Flying Wide
S13°16.45′ W171°14.06′
0710 ZULU
Oakland Oceanic has taken pity on us after our fourth consecutive request for a weather deviation. We’ve been progressively asking for 20 mile deviations to the right of our route—via the warbly blips of the HF radio as our SATCOM datalink is out—to sneak around the western end of a massive thunderstorm just north of the equator. From 100 miles away it looked like just the initial 20 miles would do, but as we slipped southwestward, with the dark gray mass of swirling clouds still filling the view ahead out the windshield, it became readily apparent that 20 miles, in fact, wouldn’t do it. Nor would 40 miles or even 60. When I asked for 80 miles a few minutes later there was several minutes of silence on the frequency, filled in only by the constant analog blips of static on the HF radio. “Cleared to deviate up to 150 miles right of route,” says the controller. And then after a pause, “Hopefully that will be enough for you.”
We sneak by the edge of the storm, just about 100 miles off our route, and then make a gradual turn back to the southeast, with bits of wispy cloud drifting by our wings. To the west, the sun is making its final drop towards the horizon and the end of its day. Our day however is not even half over. Tonight, our crew of three—two Captains and me as the solo FO—will complete this flight down to American Samoa, unload, reload, and then reverse the trip and fly some five and a half hours back home, arriving just after the sun completes its trip around the earth and pops back up over the eastern horizon.
An hour later, in full darkness, we descend, watching distant lightning bolts leap from cloud to cloud underneath a dim Milky Way-filled sky. To the southwest, the faint, scattered lights of Apia, Western Samoa, shine through patches in the layer below us. Just off the nose, the cloud layer glows a hazy orange, lit from beneath by the lights of American Samoa. We are being watched over by a controller at Faleolo, the small town located near the major airport on Western Samoa. Despite being in a different country, they control the airspace here down to 4000 feet, as American Samoa has no ATC of its own. That controller, however, is essentially blind, as his radar is out of service due to a lightning strike earlier in the evening. It doesn’t matter tonight. Other than a US Air Force C17 that has just taken off from Pago Pago, our rapidly approaching destination, there is no other traffic within 500 miles, and we are soon cleared to descend into uncontrolled airspace.
We loop between Western and American Samoa, dropping through several layers of broken clouds as we do so. To the south, lightning still plays along the horizon and the sweep of our weather radar shows red and yellow returns on the screen. Our path lies to the east though, and we begin our turn that way with the weather still 20 miles in the distance. Ahead, the scattered lights of Tafuna and the south coast come into view, then fade out of sight as the terrain slopes upward towards the island’s spine. I’ve been flying in and out of here for the past four years and I have never seen the island in daylight. This flight is no different. The runway lights blink on in response to my clicking five times on the frequency and we continue descending downward under the steady hand of the Captain.
The winds are light today, but under gusty conditions the final ride down can be… sporty. Also, both ends of the runway are within mere feet of the ocean and its rocky shore. When the waves are big, the spray can partially obscure the runway, making landing difficult, especially at night when the millions of salty water droplets are illuminated by the runway lights. That won’t be a problem this evening though, as the inky black water is smooth and the air is free of haze and mist.
We sidestep around the 600 foot tall hill that sits—all but invisible in the darkness—less than three miles from the airport, and then align with the runway. The lights rush towards us, and I know that the Captain is focusing on the rapidly approaching pavement, as am I, both of us blocking out all the distracting blur of the ground lighting around the airport. I manage to take one quick glance inland and see the yellow double arches of the McDonalds next to the airport. Apparently, the chicken nuggets are a can’t-miss item down here and crews have been known to make the trip across the street to grab an order while waiting for the return flight time to arrive. Tonight, I’m not planning on getting off the airplane—other than to complete a walk around between the flights—before our return to the northern hemisphere. But maybe next time I’ll go on that adventure.
