Two years after passing our Private Pilots Licences, a friend of mine called Amer, and I, decided to fly from Blackpool to the Isle of Man. Getting there would be a brand new challenge. Neither of us had ever flown over such a large expanse of water before. After some rough calculations, we worked out we’d be over water for about forty-five minutes. Forty of those minutes being so far away from land, that in the event of an engine failure, we’d have no option but to ditch in the open sea. This stark fact did not fill me with merriment.

A couple of days before the trip, I read up on the correct procedure for ditching. Basically it involved landing on the crest of a wave, unlatching the doors just before the ‘landing’ and then scarpering away as quickly as humanely possible from the sinking aircraft into the jaws of the waiting sharks.

I began to question my motives for undertaking a flight over water for so-called enjoyment. What if we got lost? What if we couldn’t sight of the horizon and had to fly on just instruments? What if the single engine of our Piper light aircraft blew up? What about the cold temperatures of the sea? What if…?

Amer, of course, had been feeling exactly the same. Ringing me up the day before our journey, he had some good news. He’d managed to get us a couple of life jackets to borrow. Hearing this made me feel a little better. At least we’d float towards the sharks.

On the day of the trip, the weather could not have been any better. No cloud in the sky, virtually nil wind, and even better, the visibility was fifty kilometres, the highest I’d ever experienced. We could not have hoped for more perfect conditions.

After arriving at Blackpool Airport, Amer and I planned our trip meticulously. We didn’t want to end up flying in the wrong direction over water. By looking at our aviation chart, we could see the southern half of the Isle of Man was inside Class D controlled airspace. This meant we’d have to receive permission from ATC based on the island to enter it.

Because we were flying more than ten miles away from the UK coastline, we were required to file a flight plan with ATC. After we’d done this, we had to take a short walk to the main passenger terminal of Blackpool Airport. Our details had to be filled in on a Prevention of Terrorism Act form, a formality all pilots go through when venturing overseas, even within the UK. With the form completed, we handed it in to a security officer, who faxed it through to the Isle of Man. We left the terminal, returning to the general aviation section of the airport.

Grabbing the life jackets Amer had managed to procure from the flying club, we donned them uninflated, as we walked out to our hired aircraft for the day, a Piper PA-28 with the memorable registration of G-UANT (Golf-Uniform Alpha November Tango.

     “Are you nervous?” Amer asked me as we climbed aboard.

     I told him I wasn’t so much nervous, as filled with trepidation. “But I’m really looking forward to it.”

     Amer nodded, climbing into the left-hand seat. For the outbound trip, he would be pilot-in-command. I was chief navigator and radio operator.  He said, “It will be the best trip yet. You just wait and see.” I couldn’t help but smile.

     While Amer got busy with the cockpit checks, I tuned in the radios. After turning the dial for Blackpool Tower, I made sure I had the correct navigation frequency dialled in. A few minutes later, we took off into the blue sky.

In front of us was a sea of blue and more blue. There wasn’t a drop of land in sight. Craning my neck to look behind us, I could see Blackpool fading into the distance. With forty-five minutes of flight time ahead of us, and climbing past an altitude 3000ft, we settled down for the trip.

     “Good afternoon, Blackpool Radar,” I said through the headset. I was doing my best impression of an airline pilot. “This is Golf-Uniform-Alpha-November-Tango, a PA-28, climbing to 5500ft on a westerly track. Currently five miles out of Blackpool flying direct to the Isle of Man.”

     “Copy that Golf-November-Tango. Report when crossing the rigs,” replied the Controller.

     The rigs were in fact a set of five or six gas and oil rigs at about the half way stage of our journey. They were clearly shown on our chart. Even though we couldn’t see them just yet, we knew they’d eventually appear at some point on the journey. Unless, of course, we got lost.

     About ten minutes into the flight, I turned around again and could no longer see the coast of England behind us. To our left and right, all I could see was the same blueness as far as the eye could see. In front, the Irish Sea merged into the blue sky without any discernable horizon to speak of. It was most disconcerting. We were literally all alone; flying in a blue wilderness, relying solely on a navigational beacon located fifty miles to the west.

     “How are you feeling?” I asked Amer as we settled into the cruise at five thousand five hundred feet across an unbroken sea.

     “Fine,” he said, nodding. “How about you?”

     I told him I was glad there were two of us flying this trip. Even though everything had been straightforward and relatively easy so far, it was still a good feeling to know there were two pilots on board should anything go wrong. He could fight the hammerheads while I thrashed to the Irish coast. Amer whole-heartedly agreed with me.

     “And do you know what,” he said, adjusting the heading slightly. “I’m really enjoying myself.”

     Because there was little in the way of a horizon, or any other distinguishable landmarks for that matter, Amer decided to fly on instruments whist I kept a good look out for the rigs. As we flew along, the radio was silent, except for the odd transmission between Blackpool Approach and a few locally bound aircraft. The only things worth looking at were the vapour trails of airliners flying above us, or occasionally a tiny boat below us, but apart from that, there was nothing to see.

     A few minutes later, I could just about make out some blurred dark specks in the distance. I pointed them out to Amer. We both surmised they had to be the rigs we were looking for. As the only landmark between the UK coast and the Isle of Man, we certainly hoped they were the rigs.

     With something to head for, Amer turned right a touch, pointing straight at them. Soon afterwards, we saw that they were indeed the rigs, and so flew on.

