Sagadahoc Stories #100: 7/10/99
Ultralight Passage
Looking down
If you work on something for three months, then turn it over,
everything is upside down for a while. I've been standing on my
head all week, not knowing which way to fall. All the decisions
about the interior of this boat must now be made, these two twelve
foot commission sculptures are due, and it feels like Summer is
racing past. It's easy to confuse yourself into a corner. Just
when you feel boxed in, you might get touched with the wing of
a passing enchantment.
I was out in the Eagles, fumbling with materials in the morning
light, when I heard an unfamiliar aircraft passing overhead. Stepping
onto the deck I could see an ultralight circling at a thousand
feet, but instead of the nasty whine of a two-cycle mill, this
bird was softly stirring the air to a four-cycle beat. It spiraled
down on Bowdoinham International, the pocket airfield just over
this rise, and suddenly another bird hurtled over at treetop level,
arcing in on the runway. There was some wild magic in this aerial
convergence, and I grabbed Olympus. Hopped on my bike.
Looking up
Arrival
When I pedaled onto the field, they were taxiing up. Two multi-colored
machines jouncing over the grass, ridden by a pair of grinning
guys in yellow jumpsuits. Philippe wheeled in behind me in his
pickup. He'd been on his way to work in the cabinet shop, when
these strange birds led him astray. We steeped over the rope fence,
and approached the dismounting riders.
Mike Blyth and Olivier Aubert. A pair of vagabond adventurers
on an epic journey, we discovered. Flying from Patagonia to Capetown
South Africa via Greenland on two souped up flying motorcycles.
Their enthusiasm was infectious, and we joined the support team
immediately.
Mike & Olivier
Olivier
Mike, close-cropped, slender and sharp-eyed, is an ultralight
competition champion from Johannesburg. He designs and builds
Aerotrikes, including the powered hang-glider he's flying, "The
Spirit of Mandela," and tinkers with the machinery constantly.
Olivier, wild-haired, built like a hockey player and winking at
the world, is a Swiss national who runs safaris and does photo-journalism
all over Africa. He's flying a French-built DTA, dubbed "Voyageur,"
and draws women like mice to the cheese.
These chaps have ganged up before. A few years back they flew
their microlights from the Cape of Good Hope to North Cape in
Norway, making a six hour crossing of the Med and flying over
the Alps en route. This time they set out to circle the Pacific
Rim, going from Cape Horn via Alaska to Tasmania. So they ended
up in Bowdoinham? It's the magnetism, of course.
Mike
Actually it's a matter of moola. Mike and Olivier are simply too
irregular to attract corporate sponsorship. They are wild and
woolly doers, not buttoned-down salesmen. Puffing up their adventure
to sell space on the balloon isn't what they do best. Like artists
who'd rather paint than eat cucumber sandwiches, they are too
unruly to sell. They tried to hustle some deep sponsorship, and
the wheels were still turning when they left SA. With or without
the backup bucks, they shipped their aircraft to Buenos Aries,
put them together, and set out, hoping the money would follow.
The first leg took them south into Patagonia, where they crossed the Andes in the Roaring Forties. Then they flew up the west coast of South America, crossed to the east coast of Central America, and so across Mexico. It wasn't until they reached the US that they realized the corporate chickens wouldn't come roosting on their Pacific Expedition. Calculating the cost, it was cheaper to circle the Atlantic and end up home, than to go to Australia. So they took a right turn in Texas, and ended up in our dooryard. East? West? What say, Ollie?
I went home for the truck. Mike clambered into Ebba, Olivier got
in Philippe's truck, and we went to town, shopping for materials.
Flying these high-tech birds on a shoestring, without logistical
ground crews, makes Mike and Olivier adept scroungers. When they
hit Maine they had one cracked muffler, one weak battery, a phantom
oil pressure problem, and not enough fuel capacity for the ocean
hops ahead of them. We made the rounds of likely suppliers, looking
for 20+ gallon tanks which would fit in their back seats. Eventually
we located two perfect tanks, at a marine supply house in Rockland,
and a deal to get them at cost on my account. So they'd fly to
Rockland the next day.
Zulu Uniform SKY
John Hunton down the hill welded the muffler, while Mike got on the internet and Olivier checked out our plumbing. A line of thunder squalls rolled through, but the birds were comfortably snugged up against the walls of the airport building, and all their gear was indoors. After the downpours, we convened at Philippe's for a barbecue, where we toasted the travelers, and shared outrageous lies.
Flying Fish Talisman
Olivier teased Mike about a mid-ocean getoff. "When I see you
in the raft giving thumbs-up, I fly on to Iceland." Oh yes, and
they needed CO2 cartridges for their military salvage rafts, and
EPIRB beacons. They joked about the best way to crash land in
the water. "I think I'll just hang by one arm until my toes touch,
then let go," Mike said. Makes the hair stand up, doesn't it?
