www.ButtonvilleFlyingClub.com

This was purely a matter of pride. In the past, Mike Koff had proven his ability to consume large amounts of coffee and still fly great distances. Ron and Gord had admittedly low bladder capacities, and stayed away from coffee and large amounts of liquids when flying. Doug was an unknown quantity (pun definitely intended). Only time would tell who would be the first to give in.

On Our Way

Wednesday, March 8th- launch date. We met at CYKZ at 6:30 a.m. local time to update the weather forecast together. Things were fine at Buttonville- overcast at 15,000 feet with light winds. But the preferred route took us to the west over Pittsburgh, and conditions to the west seemed to be deteriorating gradually. A low to the west was pushing out the high that we had been enjoying in northeastern North America. We would have to watch for storms and icing conditions around Pittsburgh. It would be touch and go, but it looked like we could get past Pittsburgh in time to catch the good weather farther south. We filed IFR flight plans to KGSO and were wheels up at 7:10 a.m. local time.

Toronto’s downtown area was bathed in light from the rising sun, and the few low dissipating clouds gave us a spectacular picture. We switched to Toronto Terminal in time to hear an executive jet at 2500 feet request a return to Pearson due to a bird strike. Soon we were over Pittsburgh in solid IMC, with lots of moisture but no ice. We were catching the leading edge of the deteriorating conditions, but it was manageable with help from the Pittsburgh controller with PIREPS and reports on icing conditions, and Gord’s Nexrad on-board weather radar.

Doug and Mike in the SR22 were well ahead of Gord and Ron in the Skylane by now. We were staying in touch on 123.45, and Doug let Gord and Ron know that they were moving off course toward Lynchburg, Virginia to avoid a small weather disturbance. Gord and Ron were able to keep tabs on that disturbance with Nexrad, and needed no diversion as it slid by ahead of them. After that it was clear sailing into Greensboro.

US Customs somehow had us coming in at 1500 local time, rather than 1500 Zulu, so we waited a fair bit of time for them to come to the FBO, Atlantic Aero, and clear us. There was no sign of the Customs Dragon Lady, and we were cleared quickly by a friendly agent.

FBO’s in the US are generally excellent in terms of service level and amenities, but Atlantic Aero went a couple of steps further. They had no less than 5 convenience cars available to patrons. They also had a stretch limo for short trips. We were delivered by limo to Ruby Tuesday’s for a quick lunch. On our return, Gord made sure to collect some of the FBO’s famous hot sauce that they give away to customers. The label claimed that it was good for (among other things) steaks, burgers, insanity, baldness, hangovers and amnesia, but was not recommended for prickly heat, poison ivy, shortness of breath or hemorrhoids.

We were wheels up at 18:33Z on IFR flight plans for Brunswick-MacKinnon, Saint Simons Island, Georgia (KSSI), but not before the first rift began developing between Doug and Mike (the “Cirrus pilots”) and Gord and Ron (the “Skylane pilots”). In planning the next leg, Mike advised Gord that the distance to SSI would be about 200 nautical miles. Gord did a quick check and discovered that it was really 310 nautical miles. Mike claimed that he was using “Cirrus miles”. Gord acknowledged that Cirrus miles may be slightly longer than Skylane miles, but cautioned Ron in relying on advice from the Cirrus pilots in the future. We would see that his caution was well founded- they proved time after time that they couldn’t be trusted, and Gord and Ron were constantly on guard throughout the trip.

The trickery continued when we checked into the King and Prince resort in Brunswick. Doug and Mike arranged the rooms. They were quaint and reasonably priced, but Gord and Ron couldn’t help but notice that the Cirrus pilots’ room had a balcony, and the Skylane pilots’ room didn’t. Dinner at the Crab Shack was subdued until Doug and Mike complained that they had no wireless internet access in their room. Gord, who had already used the wireless internet access in his room, advised Doug and Mike that wireless access was only available in balcony-free zones within the resort.

Saint Simons Island has a rich history, and aviation has been a helping hand in discovering that history. In 1936, the airport was constructed. The related excavations uncovered many Indian artifacts dating back before the 1500’s, and touched off a huge archeological effort led by none other than the Smithsonian. The Indians were Creek Indians of Muskhogean ancestry. They were anything but savages- agriculturally adept and politically well-organized.

Spaniard Hernando De Soto was the first European to visit what is now Georgia. He arrived in 1540. King Philip II of Spain selected the Jesuits to convert the Indians to Christianity. Their efforts began in 1566, and ended quickly by 1572 due to many misunderstandings. One of those was the Jesuits insistence that the Creeks be enemies of the Devil. The Creeks liked the Devil- they believed he made them fearless and strong.

The Franciscans took over gradually beginning in 1573. After a slow start, their missions flourished until 1675, when a combination of pirate problems and English incitement of the Indians gradually reduced the population to almost nothing. The English authorized a new colony there in 1732, ignoring a treaty with the Spanish. Thirty-five year old James Ogelthorpe was chosen to organize the new colony. He was a distinguished soldier and legislator, but his banning of booze and slavery in the new colony almost cost him his funding.

John Wesley became a pastor and a missionary at the colony. He established the first Sunday school in the world in Savannah, but you might recognize his name more as the founder of the Methodist movement.

On March 8th, 1736, John’s brother, Charles Wesley, arrived on Saint Simons Island to work as Ogelthorpe’s secretary. Two hundred seventy years later, on March 8th, 2006, the Buttonville Flying Club arrived on Saint Simons Island, with no immediately noticeable effect.

On to Florida

Thursday, March 9th began with Mike and Doug taking early walks on the beach, while Gord and Ron did some flight planning and checked the weather. We were planning to make Fort Myers, Florida that day. Doug had a place there, and we planned to cool our heels at Doug’s place for a couple of days before heading for Mexico.

We filed IFR down Victor 3 airway to Vero Beach, then across to Fort Myers. We were wheels up at 10:48 local and touched down at 1:30 local. During the trip, we had no weather to contend with, but the smoke from numerous grass fires left the leading edges of both planes covered with soot.

Doug’s house backed onto a golf course, and we spent the remainder of the afternoon lunching, swimming, catching up on e-mails and yelling “Fore!” We also got a start on refining the draft itinerary that Ron had roughed out earlier. Notwithstanding the relaxed pace, we had to think ahead a bit. We needed to arrange liability insurance through a Mexican insurer before we left for Mexico. We also needed to be sure we gave Fidel at least 2 days notice that we wanted to overfly his country so that he could issue a permit to his Canadian friends. Both of these tasks would involve some adventure.

Doug took us to one of his favourite local restaurants, Dolce Vita, for dinner. The veal marsala and seafood gumbo did not disappoint. We planned to dine at home the next day, which was bound to be a disappointment, so we savoured our after dinner coffee before heading for the local grocery store.

The next morning involved more on the planning front. We had decided to spend a day in Key West, our launching point for Mexico. It was Spring Break, and Mike wisely suggested that we depart from our normal policy of not worrying about advance reservations, since hotels were likely to be at a premium in a hot spot like Key West. Mike found a Best Western that was a bit pricey but at least had rooms. We made reservations for the next night.

In the meantime, Ron started shopping for Mexican liability insurance. The AOPA website had a list of American brokers that acted as agents for Mexican liability insurance, and Ron made some calls to them. They were all in the western United States.

The best known of these agents seemed to be McAfee & Edwards. They had several offices in California. They provided a quote of about US$7 a day, which was not bad for “not less than the equivalent amount of 56,900 days of the Mexican minimum wage in force in Mexico City” as AOPA’s website described the required coverage. However, we wanted to get a couple of quotes before booking with any one broker. They suggested we book through their website for convenience if we decided to go with them. That made sense to Ron, who had apparently never heard of the “bird in the hand” concept.

