Musings: Flying in New Zealand

We had all just survived another Pacific Northwest winter, this one so long and dreary that the weather report in March could find only three “sunny and mild” days since the start of October. Meanwhile, in New Zealand, where I am from, another antipodean summer lingered on. Skies were blue. Airplanes were flying. See where I am going with this?

So, I wrote a letter to the New Zealand Civil Aviation Authority and received a charming reply. To transfer my FAA commercial certificate, I simply needed to sit for the CAA commercial exams, and then a checkride. The Kiwi examiner had flown in the Pacific Northwest himself and his response was as warm and encouraging an official letter as I’d ever received.

The first indication of my challenges came with my official CAA assessment. I’d need to sit for all six two-to-three-hour exams, just for the New Zealand commercial. (Two for the instrument rating. And seven for the ATP license.) So, I began to study navigation, to find that the only equipment I could take into the exam was a pencil, a ruler, and a mechanical E6B; no electronic E6B, no electronic calculator, no kidding.

Studying from the United States, I was barely able to find any assistance, online or otherwise, and eventually relied on just one textbook to teach me not only how to use the thing, but eventually how to perform a six-step navigation formula under exam conditions. And that was just navigation.

Aerodynamics, technical knowledge and loading, human factors, meteorology, and law followed. Each exam had its own quirks—one human factors question asked if, in the event of a crash and a passenger with a large piece of bodily-embedded metal, would I, as pilot in command, extract it or leave it embedded?

I had decided to fly out of the North Shore Aero Club, a nontowered field about 30 minutes north of Auckland, along a picturesque country road lined with curly willow and purple-and-white agapanthus. Runway 3 heads straight out over the coast to the Kawau, Little Barrier, and Great Barrier islands (for an NDB approach!), while Mahurangi Harbor, with its tiny bays and narrow inlets, is a perfect low-flying practice area. To the west, Runway 21 heads out over vineyards and farm estates towards the wild black-sand coast. Its fields make for good engine-out landing scenarios, although if you miss the vines, chances are you’ll disturb a herd of cows. We fly low in New Zealand, mostly around 3,000 feet, with paper maps and, often, no GPS.

The aero club, with its club trips and quiz nights, attracts local pilots, as well as those from around the world—France, the United Kingdom, England, and Taiwan—all wanting to convert foreign licenses so that they, too, can have this experience.

Although I found the actual flying a little disorienting at first, wanting at least to see a magenta line “as back-up,” now I’m used to flying low and slow, with a paper chart in my lap. I expect to see gliders emerge from the ridges of the Matamata ranges, silent and swooping, as they make their way back to the gliding club. I expect to hear Kiwi accents on frequency, relaxed yet present, in that unmistakable Kiwi way. Want to visit the tower? The controller will likely offer to share his ham sandwich and make you a cup of tea.

I do miss flying in the United States. I miss my beloved ForeFlight, TCAS, Class B, tower controllers who speak so fast they sound like auctioneers, and the abundance of GPS/ILS approaches. I miss having to scurry out of the pattern of my nontowered field to make way for a Cessna Citation or a Gulfstream on a long base leg—coming in hot! I miss my 6,000-foot home airport runway, and the dive bar after-flying diner, and I really miss my Aero Commander 500B, which I sold to help finance this latest caper.

But if truth be told, I think I am a better pilot. Point of No Return, anyone? Let me fetch the whiz wheel.

Anna Gregory is a writer and pilot who lives in Bremerton, Washington.