“The New Zealand Story”
by Jason Kelly
The lights dimmed as the lecturer approached the lecture theatre. Like me, there was somewhere else they would rather be. As the monotony began, my mind slipped from reality to another world ….. that of beyond 2000.
The scene changed to that of a brilliant soaring day. Glancing skyward, roll clouds and lenticulars crowded each other for position. Everywhere I looked, there was wave. Today I knew was THE day.
After the ground tasks were all but completed - fuel and water ballast added, oxygen system readied, barograph signed and sealed and the DI completed, I clambered into the front cockpit. By the time my doubting partner cautiously climbed into the backseat of the Janus CM motor glider, the declaration board was photographed and the battle commenced.
Launching at 6:35am into a rough sky, I knew the day would be tough. After an initial climb to 150ft off the end of the Five Rivers runway, it was a pure battle against nature for height. As the barograph trace clearly showed, height was lost with the motor at full power!! Not an encouraging start to an arduous task.
After 15 minutes we reached a height of 1,500ft and the motor was thankfully folded away and forgotten about. Serenity overcame us. From here on in it was nature that would provide the lift. The “iron thermal” in the back would not guarantee height and if successfully used would nullify the rest of the flight for record purposes anyway.
In the sun light, the bright anti-collision markings on the wingtips glistened as we pushed forward towards the nearest roll cloud. After heavy sink, the electric vario started bleeping wildly and the altimeter rose casually from 1,000 to 11,000ft. “This is what I love about flying”, I thought, “the peace, the quiet and the smooth, rapid climbs so often easily obtained in wave.”
With great distances to cover, oxygen masks were donned and the climb continued, 12,000, 15,000 feet and upwards. In just 12 minutes we reached 25,000 feet. The climb decreased as I gently eased the big ship up to its red line – 285km/h. We were on our way.
Heading north, we knew time was of the essence. I held the machine at red line, not being too worried about losing a few thousand feet of height as oxygen was also limited. It would be needed later, many hours later.
The years of planning all seemed worthwhile as we sped north. Omarama and the Mackenzie Basin then Mount Cook all passed discreetly behind us as we changed wave systems as easily as changing lanes on a motorway. Everything was going extremely well. By 9:30am we had reached the end of the South Island wave at 12,000ft and eagerly peered north for the next system.
“Doubting Thomas” in the back seat thoughtfully advised that there was none to be seen! The task, my partner said, was too ambitious, unachievable even. Their pessimism bit hard into my eternal optimism.
After a careful study of the day’s weather map and information gained from people up north, I concluded that the wave must be there. The weather was perfect for it. “No one”, an eternal member of every gliding club, was the only one who could tell us for certain as they were the only one who had dared to risk a tow to visit conditions unknown.
My partner, disliking thermals, topped out this one at 7,500ft and then started searching the blue yonder for the elusive wave, “real lift”, my partner remarked, “that’s what wave is.”
Without warning, our heads were rammed into the canopy before being pushed through our stomachs. The altimeter started to rapidly unwind. We had found the wave, albeit the rotor!! The earthquakes in the sky continued. The wings flapped but we aimed straight for where the roll cloud should be. Slowly the vario eased back from -10 knots to swing through -6, -4, 0, +2, +4, +6, +8 , +10 and then off the clock!
light plane, I knew we were making good ground speed south. “With conditions like this”, I thought, “anyone could do at least 1,000 kilometres.”
Complacency began to creep into my mind. Oxygen calculations showed we only had an hours left each despite the vast amounts carried for this flight. We would have to move along at a lower altitude. Safety being at the top of my mind, as no record is worth a broken glider or a life, jolted me back to reality. With my partner still in control, cloud was closing in all around us at an unnerving pace. Reacting swiftly, I took control and we jumped from the primary wave out many rolls. Free from the cloud, we could see and be seen and we returned to the task at hand. Unfortunately, these rolls were broken and not nearly as strong as the primary. Our plan of attack had to be changed.
Each piece of wave was gently coaxed of as much potential energy as possible and we would then move forward to the next visible pieg="EN-US">The previous moment’s excitement passed. We were back in smooth air, climbing rapidly in pure bliss. At 20,000ft we raced north, closing in on our turnpoint. The wind at this altitude seemed to neither significantly hinder nor help our indicated air speed as compared to our ground speed.