The problem was McAfee’s website. We decided to go with their quote, but had difficulty getting through the right link on the website that Friday morning. Oh well, we’d try again, and book by telephone if necessary once we got back from our planned drive to Naples that afternoon. After all, they were 3 hours behind us on the west coast. But Naples took more time than expected and we returned after west coast office hours. Oh, well, we’d book through the website on the weekend. That was the theory.

Naples is about 35 miles south of Fort Myers. It was the closest place that we could find to buy the aviation charts that we were going to need to get to Mexico. Nobody seemed to have VFR charts for Mexico, which was a little surprising. However, the Pilot Shop at the Naples Airport had the IFR charts that we needed. We could get VFR charts in Mexico if we needed them.

The drive down was uneventful, but useful in that it established Gord as the hands-down winner of the 2006 “Number of Cylinders” contest. This is an annual contest among the participants in the Club’s Caribbean trip. It was won during the 2005 Virgin Islands trip by Dave Cox, but this year, Gord triumphed. Too bad there was no prize. For the uninitiated, you enter the contest by totaling up the cylinders in the vehicles, implements and other toys that you own. For example, Gord had 3 eight- cylinder cars just for a start. When you started adding in his Skylane, his Model “A” Ford, his Harley, his Kubota, his boats, his PWC’s… well, you can see they add up.

The drive back was a total traffic jam all the way. Before leaving, we enjoyed a walk on the beach, a stroll on the pier (which was originally built in the late 1880’s), and lunch at the Old Naples Pub. This was a classic establishment in a grand old building. The men’s washroom featured an early 1900’s news publication on the wall in front of the urinal. It was mostly an interview with one of the first residents on the “Back Bay” area, Chiz Rivers, a legendary alligator wrestler. It was a full page article, so only Mike had the bladder capacity to finish reading it.

We spent the evening relaxing at Doug’s place, barbecuing steaks and sending taunting e-mails back to the Club’s Bahamas group who were weather- bound in Toronto. We had hoped to have a voicemail response from the outfit in Miami that processed Cuban overflight permits for the Cuban government, but no such luck. Not only were they not answering their phones, they were not returning messages either. Oh well, we’d have to try from Mexico on Monday. Given the lack of response from Miami, we thought we’d try our luck instead with the alternative office on Grand Cayman Island.

Stranded in Key West

We were in no rush to leave for Key West on Saturday, March 11th. Our hotel wouldn’t check us in before 2:30 pm, and it was only about a 90 minute flight.

Before leaving, we tried the website again for Mexican insurance. It still didn’t work. This was a problem. We were planning to leave for Cozumel from Key West the next morning, and we couldn’t leave without insurance. We’d already searched for other on-line alternatives. Well, everybody knows how important websites are to business these days. Surely it would be fixed by Saturday night. We’d try again in Key West.

Doug joined the Canadian Navy at the ripe old age of 17. On the drive to KFMY to leave for Key West, somehow we got Doug on the subject of seasickness. We heard graphic details of his experiences “talking on the big white telephone,” “calling for Hughie and Bill,” and other experiences that many seamen go through. Mind you, they are virtually identical to the experiences of most college freshmen- just a different cause and location.

We filed VFR from KFMY to KEYW, and it turned out to be the only leg of the entire trip that we didn’t do IFR. We were wheels up at 14:08 local. We landed at KEYW at 15:53 local, after a beautiful flight past Naples, Marco Island and the famous Everglades.

IFR is an extremely easy way to go. So easy, in fact, that it can make you lazy. About 4 hours after we landed in Key West and checked into our hotel, Ron leaped up from his snooze and asked Gord, “Did we close our flight plan?” “I didn’t.” replied Gord. Ron called St. Petersburgh FSS immediately. They had already called the KEYW tower to confirm our arrival. They had also left a reminder message at the FBO for us that VFR flight plans need to be closed. We were humbled but relieved.

We had checked into the Best Western Hibiscus. The non-negotiable Spring Break rate was US$263 for a large and clean, but dated, double room. The crusty desk clerk was an aging hippy. “Bars close at 10:00,” he drawled, “A.M.” That was a pretty good description of Key West from what we felt was likely a typical resident. It was a wide-open town, and Spring Break had it in full swing. One bar advertised “Clothing optional on the Patio.” On the main drag, Duval Street, kids walked by guzzling their beer. A freshman roared by standing up on the seat of a rented scooter. Custom Harleys rumbled by. This wasn’t Kansas, Toto. Both the atmosphere and the buildings brought to mind New Orleans and Mardi Gras.

It was hard to believe the buildings could have survived for as long as they have. The Keys are an archipelago, a string of about 1700 islands that begins south of Miami and heads west, between the Atlantic Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico. They are about as exposed to hurricanes as a place could be, and most of the older buildings seemed to be simple wood frame structures.

Hurricane Rita came calling in September, 2005. Rita was fourth on the list of the most intense Atlantic hurricanes ever experienced. It was number 1 on the list of most intense tropical cyclones ever seen in the Gulf of Mexico. It caused over $10 billion damage in the U.S. alone, mostly in Texas and Louisiana. Rita was destructive enough that her name was retired as a hurricane name by the World Meteorological Organization at their annual meeting in San Juan. Half of Key West’s residents evacuated for Rita, which was double the usual number.

Did more people evacuate because they learned something from Hurricane Katrina, another category 5 hurricane that had visited only about a month earlier? Apparently not. When Hurricane Wilma came along later on October 24th, only about 20% of the population honoured the mandatory evacuation order. Was Wilma “just another hurricane?” No- it made Rita look like a summer breeze. It was the most intense storm ever recorded in the Atlantic Basin, and caused almost $20 billion in damage. It also left Key West under about 2 metres of water. Hardy souls, those Key Westerners.

Sunday, March 12th dawned and we still had no Mexican insurance- the website still didn’t work (at least for aircraft insurance- we could have purchased auto insurance, but the thought of taxiing to Mexico didn’t do much for us). We’d have to wait for Monday morning, but that left us with some other timing problems.

It would be a 3 hour flight to Cozumel. We had no desire whatsoever to arrive during siesta time and spend hours waiting for officials to arrive, so we had to leave Key West early. But all the insurance agents seemed to be on the west coast, and they wouldn’t open until about noon Eastern time. We’d try to find an agent on the east coast first thing on Monday and take it from there. In the meantime, another day in a funky town- that wasn’t so bad.

We started off with a long walk to the beach (there are surprisingly few good ones in Key West), back up Duval Street and over to Hemingway Home on Whitehead Street. Ernest Hemingway (described in one brochure as “patron saint of writing, drinking, running with the bulls…and global icon of living life to the fullest”) was only one of a number of famous people who have called Key West home. They included author Tennessee Williams, President Harry S. Truman, poet Robert Frost, fashion designer Calvin Klein and, of course, Jimmy Buffet.

We ended up at the Mel Fisher Maritime Museum. Mel Fisher is a legend, and is sometimes called the world’s greatest treasure hunter because of his discoveries off the Keys.

Key West used to be inhabited by the Calusa Indians. The first Spanish explorers found a huge Calusa burial ground there and called it Cayeo Hueso, or “Island of Bones”. It lived up to its name by continuing to collect the remains of seafarers that washed up on its shores. The treacherous reefs off the Keys took their toll on many who tried to pass, and the galleons bearing tons of Spanish gold were no exception. Mel Fisher’s dream was to find them.

Fisher’s motto was “Today’s the Day!” He lived that motto from the time he first looked at an old map in 1969 to the day he hit the $450 million Atocha mother lode 16 years later. He found over 40 tons of silver and gold, more than 100,000 pieces of eight, gold doubloons, emeralds and other treasures. Exploration continues today.

Atocha was the rear guard in a flotilla of 28 ships bound for Spain on September 4, 1622 carrying immense treasure from the western world. She went to the bottom with 7 other ships when a hurricane overtook them in the Florida straits. Only 5 of her 265 passengers survived.

