A Life Aloft
Well-Known Member
It was not just the landings in crosswinds, hail and rain, flying along side the apartment buildings and other high rises, it was the approach as well. I think you might enjoy this little read from Captain Gordon Vette..... and yes, it's still there.
The harbor circuit at Hong Kong, which I describe below, has now been discontinued at Kai Tak with the advent of wide-bodied jets. However the IGS system which now takes you down through 600 feet still requires a manual visual approach on the final stages of the gully flight, and demands good interfacing between pilot and machine. Should this type of maneuvering be attempted over most cities of the world, the crew would find themselves in prison. At Hong Kong, it was the only way the airport could be used in certain weather conditions.
When the wind was blowing off the Pacific towards the China land mass, the 100-tonne jet had to be swung and tightly maneuvered for eight miles through the narrow sea channel which divides the mass of mainland Kowloon and the nearly vertical walls of Hong Kong Island. This was precision flying of a sort rarely demanded of big jets anywhere. At one early point, in the Lei Yue Mun Gap, the channel constricted to a throat less than half-a-mile wide, and the shore lights whipped past the wingtips like glinted moisture drops in a tunnel. At night, and when the cloud base was down to 1500 feet or lower, it was akin to moving at high speed through a convoluted tunnel — only without the benefit of rails. Here, surely, was the most exacting interface between man and machine; the point where a pilot became the organic cortex with nerve ends grafted on to a mass of metal moving along at 150 knots — a speed only just sufficient to give control, but uncomfortably fast for the environment or rugged coastline, ships' masts and high rise buildings. Every featherweight of pressure applied to the control yoke and rudder had to be precise, every change of flap setting and throttle applied to the second. It was a time when all that counted was the intuition, feel and the reflexive recall of a good pilot.
On let down from above 30,000 feet, the aircraft was vectored on a radio beam towards Checker Board Hill, an escarpment lit by sodium lights hard by the Kowloon runway. This beam brought the aircraft down in a long, easy descent to position it over the Tathong Channel, the south-eastern gateway to Hong Kong. The intention was to get the aircraft below the cloud base before it entered the Lei Yue Gap — into the 'tunnel'. Should the landing be from the south-east, the runway was nicely positioned two miles ahead - a few degrees turn to the right and a final alignment just before touch-down. But more often the landing was from the opposite end, Runway 13, from inland Kowloon. When Runway 13 was in use, the two pilots had to quickly establish visual references to orientate themselves as they broke cloud above the narrow gap. Then manual skill took over. They were 'eyeballing it'.
The tight twists of Victoria Harbor and the turn-around over Kowloon were navigated in a way more familiar to navigators. A series of colored lights signaled the way, and the aircraft was lined up on these one at a time. As each light slipped beneath the nose of the machine, the aircraft was swung on course for the next, a mile-and-a-half, maybe two, ahead — 30 to 40 seconds flying time. These variously colored lights were so critical for pilots that neon flashing lights were not allowed in the colony lest they confused or delayed recognition of a marker for a moment. But memorizing the positions and colors of these lights was only half the pilot load. They also had to memorize the different overshoot procedure for each should they inadvertently find themselves a fraction off the right heading and unable to make the exactly timed swing from one light to the next. It was memorizing for instant recall, a precise compass heading and climb-out rate — no time to ponder when flying through a canyon at a mile every '20 seconds. And while every habitable yard of Hong Kong and Kowloon resembles a tightly packed glow worm cave at night, there was no safety in the black voids. Peaks, as abrupt as stalagmites, rear up within two miles of Runway 13's threshold, and there are unlit, high-rise buildings. Swinging low through the basin of light reflected between harbor and cloud, these granite teeth usually lay beyond the visual rim, swarthed in misty cloud.
Despite the captain's warning to passengers what to expect, words over a PA system could never adequately prepare them for the experience. Some momentarily thought the captain had taken leave of his senses as they peered transfixed out of the windows — upwards at apartment building balconies. As the aircraft swung more tightly into the approach, they noticed what appeared to be a wall of buildings converging on the nose of the aircraft, now bouncing and shaking only 50 per cent above stalling speed. For a few, this brief glance was enough. They stared trance like at the carpet, lips moving in urgent communication with the powers that be. For others, the only concession allowed this unusual approach were white knuckles squeezing the arm-rest molecules into denser composition. But for most, it was spellbound unreality; a fairyland of lights on all sides, racing, ever-changing.
On the flight deck, the luxury of this fixity of viewing — to focus, relate, absorb — was only for the pilot in the jump seat, the man observing the approach. For the captain at the controls, it was only the interpretation of a peripheral blur that enabled him to accurately position the machine. First the entry through the Gap; a careful left-hand turn, assessing and regulating his angle of bank; applying just enough back pressure on the control column to get the right radius of turn without losing height — but careful, a fraction too much back pressure and you're back in the cloud without visibility. A gradual right-hand turn, adjusting for wind drift as the lights of the North Point, Causeway and Wanchai slip past on the left. Skirting the thrusting bulk of West Point on Hong Kong Island, and rolling the machine more steeply to bring it around inside Green Island, on heading for Stone Cutters.
