at this early juncture of the process, so she stifled her urge to ask: what, where, how much, and when type questions. The company provided her with a round trip ticket to Phoenix and very nice hotel accommodations near Sky Harbor Airport and Mercator’s corporate offices. After a drug screen and a ream of background paperwork, she took several straightforward, computer based timed quizzes to test her aviation expertise with a few mind bender questions thrown in to keep the applicants honest:

• What is VDP and how do you compute it for distance and timing?
• What is the formula to compute the hydroplaning speed for an aircraft?
• What three factors affect hydroplaning?
• What are the effects of landing on a narrow runway?
• What affects landing distance the most, Gross Weight or Speed?

After the tests she was interviewed by three HR personnel. One was a manager: ‘What do you know about Mercator?’ and ‘Why do you want to fly for us?’ A psychologist asked questions like, ‘Do you ever hear voices?’ and ‘Has anyone in your family ever had a mental illness?’ The third interviewer was a rather stately looking gentleman in his sixties Cassie guessed. He was a pilot who asked questions such as, ‘What aircraft do you have the most time in?’ and ‘Describe a time when you were stressed in the cockpit?’ then the old standard interview question, ‘What would you do if you were a new FO and you smelled alcohol on your Captain’s breath?’ She must have done pretty well because she went back to the hotel that night and around 11:00 PM got a call offering her a job. She was elated, immediately accepted, then called her parents to tell them the good news. The next day saw more paperwork and a complete briefing on the new hire position. When she heard what the aircraft was and where the position would take her she almost fell off her chair. From the wilds of Alaska to the balmy, idyllic waters of the Caribbean; tell me this isn’t a dream she thought to herself. She flew back to Anchorage to close out one phase of her life and to start a new one.

 

That was 5 months ago. Now Cassie stood at the Mercator Flight Operations counter at Nassau International Airport on New Providence Island in The Bahamas. She was indeed a Mercator new-hire First Officer flying their Grumman HU-16E Albatross out of Nassau. As she reviewed the paperwork spread out before her she thought to herself – this sure isn’t Alaska! She inspected the cargo manifest, the aircraft Weight & Balance Sheet, a dispatch form, and several NOTAMs and weather forecasts stapled to the flight release. She wasn’t nervous or intimidated by her newly acquired position flying the Albatross around the Bahamas, Greater Antilles and Florida. At over 20,000 lbs empty the Albatross was by far the heaviest aircraft she had ever flown. Not only did it weigh a lot more than a 5,500 lbs Goose, it was twice as large as one too.

 

Cassie was in her mid-twenties and stood only 5 foot 5 inches. If she weighed 110 lbs she was lucky. Her eyes were a deep blue and her hair was short and blonde, which gave away her Norwegian ancestry. She was from Mankato, Minnesota, 80 miles southwest of Minneapolis.  As an only child she had been granted a lot of leeway in her upbringing. That latitude had help foster Cassie’s drive and determination. From the age of ten she had only wanted to be one thing - a professional pilot. Her father sold farm machinery in Mankato but she had an uncle, her father’s brother, who owned a seaplane FBO (Fixed Based Operation) in Anchorage, Alaska. She spent most of her summers during junior and senior high schools with her Uncle Charlie, working as a ‘line rat’ at his FBO. The smell of AVGAS and the sounds of the aircraft flying in and out of the Lake Hood Seaplane Base (LHD/PALH) next to Anchorage International Airport were intoxicating to Cassie. While her girlfriends were on a summer shopping trip to the Mall of the Americas in Minneapolis, having their nails done and exploring all the shopping opportunities, Cassie was up in Alaska, wearing an oversized and tattered jumpsuit with grime under her nails, grease on her cheeks and smelling of AVGAS instead of Chanel. She wouldn’t trade places with her friends for all the free pedicures at the mall. She begged rides on anything that flew and eventually got her private license with a seaplane endorsement before she graduated from high school. Then she was off to Purdue University. Four years later she graduated cum laude with a degree in Aviation & Airway Science. Along the way she acquired her commercial license with her multiengine and instrument tickets too. Then it was back to Uncle Charlie’s, to gain experience in the real world of professional piloting. She flew hunters, fisherman, and anyone else who needed to get somewhere in Alaska. Normally she flew float equipped aircraft like a Cessna 180 or Cessna 206 and, on occasion, a DeHavilland Beaver.  Like most float operations in Alaska, as the hard freeze of winter set in, the floats where replaced with tundra tires. She especially liked flying a Grumman Goose that a friend of her Uncle’s kept at the FBO. It was loud and smelly but the sight of those big radials, hanging down from the wings just in your peripheral vision as you sat in the cockpit, was a real rush.