The Keys became a hangout of famous pirates over the years. Black Bart Roberts was one of them (we were sure he was one of Gord’s ancestors). Black Caesar was another. He was an African chief who escaped a slave boat, set up operations (including a prison camp and a harem of about 100 women) on Elliot Key and eventually joined Blackbeard in his plunders.

Pirates were a concern of Mel Fisher’s as well, but in his era they called themselves governments. Fisher successfully defended himself in over 100 court battles involving government and other claims to the treasure. Ron, a retired lawyer, could only drool at the thought of all those legal fees- a legal mother lode of its own.

We followed our museum visit with a walk on the Boardwalk (where 3 cruise ships were moored), lunch at the Angler’s Café (where service was lacking but the food was great), and a drink at the Hog’s Breath Bar (where honky tonk music lives!). One of our pictures at the Hog’s Breath shows a long haired biker lying on his Harley, with a live parrot on the handlebar and a license plate that reads “Reflect.” This was Key West wrapped up in a single package.

Monday, March 13th, and we still didn’t have a working website for Mexican insurance. Ron called AOPA as soon as they opened to try to find a broker on the east coast, with no success. We had to wait until McAfee opened at 11:00 am Key West time. Their turnaround was fantastic- we had the policies faxed to us by noon. But something disturbing had happened in the meantime.

We were unshaven and generally unkempt. The slits replacing our eyes were glazed over from too much caffeine. Our shaking hands were never far from a beer. We were slowly morphing into Key Westerners.

Ron looked at himself in the mirror and yelled, “Let’s get out of here!” Mike was the coolest of the four heads and didn’t panic. “No,” he said, “Let’s not do anything foolish. If we leave now, we could be stuck like this forever. Let’s rent scooters to help us move gradually back into tourist mode.” We grabbed a quick lunch at the Banana Café/Creperie and found some scooters.

Safety is paramount in these Club trips. We agonize over weather decisions. We carry life vests and life rafts, emergency kits with everything from bandages to signal mirrors, knives to cut seatbelts if necessary, personal locator beacons so that search and rescue can find us…the safety list goes on and on. We’re safety conscious. So renting scooters in Key West at Spring Break was obviously out of character, especially without helmets, which seemed to be the Key West standard. The only thing mitigating the risk was the fact that it was now clear that we had no brains left whatsoever to protect with a helmet.

We took the scooters to 2 beaches where Spring Break was in full swing. We rode to the cairn that marks the southernmost point in the continental United States (closer to Havana than to Miami), and remembered our visit last year to the easternmost point in the United States at Point Udall, St. Croix in the U.S. Virgin Islands.

After a swim, we headed out for dinner at Abbondanza Italian Restaurant. Lithuania is a long ways from Florida, but somehow our Lithuanian waitress, Agna, found her way to our table. Agna was delightful, the meals were massive, and the prices were reasonable. But Mike was troubled.

It was becoming clear to Mike that we had an unwanted passenger tagging along with us. “Guys,” he said as he watched Ron polish off dessert, “We’ve got to get Ron some treatment for his tapeworm.” Ron claimed it was the ideal pet- goes where you go, eats what you eat…It was true, however, that Ron’s appetite had gone out of control.

Ron had become deeply suspicious of the others, who seemed to have gastronomical clocks set in a completely different time zone. A typical day would see Ron’s body starting a slow hunger vibration within 2 hours after breakfast. At that point, while he still had the strength to speak, Ron would suggest that we go for lunch. There would be unanimous agreement, even though it was only 10:00 am. Then there would be a distraction- usually a laptop where weather or the history of the cylinder head temperature in DMX’s cylinder number 4 would captivate the others for hours. Ron grew to hate laptops- they became a symbol of hunger to him.

Eventually, the others would look down from the laptop and find Ron as a quivering puddle on the floor. That would be the signal for a renewed commitment to go for lunch immediately. “Immediately” generally meant shortly after reviewing the history of cylinder head temperatures in DMX’s other cylinders, and doing a complete briefing for a flight to Magnetawan sometime in the future. Ron began to carry emergency supplies of food even when outside the aircraft.

Our third day in Key West wrapped up with a post-dinner scooter ride up Duval for good music at the Hog’s Breath. We didn’t stay long, though. We’d have to be up early to make Cozumel before siesta time.

Buenos Dias Cozumel

Tuesday, March 14th, and we were finally leaving Key West. Not that we didn’t enjoy our stay- quite the contrary. It’s just that it had shaved a couple of days off the rest of our schedule. If we were going to spend some time with the other Club members in the Bahamas, we’d have to forget about our plans to go to Merida, Mexico for a day or two, and stick to the beach at Playa del Carmen.

Cozumel was the first point that the Spanish touched in North America. We decided it would be the first point in Mexico that the Buttonville Flying Club would touch. We could leave the planes at Cozumel’s international airport, MMCZ, and take the ferry across to Playa del Carmen.

Another alternative would have been to fly into Cancun (MMUN). Cozumel turned out to be the better of the two. It was a sleepy airport, with officials that remained friendly even though we were totally directionally challenged and even (unintentionally) left the customs area when we weren’t supposed to. Our directional issues were not in any way ameliorated by the customs and immigration procedures. They were the first of several things that had us going in circles.

Gord and Ron touched down in Cozumel at 15:34 Zulu after exactly 3 hours of flying. Doug and Mike arrived slightly sooner, even though they had returned to KEYW shortly after takeoff to close a door that had popped open on the Cirrus. Both planes had filed for 4,000 feet, but had been sent first to 6,000 feet by Miami Centre, and then to 8,000 feet by Havana Centre.

Our leg from KEYW to MMCZ was our first experience speaking with Cuban controllers. It was also Ron’s first opportunity, he thought, to try out his Spanish. He had spent hours before the trip watching Schwartzenneger movies to pick up as much Spanish as he could. “Hasta la vista, baby,” he whispered under his breath in anticipation. Ron was shattered when the first Cuban controller contacted us in clear, concise English. “Oh well,” thought Ron, “Lots of time for Spanish in Mexico.”

Ron had spoken with Cozumel Customs by telephone from Key West to make sure that we could leave the planes once we landed without waiting for Customs to come and inspect us. Gord and Ron were pretty sure that Customs would at least want to go through the plane, so they decided to leave their bags in the plane, rather than carry them into the terminal building and then, possibly, back again. And the circle began.

They went to Immigration and filled out forms. Then they went to Customs. Customs told them to get their bags- there would be no plane inspection. They went back to the plane, walked back through the base of the Tower (as they thought they had been instructed) and outside. When they saw cabs lined up, they realized that they shouldn’t be there and risked arrest for not going through Customs, so they went in to Customs through the front door of the terminal.

The lady officers at Customs wore a pained look of confusion as they witnessed Gord’s and Ron’s return through the front door. “Qué pasa?” they asked. “Hasta la vista, baby,” replied Ron.

Customs finally accepted Gord’s and Ron’s explanations, and sent them on to the Commandante’s office, about a hundred metres away. There, they filled out a permit application and other forms. The Commandante then sent them back to the Tower, which was about 30 metres past Customs, to close their flight plan. They then took their flight plan form, in quadruplicate, back to Customs for a stamp. Customs then sent them on to the Commandante’s office for another stamp. The Commandante’s office then sent them back to the Tower. At that point, they were able to return to the Commandante’s office to pick up the permit that they had applied for earlier.

You can see that we saw Customs 3 times, the Tower 3 times, the Commandante 3 times and the Pope once before we were signed out. Also, we had spent an extra 2 days in Key West on the understanding that we would likely have our plane impounded and our butts thrown in a Mexican prison if we didn’t have Mexican liability insurance. Do you think we were asked for evidence of that coverage? You guessed it.

Even more remarkable was the fact that Gord and Ron had no difficulties with Customs. Mike claimed he had told Customs to check their underwear. We can only assume that, after seeing Gord and Ron come back into Customs through the front door of the Terminal, Customs simply concluded that they were too stupid to smuggle anything into the country.

