Far from ordinary

During one trip, for example, we were on a night flight from Tel Aviv to Bombay, now known as Mumbai. Because Syria, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia denied overflight permission to any flight originating in Israel, we had to detour north over Turkey and Iran. (This was before Iran and the United States were at odds.)

We were cruising under a black velvet sky at Flight Level 370 and had just made a position report over Isfahan (Iran) when we received a call on our high-frequency transceiver: “TWA Seven-Four-Zero, Bombay Tower is going ‘good night.’ Maintain Three-Seven-Zero until reaching Bombay VOR. You are cleared for the approach and cleared to land Runway Two-Seven. Bye-bye.” I quickly picked up the mic to request clarification, but there was no response. The tower really had gone bye-bye. (We learned later that a notam about a planned tower closure from 0200 to 0500 local time had been issued, but that notam never made its way to Israel.)

We were three hours from landing with an ETA of 0240 local. Without clearance to descend prior to reaching Bombay’s control zone, we had no choice but to maintain 37,000 feet until reaching the Bombay VOR, which was at the airport. At that point, we retarded the thrust levers and made like a submarine in a crash dive, and the heavy monsoonal rain showers made it seem just as watery. The only thing missing was the harsh, metallic sound of a submarine’s klaxon, “Aah-OOO-gah! Aah-OOO-gah! Dive! Dive!”

Moments later we were lined up with Runway 27. The runway lights, however, had not survived the unrelenting deluge and had been replaced with flare pots. The flickering candle lights were blurred, and visibility through the wall of rain was almost nil. I cursed the windshield wipers for being more noisy than effective.

One of the world’s most unusual approaches was the Cheung Chau (or “Charlie Charlie”) approach into Hong Kong’s Kai Tak Airport (VHHH). We would approach the Hong Kong area from high above the South China Sea while monitoring our high-frequency receiver. At times, however, instead of hearing controllers, all we heard was Radio Beijing’s version of Tokyo Rose.

Often, a variety of navigation and communication difficulties occurred over Southeast Asia. I recall once attempting to contact Hong Kong Control when the frequency was jammed for 10 minutes. Such problems seldom lasted long but were annoying. We had to be particularly cautious, however, when nearing Hong Kong. Erroneous navigational signals from bordering China were intended to lead us astray. Furthermore, the area chart warned that aircraft infringing upon the territorial rights of China could be fired upon without notice.

The instructions on the approach chart were confusingly similar to an Aresti aerobatics diagram. Upon reaching the Cheung Chau Radio Beacon during the monsoon season, we had to descend through heavy rain while performing figure eights using the beacon as a pylon. Inbound to the airport, we slipped out of the soggy overcast and peered through an onslaught of rain. We then flew 15 miles at 780 feet above the churning waters of the windblown sea. Visibility could be as little as a mile, but ahead the Stonecutters Beacon urged us to continue. We entered Victoria Harbor, our screaming turbines seemingly unnoticed by those aboard the junks plodding and heeling through windswept waters.Aircraft infringing upon the territorial rights of China could be fired upon without notice.We would cross over what once was Kowloon Beach and begin a gentle right turn, straining to see the aiming points, a pair of large orange-and-white checkerboards on two adjacent sides of a 390-foot hill near the approach end of Runway 13. We knew it was time to turn toward the runway when we finally saw the illuminated checkerboards dead ahead and close enough to begin filling our windshield. This is when a new copilot would begin squirming in his seat. We’d bank steeply right to avoid the hill and simultaneously descend toward manmade canyons of concrete and glass and through torrents of turbulence. Tall buildings reached for the sky and probed for our belly. We rolled wings level at 200 feet and lined up on short final with the 8,000-foot-long concrete ribbon projecting into the harbor. We were inevitably greeted by a stiff crosswind.

Kai Tak Airport was closed 13 days after I retired. My successors will never know what they missed.

www.BarrySchiff.com