Caribbean Castaways

"What's wrong?" Andromeda asks.

"The engine's playing up. Doesn't sound right and has lost some power."

Cob goes over the engine check-list, but apart from the mixture, magnetos, fuel tank selector, and fuel cut-off switches, there's little to be done. He notices the oil temperature is climbing but the pressure is still good. The 'thunking' sound is getting louder, even Andromeda notices it now.

With the deteriorating engine, he's considering options. The marina is the closest landfall on Eleuthera Island, he can see it in the distance. There is the occasional small island amongst the miles of sandbars below them. Even a shallow sandbar is preferable to deep water. If they're forced down, he can make a gentle landing on the surface, but if the water is more than a few feet deep they'll sink. When the main rotor strikes the water the landing will become violent, regardless of how smoothly he touches down.

Cob is preparing to make a 'pan-pan' radio call - a 'state of urgency,' one step below a mayday call, when the engine fails entirely. It seizes with a loud bang that they feel through the airframe, causing Andromeda to yelp.

Cob lowers the collective, and noses the aircraft down. The controls are responding correctly. Rotor RPM is good. Engine RPM zero. He tries the starter button, but the engine doesn't turn. He wasn't expecting much from it, even if it did turn over.

Calmly, he speaks to Andromeda, "That was the engine failing, we're in a glide now, auto-rotating. We can't reach the marina, or anything higher than the bottom third of the windscreen. Start looking for a small island, or a sandbar out of the water. Anything with waves breaking on it will be shallow enough. I'm going to make a radio call before we get too low. Just point if you see something."

"Okay," Andromeda agrees, with a quiver in her voice.

Cob presses the radio transmit button, "Mayday, mayday, mayday. Charlie Six, Bravo Echo Lima, Bell 47 helicopter. Engine failure. Ditching. We are nineteen miles west of Rock Sound on a bearing of one-zero-four degrees - correction two-eight-four degrees from Rock Sound. Two POB. Descending though seven-thousand feet. Looking for a shallow sandbar. Bravo Echo Lima."

"Understood, Bravo Echo Lima. We have your fix on radar. Nassau Approach. Good luck."

Cob pulls the mixture to 'cut-off', turns the magnetos off, closes the throttle, and turns off the main fuel feed, all while scanning for a place to land. He's maintaining 58 miles per hour of airspeed, for the slowest rate of descent. But they are still descending at 1,800 feet per minute. They've got less than four minutes of flying left.

"Okay. The touchdown will be smooth, but if the main rotor hits the water it'll shake us up. Pull your harness tight," Cob instructs. "We've got about three minutes of flying left."

"There!" shouts Andromeda, pointing, "Is that an island?"

"Where? Oh, I see it. It may be too far away," Cob answers, watching the speck in the distance creep up the canopy.

Cob increases the forward speed to 80 miles per hour, lifting the collective slightly and letting the main rotor speed decrease to the bottom of the green band, on the tachometer, at 322 RPM. They're now descending faster, but traveling further. He's now flying for the best glide distance, rather than the lowest rate of descent.

Cob makes another radio call, "Nassau Approach, Bravo Echo Lima. We see a sand island ahead, we're attempting to reach it. It looks like shallow water all around it. We'll be waiting for you there."

"Roger, Bravo Echo Lima. Radar sees you descending through three-thousand. Wind is four knots from the southeast. Nassau, standing by."

"Thanks," Cob replies.

"Can you swim?" Cob asks, over the intercom.

"Yeah. I'm okay," Andromeda answers, with a bit more confidence now than two-minutes ago, when the engine first died.

"Okay, keep breathing. I think we can make that island. Or if we come up short, it'll only be a few feet deep. If it's deeper than that, we'll be thrown onto our side as the rotors touch. Probably onto your door. Your life jacket will inflate when it gets wet, so you'll have to go out the upper door - whichever one that is. Understand?"

"Yes."