We found our way easily to the ferry that was to take us to Playa del Carmen. We passed the half hour ferry ride chatting with Katie, a 23 year old from Barrie. Katie had spent the last 2 ½ months on Cozumel with her boyfriend and others kite-surfing. Her next stop after a brief visit with the family in Barrie was Cape Hatteras, North Carolina, a kite-surfing Mecca for North America. Oh to be 23 again.

Playa del Carmen’s original name was Xaman-Ha. It was a key jumping off point for Mayan pilgrimages to Cozumel. The Mayans believed that Ixchel, the goddess of the moon, love, pregnancy and childbirth (in short, fertility), lived in Cozumel, so it has been a major destination for honeymooners for centuries.

Playa del Carmen is only about 60 kilometres south of Cancun. Cancun’s tourism industry got a start through a government-funded development project in the 1970’s. It took time for the tourism boom that took Cancun to creep down what is now called the “Mayan Riviera” and reach this once sleepy fishing village.

About 10 years ago, Playa del Carmen had no electricity, no telephones and no running water. It is now a vibrant, modern tourist centre, and some sources believe it is the fastest growing community in Mexico.

The first order of business on arrival at Playa del Carmen was to get some help with our luggage. There were many 3-wheeled bicycle carts with owners anxious to help, and soon we were on the main street looking for a place to stay.

Our search for a hotel was a lengthy process for 2 reasons. First, it was Spring Break, and most places were full. Secondly, we absolutely wanted a place on the beach. Miguel came to the rescue, without realizing what he was in for.

Miguel was a friendly 35 year old who found us wandering the streets looking at hotel brochures. He was well dressed and spoke English well. He offered to help us find some rooms. Ron determined in cross-examination of Miguel that he had a relationship with a number of hotels that paid him for his referrals. That didn’t stop us from looking at other hotels. Although Miguel was clearly nervous about the possibility of spending time with us and not getting his referral fee, to his credit, he willingly showed us to non-affiliated hotels. We eventually selected Mosquito Blue, the only acceptable hotel we could find on the beach. They had no arrangement with Miguel yet- they had only been open 3 weeks. We made sure that Miguel was well compensated for his 3 hours of effort.

Miguel was typical of the attitude that we experienced in Playa del Carmen- friendly, genuinely anxious to help, and honest. There was never a time during our stay there that we felt concerned for our safety, or felt that someone was trying to take advantage of us. That general attitude is one of the primary reasons that all of us would return to Playa del Carmen at the drop of a hat.

Rooms that Miguel showed us ranged from about US$60 per night a block from the beach, to US$191 per night on the beach. There were no totally unacceptable rooms even at the bottom end of the price range. But Mosquito Blue was spectacular. It was a designer hotel, with décor and design that took your breath away. It proved, however, to be a triumph of fashion over function.

For example, there were no shelves in the bathroom to put out your razor and toothbrush, or in the rainforest shower to hold your shampoo, and no spare hooks to hang your wet towels. The garbage can was tiny to preserve aesthetics. The toilet was square (honestly), but it did work. The opaque bathroom door seemed incongruous in rooms with 2 double beds. I mean, if you aren’t sleeping with someone, chances are you aren’t anxious to see their naked figure through the bathroom door.

But especially the electronic room keys didn’t work. Among us, we probably had to have our keys reprogrammed a dozen times over our 3-day stay.

Carlos at reception checked us in. We called him “Dr. No.” Was there a special rate for CAA members or other memberships? No. Were there any rooms with bigger beds? No. Were there any rooms available on the ground floor? No. Was there wireless internet in the rooms? No. Had he ever successfully used a square toilet? Finally we got a yes answer.

We finished off our first day in Mexico with a very late lunch (as usual, whined Ron), a long walk on the spectacular beach, a tour of 5th Avenue or Quinta Avenida, the main drag, and a Kahlua.

Our next morning began on the beach as well, with a tasty $4.99 breakfast and another long walk. The lack of vendors on the beach was a pleasant surprise- they are a true nuisance on some other beaches. The vendors off the beach made sure you knew what they were selling, but were not aggressive. One of them called out “Hey, guys- fishing? skydiving? sailing? What would you like to do?” Gord responded, “How about nothing?” “Oh, I’m sorry, Señor, that one’s fully booked.” was the response.

Ron and his wife Val have some dear friends, Mike and Heather, that Val and the kids were skiing with at Killington while Ron was away (this was the second year in a row that Ron had not been present when Val and the kids did a winter vacation with Mike and Heather and their kids- he had been on the Virgin Islands trip last year at the same time- but Mike and Heather didn’t seem to be taking it personally). Ron had sent a status e-mail to Killington just before leaving Key West for Cozumel.

Heather had sent Ron a return message through Val. “Too bad you have to leave the bikinis of Key West for the bikinis of Mexico, Ron.” Now, Ron knew that Heather was, by nature, a worrier. He was sure that there was concern on Heather’s part hidden in this message. That concern confused Ron. Why would Heather worry about bikinis? From Ron’s experience so far on the topless-optional beach in Playa del Carmen, the bikinis never seemed to stay on for long anyway.

After a swim and (yet another) late lunch, Ron headed for the hotel to organize the Cuban overflight permit that we had not succeeded in getting earlier. After all, we needed to give 48 hours notice, and we didn’t want to wait until we got to the Cayman Islands. That would cut it too close. Ron didn’t know it, but this project would suck him into the second organizational circle experienced since our arrival in Mexico.

Long distance calls from the hotel were outrageously expensive and not recommended. That would have to be done up the street at the telephone/fax office. Their service was good, and their prices were reasonable, but the instructions that they gave Ron for dialing the permit agent in the Cayman Islands (the Cayman Islands Aviation Authority or CIAA) didn’t work. Ron returned to the front desk for better instructions. This time they worked.

Ron had already prepared the Cuban overflight application forms from the AOPA website and was prepared to fax them immediately to the CIAA. No, said the CIAA, those weren’t the correct forms. They only worked for the Miami agent. The CIAA had its own forms. They would fax them to Ron immediately. They tried twice but the fax receiving at the office where Ron was waiting didn’t work. No problem- Ron would get them the fax number for the hotel.

Ron returned to his room to get the fax number for the hotel. The key to the room didn’t work as usual. Ron went to the front desk to get access to his room from Dr. No. “Is there a fax facility here?” “No.” It turned out that faxes could only be made and received at Mosquito Blue’s sister hotel 2 blocks away. Ron got the number, returned to the telephone/fax office to call the CIAA with the fax number, and headed for the other hotel. The fax was waiting for him. But there was a problem.

Unlike the AOPA application forms, which were very basic, the CIAA forms called for detailed information, including estimated times crossing specific waypoints. Ron needed the LO charts to find them. Back to the hotel room 2 blocks away, then back to the sister hotel to complete the applications and fax them to the CIAA. By this time, the second vicious circle had turned a half hour exercise into a 3 hour exercise.

While Ron had been engaged in this dizzying exercise, Gord, Mike and Doug had wandered about like tourists, caught up on e-mails (again, this had to be done at the sister hotel- there was no wireless internet access at the beach hotel), and relaxed. They had also located a laundry facility where we were able to have all of our laundry done, folded and returned for $5. As we collected our laundry, we realized that our wardrobe was incomplete- we didn’t have enough ugly clothes.

“Guys,” said Doug, “We really need some matching shirts for when we meet up with the rest of the Club in the Bahamas. And the uglier, the better. Let’s go shopping.” This excursion took us the length of 5th Avenue, but the effort was worth it. We found some bright blue polyester shirts. They were ringed on the collars, sleeves and lower hems with Corona beer bottles. Ten dollars each. Perfect. When we returned to Canada, they’d make ideal rags for washing the planes. We also bought matching yellow baseball caps.

