Atlantic Crossing—Part II
By Dick Karl
March 2009
 You may remember last month we left off in a brand-new TBM 850 halfway between Scotland and Iceland at Flight Level 280 with both a master caution and a master warning light flashing and a horn blaring. That we were a long way from any land much less any runway required no emphasis. A fuel boost pump had fallen off-line for the third time. If there was ever a time to contemplate the twin versus single argument, this was it.
Yet the TBM is so solid of a machine and the ferry pilot in the right seat, Margrit Waltz, so experienced, that I really didn't feel in any jeopardy. There is a backup boost pump and that big PT-6 will run on an engine-driven pump alone, so the event seemed more like a nuisance than anything else. Sure enough, we never heard another peep out of the engine or its accessories again. The event is a reminder that delivery flights by Socata are considered endurance flights under factory control before the new owner takes title, even if he or she makes the trip in her new airplane. Still, I can't deny a tightening of my insides.
Iceland looms on the Garmin 1000 and then appeares in person; flat, white with a snow blanket and welcome. I am late spotting the airport and then I have a hard time getting slowed down to what seems like unrealistically slow approach speeds for an airplane that has been loafing along at 310 knots true. Leveling off to bleed speed and to accommodate the landing flaps extension speed of 122 knots, I end up so high that the tower inquires as to whether we were going around. We don't, but I do use up more runway than I should have. It is 10,056 feet long.
And so to Iceland. At the FBO, South Air, Margrit makes a phone call to Socata in Florida and gets a return call from France, reassuring us about the fuel pump lights as just "setting adjustments." It is a Sunday, so Iceland is it for the day. You can get fuel in Greenland on a Sunday, but it will cost you. The Northern Light Inn and the adjacent Blue Lagoon are next on the agenda. We cover the airplane's various inlets, secure the prop and ride in a van to the hotel. Iceland appears to be composed of mostly volcanic rock, dark brown in color and coarse in its landscape. The van driver announces that the moon rover unit was tested in Iceland on this basalt before it went to the actual moon. I can see why. The Blue Lagoon is a large geothermal pool in the middle of nowhere. Its waters originate thousands of feet below the surface and are cooled so that tourists can soak in the three- to four-foot-deep pool. The outside temperatures aren't bad -- about 33° Fahrenheit -- but everybody is limiting their exposure to heads only. I have purchased the largest available bathing suit but it is more Speedo than gentleman's trunks, so I am careful to stay pretty much submerged so as not to frighten the tour busfuls of Korean teenagers. I enjoy excellent halibut at the Inn, watch the television for a while, listening to the cadences of the Icelandic language (derived from Old Norse), which sounds pretty guttural.
Next morning we start early. We're looking at a long day with headwinds reaching 110 knots on the nose. We depart on a heading of 291 degrees towards Narsarsuaq on the southwestern tip of Greenland, just 789 nautical miles to the west. We climb right back to FL 280 as crisply as before; the airplane will climb at rates of over a thousand feet per minute out of FL 270.
We settle in. Despite the ferocious headwinds, the Iceland to Greenland segment should be less than three hours. Occasionally the flat, dull, gray sheen of the North Atlantic is visible; the sun is just coming up to speed over my left shoulder, but mostly we're above cloud cover. For all I can tell we could be going from Syracuse to Grand Rapids, except for the huge Garmin display that reminds me that we're over water -- cold water at that. Margrit has flown everything everywhere and she regales me with stories, some of which are hilarious, but off the record. She tells me that she gave up single-engine ocean crossings when she turned 40 and that being marooned in Goose Bay for her 50th birthday (when a Cessna 421 bound for Europe had a bad engine) persuaded her to stick to turbine airplanes. Our groundspeed has deteriorated to 218 knots.
As the big arrowhead shape of Greenland makes its way onto our map, Margrit calls Sondrestrom radio for an update on the Narsarsuaq weather. You want to make a decision about where you're landing early in this part of the world. The airport is still VFR and we are encouraged. I note that Kulusuk and its gravel runway is the nearest field and it is only a scant 195 nautical miles to our north-northwest. Soon the undercast shreds and the actual sights come into range and they are remarkable. Icebergs can be easily seen floating just east of the island -- the largest island in the world. (I am not certain as to what you have to do to be called a continent around here.) The mountainous terrain and blowing snow are easy to see as the weather clears. Even at FL 280 you can see tendrils of wind-whipped snow and are reminded of the treacherous nature of Greenland flying. During World War II this route was the trail taken by most American airplanes heading to fight in Europe.
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Approach to Greenland.
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We start our descent towards peaks and valleys and soon the fjords of western Greenland are obvious. I have not ever seen a landscape like this. The Rockies in winter are majestic, but there are no fjords and no icebergs. The peaks seem to be swaddled in snow and the sense of wind and cold is unmistakable. We are soon heading towards Runway 25 at Narsarsuaq, hoping to outrun a Mustang coming from the states that is heading to Runway 07.
As I maneuver for the runway, easily visible as a dark scar on a snowy flat surface, I can see minor icebergs floating just to our right. My landings are getting somewhat better and we taxi towards the, well, terminal building. A long two-story structure is set maybe 200 yards from a WWII-style hangar. It is cold and there is ice on the tarmac. Margrit greets the Mustang crew; she knows the Austrians importing the Mustang. I scurry into the warm building.
About 100 people live in Narsarsuaq. This is the famous WWII field called Bluie West One. Read Ernest Gann for more. In Fate Is the Hunter he describes being briefed for the approach to Bluie West One when approaching from Goose Bay, Canada, in a DC-3 overloaded with steel girders for construction of the airport. "There are three fjords. You will notice that all three look exactly alike … . But only one is the correct fjord that leads to the field. The others are dead ends and you are advised to stay out of them unless you have learned how to back up an airplane." Descents over the ocean were often made down to 100 feet in airplanes wearing considerable coats of ice before the fjord selection process began. In today's GPS world this kind of airmanship (and luck) is hard to comprehend. At the peak of the war 4,000 personnel were based here. Tug boats were stationed in the freezing river to tow icebergs out of the approach path to Runway 07.
There is no school, no hospital and no doctor in Narsarsuaq. Margrit, of course, knows everybody. We exchange information with the eastbound Mustang crew, take on 680 liters of jet-A with Prist. The building feels like a hundred other FBOs you've been in. It gives off a well-worn, friendly sense. It takes some concentration and a glance out the window to refresh your memory that you are standing in a very unusual, forbidding and historic place. I have two cups of delicious coffee. I often enjoy coffee while flying our Cheyenne, but you don't eat or drink on a ferry flight when you are delivering a $3 million-plus airplane to its new owner.
We head out. Airspace is uncontrolled below 19,000 feet and we are cleared only to 18,000. This is not good. "Down" here we're burning 61 gallons an hour and only doing 272 knots true airspeed. We've got 50 knots of headwind now, but we don't know what we'll encounter at FL 280, if we ever get there.
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