 

Cassie stood at a long Plexiglas covered table in Mercator’s Nassau Operations Center. A window mounted air conditioner noisily pumped out cold air and a large ceiling fan turned slowly above the room, stirring the chilled air. Under the Plexiglas were navigation charts of the entire Caribbean basin from the shores of Venezuela, all the way up to Bermuda. On these charts were heavily inked track lines and distances marked from airport to airport, along with other essential data, like the location of all the known crash sites. It was too easy to spot one from the air and then make a fool of yourself reporting wreckage that was decades old. In one corner sat the office manager, Hanna Wellington. Standing in the doorway to his private office was the station manger, Colin Parker. Hanna was a Bahamian and Colin was an expatriate British citizen who had lived in the islands most of his life. Both spoke with a precise and proper British accent. Hanna and Colin kept the paperwork flowing and handled the charter bookings while everyone else either flew or fixed the airplanes.

 

She had started her day with a trip to the coffee pot, then a look at the daily trip sheets and any maintenance items for her aircraft. Two metal clipboards hung above the counter. Both were stenciled in large black block letters. One was marked N3003MC and the other N16MC.  ‘Three Zero Zero Three Mike Charlie’ was a Beechcraft King Air 300. It was primarily used for the weekly ‘Pouch Run’ – a U.S. Department of State contract flight from Nassau to various Caribbean capitals, shuttling diplomatic material between embassies and the U.S. Interest Section in Havana. It also handled VIP inter-island transport and occasionally a MEDEVAC to Miami. ‘One Six Mike Charlie’ was a Grumman HU-16E Albatross and was used for on-demand passenger and cargo charters. On rare occasions, when the aircraft was available, it also flew Search and Rescue (SAR) missions in support of BASRA (Bahamian Air Sea Rescue Association – pronounced baz-rah). Today’s trip sheet for the Albatross looked pretty typical, with the following entries:

 

LEG	DEPT	ETD	DEST	ETA	LOAD	WT	CT	RMKS
1	NAS	0700	GHB	0745	6P+C	1,945	2	HAZMAT: SCUBA TANKS
2	GHB	0815	MHH	0900	NL	--	2
3	MHH	0930	FPO	1005	5P+C	1.395	2
4	FPO	1025	PBI	1110	NL	--	2	AUTEC TERM
5	PBI	1150	ASD	1315	6P+C	3,400	2
6	ASD	1340	NAS	1400	NL	--	2
7	NAS	1430	ATC	1510	C	3,000	2
8	ATC	1530	NAS	1610	C	1,200	2

 

 

To the uninitiated it didn’t make a lot of sense but to Cassie it was her day planner. This one told her that she and her fellow crew members in Crew Team # 2 would depart Nassau at 07:00 local with 6 passengers, apparently scuba divers from the looks of the remarks notation, and some cargo with a total weight of 1,945 lbs and fly eastward to Governor’s Harbour (GHB) on Eleuthera Island. They would then fly to Marsh Harbour (MHH) on Great Abaco without a load (no load – NL). At Marsh Harbour they would pick up 5 passengers and some cargo and then proceed to Freeport, (FPO), Grand Bahama Island. Leg four was a little out of the ordinary. They were going to West Palm Beach Airport in Florida to pick up 6 Navy and civilian contract personnel, their test equipment and then fly them to the U.S. Navy’s Undersea Test & Evaluation Center on Andros Island. Known simply by its initials as AUTEC (pronounced: ah-tec), the sophisticated test facility is the undersea equivalent to Area 51 in the Nevada desert. The facility, located on the east side of Andros Island, is used primarily for the testing of advanced undersea acoustic detection and weapons systems. Its three test ranges are located in an area east and southeast of Andros Island known as the Tongue of the Ocean (TOTO).  The facility has its own assigned aircraft, a couple BE-1900’s and several helo’s used on the ranges.  The fixed-wings run scheduled flights between Andros and West Palm Beach, where additional AUTEC administrative offices are located. However, occasionally they contract out a flight to a civilian airline like Mercator because of non-availability of aircraft. This was the case today.

 

From Andros Town Airport (ASD) they would return to Nassau, load up with cargo and fly over to Arthur’s Town (ATC) on Cat Island, drop that load, pick up 1,200 lbs of new freight and head back to Nassau for the last flight of the day. If all went well they were looking at being done before 17:00 Local.