As we headed for the store checkout, we met a family from Huntsville. They agreed with us- those were the ugliest shirts they had ever seen, and they also needed at least one. This would turn out to be our greatest failure of the trip- relying on a consultant from Huntsville in sartorial matters.

Clutching our purchases, we stopped for a margarita to help us recover from the grueling shopping experience. We then moved to a restaurant that had been recommended to us as excellent but relatively expensive. We sat down beside an American couple and started looking at the menus that had been brought promptly by a waiter. Mike’s chat with the Americans revealed that last night, they had dined at a local restaurant up the street, where they claimed to have eaten 9 tacos for about $5.

Flying isn’t cheap. Guys that blast around the Caribbean in new half million dollar aircraft are obviously not hurting financially. But Canadians simply cannot pass up a bargain. You couldn’t see us for dust as we scrambled out of the restaurant and headed up the street for tacos.

Back to Cozumel

Thursday, March 16th, started out with another $4.50 breakfast at a local restaurant. Ron then had a business call to make to Ottawa, and a call to Cayman Island Customs to clarify their procedures (no advance notice was required). Then we all went for a walk to find the “phantom” local airport (PDE).

We had searched our Jeppeson databases for an airport at Playa del Carmen, and there was none. However, we kept seeing aircraft at low altitude down the beach that looked like they were taking off, and we decided to investigate. Sure enough- there was a paved strip less than a mile from the hotel.

We stood at one end of the strip and placed bets on how long it was. Ron and Mike guessed 5,000 feet. Gord and Doug estimated 3,500 feet. We were all wrong- it turned out to be only 700 metres long. This spawned remarks about how consistently males overestimate the length of things, and in particular how pilots develop a talent for overestimating distances, especially when measuring visibilities.

We chatted with some local pilots at the airport about the short strip and the multiple obstacles at the east end. Gord mentioned that those obstacles would not be allowed in Canada. “Well,” was the understated response, “things are a bit different in Mexico.”

We headed back down the beach toward the hotel. Our amigo with the tricycle luggage cart would be waiting for us at the hotel at noon so that we could catch a 1:00 ferry back to Cozumel. We packed, checked out and headed for the ferry.

We knew that there were only small snacks on the ferry, so it seemed wise to eat while we were waiting. Ron volunteered to get some tacos from a street stand that we had seen earlier. The street vendor didn’t speak English, but, out of necessity, Ron had doubled his Spanish vocabulary over the past 3 days- he now knew how to say “tengo hambre” or “I’m hungry.” The vendor handed him 4 delicious tacos. “Quatro pesos, Señor, por favor.” Ron handed him 40 pesos, or about $4. He returned 36 pesos in change. You have to love Playa del Carmen- honesty, friendliness, cheap food, sunshine and a great beach- what more could you ask for?

The highlight of our return to Cozumel was the appearance of 30 blond models on the ferry as part of a Hawaiian Tropic contest. We stayed well away from them. The low point was our hotel. We were in Cozumel for only a half day, and we weren’t going to spend half of that finding a hotel. We acted quickly and decisively in selecting the worst hotel of our trip.

The Hotel Hnos. Aguilar was set in quaint pavement surroundings off the beach. The rooms cost $45 a night, with no extra charge for the door shavings on the floor that hadn’t been swept recently. The Skylane pilots had no hot water the next morning (fortunately they’d showered the night before). Oddly, the Cirrus pilots, who had arranged the rooms, had no such difficulties. Coincidence? The Skylane pilots thought not.

Both Ron and Gord tried to get the air conditioner working in their room, with no success. The friendly woman from the front desk got it going with the flick of a single switch, to gales of laughter from Mike and Doug, who had assurances from Ron and Gord that they’d tried everything to get it working.

There was, as you can imagine, no internet access at the Hotel Hnos. Aguilar, so we headed for an internet café to check the weather for tomorrow’s flight to Grand Cayman Island (MWCR). This was becoming almost aformality. Weather was never bad in this part of the world at this time of year it seemed. A late lunch/early dinner at La Choza restaurant, a stroll on the beach, and mojitos at a Cuban bar completed our day.

Grand Cayman Islands- the Smell of Money

You’ve heard of the proverbial needle in the haystack. Finding the Cayman Islands is more like looking for a needle in a barnyard, rather than just a haystack. They are literally in the middle of nowhere. Our IFR alternate airport was Sangster International (MKJS) at Montego Bay, Jamaica. It was over 200 nautical miles from our destination.

The connection between the Cayman Islands and Jamaica existed well before anyone thought about IFR alternates. Christopher Columbus claimed the Cayman Islands for Spain in 1503. Like many of the Caribbean islands, they ended up in British hands. Sir Francis Drake was the first English visitor, arriving in 1586. But it wasn’t until 1670 that Britain took formal control of the Cayman Islands, under the Treaty of Madrid.

Jamaica became a British possession at the same time. The British made the Caymans officially a dependency of Jamaica in 1863. That simply formalized its unofficial status as a Jamaican dependency since 1670. The Caymans remained a Jamaican dependency until 1959, when they received their first constitution.

We were wheels up off MMCZ Runway 11 at 15:05 Zulu on Friday, March 17th. Our departure was preceded by another dizzying circular march between the tower (where we filed our IFR flight plan) and the Commandante’s office. Cozumel ground cleared us from the ramp to the runway immediately, with no hold short instructions, and cleared us for takeoff while we were still taxiing. This was not a busy airport.

Ron had been in the right seat for every leg of the trip to this point. That was where Ron spent most of his flying hours anyway as a part time instructor. Since Gord didn’t have an instrument rating, Ron had been PIC for each IFR leg (which was all of them except the one to Key West) but his instructor rating and a hood on board allowed Gord to log a bit of dual instrument time on the trip. Ron took left seat for this leg.

We had filed for 7,000 feet, and that put us just above the cloud tops for most of our route. Merida Centre soon handed us off to Havana Centre. Quality of English was not an issue, but quality of transmissions was at times. An American Airlines crew heard us requesting a repeat of one transmission several times, and stepped in to relay the instructions. Courtesy lives in aviation.

We also heard an American Airlines flight ask Havana Centre for a ride report from another American Airlines flight at 36,000 feet. “It’s smoooooth up here,” drawled the other captain.

On this leg more than most (likely due to lack of radar coverage in some locations), we were asked for regular reports on distance from various waypoints and on estimated arrival times at various waypoints. The Cirrus and the G1000 Skylane are basically just flying computers, so we had exact details at our fingertips for extremely accurate reports. It occurred to us, however, that you wouldn’t want to fly these legs in less sophisticated aircraft without being sure that you had a GPS or a mathematician on board that could provide that information easily for you.

Gord and Ron listened to satellite radio for part of the trip. Connie Francis, Bobby Darrin, Tennessee Ernie Ford and others rode with us until we were handed off to Grand Cayman Approach. Now that was a busy controller, handling non-radar IFR approaches, other tower transmissions and ground control all at the same time in a busy airport.

C-GMMN touched down on MWCR’s Runway 08 at 17:38 Zulu, and again a few seconds later.

There is an uneasy relationship between the owner of an aircraft and an instructor on board (even as an ordinary passenger). The owner feels his every move is being scrutinized (which it isn’t unless training is underway). The instructor knows that each owner has his own particular way of doing things with his particular aircraft, and just hopes his way of doing things is at least as good as the owner’s. In this case, Ron’s method of landing Gord’s aircraft came up well short of Gord’s. It was still a great landing, if you subscribe to the popular theory among pilots that a good landing is any one that you walk away from, and a great landing is one where you can use the plane again.

Ron claims that his memory is so bad that, when he was still practising law, his partners used to send him out for retraining after each lunch hour. Perhaps Ron forgot about the concept of leveling off before flaring on a landing. The Skylane met the runway in a brisk descent and floundered back into the air like a wounded duck.