The aircraft should be coming around on the 50 degree arc (200 to 250 degrees true) of the flashing red directional lights on Stone Cutters Island. Ease off the back pressure fractionally to stay below that convex cloud ahead, while scanning to confirm heading, height and airspeed, and that all the landing checks, with the exception of final flap, are completed. You listen briefly to the Airport Terminal Information Service to confirm landing conditions, joining the others in the crew at the same time in trying to pick out the lighted array of aerial masts atop Stonecutters. When they show up, ease a further adjustment to put them over to the left. As the
shoreline of Kowloon comes around, power settings are adjusted to set the aircraft descent at 500 feet for the approach.
The directional flashing white lights of Cheungshwawan and Yau Yat Chuen are buried deep among the apartment buildings of Kowloon. Now the crew are scanning systematically for the flashing red lights of the Checker Board Hill. It is sighted, and the power and speed are adjusted again to bring the aircraft around to the right of the checker board towards the threshold lights. The machine has now come around almost the full 180 degrees, and is committed to the carefully regulated swing through the gully. The pilot has to try not to cut the corner to the runway, yet avoid closing in too near the rising apartment buildings, or the cliff face of the Checker Board. His senses are pitched taut, his judgments turning over, his cue sampling rate at its fastest. While the passengers are subjected to a close inspection of the drying garments poled out of apartment windows, the pilot is unconsciously using the same cues — but using the rate at which they blur past in his peripheral vision — to negotiate the final swing to the right through the canyon. His fixity of focus is now centered on a point about one third of the way along the runway.
If his trajectory is good, it will remain relatively stationary, though closing. The effect is not unlike watching the lights of an approaching car at night on a long stretch of straight road. They seem unmoving, but then at the last moment they flash away at a tangent. But a car driver is not coping with wind shear, drift and varying sink rates.
The co-pilot will be calling speeds, descent rates, altitude - and will have set up the overshoot beacons, headings and heights should the aircraft not key into the narrow slot for landing, or (unusually) a sudden wind change occur. A final thought. It could be nicely on trajectory, but a fraction too much speed and it will overrun the far sea wall. Too slow, and there will be a stall. You will help take in the washing.
But you reach the right point to initiate your flare. Power levers are snapped into reverse as the gear touches. A quick glance to see the nose is aligned with the runway center line, and another check of the distance remaining. The nose gear touches down. Full reverse power selected, and braking as required, while the aircraft slows to 80 knots. The long taxi through the massed parking places to the docking position gives time for the pulse to slacken. You've done it many times before, but there is always the sense of pride in having your skills and judgments tested to the limits."
The harbor circuit at Hong Kong, which I describe below, has now been discontinued at Kai Tak with the advent of wide-bodied jets. However the IGS system which now takes you down through 600 feet still requires a manual visual approach on the final stages of the gully flight, and demands good interfacing between pilot and machine. Should this type of maneuvering be attempted over most cities of the world, the crew would find themselves in prison. At Hong Kong, it was the only way the airport could be used in certain weather conditions.
When the wind was blowing off the Pacific towards the China land mass, the 100-tonne jet had to be swung and tightly maneuvered for eight miles through the narrow sea channel which divides the mass of mainland Kowloon and the nearly vertical walls of Hong Kong Island. This was precision flying of a sort rarely demanded of big jets anywhere. At one early point, in the Lei Yue Mun Gap, the channel constricted to a throat less than half-a-mile wide, and the shore lights whipped past the wingtips like glinted moisture drops in a tunnel. At night, and when the cloud base was down to 1500 feet or lower, it was akin to moving at high speed through a convoluted tunnel — only without the benefit of rails. Here, surely, was the most exacting interface between man and machine; the point where a pilot became the organic cortex with nerve ends grafted on to a mass of metal moving along at 150 knots — a speed only just sufficient to give control, but uncomfortably fast for the environment or rugged coastline, ships' masts and high rise buildings. Every featherweight of pressure applied to the control yoke and rudder had to be precise, every change of flap setting and throttle applied to the second. It was a time when all that counted was the intuition, feel and the reflexive recall of a good pilot.
On let down from above 30,000 feet, the aircraft was vectored on a radio beam towards Checker Board Hill, an escarpment lit by sodium lights hard by the Kowloon runway. This beam brought the aircraft down in a long, easy descent to position it over the Tathong Channel, the south-eastern gateway to Hong Kong. The intention was to get the aircraft below the cloud base before it entered the Lei Yue Gap — into the 'tunnel'. Should the landing be from the south-east, the runway was nicely positioned two miles ahead - a few degrees turn to the right and a final alignment just before touch-down. But more often the landing was from the opposite end, Runway 13, from inland Kowloon. When Runway 13 was in use, the two pilots had to quickly establish visual references to orientate themselves as they broke cloud above the narrow gap. Then manual skill took over. They were 'eyeballing it'.