"When we get low, press your head back against the headrest, hold your left hand near the buckle on your harness, and put your right hand on the door handle. I want you to unlatch the door before touchdown, if we're about to get wet."

"Okay."

"Good. It's looking good. We'll survive this - but I doubt you'll make it to New York tonight."

Keeping dry is fifty-fifty, Cob estimates. The lower rotor RPM is giving them more glide distance, but will make a soft landing a little harder to achieve. He's not worried about that, he has enough experience to compensate for low rotor energy. The main risk is attempting to go for the island if they're falling short. It would be a mistake to run out of lift while still doing 30 miles-per-hour over the water. It will be far better to land gently in deep water, than to cartwheel across it trying to reach the island, he warns himself.

As they descend through 1,000 feet, Cob warns, "Thirty seconds." He's been watching the island getting larger against the Perspex, as they get closer. He's observing if his chosen landing point is moving up the screen, meaning they're falling short, or down the screen, meaning they have enough energy to overfly it. He is hoping for the latter, with excess height he can lower the collective and build up more rotor RPM for the landing. His sight picture of the island seems to be fixed, about level with the top of the instrument binnacle, in their nose-down attitude. He can work with that - they'll lose some distance as he flares, but gain some lift when they get into ground-effect.

"We're going to make the island. Leave the door closed, just brace for impact," Cob says.

Andromeda lets out a little squeak. She's unsure of the situation, having never landed without an engine before. The flight itself is smooth, Cob is only making minimal inputs on the controls. The low flying they did earlier seemed far more exhilarating, but she's been looking across at Cob and sees the intensity of his concentration - he's worried, so she's worried.

They're low now, if they kept going they would impact short of the island. Andromeda watches Cob lift the nose of the helicopter, washing off speed. She's worried that the tail boom might strike the water - she knows it's back there and sticks out a long way, so it must be close. The small island is no wider than a hundred feet, but she can see dune grass growing above the high-tide line, so it must be permanent.

As they clear the high-tide mark, Cob has the aircraft almost level again. They seem to run out of speed, height, and lift, all at once. Andromeda feels the co-pilot's collective lever come up and bump her elbow, just as they land heavily on the sand. The whole airframe vibrates, as the landing skids absorb the impact.

"Sorry," says Cob, "a little firm on the landing." Then he lets out a deep breath. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Thanks. I think you saved us... And my luggage... And the helicopter."

Cob notices she looks pale, but alert.

"I'm glad you spotted this island. These sandbars all seem quite shallow, but we couldn't tell that from eight thousand feet. And a dip in salt water isn't good for any aircraft. I'd better make a radio call."

Cob presses the radio transmit button again, "Nassau Approach. We're down and safe on the sand island. Bravo Echo Lima."

They listen for twenty seconds, While Cob turns off the beacon and tightens the friction-locks on the controls. He realizes that's about all there is left to do, after turning off all the engine controls in the air.

"Nassau Approach. Do you copy? Bravo Echo Lima," he tries again.

Another fifteen seconds of silence, before a new voice is heard.

"Bravo Echo Lima. This is American One Two One One, I read you. I can radio-relay."

Cob spends the next ten minutes conveying their status, GPS coordinates, identity, and the contact details for his company. He avoids reporting Andromeda's name over the radio, and just refers to her as a nineteen-year-old passenger, named Kate. He also requests they contact Kyle, her agent.

Apart from looking up Kyle's cell-phone number, Andromeda soon loses interest in the circular conversation. They seem to repeat the same questions whenever someone new gets involved - even the airline pilot is getting frustrated. So she removes her headset and life jacket, then gets out, to explore the island. The adrenaline of the descent has made her jittery and she needs to move.

"Echo Lima, this is One One. We're going to do a fly-by to confirm your location. Hopefully, that will satisfy them. We're fife nauticals to your northwest," radios the airline pilot.