Ron thought he saw 2 spotlights out of the corner of his right eye, but it was just Gord’s eyes. They were the size of dinner plates at a Chinese buffet. Gord was most of the way through the Lord’s Prayer already. In an unearthly co-incidence, Ron added power at exactly the moment that Gord reached “the power and the glory” in his prayer, and a divine Hand touched MMN down softly on the tarmac.

The heaviest part of the luggage that Ron carried into Grand Cayman Customs was unquestionably his bruised ego. He secretly vowed that he would make up for the bad landing. Secretly, Gord also vowed that he would be better prepared for Ron’s next landing. The extent of that preparation would amaze Ron a few days later in Fort Pierce, Florida. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

There is a smell to money. It’s likely not real, but it’s noticeable in many settings. Walk into any five-star hotel and you’ll catch a whiff. We noticed it immediately as we crossed the tarmac to Customs among the private jets parked there. It continued as we checked into the Marriott Courtyard across from Seven Mile Beach. Ron choked on it as he paid US$9.24 for 2 small bottles of water (imported from Italy, of course) from the beach bar at the Hyatt. The smell of money pervades the Cayman Islands, and for good reason. It is a renowned world money centre.

In 1966, the Caymans passed special banking legislation. It had a particular emphasis on confidentiality, much like the Swiss bank approach that is world famous. Where there is strict confidentiality, there is potential for sheltering of illegal activities. The American government has focused on accounts in the Caymans in their drug money laundering investigations.

At least one Canadian bank with a presence in the United States and in the Caymans has found itself between a rock and a hard place as a result of those investigations. When the Americans ordered the bank to divulge information relating to certain of its accounts, the bank refused and paid out hundreds of thousands of dollars in fines to the Americans defending that confidentiality. The alternative was to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars in fines to the Caymans for breaching confidentiality laws. Not a pretty situation.

But it is mostly the tax-free status of the Caymans that has made it a huge money centre. Unconfirmed legend claims that the tax-free status originated in the late 1700’s as an indirect result of the “Wreck of the Ten Sails.” In November of 1794, 10 ships ran onto the Gun Bay reef at the east end of Grand Cayman Island. The quick action of locals from the island ensured that no lives were lost. King George III was particularly grateful, since a member of his family was aboard one of the ships. He arranged for Parliament to pass special legislation waiving all taxes for Caymanians.

Our 5 mile walk on the pristine Seven Mile Beach had whetted our appetites, and we headed for Café Med. Although Mike was the South African on the trip, Ron was the one who managed to find a South African wine to enjoy with our excellent dinner. There is no shortage of fine dining on Grand Cayman, but be prepared to pay. We found that a good dinner with wine cost no less than US$60 per person. Without taxes.

Over dinner, 3 subjects came up that were regularly recurring themes in our conversations. Technology was the first. The Cirrus had a slight edge over the Skylane in the “flying computer” department. We were constantly amazed at what Doug could download from DMX to his laptop for review- everything from cylinder head temperatures to complete flight profiles.

The second subject was John Chandler. John is supposed to be retired, but keeps up a grueling schedule as a Class One instructor, a District Flight Test Examiner and a devoted grandfather. Despite his schedule, John made himself completely available to Ron, Doug and Mike during the weeks leading up to the trip, and the trip wouldn’t have happened without his efforts.

Thirdly, we constantly realized how fortunate we were to be able to do this type of thing. That ability had come from a lot of hard work in building successful businesses, but we all realized that hard work alone does not guarantee success. There are many factors, including other people and simple good fortune, and none of us will ever forget those other factors.

The Marriott Courtyard had an exercise room, and each of us took advantage of it during our stay. Mike was the first one there on Saturday morning, although Doug was up earlier for a brisk walk on the beach. Doug, Gord and Ron enjoyed a US$15 buffet breakfast at the hotel (triple the price of our typical breakfast in Mexico) before getting down to work on wrapping up preparations for Cuba.

Fortunately, our Cuban overflight permits were ready for pickup at the CIAA. MMN’s permit was addressed to “Capt. Ron Mershefl”. This made Ron nervous. “Who the hell is this guy,” he said, “and why is he trying to get on our aircraft?” Gord suggested that the mistake had more to do with Ron’s awful writing on the application form than any devious plot. It was true- Ron’s writing was an ongoing problem. Customs people were constantly asking for translations. The fuel invoice in Cozumel had been addressed to “Ron Martsahall”.

In our overflight permit applications, we had indicated that we would be filing for Nassau as our destination. We had since learned that the Club group in the Bahamas was likely going to be closer to North Eleuthra by the time we got there. We wanted to check to see if there was any problem with heading for North Eleuthra, instead of Nassua, after we were out of Cuban airspace to the north.

The FBO, Island Air, was very helpful. They did not see any issue from the Cuban end, but mentioned that Miami had, at least once in the past, refused to clear them to a different proposed destination once they had passed over Cuba into Miami airspace. The representative at the CIAA was of a similar opinion. Ultimately, although the application for the permit includes all kinds of details as to departure times and proposed times over certain waypoints, once you get the permit, it is good for the whole day and, subject to Miami controls and flight plans (you must file IFR to overfly Cuba), you can go where you need to once you’re out of Cuban airspace.

But North Eleuthra was a real mystery. Our Jeppeson databases showed a GPS approach there, including all approach waypoints. Our approach plate books had nothing for North Eleuthra. We e-mailed Club members to see if they had approach plates, and they responded with appropriate derision. “Everybody knows that there are only 2 airports with IFR approaches in the Bahamas- Nassau and Freeport.” Gord snapped a picture of the approach as it showed on the Multi Function Display in MMN so that we’d have evidence for them that they were wrong. We never did locate any approach plates, and we remain baffled as to why they are not available.

We then assumed our tourist mode and headed for Rum Point. It was a colourful spot on the northeast coast. It had a great beach and signs like “Hurricane Michelle was almost here November 2001” and “Canada eh?” A sign over the bar warned “Caution- do not feed the bartender”, and the restaurant served a mean Mahi Mahi Caesar wrap.

We found our way back to the hotel, with a stop for groceries and some drugs for Doug’s cold. Each of us had colds on some part of the trip, but Doug’s was a bad one. Gord, Mike and Ron were little enough affected that they thought they’d look into trying to book a dive for the next day. Unfortunately, it was Spring Break, and all the dive operators were fully booked. We’d have to try for something in the Bahamas.

We asked the concierge at the hotel to recommend a restaurant for dinner. She suggested Ernesto’s, a Cuban restaurant/bar that was relatively new. It turned out to be the worst restaurant of our trip.

We should have turned around and walked out when we walked in to loud music and a relatively smoky atmosphere from the bar. One of the owners escorted us to a table, and we asked to be moved to a table further from the smoke without success. Eventually a waitress appeared- or at least she claimed to be a waitress. We didn’t see much of her that evening.

It was Mike’s turn to order wine. Having ordered a South African wine the previous evening in deference to Mike’s place of origin, Ron fully expected that Mike would order a fine Saskatchewan wine in honour of Ron’s place of origin. Again, there was no trusting a Cirrus pilot, but Ron had to admit the Rioja was very tasty. The only problem was the beads of condensation on the bottle- the restaurant had chilled it. Mike suggested several parts of the owner’s body that might reduce the bottle’s chill a bit, but we restrained him.

And then we waited. And waited. And waited. Even Mike, who usually ate late, was starving. He tackled a passing waiter and asked for some bread while we waited. And then we waited for the bread. And waited. It finally arrived- 4 slices of what appeared to be Wonderbread neatly arranged on a plate.

Finally our appetizers arrived. Gord sent his back to have the frost removed. Well, ok, it wasn’t quite that cold, but it sure wasn’t hot. In the meantime, Ron had inhaled his lukewarm Ajiaco soup, using speed and friction to warm it on the way by his taste buds. We noticed the people 2 tables over return their main courses and walk out. That should have been our second clue to look for a dinner alternative, but it was getting late for that.