     After telling Blackpool Radar that we were over the rigs, they told us to contact Ronaldsway Approach, the Radar controller based on the Isle of Man.

     “Ronaldsway Approach,” I said. “This is Golf-Uniform-Alpha-November-Tango. Over the rigs at flight level 55. Inbound for landing.”

     Very quickly, a man, whose voice was very reminiscent of a black and white newsreel broadcaster, answered me. “Roger Golf-November-Tango. Expect a straight in approach for Runway two-six on arrival! Report when visual with the field!”

     “Wilco. Golf-November-Tango.”

     Fifteen minutes later, Amer tapped the windscreen. “Land ahoy!” he said. “Isle of Man in sight!”

      And it was, even if it was just the faintest blur of land in the far distance. I began to feel excited. We were nearly there. We had done it. We’d flown across the sea.

     But on we went, until the coastline became more distinct. We then turned right slightly, turning off the navigation radial. We wanted to fly to Douglas, the capital of the Isle of Man. We told the controller of our intensions. He was fine about it. As well as just seeing Douglas from above, we reasoned a straight in approach to runway two-six would be easier from overhead the town.

     Douglas, nestled within an attractive looking bay, looked beautiful from above. To our left, we could see Ronaldsway Airport. I pressed the button, telling the Controller we had the field in sight.

     “Roger, Golf-November-Tango. Cleared for a straight in approach to runway two-six. Number one in traffic. Report final.”

     A few minutes later, Amer touched down in the Isle of Man. It had all been so easy! I checked the time and noticed that it had taken us forty four minutes to reach our destination. Only three quarters of an hour to get to somewhere neither of us had ever been to before. Absolutely amazing!

     As we taxied off the runway, I noticed that although Ronaldsway seemed to be a quiet airport, there was still a lot of commercial traffic about. The Controller instructed is to park over at the southwestern end of the airport, where the local flying club – Manx Flyers – was located. After climbing out of our trusty aircraft, we immediately wandered over to a beautifully restored US Airforce World War II aircraft, complete with silver paintwork and American insignia. It looked to be in mint condition. While Amer inspected the engine, I inspected the lady painted on the side. I tried not to touch it.

     We then left the silver aeroplane and entered the clubhouse. We asked the man behind the bar if there was anywhere that would hire us a car for a couple of hours. After all, there was no point coming all of this way to the Isle of Man, without actually getting to see some of the sights that the island had to offer.

     The man gave us some good news. He told us we could hire one of the flying club’s cars if we wanted. “You can have it for two hours for a tenner. How does that sound?”

     We accepted his kind offer, but not before we ordered some of the wonderful food available from the clubhouse kitchen. Sitting outside, waiting for our nosh, we watched planes taking off and landing. As our food arrived, the silver World War II aircraft taxied out, and with a suitable growl of its twin piston engines, roared along the runway for a mighty take off to the west. Amer and I looked at each other. We were having a wonderful time.

     “Amer,” I said though a mouthful of ham and cheese toastie. “This trip is the best one yet.”

     “Yeah, smiled Amer. “It’s like we’re on holiday isn’t it. It really feels like we’ve gone to a different country.”

     After we’d finished our meal, we jumped in the hire car, setting off for Douglas, capital of the Isle of Man. As we passed the northern perimeter of the airport, one thing immediately struck me. All around the edge of the airport, there were tropical palm trees! Their presence only added to the illusion of being on holiday. It looked like we were driving past an airport in the Mediterranean, perhaps Grand Canary or Ibiza.

     After about twenty minutes, we arrived in Douglas and parked the car. Because it was a Sunday, most of the amenities were unfortunately closed, but we did manage to find a shop selling tacky holiday souvenirs. After gleefully entering, Amer and I each purchased a gift for our good ladies back in Blighty.

     I also received some genuine Isle of Man currency from the souvenir shop. Nestled amongst my change, I was surprised to see a rather odd looking pound note. The friendly old lady serving us told me that in the Isle of Man, both UK and Isle of Man currency was legal tender. She added that the pound note was still legal tender on the island, something that mainland UK had dispensed with years ago.

     After purchasing an ice cream each, Amer and I walked along the sea front, idly chatting about what a fantastic day it had been so far. The Isle of Man, we agreed, had so much to offer for a pilot. A wonderful airport. A wonderful capital city. And only three quarters of an hour away from the UK. Incredible.

     After an hour-and-a-half of sightseeing, we returned to the airport for the flight back to Blackpool. We swapped seats, with me in the pilot’s left hand seat. Strapped inside the aircraft, I did the pre-flight checks while Amer tuned in the radios.  Ten minutes later I took off, and we headed towards the western side of the island. Flying over the higher ground in the middle, we circled the small coastal town of Peel. After a while, I turned back east, heading towards the open sea, and then Blackpool.

     If anything, the visibility had improved since our inbound flight. At the half way stage, we could actually see the Isle of Man behind us, and the long coastline of England to the front, Later, we found out this was a very rare sight indeed. Not many days of the year when both are visible at the same time. The rigs appeared on time, and everything went according to plan. Amer soon changed frequencies to Blackpool Approach.

     Twenty-Five minutes later I landed back at Blackpool with barely a squeak of the tyres. After handing in our life jackets, we paid our aircraft hire fee. Neither of us minded paying the hefty charge. After all, we’d just had one of the best days flying since beginning our PPL’s two years previously.

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