B Is For Bairnsdale

The Day I Got An Icy Reception

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON

I’m still in synch with the very readable blogger Mrs Nesbitt. She wrote a post on the letter A last week and I followed her cue with A Isn’t Always For Apple. This week, she’s on the letter B and I’ve followed her example with a story about the little town of Bairnsdale, in country Victoria.

Let me wind the clock back a bit. I was probably eight or nine years old and a ridiculously avid reader when I first learnt that ice on a plane’s wings are often fatal, because of loss of control. I was reading a true, first-person story. It was called `The Night My Number Came Up’ and it was chillingly told by Air Marshal Sir Victor Goddard, who was to board a military Dakota on a regulation flight.

Just before the plane took off, someone appeared and asked the crew if he could jump aboard. Yes, said the pilot.

One extra passenger wouldn’t make a difference.

But the Dakota suddenly ran into unforeseen weather. He sat helplessly as the experienced fliers tried everything, even dropping altitude drastically in search of warmer air to melt the ice. Nothing worked and the plane crashed – but quite miraculously, no one was killed.

I never had occasion to think about the story again, until 1992. I had to make a two-day travel-writing trip to a beautiful property called Fraser Island, across the lakes from Metung, here in Victoria. There were a lot of journalists on the trip, but on the first afternoon, the pilot of a private plane got caught by wind shear while trying to land on the grass strip of the island. He ended up crashing the plane into the water, but walked away without a scratch – and cheerily joined us for dinner.

The aircraft, meanwhile, was still in the water, with structural damage and bent props. It was more beached craft than Beechcraft.

Next morning, I was in a hurry to get back to Melbourne, and I was offered a flight home. It would get me back several hours ahead of the others, who still had a full day’s activities scheduled. I jumped at the chance.

Then a good friend of mine, a photographer named Mario, asked if there was room for him on the plane. The co-ordinator of the trip made a phone call and said yes.

One extra passenger wouldn’t make a difference.

Shortly after breakfast, we drove to nearby Bairnsdale and were greeted on the tarmac by the two pilots who would fly us home, a trip of almost 300 kilometres.

It was early August, still winter in Australia. We took off smoothly and the weather began to deteriorate. There was nothing dramatic, mind you. No storms. No dark clouds. No stabbing lightning flashes. Mario and I sat in the pencil-slim cabin. We were both very seasoned fliers, but the conversation dried up after about ten minutes as the turbulence started.

I sat over the left, or port, wing and Mario over the right, or starboard wing. It began to get noticeably colder in the cabin. I kept gazing out of the porthole and soon after I was a bit disconcerted to see a build-up of ice on the silver surface of the wing. The little plane was starting to take a bit of a shaking. But the pilots had everything under control. I figured they would activate the de-icing gear and would also descend slightly. Soon after, I noticed the thin coating of ice beginning to disappear as the warmer air washed over the aerodynamic surface of the wing.

We landed normally at Essendon Airport and I waited until we were at the cab rank before I asked Mario if he, like me, had been a bit queasy. He grinned. ``Yes, mate,’’ he volunteered, ``and I’m not the sort of bloke to get airsick.’’

Then, as casually as I could, I asked him if he had noticed the wings icing up. No, he said. He had been studiously avoiding looking out at the wing because of the turbulence. ``But I'm glad you didn't tell me about the ice,'' he said.

I never did tell him about the story I had read as a kid – and the theory that just one passenger wouldn’t make a difference. Maybe I should email him this post.

Photograph copyright: DAVID McMAHON