We finished our mediocre dinners and were presented with the wrong bill. A new bill arrived some time later, overcharging us. Even the corrected bill amounted to about US$60 per person for a totally unacceptable experience. Gord shared his opinion of the restaurant with the owner on the way out, and later with the hotel concierge.

Sunday, March 19th, was to be a touristing day for us. We couldn’t dive, so we thought we’d go to Hell. I know, I know, we’d been to Hell for dinner the previous evening, but this was a different Hell.

Hell was a short drive north from our hotel. It is a quarter acre of severely eroded limestone and dolomite. It was named when a Commissioner from England visited the site, shot at a bird among the jagged rocks, missed, and exclaimed, “Oh Hell!” Our imaginations danced with towns named after any one of a number of alternate expletives he could have used. Cheery signs at the local souvenir store invited us to send our friends a postcard from Hell. How could we not?

The local turtle farm was next on our list of attractions. The farm produces over 8,000 baby turtles annually. They grow to adults weighing over 500 pounds. The farm boasts that it has sent more than 30,000 adult turtles to the sea since it began operations in 1980. “What a waste,” thought Ron, as dreams of turtle soup tormented his starving body.

As it turned out, Ron’s dreams would be realized that evening at The Lobster Pot restaurant. It is possibly the most famous restaurant on the island, and has been operated by the same family for over 25 years. Patrons have a spectacular view of the sea, and enjoy signature dishes that the restaurant claims are world renowned. And they don’t chill their Rioja.

Over Cuba to the Bahamas

We planned to be at the airport on the morning of March 20th by no later than 8:00 local time. We wanted to be wheels up by 9:00, and we knew there would be another circle of administrivia waiting for us before our departure. Sure enough. We went to the weather office for a briefing, then to the CIAA to file our flight plans, then to immigration, then over to Customs, then to security.

Finally we were ready to go, except that Doug’s passport seemed to be missing. Doug looked everywhere- he ransacked his suitcase, he emptied his computer case, he searched his flight bag, he flipped through every book he was carrying- no passport. After about half an hour of searching, it turned up- in his back pocket. We were wheels up at 9:47 local, after a new experience- we heard a controller refuse to give a private jet its IFR clearance until the pilot paid its fuel bill!

We had filed IFR for Freeport (MYGF) with Nassau (MYNN) as our alternate. There were 15 other Club members in Freeport on their way back north, so it promised to be a grand reunion that night. We had hoped to spend a bit of time in the out islands before heading as far north as Freeport, but we wanted to link up with the group, and we could head south to the other islands after they left the next day if we wanted.

The controller required that MMN maintain a climb rate of 800 feet per minute or better out of MWCR. That was fine initially, but the Skylane finally cried “Uncle” in the heat and Gord and Ron were issued less demanding instructions. Headwinds that varied between 10 knots and 35 knots meant a flying time of 2.9 hours for DMX and 3.8 for MMN. It was a thrill flying over Cuba, and the Cuban controllers were extremely friendly and co-operative.

More so than the Miami controllers. They refused direct clearance to Freeport once we left Cuban airspace, and instead cleared us to MAYKO, a waypoint that didn’t appear on our charts. Fortunately, Mr. Jeppeson knew about MAYKO, and it was a short wait for clearance to the GPS approach at Freeport.

The apron seemed full of Canadian aircraft- Bill Harding’s P210, Joe and Jan Decaria’s C172, Mark Brooks’ SR20, Bob and Sue Jewett’s T210, Barbara Santamaria’s C172, and Billy Lowe’s RV-6A. Customs was a breeze (Ron never even had to show his passport), and we were soon on our way to the Pelican Bay Resort.

This was a terrific resort, with impressive rooms for 2 to share at US$85 a night total (organized for us by Barbara Santamaria). We ran into Irene King and her daughter Lauren immediately upon arriving. They had come with Bill Harding in his P210, and were headed out for some shopping while Bill relaxed by the pool. We found Bill there and joined him for a snack and a beer at the Yellowtail Bar. Soon we were joined by Joe and Jan Decaria, their co-pilot Alan Stephenson and Bob and Sue Jewett. We slipped away to check in. This was our chance to don our ugly Mexican shirts and hats.

The 4 of us headed back to the Yellowtail for pre-dinner drinks, resplendent in blue and Corona gold. We thought we were ugly personified. We were shattered- there were comments like “Oh, what great shirts” and “What a great idea- team shirts to commemorate the trip!” Not one negative comment ensued.

Now, it’s not like our fellow club members to be polite (at least not to us). It was clear to us that they actually liked the shirts. We had failed miserably in the ugly department. Or had we? Ron and Doug were talking on the beach later in the evening, when 2 co-eds staggered by. One of them pointed at the shirts and slurred incredulously, “Did you buy those on purpose??” Ron and Doug exchanged high fives.

There were 19 Club members at Le Med restaurant for dinner that night. Besides the people that we had caught up with at and before the Yellowtail, we were joined by Atillio Polsinelli and Martin Huige (traveling with Mark Brooks), Barbara Santamaria, Akky Mansikka, Billy Lowe and Laureen Nelson-Boutet. It was a spectacular get together.

The next day was Tuesday, March 21st. Most of the Club members were scattering. Bill was headed for Fort Lauderdale with Irene and Lauren to look into some autopilot repairs. Bob was heading for the airport to have a bundle of wiring looked at. Billy and Laureen, Barbara and Akky, and Joe, Jan and Al were all heading north, hoping to make St. Augustine.

Doug, Gord, Mike and Ron did a 5 mile walk on the beach, had a swim and ate lunch at a pub on the beach with Atillio, Mark and Martin. We also called U.S. Customs in Fort Pierce, Florida to let them know our arrival time the next day. The forecast wasn’t looking pretty up the east coast of North America. Much as we wanted to stay a couple more days, it looked like we’d have to begin heading north tomorrow.

Mark had rented a van, and we intended to do a bit of touristing before we left. Mike drove, Mark navigated, and Atillio, Doug, Gord, Martin and Ron sat in the back, second guessing and criticizing the driving and the navigating. Somehow we found our way around the island. The frequent traffic circles were extremely useful in regularly retracing our steps and, of course, Doug, Gord, Mike and Ron were very used to going in circles by now.

Our first stop was the Garden of the Groves. It was advertised as one of the finest botanical gardens in the Caribbean, with winding paths, cascading waterfalls and over 10,000 species of exotic plant and animal life. It was closed when we got there. Had they seen us coming? No- hurricane damage was everywhere. Hurricane Wilma visited on October 24, 2005 and had been merciless.

About 47,000 people live on Grand Bahama Island. Over 7,000 of them were affected by Wilma and her related tsunami. When Wilma arrived, many residents had not yet recovered from visits by Hurricanes Frances and Jeanne in September, 2004. In fact, our hotel had given up trying to keep clay tiles on its roof. During our stay, they were busy removing them and replacing them with a more hurricane-proof covering.

We left the Garden of the Groves and headed for Lucayan National Park. The park was established in 1982. Its 40 well forested acres contain dozens of plant species including mangroves, ferns, orchids and other exotic flowers. It also boasts one of the world’s longest systems of underwater caves. Gord’s eyes lit up at the thought of cave diving, but the restricted locations, the need for a UNEXSO permit and timing considerations complicated things.

We headed through the mangroves for a stroll on the Park beach. Doug, Gord, Mike and Ron had had a near-death experience in sea kayaks among the mangroves of Hawk’s Nest last year on the Virgin Islands trip (see the “Pilots of the Caribbean” link above). They were greatly relieved that not a sea kayak was in sight here.

We had heard of a U.S. Navy missile tracking station near High Rock, east of Freeport. It was used mainly in conjunction with the lunar program in the sixties. We had to see the abandoned dish, which was near the park. Although we didn’t know it at the time, the abandoned station itself had been converted to a film studio operation, and had been busy with the 2 sequels to “Pirates of the Caribbean”.