 

Out on the Mercator ramp, which is adjacent to the upscale Million Air FBO, just off the approach end of Nassau International’s runway 32, sat the big, imposing HU-16E. At over 25 feet tall and almost 63 feet in length, it was a very large twin engine aircraft. The wingspan was even more impressive though at 96 feet 8 inches – wider than a classic model Boeing 737 – but it didn’t start out that way.

 

The Albatross was built by Grumman Aircraft Corporation at their Bethpage, Long Island, New York plant between 1947 and the early 60’s.  No aircraft other than, possibly the C-130 Hercules and C-47/DC-3, has seen as much widespread military service as the Albatross. They are unique in that they were initially designed as a private aircraft platform, but were bought in large numbers by the military. During its illustrious career the aircraft has been flown by over two dozen military services around the world in a variety of mission roles from search and rescue, personnel and cargo transport, training, and even anti-submarine warfare. Numerous civilian operators have also flown the Albatross, such as the U.S. Dept. of Interior, the Malaysian government, Smithsonian Institution, Pan American World Airways, Antilles Airboat, Chalks International,  and now Mercator.

 

Grumman has long been associated with amphibious aircraft sporting the waterfowl names. The JF-1 Duck was produced in 1933 followed by the Goose in 1937 which, in turn, was preceded by the slightly smaller Widgeon, which first flew in 1940. In 1946, immediately following World War Two, Grumman introduced the Mallard. Two years before, early 1944, Grumman had commenced the design of the G-64, which was intended to be a replacement for the Goose. It eventually evolved into the Albatross, an aircraft twice the size of the Goose. On 1 October 1947 the first prototype, known then as the XJR2F-1 Pelican, flew from the Bethpage Facility.

 

The base model – the SA-16A - had a wingspan of 80 feet. In 1955 Grumman commenced a modification program to increase the aircrafts overall performance. One of the major renovations was the deletion of the leading edge slats, increasing the size of the horizontal and vertical tail surfaces, adding a 30 inch extension to each wing tip and also inserting a 70 inch plug outboard of each engine nacelle, thereby increasing overall wingspan by 200 inches. These became know as the “B” models. It weighed slightly over 22,000 lbs empty and was powered by two supercharged 1,425 hp Wright 1820-76 air cooled nine cylinder engines. With a stiff tailwind it could reach speeds in the low 200’s and had a service ceiling of over 23,000 feet, though it was found more often far below those lofty heights.  If you topped off the internal & external fuel tanks with over 1,500 gallons of petrol, she would take you over 3,000 nm’s. In fact the U.S. Coast Guard set several world records with the aircraft; nonstop from Kodiak, Alaska to Pensacola, Florida, a distance of 3,104 nm and also several altitude records, one with a 1,000 kg. payload to an altitude of 29,475 feet.

 

The aircraft has gone through numerous operational designations in its career. The major change was in 1956 when a unified U.S. military designation system was instituted.  U.S. Air Force Albatrosses became HU-16 A’s & B’s, the Navy’s were HU-16 C’s & D’s and Coast Guards models were HU-16 E’s.

 

Unlike the official moniker used by Grumman and most other aviators associated with the SA-16/HU-16 – ‘Albatross’ - the Coast Guard referred to their aircraft as ‘Goat’s.’ No one knows for sure how this nickname became so entrenched in CG aviation. Some have speculated that it was due to the original designation which was UF-2G – giving rise to ‘Goat’ instead of the ‘G’ designator. Other’s however, believed it was because the aircraft climbed like a mountain goat, steady and slow. Still others thought it was because the aircraft smelled pretty awful.  It reeked with the smell of sweat, AVGAS, engine oil and hydraulic fluid and it wasn’t very pleasant, kinda’ like a goat!

 

The Coast Guard phased out the last of their ‘Goats’ in the late 1970’s and early 80’s. Mercator’s Albatross was an ex Coast Guard airframe that had been mothballed in the desert at the U.S. Air Force’s Aerospace Maintenance And Regeneration Center (AMARC) at Davis-Monthan AFB in Tucson, Arizona, commonly referred to as ‘The Boneyard.’ After a pristine restoration, she was put into service at Mercator’s Nassau base. Not only was she a very reliable aircraft but the public relations she generated for the company was incalculable. She invariably drew a crowd at any ramp she was parked on. Mercator had even placed her on static display at several air shows when her schedule permitted. And any morning when she pulled off her spot in Nassau, the crews of the Gulfstreams, Lear’s, and Bombardiers’ parked at the neighboring FBO would gather on the ramp to get a glimpse of her as she taxied out.

