As part of the Royal Volunteer Coastal Patrol I was telephoned
at 7.28 a.m., on Saturday morning 6 November 1999 by the
Broken Bay Base in Pittwater, to ask if I could help in
an exercise they were experiencing.
A small fishing boat had overturned off West Reef and
only one of the three men appeared to be still with the
vessel. He had set off the EPIRB and radioed that his
two mates were missing. The boat itself was quickly disintegrating
and he himself was in dire straits.
West Reef is a bombora just west of Maitland Reef, offshore
from Killcare on the northern shore of Broken Bay. I know
it well because I flew over it almost every day for 20
years when I flew to work at Wyong. I had also been here
in my own boat before the creation of the Marine Park
trying to catch a few Moeys (Morwongs) and knew how treacherous
it could become when the weather turned foul.
Still brushing the sleep from my eyes I didn't hesitate
to give them the thumbs up - "I'll call you on Marine
VHF as soon as I get airborne - What frequency are you
using?" "Just call us on Channel 16 to begin
with - but we are organising two rescue vessels and will
be working on Channel 77 - Suggest you go to that after
establishing contact with BASE - Do you think you will
be long?" I said, "I'm not sure it depends on
the tide because I have to launch the aircraft off the
slip, maybe 20-40 minutes before I get airborne."
I had done this sort of thing before and we had discussed
the role I was to play - and had played in the past. My
job was to try to locate the survivors in the water, or
any sign of them such as wreckage, or lifebelts they might
be hanging onto, and then, through direct radio contact,
direct the rescue vessels to them. If the EPIRB was still
going on 121.5, I would also try to get a rough position
from that. In this case, they knew where the vessel was,
so it was mainly a case of aerial spotting for men in
the water.
I wasn't sure how much fuel I had in the aircraft from
my last trip but I had several empty 20 litre cans I could
take along and refuel at Palm Beach if it was going to
be a lengthy exercise. I knew I had enough for at least
2 hours anyway so that would get me going.
As I shot out the door my wife said 'Where are you going?
Who was that on the phone?" "It's the Coastal
Patrol," I said. "They need me." "Oh
yes," she said "Any excuse to go for a fly and
you'll drop everything - aren't you going to finish your
breakfast?"
She was partly right, I didn't need much coaxing to get
me flying but there was more than that, I didn't know
who these fishermen might be but I was one myself and
had a lot of family and friends who went offshore - I
often wondered if anything ever happened to my brother
John out game fishing, whether I could get there quick
enough to do anything to save him. I really felt for these
poor blokes in the water and hoped I could get there quick
enough to find them before a grey nurse or hypothermia
got them.
One thing I had learnt, when you're in a hurry, Murphy's
Law dictates that something will go wrong so the rule
is "Festina Lentae" or "hasten slowly".
Take the time to double check everything.
In this case I was lucky - first it was right on high
tide so the plane was launched with a mere push on the
nose. Second, I had forgotten my friend Graham White was
having some introductory lessons in seaplaning and had
arranged to come over to do a few jobs on the floats.
Six minutes after the phone call I was launching the plane
with Graham's assistance and we had the engine started
taxiing out at 7.39 a.m., just eleven minutes since the
alert was given. It took another eleven minutes for the
engine to come up to temperature during the slow taxi
down the Lane Cove River.
By 7.57 a.m., we were at the Heads and punching into a
very strong nor-easter - it wasn't the normal nor-easter
that comes up as a daily sea breeze in late morning during
the summer months. This was a nor-nor-easter, part of
a synoptic system that brought storms and rain to the
area during the previous night. The sea was really rough
and I thought of the terrible conditions described in
a book I had just finished reading called "The Perfect
Storm", and more recently "The Fatal Storm"
by Rob Mundle describing the 1998 Sydney Hobart Yacht
Race. It wasn't that bad of course, but having played
a small part in that episode, when the C180 was still
on wheels I couldn't help thinking - people only get in
trouble when the weather is bad and I never get called
out on a nice fine day. During the Hobart Yacht Race I
happened to be on the farm at Tilba Tilba and the Volunteer
Coastal Patrol at Narooma called for my assistance - I
tried but the weather was so bad I had to give it away
after half an hour, and counted my lucky stars to have
got back safely.