The old tracking dish is in a state of total disrepair. There is no restriction at all on access to it. It stands about 20 metres high, with a platform about half way up that allows you to walk around the structure under the actual dish itself. We climbed up the internal ladder, looked around and took some pictures. And then we heard it- a strange squawk- or was it a growl- or was it a squeak? Just the wind in the structure? Sure.

Then Ron found the turds. There were many of them. And they were big. There was a huge bird in the top of the structure and we were in its basement (or maybe in the bottom of its outhouse). And it didn’t sound happy. The best that could happen if we stayed here would be a fecal bath. The worst would be a tour of a giant bird’s stomach. It was lunch time, and we preferred to be the eaters rather than the eaten. We left.

We lunched on the beach at Bishop’s Bonefish Resort and chatted with some folks from Virginia. Then it was back to the Pelican Bay hotel via a long sightseeing route. A swim, a pre-dinner drink, and a great dinner at Shennanigans Irish Pub, where Doug had what he claims were the best lamb chops of his entire life. Then off for a good night’s sleep. We wanted to be up early to start the trek home.

Freeport to Greensborough- Almost Home

We had advised Fort Pierce (FPR) Customs to expect 4 Canadian aircraft (the SR22, the Skylane, the SR20 and Bob Jewett’s T210 FPPP) at several times. All of the times were close to 1400Z, since we planned to depart at 1300Z. The problem with that plan was that Freeport Customs didn’t arrive until 1300Z. And those who tried to save time by filing a flight plan with Miami before leaving the hotel were forced through the same exercise again by Bahamas Customs, who insisted we file with them.

The other problem was that someone had hit our rental van while it sat in the parking lot overnight. The local constabulary found the culprit in record time. Perhaps their job was made easier by the driver’s hitting the van in front of the hotel security guard. Or maybe it was because he left his crumpled car parked beside our van after the accident. In any event, there was no difficulty in finding the responsible party, and it was clear that we were not at fault. But there was still a massive amount of paperwork to look after. Somehow, Mark got it all done and got us all to the airport as well.

The trip to Fort Pierce was uneventful, except for Gord. Ron was flying MMN again, and Gord still hadn’t forgotten the landing at Grand Cayman. On final, Ron’s peripheral vision picked up a great deal of activity in Gord’s seat to his right. Gord had donned a funeral shroud and was busy injecting embalming fluid into his veins.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” yelled Ron. “I’m ready to meet my Maker,” replied Gord calmly. “But don’t you know that cremation is the preferred alternative these days?” asked Ron. “Well,” said Gord, “we have lots of fuel on board for you to accomplish that.” MMN touched down softly on runway 27, and we rushed Gord to Emergency to reverse the embalming process.

Our next leg was the longest of the trip. MMN left KFPR at 17:49Z and touched down at GSO 4.4 hours later. During this leg, we talked to Miami Centre, Orlando Approach, Daytona Approach, Jacksonville (Jax if you’re cool) Approach, Jax Centre, Savannah Approach, Jax Centre again, Columbia Approach, Shaw Approach, Florence Approach, and Greensborough Approach. Ron and Gord heard Bob in FPPP stopping at Savannah (KSAV) for fuel and for the night. They also heard Billy and Laureen (with presumably the two C172’s following) heading into Charlotte (KCLT) for the night.

Ron and Gord had to remind Jax approach to hand them off to Jax Centre. This was the second time on the trip that a controller forgot about us. Doug and Mike had found themselves still at 8,000 feet almost on top of KSSI when we stopped there. They had to request descent clearance, something that should ordinarily have been initiated by ATC.

The hospitality at Greensboro truly is terrific. The FBO, Atlantic Aero, gave us our choice of courtesy cars, and we headed for the Comfort Suites for more great hospitality. Mark, Atillio and Martin arrived later to find us at the hotel’s “Happy Hour” enjoying free beer, wine and hors d’oeuvres. The Steak Street restaurant extended dinner hospitality a bit later.

The Home Stretch

Gord and Ron planned for a 4 hour leg from KGSO to CYKZ. Doug and Mike would knock about an hour off that time. But we had to decide- VFR at a lower altitude or IFR at a higher altitude?

With no instrument rating on board, Mark, Atillio and Martin were spared that decision in GOPX- it was go VFR or not go at all. KGSO had clear blue skies, and 6,000 foot ceilings started at ELKINS, some 170 miles north, so it looked like there was plenty of room to clear the Appalachians and stay VFR. The question then was, given the low ceiling forecast farther north, could the SR20 make it into Buttonville?

The SR22 and the Skylane would definitely go IFR. Cloud tops looked like they would be about 8,000 feet, and filing for 9,000 feet should afford clear sailing. But there was still a question about getting into Buttonville- would they face icing issues descending through the forecast low cloud? There was a likelihood of some holes over Lake Erie that would allow us to descend without icing worries. With the reserve range of these 2 aircraft, a likelihood was enough to leave us confident that we’d be okay, but cautious throughout the trip nevertheless. We called Canpass to give Canada Customs notice of our arrival time, and filed our flight plans. We were wheels up at 15:27Z.

KGSO Departure, Roanoke Approach, Washington Centre, Clarksburg Approach, Cleveland Centre…the miles ticked away. MMN, DMX and OPX stayed in touch regularly on 123.45. We also had a chance to chat with Bill Harding in MOT as he headed into Allegheny for fuel and lunch. It was about then that Gord started to worry about Ron.

Ron’s face was slightly flushed, and he seemed uncomfortable. “Are you ok, Ron?” Gord asked. “Oh, yes,” Ron smiled stiffly, “I’m fine.” He didn’t appear fine to Gord, but Gord let it go. Fifteen minutes later, the picture hadn’t improved. Ron’s face was completely red, with touches of blue around the bases of his ears. “Ron,” said Gord, “was it something you ate? Should we touch down at the next airport?” “I’m fine, dammit,” muttered Ron, “just keep going.”

Five minutes later, Ron’s teeth were clenched, his eyes bulged out and he was obviously in great pain. He was bent over at the waist with his knees locked together. Now Gord understood. He grinned. “Would you like the Little John, Ron?” he asked, smirking. “Get lost, Gord, I’m fine.” Once again, Ron was humbled. He was the first on the trip to have to use the Little John to answer the call of nature in the air. At least the first that he knew of. Who knows what went on in DMX that the Cirrus pilots wouldn’t admit.

Erie Approach routed us to LINNG intersection via V522, then passed us on to Buffalo Approach. We were still at 9,000 feet looking down at a solid overcast and not knowing how thick it was or whether we had to worry about collecting ice as we descended through it. We asked Buffalo Approach what they knew. Nothing- no PIREPS to help out. To our left in the distance, there appeared to be a relatively small hole as forecast over Lake Erie. But it was also looking thinner below us. We thought we’d try for a descent now while things looked promising.

Buffalo Approach cleared us to 3,000 feet. We were able to report entering cloud at about 5,500 feet, and leaving it at about 5,000 feet, with a small trace of ice on the way through. Shortly, the cloud layer thickened up, and the base dropped to 3,500 feet. We’d picked a good time to descend.

MMN touched down at CYKZ via the RNAV 33 approach at filed arrival time almost to the minute. Buttonville Ground sent them down runway 03 to the FBO. Ron snapped a picture of the Nav Canada Dash 8 apparently on final to runway 21 while MMN was still on runway 03- a scary picture, but the Dash was just doing a low and over. A quick call to Customs from MMN got the customs clearance number and Gord and Ron taxied for Hangar 14. They weren’t in time to catch Doug and Mike, who had landed almost an hour earlier. GOPX arrived within the next hour.

This was a great trip. The Skylane and the SR22 are awesome cross country machines and never once let us down or fell short of our expectations. All of us learned a great deal, grew closer as friends and made some plans for future trips together. Stay tuned for a report about Costa Rica - or maybe about some other place where there is not yet a pin in the Buttonville Flying Club world map.