 

As Cassie stood reviewing the aircrafts maintenance sheets, the front door opened accompanied by a rush of cold air seeking to escape the confines of the office. In walked Captain Oscar “Scooter” Putnam.  He greeted everyone in unison.

 “Good morning gang.” 

“Good morning Scooter”, said Colin. The word ‘Scooter’ sounded comical spoken with a refined, British accent such as Colin’s.

“Good morning Captain Putnam.” Hanna preferred a more formal address.

He preferred ‘Scooter’ to Oscar, or Captain, or anything else people threw at him. He acquired the name years ago while attending Naval Flight Training in Pensacola. One morning one of his instructors saw him pull into the squadron parking lot on his standard mode of transport at the time, a Vespa motor scooter. He had been called ‘Scooter’ ever since. Putnam was a 1971 graduated of the Coast Guard Academy. In late 1973, after graduating from Naval Flight Training, he was sent to the Coast Guard Air Station in Miami. There he flew the HU-16E for almost five years. He truly loved the old birds but eventually the Coast Guard had to phase the aircraft out of service. After a political fight over the interim replacement, the Coast Guard finally selected the Air Force C-131A Samaritan’s. These aircraft, a derivative of the civilian Convair 240, had been in storage in an Arizona boneyard for years. Scooter wasn’t fond of this aircraft, so when he was offered a job flying Mallard’s for Chalks International in Miami he took it. After resigning his service commission he never looked back. A couple years later he grabbed one of the first pilot slots with Mercator when they opened their Bahamian base in Nassau. Scooter was moving up.

 

He tossed his gear bag by Hanna’s desk, then acknowledged his new First Officer as she stood at the flight planning table.

“Morn’in Cass – you ready to go flying?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good, looks like another wonderful day in paradise.”

He looked over the paperwork too, pulled the crew copies off the clipboard, asked Colin if there was anything additional he needed to know and then walked out with Cassie in trail.

 “See you guys later today” he called over his shoulder as he exited the doorway, accompanied by Cassie and another rush of cold air.

“Have a safe one Captain,” shouted Hanna as the glass door slammed shut.

 

Rueben Witt had retired from the Navy after a career that spanned over 25 years. He had been a Senior Chief Aviation Machinist and flew as a crewmember in a variety of aircraft. His last military aircrew position was aboard a Grumman HU-16C while stationed at the Naval Base in Guantanamo (GITMO) Bay, Cuba. When the last Albatross left GITMO, in August of 1976, Rueben felt it was time to retire. He immediately landed a nice job working on Grumman Mallards for Chalks International Airlines at Dodge Island in Biscayne Bay, Miami. Scooter Putnam flew them and Rueben maintained them and the two became good friends at Chalks.

 

When Mercator opened up their hub several years later, Rueben, along with Scooter Putnam, was one of the first to get hired. He and his wife jumped at the opportunity to live and work in the Bahamas. He was ecstatic that once again he would crewing in the Albatross. (Due to security concerns after the 9/11 attacks, Chalks shifted their operations from Dodge Island to the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood Airport. In Dec. 2005, a Chalks Mallard enroute to Bimini made an unscheduled stop at Watson Island, in the Port of Miami. On takeoff the aircraft crashed at the entrance to the port killing all 20 people aboard. This was the first fatal crash of a Chalks aircraft since the company started operations in 1917.)

 

Rueben was the third member of the crew of ‘One Six Mike Charlie.’ In that capacity he served as flight engineer, mechanic, loadmaster and cabin attendant, all rolled into one. Rueben heard the office door slam shut and glanced up to see his captain and the new FO walking towards the aircraft. He was high up on the fuselage, conducting his customary and extensive first-flight of the day preflight checks. The passengers for the short hop to Governor’s Harbour, all scuba divers from Atlanta, stood anxiously just outside the Mercator Ops office. There was a long line of their personal gear piled on the tarmac.

 

“Good Morning gang,” Scooter called over to the passengers as he exited the office.

“We’ll be ready to go in a few minutes.”

Scooter had learned early in his civilian career that you didn’t discuss the safety of the aircraft in front of the paying passengers, so he held in check his urge now to ask Rueben how the ‘Goat’ looked this morning. He would do that out of customer earshot.

“Morn’in Senior Chief, thanks for the fresh air.”  The Captain motioned towards the top of the cockpit.