At 1pm we passed Bridge Pa – home town of our machine. No one here had risked a tow either into the blue wave until we cruised over at 25,000 feet.
As is frequently the case north of Napier, there was no wave. Our task had assumed this fact and we made a run into the turnpoint at Tuai, just south of Lake Waikaremoana. Arriving there at 1:20pm, the turnpoint was photographed.
“We’re half way”, I remarked, “1,041km down, 1,041k to go.” With this, we turned and headed south to rejoin the familiar Hawkes Bay wave. By this time, other gliders had launched and pointers were available all the way to Woodville.
With this help, progress was rapid and I knew we had a fighting chance of making it. Time was on our side if only nature would stay with it.
After the problems in the Wairarapa on the way north, it was decided to climb as high as possible and traverse the area at maximum glide angle. Climbing in moderate wave, we were soon at 32,000ft and the journey continued south.
Our plan became superfluous. Small wisps of cloud began to appear and clearly marked out the waves. “It’s all down hill from here”, I told my partner.
The North and South island waves just seemed to merge. Crossing the strait was a non-event and as we passed a light plane, I knew we were making good ground speed south. “With conditions like this”, I thought, “anyone could do at least 1,000 kilometres.”
Complacency began to creep into my mind. Oxygen calculations showed we only had an hours left each despite the vast amounts carried for this flight. We would have to move along at a lower altitude. Safety being at the top of my mind, as no record is worth a broken glider or a life, jolted me back to reality. With my partner still in control, cloud was closing in all around us at an unnerving pace. Reacting swiftly, I took control and we jumped from the primary wave out many rolls. Free from the cloud, we could see and be seen and we returned to the task at hand. Unfortunately, these rolls were broken and not nearly as strong as the primary. Our plan of attack had to be changed.
Each piece of wave was gently coaxed of as much potential energy as possible and we would then move forward to the next visible piece. Much time was lost but this tuned out to be the most enjoyable part of the flight as pilot skill was pitted squarely against nature. A mistake could see us land out in the middle of the South Island – an undesirably long retrieve.
Time moved on and the kilometres ticked by. Edging our way forward, it seemed the day could, and would, last forever. The Canterbury Plains came and went. We arrived overhead Omarama at about 7:15pm with a meager 3,000ft above ground level of height. One more climb would do it. All we had to do was find it.
By this time, my partner’s pessimism, and a few sick bags, had been thrown out the window. We were almost there. Struggling fervently to stay aloft, we climbed in quarter knot thermals. We were so close yet so far from an impossible dream. Unpredictable as ever, nature threatened to destroy our best plans by deserting us for the second time that day.
With about two and a half hours of daylight left, I knew patience was our best, if not only, hope. There was a definite lenticular above us if we could only reach it.
Painfully the altimeter crawled upwards. My mind retreated to earlier in the day. What had been and what could have been. Realising that living in the past will not get you into the future, I cast my mind back to the present.
5,000ft above ground level, almost 200km to go and almost one and a half hours of daylight left. That was the equation. Things were looking grim. Nature always wins I almost conceded.
Casting my eyes towards the mountains as we circled, I saw a tiny speck. Each turn it grew bigger. A roll cloud!! “That’s our way home”, I exclaimed. Racing over to the cloud, the vario started its merry bleeping and the altimeter nonchalantly wound its way up to 25,000ft before I turned and headed for Five Rivers at red line.
At 9:20pm we crossed the Five Rivers strip, the task completed. Our “impossible” 2,080km or so task had been achieved.
Turning to congratulate my partner, I discovered the back seat to be empty. Still in shock, I brought the big bird in for a perfect landing.
Not being one to miss out on positive publicity for gliding, I had arranged for the media to meet us when we landed. They rushed forward to meet me. As I dragged myself out of the cockpit, my partner was still not there to be seen. It was then that I realised that my partner was in fact a permanent companion – the other side of me.
“Has anyone ever flown that before or will they again?”
“Who were the pilots and where are they from?”
The questions flooded forward but remained unanswered.
“Jason, Jason! Wake up. The lecture has finished. It’s time to go to another one.”
Struggling to keep my eyes open, reality dripped back. I was at Massey University witnessing yet another mundane day of lectures. As the liquid Manawatu sun fell around me, I dreamed of the day when I would be free and achieve the ultimate – 2,000km and beyond.