As we turned north around North Head, I switched the radio
to 121.5 and could clearly hear the EPIRB signal. This
grew louder and louder as we just came to Long Reef and
then to the scene. We did not use it for homing in this
case because we knew where the vessel was - but it was
satisfying to know that the beacon was still working and
we were picking it up so clearly. Most pilots have rarely,
if ever, heard the distress signal on 121.5 and I doubt
if many ever switch their radios to listen out on this
frequency - although they SHOULD do.
The 121.5 EPIRB signals can only be received by an aircraft
or special search vessel radio - normal vessels on the
marine band are not equipped to receive it.
By 8.02 a.m., we were at Long Reef and in radio contact
with the search master at the Patrol Base. He had dispatched
two rescue vessels, one of which was already on the scene,
together with the Broken Bay police launch "Abbott".
They said they had some wreckage and one survivor on board
but were still looking for the other two men. In another
five minutes we were overhead and in direct radio contact
with the rescue boats.
They were having difficulty making radio contact with
the base because of the local terrain, specifically Barrenjoey
Head and Bilgola Head, which were directly in line with
the Base Station at Newport.
We had clear signals from both at 500 ft so were able
to relay all the messages. This is one thing I have often
found, a seaplane with a marine radio can provide. Frequently,
I intercept radio calls from vessels trying unsuccessfully
to contact their bases or vice versa and am able to relay
for them. In this emergency my relays turned out to be
crucial to the exercise. I certainly had my hands full
working the three boats below and the base station, and
I'm sure I mixed up some of the call signs in the confusion.
A bit of practice at this might be a good idea for the
future. From the air I could not identify which call sign
related to which vessel, until one of them reported picking
up a survivor clinging for his dear life onto a floating
esky just south of the reef.
From this I was able to identify the boat against its
call sign (FN I 77) and then know which other boats were
which. Graham White suggested to me that the remaining
survivor, if there was one, must be downwind of that position.
The wind must have been at least 20 knots and from the
air we could clearly see windstreaks pointing almost due
south. As we turned on a southerly heading the sun moved
behind us and we almost immediately imagined we saw a
small collection of rubbish or wreckage with a head bobbing
up amongst it. With my workload on the radio, Graham was
flying the plane and immediately went into a tight orbit
over this spot. Our announcement on the radio was acknowledged
and the search vessels immediately turned heading towards
us. The base station called for an indication of where
this sighting was! From the GPS we were immediately able
to report 33¡ 33.40' south 151 ¡ 22.5' east
but the boats below were concentrating more on just aiming
for the place over which we were orbiting.
As we circled around, I could occasionally glimpse the
image of the face of the poor bloke down in the sea. He
seemed to be clinging desperately to some object, but
was very much aware of our presence above him, at one
stage letting go of whatever was keeping him from being
swamped by the white caps to wave to us. To me this represented
a communication link, albeit small, between us. The fact
that we continued circling over this one spot indicated
to him that we must have seen him. He wanted us to know
that he had seen us. Graham kept the plane in orbit until
the rescue boat below had reached the spot.
At precisely 8.25 a.m. (just 57 minutes from that phone
call), I was now becoming concerned about our fuel situation
but kept on in tight orbit until the coastal patrol rescue
boat advised us he had sighted the place below us and
was about to pick up the third man.
We vacated the scene and landed in Pittwater, behind Barrenjoey
Head to re-fuel at Carmel Walton's boat jetty.
Before alighting, the Coastal Patrol Base thanked us and
advised that the third survivor, albeit only a ghost of
his former self, had been taken on board. I felt a sense
of great satisfaction that we had been of such help -
and whilst only a "Search" part of the "Search
and Rescue" operation it was just conceivable - that
if we hadn't sighted him or directed the rescuers to him,
that poor fellow, albeit a ghost, may not have survived!
To me this was another demonstration of the role of the
seaplane in Search and Rescue at sea, and ample justification
for all seaplane pilots and operators to become part of
the RVCP and install a simple inexpensive marine radio
to be able to assist in times like this. It's a two-way
street and there are times when the RVCP might rescue
us, certainly plenty of times when they can report local
weather conditions up and down the coast during marginal
weather and moving southerly fronts.