Scooter would have customarily addressed a Coast Guard or Navy Senior Chief in this manner when he was in the service. Old habits were hard to break. The reference to the fresh air was because Rueben had opened both escape hatches over the cockpit prior to beginning his extensive preflight checks. This provided some much needed fresh air to the flightdeck before their first flight.

 

The aircraft was a sight to behold. For a twin engined propeller aircraft it was extremely large and imposing. A high wing spar was adopted to keep engines, wings, and props out of the brunt of the water spray during water operations. It also opened up the interior for cargo space. Mercator, as the Coast Guard did in the late 1970’s, limited water operations to emergency use only because of the age of the wings and airframe. Massive main tires folded out and down from their respective wheel wells, located into the sides of the fuselage. These tires were exposed to the elements when retracted because there were no main gear doors. The twin nose gear wheels were exposed too because the wheel well, though sealed off from the hull, was not watertight itself. In the cockpit, if you glanced down at the deck between the two pilot seats, you saw a small, circular window. This was a viewing port into the nose wheel well. In flight it was dark but sitting on the ground you saw the outside light up through this opening. Just forward of this viewing port, under the cockpits main instrument panel is the door that allows entry into the nose (bow) compartment of the aircraft. Once inside you can open up the hatch in the overhead and emerge from the aircraft, just in front of the cockpit windscreen. This was used by crewmembers when there was a need to pick up a mooring buoy line to secure the aircraft, while afloat.

 

 

 

 

 

If you stood alongside the aircraft and studied the fuselage, those familiar with a boat hull would recognize the Vee hull of the HU-16’s fuselage bottom with its distinct ‘step.’ This ‘step’ is a discontinuity along the bottom of the fuselage, right in line with the main gear tires. This stepped hull, first invented by Glenn Curtiss, is necessary for water takeoffs. The sharp discontinuity causes cavitation of the water. The resulting turbulence breaks the suction of the water that would otherwise try to prevent the aircraft from lifting off. At the aft limit of the hull was a metal tail stand commonly referred to as a ‘squat bar.’ This prevented the aircraft from sitting on its tail during a loading operation that improperly placed the aircrafts CG (center of gravity) behind the main gear. This bar is removed during preflight and stowed inside the cabin.

 

Entry into the aircraft is gained by climbing an aluminum ladder up to the main fuselage entry door. And just like entering a boat, you step down into the cabin. The height of the door off the ground is dictated by the need to be above the waterline when the aircraft is waterborne. In reality, it’s a Dutch-Door design, spilt horizontally into an upper and lower half. This design was used because when the aircraft is operated on the water in higher sea states, there has to be a means to open the door without allowing water into the hull. This is done by keeping the lower half of the door secured and opening only the upper half. Many ‘landlubbers’ refer to the door as a hatch when, in fact, it’s a door. On a ship, an opening through a bulkhead (a vertical wall) is a door and any opening through a deck (the horizontal divisions in a ship – like a floor in a building) is a hatch. Therefore you gain entry into an Albatross through a door, but the openings above the pilot and copilots seats as well as the opening in the nose (bow) of the aircraft are hatches.

 

The supercharged Wright engines that power the Albatross are similar to the engines you find on the T-28 Trojan and the B-17 bomber. On the bottom of each large engine nacelle can be seen a pair of large, flapper type doors. Just behind these is an additional, single flapper door. The front doors are the cowl flaps and are used to regulate the exit of the airflow that keeps the engines cool. The wider the opening, the more air is drawn across the engine and the cooler the cylinders operate. However the internal workings of the engine itself are cooled by oil and this aft opening is the exit for the air that flows across the oil cooler. The amount of cooling air that passes through is controlled by these cooler flaps. Unlike most constant speed propellers, the props on an Albatross are electrically controlled and hydraulically actuated, independent of engine oil. The prop governor RPM is set by toggle switches, not propeller control levers customarily found in aircraft.

 

When waterborne, the rudder is ineffective. Since no water rudder is installed, the only means of directional control is differential engine power. When at idle, the best way to control aircraft direction is to move one or the other props in or out of reverse. There is no beta range so you’re either going forward or aft, demanding a pilot’s constant attention.

 

Several minutes later the passengers were all buckled in and Rueben was manning the fire bottle in preparation for engine start. Scooter cranked over the Wrights and as each caught and roared to life they belched a plume of bluish gray smoke. Cockpit checks were completed; Rueben completed his tarmac chores then boarded the ‘Goat.’ Nassau ground cleared them to the active runway via a couple taxiways. Throttles were pushed up to get the big aircraft moving off her overnight resting spot and several minutes later they turned onto the active runway. The landing lights were switched on. With a final glance around the cockpit, the Captain declared he was setting “Maximum Power” as he had done hundreds upon hundreds of times before. It was always an adrenalin rush.