The tight twists of Victoria Harbor and the turn-around over Kowloon were navigated in a way more familiar to navigators. A series of colored lights signaled the way, and the aircraft was lined up on these one at a time. As each light slipped beneath the nose of the machine, the aircraft was swung on course for the next, a mile-and-a-half, maybe two, ahead — 30 to 40 seconds flying time. These variously colored lights were so critical for pilots that neon flashing lights were not allowed in the colony lest they confused or delayed recognition of a marker for a moment. But memorizing the positions and colors of these lights was only half the pilot load. They also had to memorize the different overshoot procedure for each should they inadvertently find themselves a fraction off the right heading and unable to make the exactly timed swing from one light to the next. It was memorizing for instant recall, a precise compass heading and climb-out rate — no time to ponder when flying through a canyon at a mile every '20 seconds. And while every habitable yard of Hong Kong and Kowloon resembles a tightly packed glow worm cave at night, there was no safety in the black voids. Peaks, as abrupt as stalagmites, rear up within two miles of Runway 13's threshold, and there are unlit, high-rise buildings. Swinging low through the basin of light reflected between harbor and cloud, these granite teeth usually lay beyond the visual rim, swarthed in misty cloud.
Despite the captain's warning to passengers what to expect, words over a PA system could never adequately prepare them for the experience. Some momentarily thought the captain had taken leave of his senses as they peered transfixed out of the windows — upwards at apartment building balconies. As the aircraft swung more tightly into the approach, they noticed what appeared to be a wall of buildings converging on the nose of the aircraft, now bouncing and shaking only 50 per cent above stalling speed. For a few, this brief glance was enough. They stared trance like at the carpet, lips moving in urgent communication with the powers that be. For others, the only concession allowed this unusual approach were white knuckles squeezing the arm-rest molecules into denser composition. But for most, it was spellbound unreality; a fairyland of lights on all sides, racing, ever-changing.
On the flight deck, the luxury of this fixity of viewing — to focus, relate, absorb — was only for the pilot in the jump seat, the man observing the approach. For the captain at the controls, it was only the interpretation of a peripheral blur that enabled him to accurately position the machine. First the entry through the Gap; a careful left-hand turn, assessing and regulating his angle of bank; applying just enough back pressure on the control column to get the right radius of turn without losing height — but careful, a fraction too much back pressure and you're back in the cloud without visibility. A gradual right-hand turn, adjusting for wind drift as the lights of the North Point, Causeway and Wanchai slip past on the left. Skirting the thrusting bulk of West Point on Hong Kong Island, and rolling the machine more steeply to bring it around inside Green Island, on heading for Stone Cutters.
The aircraft should be coming around on the 50 degree arc (200 to 250 degrees true) of the flashing red directional lights on Stone Cutters Island. Ease off the back pressure fractionally to stay below that convex cloud ahead, while scanning to confirm heading, height and airspeed, and that all the landing checks, with the exception of final flap, are completed. You listen briefly to the Airport Terminal Information Service to confirm landing conditions, joining the others in the crew at the same time in trying to pick out the lighted array of aerial masts atop Stonecutters. When they show up, ease a further adjustment to put them over to the left. As the
shoreline of Kowloon comes around, power settings are adjusted to set the aircraft descent at 500 feet for the approach.
The directional flashing white lights of Cheungshwawan and Yau Yat Chuen are buried deep among the apartment buildings of Kowloon. Now the crew are scanning systematically for the flashing red lights of the Checker Board Hill. It is sighted, and the power and speed are adjusted again to bring the aircraft around to the right of the checker board towards the threshold lights. The machine has now come around almost the full 180 degrees, and is committed to the carefully regulated swing through the gully. The pilot has to try not to cut the corner to the runway, yet avoid closing in too near the rising apartment buildings, or the cliff face of the Checker Board. His senses are pitched taut, his judgments turning over, his cue sampling rate at its fastest. While the passengers are subjected to a close inspection of the drying garments poled out of apartment windows, the pilot is unconsciously using the same cues — but using the rate at which they blur past in his peripheral vision — to negotiate the final swing to the right through the canyon. His fixity of focus is now centered on a point about one third of the way along the runway.
If his trajectory is good, it will remain relatively stationary, though closing. The effect is not unlike watching the lights of an approaching car at night on a long stretch of straight road. They seem unmoving, but then at the last moment they flash away at a tangent. But a car driver is not coping with wind shear, drift and varying sink rates.
The co-pilot will be calling speeds, descent rates, altitude - and will have set up the overshoot beacons, headings and heights should the aircraft not key into the narrow slot for landing, or (unusually) a sudden wind change occur. A final thought. It could be nicely on trajectory, but a fraction too much speed and it will overrun the far sea wall. Too slow, and there will be a stall. You will help take in the washing.
But you reach the right point to initiate your flare. Power levers are snapped into reverse as the gear touches. A quick glance to see the nose is aligned with the runway center line, and another check of the distance remaining. The nose gear touches down. Full reverse power selected, and braking as required, while the aircraft slows to 80 knots. The long taxi through the massed parking places to the docking position gives time for the pulse to slacken. You've done it many times before, but there is always the sense of pride in having your skills and judgments tested to the limits."
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