The exquisite tingle of anxiety and excitement was like a charge
around them.
These adventurers intend to fly to Baffin Island, then Greenland,
Iceland, the Faeroes, Orkneys, and then Scotland. The biggest
jump is Greenland to Iceland, an 8 to 10 hour passage, if all
goes well. They can wait for the weather. Their only real concern
is an engine failure. Both have experienced them, but over land,
where they simply hang-glide in. Their 100 horse Rotax engines
are the latest, most powerful mills in ultralights. They also
have ballistic recovery parachutes they can deploy at altitude
to float the whole machine to earth, but they'd rather not land
in the icy North Atlantic.
Joy of Flight Talisman
We got the feeling these guys like to party hard and turn off the alarm clock. Grabbing every joy with both hands. They spun yarns about climbing Kilamanjaro and flying over the deserts of Chile, about coming in on the wrong airfield in Colombia, getting chased by military aircraft, and taking evasive measures. Skimming the treetops, and flying just off the beach, all around the world. You can follow their yarn at www.pacific-expedition.com.
Voyageur
I don't think I've ever met anyone as geophysically liberated
as these two, unless it was Margaret Mead, who also left you spinning
in her wake. It was a whiff of hitch-hiking days in the 60s, a
taste of Kerouac, with barnstorming aerobatics thrown in. But
without any sense of haste. Did all that Latin rub off in South
America? Mike and Olivier had all the time in the world. They
would stop whatever they were doing to tell their tale, for the
thousandth time, if asked. You never felt they were stressed by
the technical difficulties, or the bureaucratic hassles they encountered.
I guess flying a hang-glider over the Andes makes everything else
seem penny ante. Their aura of centered patience was inspiring.
In the morning, before they loaded their kit, Mike and Olivier
gave us all rides. WOOSH. It was a bit turbulent, even in the
AM, and absolutely thrilling. If these dudes act free, flying
in an Aerotrike is the way to get there. You are right out there
in the weather, along with the eagles. I remembered Olaf Stapleton's
description of the birdmen (in "Last and First Men") who lived
for the ecstasy of flight. I see how you could end up chasing
clouds, or dreams of circumnavigation, in a microlight.
Peggy Aboard
Press Photo
(Jill Brady - TIMES RECORD)
I beat feet for Rockland with Ross while Peggy was getting her
ultra thrill, but the boys preceded us. Olivier already had a
tanned lady offering him a sail on Penobscot Bay, and Mike was
surrounded by Airforce specialists talking about GPS navigation.
Then the press arrived. I'd called in the Times Record news hounds
in Bowdoinham, and now felt a bit guilty, realizing how often
the adventurers had to face the press. This time the Bangor Deadly.
When we finally cleared for takeoff, we made a tour of Rockland,
coming back with tanks and plumbing supplies, but Mike hadn't
been able to cash a $4000 cashier's check, drawn on an Indiana
bank, at any institution in town. So much for cash anywhere checks.
Wished we'd known that was on the agenda yesterday.
Mike and Olivier were unfazed. No BMW battery? Fine, we'll try
Quebec. Mike still needed a visa for Canada. Maybe in Bangor.
Compared with the four day wait and extortion for admission in
Peru, cautious bankers in Maine were no big deal. No armed guards
at the airfields.
100 Horses
Preflight
The travelers' take on our corner of America was interesting.
"Not so many fat people," they averred. Maybe we should have taken
them to Fat Boy for burgers. "Lots of beards." And they noted
the visible affluence of this country. All the vehicles. They
said they overflew more multi-million dollar estates at Hilton
Head than there are in all of southern Africa. They said they'd
like to stay in Maine someday, that it was the friendliest place
they'd been in the US. They probably tell everyone that. How could
you resist being friendly with these up guys?
The last I saw of the voyagers was from Tom's porch at the Head.
Olivier and his lady friend motored a dingy out to her sailboat,
and it seemed to take an awful long time to get any sail on her.
But eventually they rounded the point, and blew out of sight.
Three days later I got an e-mail from Mike. He was in Buffalo,
NY, having driven there in a rental car to get a Canadian visa.
He had remarked that getting visas as a South African was like
pulling teeth, but Buffalo? Be careful: it may be that if we marginalize
places like Africa, call them irrelevant to contemporary history,
we will make outlaws out of guys like Mike. Or is it that our
confining timidity about borders and strangers will be rendered
meaningless by ultralights and the internet? Welcome to the next
millennium. Bon voyage.
Back to Earth