 

Less than five minutes later they were over the east end of New Providence Island pointed eastward towards the island of Eleuthera. Large, billowy clouds pockmarked the area.

“Too bad there’re clouds in the area. Right down below you there is Rose Island. That’s the spot where the Vulcan Bomber in the James Bond movie “Thunderball” was sunk.”

In reality, the movie company made a steel framed replica and covered it with fiberglass for the underwater scenes. All that is left of the site now is the frame itself, although it remains a very popular dive site with thousands of divers that come to the Bahamas each year, like the group in the back right now. As the engines droned on and they passed Bar Bay Settlement, the western most spit of land on Eleuthera, Scooter passed more local information to his new FO.

“Eleuthera was originally called Ciguateo until it was renamed by the first white inhabitants who were religious separatists from Bermuda. That was back in the mid 1600’s and the group called themselves the Eleutherian Adventurers. ‘Eleuthera’ is the Greek word for freedom.”  

Just at that moment they heard a blind call on the frequency from an aircraft announcing his departure from Governors Harbour (GHB/MYEM), their destination. Cassie and Scooter configured the aircraft for the approach and soon they were crossing over the beach by James Point for the landing. After a quick one-eighty turn on the runway they taxied back to the ramp and disembarked their first load for the day. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet.

 

A half hour later they left the Governor’s Harbour ramp enroute the active. Soon they were abeam the northeast tip of Eleuthera, passing Harbour Island, and the enchantingly named enclave of Spanish Wells. They were headed to Marsh Harbour (MHH/MYAM) on Great Abaco Island, 85 nm to the north. The flight would be over the blue waters of the Northeast Providence Channel. This shipping lane angles to the northeast, from Nassau (thus its name) and forms the watery boundary between the islands of Eleuthera and Abaco, where it spills out into the Atlantic Ocean. Turquoise colored areas that marked shallow water soon slipped behind as they climbed to altitude. Forty-five minutes later they shutdown the engines at Marsh Harbour.  Scooter climbed out of his seat and went inside the small terminal to call Colin back in Nassau to check on any schedule changes. A couple minutes later he retook his cockpit seat and announced that no changes had been made so far. Next stop Freeport. The aircraft was loaded with freight and five passengers and at 09:30 they were underway again.

 

After departing Marsh Harbour to the west you fly over a large mangrove swamp area (they don’t call the place Marsh Harbour for nothing). This area, known as ‘The Marls,’ is strewn with countless small and mostly un-named cays (a cay – pronounced ‘key’ in the Bahamas – is the name of a low island or reef, normally made of sand or coral).  All are uninhabited, if you don’t count the hundreds of thousands of mosquitoes that reside there. The area has a reputation as a world class bone fishing spot and attracts sports anglers from around the world. Between Great Abaco Island, which is oriented north-south and Grand Bahama Island, which is oriented east-west, lies the magnificent Bahama Bank and once out over the bank N18MC leveled off at 6,500 feet for the transit to Freeport. Off the left wing could be seen Mores Island, small and isolated. A short while later a small speck appeared just off the aircrafts nose. This was Red Shark Cay with the massive Grand Bahama Island just beyond, seemingly suspended in mid-air just above the tropical waters.

 

At Freeport (FPO/MYGF) they all got out of the aircraft to stretch their legs and get some fresh air. Though thousands of air crews have cherished their association with the Albatross, it is considered by many as the most uncomfortable aircraft they have ever flown; slow, extremely noisy, and with a high vibration level.  Any excuse to slip out of your seat and stretch your legs is welcomed. However the respite was short lived and all too soon the crew was back aboard, except for Rueben, who took his customary position on the tarmac for startup. After takeoff, they banked to the left to fly towards West End where they would begin their transit over the Gulf Stream to West Palm Beach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Less than an hour later, after a courtesy chat with the U.S. Custom Patrol Officer on duty at the AUTEC Terminal on the south side of the field at West Palm Beach (PBI/KPBI), Cassie walked the 6 passengers out to the aircraft. while Rueben supervised the loading of their equipment. Scooter reemerged from the building a few minutes later, boarded the aircraft and started the engines. Rueben pulled the chocks, removed the squat bar and after boarding pulled the ladder in. After a brief taxi to the active, still runway 27 Right, they were cleared for takeoff. Scooter lined up on the runway. With a final glance at the panel to ensure that nothing was blinking at him he declared he was setting “Maximum Power.” He pushed both spring loaded propeller control switches forward briefly until the prop gauges read 2,700 RPM and then advanced the throttles until the Manifold Pressure (MAP) gauge indicated 51.5” for both engines. The engines roared to a deafening crescendo, even through their headsets. Cassie’s left hand was poised just behind Scooters right hand, as it hung from the overhead throttle levers.

 

 

At 82 kts indicated airspeed (KIAS), Scooter eased the forward pressure he had been exerting on the control yoke and the nosewheel broke ground. He maintained this attitude until 90 KIAS when Cassie called “Rotate” and the big aircraft left the runway. With a good positive rate of climb Scooter called, “Wheels Up.”  Momentarily you could hear the loud thud as the gear retracted into the gear wells. At 105 KIAS the Captain announced “Set 1^st Power” and the young First Officer now assumed control of the aircraft’s power settings, inching the throttles back, then toggling the propeller switches to give them the correct setting.

She then declared, “R-P-M Twenty-five hundred, manifold forty-six decimal five.”

The roar outside changed noticeably to a less snarling tone. They continued their climb to the west as the tower controller cleared them for a downwind departure. Scooter simultaneously rolled the yoke smoothly to the left, applying some backpressure to maintain the correct climb attitude and fed in some left rudder. He rolled out on a southerly heading for a few seconds, then resumed the left bank to put them on an easterly heading to fly downwind of the departure runway. When the air speed indicator rose to 120 KIAS, Scooter commanded, “Set 2^nd Power.”  Cassie adjusted the throttle for 38” MAP and toggled the prop switches once again to give them 2,300 RPM. She then reached over and turned on the autopilot, switched off the landing lights then retracted them into their underwing housings. After readjusting the oil cooler and cowl flap openings, she made sure the toggle switches were in the “OFF” position.

 

They crossed the long narrow strip of water that is the Intercoastal Waterway (ICW) just inside the coastline. As the VOR needle started to creep towards the center of the CDI (Course Deviation Indicator) gauge, Scooter rolled the aircraft into a shallow, right bank to intercept their outbound airway – Bravo Romeo Five Four Victor (BR54V). Cassie was still very busy. Now she reached up to the overhead panel and secured the Rudder Boost.  (Hydraulically controlled rudder boost is used to relieve excessive pedal forces if an engine is lost during takeoff or landing. It is normally secured in flight.) She then secured the fuel pumps while Rueben shut down the auxiliary power unit (APU).

 

Most of the ‘heavy lifting’ was now complete. They only needed to heed the various radio calls and climb to their cruise altitude. The thin sliver of darkish green water near the Florida coast now gave way to a deep blue, wide ribbon as far as the eye could see. This was the infamous Gulf Stream, that comes out of the Gulf of Mexico and is squeezed through the narrow Florida Straits between the Florida Keys and Cuba. Then it turns north and is further compressed between South Florida and the Bahamas. As it continues its northward journey, it eventually widens off Cape Hatteras and flows northward, then eastward, across the Atlantic to Europe. ‘One Six Mike Charlie’ eventually leveled off at 11,000 feet.  Scooter reset the power to give them 150 KIAS. The oil cooler and cowl flaps were closed and the carb heat reset, then both mixture controls were adjusted.

 

]

 

Cassie, looking off her right shoulder, asked, “Why is there a south bound line of ships close to the coast, but out here [near the center of the Florida Straits] they all appear headed north?”

“Ships take advantage of the [Gulf] streams current. There’s less current closer to the beach so southbound traffic hug the shoreline. Northbound they want the maximum current push so that’s why you see those ships farther out,” Scooter replied.

“November one six Mike Charlie, Miami Center, switch and answer on One-Three-Three decimal Four.”

Cassie responded. “Thirty-three decimal Four, One Six Mike Charlie, Roger, out.”

Cassie pushed the swap button on the COMMS radio, making the new sector frequency, which she had programmed into the radio prior to takeoff, the active frequency. Then she called Miami Center.

 

Rueben slipped out of his seat after they reached cruising altitude and went aft to check on the passenegers. In a few moments he reappeared.

“Hey, boss, we have a couple squids (a slang term for anyone in the Navy) back aft that want to take a look up here, any problem?”

“Heck no”, Scooter replied, “bring’em on up.”

This was pre-9/11. Cockpit security was not the issue it is today. A few minutes later a couple sailors appear on the flightdeck. Rueben maneuvered around and told one guy to slip into the right jump seat and the other to take the left jump seat directly behind Scooter. They took turns asking various questions about aircraft performance, endurance, how fast, how high, how long, how hard to fly …. Scooter and Rueben professionally answered them all. Cassie sat quietly in her seat, showing deference to the seniority of her fellow crewmates in the Q&A (Question & Answer) session that took place.

 

An Albatross flightdeck has several differences that make it unique. First, to gain entrance to the cockpit you have to step over a raised coaming, (the edge plate surrounding a door or a hatch on a ship) and into the cockpit. The door itself is oval in shape, the same shape as a watertight door on a ship. Once in the cockpit, you notice that the crew seats are mounted on platforms above the metal deck. Standing between the pilot and co-pilot seats, you find that the metal platforms on which the seats are secured is about as high as your kneecap. This gives you, more or less, eye to eye contact with seated crewmembers as you stand between the two seats.

 

The center pedestal is also different. It is hinged on the forward edge, where it connects to the lower main instrument panel. It can be raised and locked in an upright position, similar to a drawbridge, to facilitate entry/egress to the left or right seats, or the small access door below it that leads to the aircrafts bow compartment. Another non-standard arrangement on the flightdeck, and quite noticeable, is the throttle quadrant. Unlike most aircraft that have their power control levers pointed upward from the center console, the Albatross has its power levers pointed downward from the overhead. To make it even more intriguing is the fact that it is minus the standard set of propeller control levers. Albatross propeller RPM is controlled by a pair of spring loaded toggle switches. When you look up at the overhead panel you see, from left to right: a large knob to adjust throttle friction, a smaller stalked lever to shift the supercharger, two large throttle levers, then the mixture control levers followed by two prop control toggle switches and finally the flap handle. Also very prominent are two large, red handles that control fuel tank selection. To a Grumman pilot flying a Goose, Mallard, Widgeon or even the naval S-2 Tracker (used so predominantly in an ASW role years ago) the overhead power control arrangement would be all too familiar.

 

Several minutes later the cockpit was empty again except for the Mercator crew and some occasional radio chatter. Miami Center called again with another frequency change and Cassie complied once again.

Soon the dark blue color of the Gulf Stream was met by a large turquoise area which marked the shallow water north of the Bimini Islands. A tiny speck of dark coloration appeared just off the right nose and Scooter pointed out Great Isaac Island, an uninhabited cay about halfway between Bimini and Pinder Point, the southwestern tip of Grand Bahama Island. This is where the Northwest Providence Channel spills out into the Atlantic to be captured and whisked northward by the Gulf Stream.

“Great Isaac,” declared Scooter as he pointed over the instrument panel to guide Cassie’s line of sight to the dark spot off the nose.

“This is a good position check because it lies almost directly under this airway. Looks like that wind has picked up a little more out of the south since she’s [the island] going to pass down our starboard side.”

Scooter adjusted the heading bug and the aircraft’s autopilot dutifully followed his directions.

At Carey Intersection, 54 nm northwest of Nassau VOR, with Chub Cay 20 nm’s ahead,  they made a shallow right bank to depart the airway. For here they took up a more southerly track that would fly them down into the Tongue of the Ocean (TOTO), the deep-ocean basin that borders the eastern side of Andros Island. (This strangely shaped underwater basin is approximately 100 nautical miles long by 15 miles wide and varies in depth down to 6,000 feet.) Before long, the rock outcroppings of Joulter Cays came into view off the right nose followed by Andros Island itself, the largest of the 700 some odd Bahamian Islands. They passed Morgan’s Bluff and then came up on Nicholls Town.

 

Scooter started their descent and simultaneously radioed his station manager telling him they were letting down for Andros Town Airport (ADS/MYAF) and “expect to be on deck in about 10 minutes.” Colin now knew when to expect them back in Nassau for the afternoon runs.

Cassie closed out with Miami Center and was reviewing the data card she had for the airport. Rueben started the APU and passed through the cabin ensuring everything and everyone was secured.  A few minutes later they banked to the west, dirtied up the aircraft, reset the power and landed at the small airport. Several U.S. Navy vehicles could be seen parked at the small shack that served as an airport terminal.

 

At 13:45, after disembarking passengers and cargo ‘One Six Mike Charlie’ was airborne again for the brief flight back to Nassau.

 

 

In Part 2 our Albatross crew will get a change of schedule. Make sure you join us back out on the Nassau ramp when they get ready to fly the second half of their adventure.

 

Joe Thompson

joe308@zianet.com

ceo@flymercator.com