Cob has his door open and one ear out of the headset to listen, as the roar of the jet approaches. It's almost upon them when he sees it. He was looking too high, but it's doing a low pass, at only 500 feet. Andromeda is initially surprised, but starts jumping and waving as it roars by. Then starts running back to the helicopter.

"I think you found us," radios Cob.

"Affirmative. It seems you do know how to read your GPS. We're going to do a reciprocal pass, so the other side of the cabin can rubber-neck too. It's only fair, since you've delayed them. And I want to get a photo."

"Is that the guy on the radio?" Andromeda asks, as she opens her door.

"Yes. They're turning around for another pass. He says he wants a photo."

"Oh. I know how to pose for photos," she says, then strips off her shirt to reveal her bikini top.

They get a bit more warning for the second pass. Cob knows where to look and the twin-engine Airbus is flying slower this time, Cob can see the first stage of flaps extended.

Andromeda has released her blonde hair from its ponytail, and is jumping up-and-down again, waving her hand above her head. Cob is trying to watch both the impressive low-pass, and the more-impressive bounce of Andromeda's breasts.

Cob hears the engines throttle-up, as the A320 climbs away to the west. Andromeda comes running back to the passenger door.

"Do you think they saw me?" Andromeda asks, her face flushing.

"Definitely. Pilot's pay attention to those things," Cob replies.

"Oh? Does that mean you were watching, too?" she smiles, catching his innuendo.

"I'm afraid I might have ruined the photo, with my tongue hanging out like that."

Andromeda gives a coy look, but leaves her shirt on the passenger seat.

"Very nice, Echo Lima. And we have an update from Rescue Coordination Center. The Nassau Rescue helo is busy on a medivac to Miami. And they can't get a boat out to you until mid-morning, tomorrow. There's not enough daylight left today to navigate the sandbars around you. Looks like you're stuck there for the night. I'm sure you'll find something to do. American One One, over."

"Thanks for your assistance, One One. We have food and water. We'll be okay, over."

"Roger that. You can go off-air now, save your battery. If you need to make a call, come up on the guard, one-two-one-decimal-fife. You'll have a better chance of reaching someone on that frequency. Goodnight. American One Two One One, out."

"Understood, One Two One One. Thanks for keeping us company. Send me a photo. Bravo Echo Lima, out."

"The preview looks good. I'll be in touch."

Cob removes his headset, then turns off the remaining switches; avionics and master. He's not too worried about preserving the battery. It's not as if he'll be able to start the engine again.

"What's the story?" Andromeda asks.

"Well, we're here for the night. There should be a boat coming, mid-morning."

"Oh. So no chance of making it to New York then?"

"I'm afraid not, sorry. I know it's a big opportunity you're missing."

"Oh, well. Hopefully Kyle can reschedule."

"Yeah, fingers crossed. Let's see what happened to this engine," Cob says, finally getting out of the pilot's seat.

The damage doesn't take long to find. The splatter of engine oil leads his eye to the aft side of the engine block, where the crankshaft has let go of a connecting-rod and smashed it through the side of the casting. Cob is annoyed. The main bearings were all replaced in the last overhaul, only two-hundred operating hours ago, they've barely been worn in. Either it was incorrectly assembled, or they've been using counterfeit parts. The overhaul was done by a reputable workshop, but the problem of fake parts is pervasive.

"So, what did you find on your tour of the island?" he asks.

"No restaurants, not even a drive-thru. Three beaches, with no waves. No cell reception. But possibly a titty bar."

"Oh?"

"Do we have any alcohol?"

"No," Cob responds, dejectedly, knowing what's coming.

"Then I guess I'm mistaken. There's no titty bar," Andromeda shrugs.

"Damn," he laughs. "We'll, we'd better get things sorted for the night. It'll be sunset within the hour."

"How about a fire? There's plenty of driftwood on the south beach."

"Is there? I guess boats don't come out here - usually it all gets burnt by fishermen. Let's fetch some before dark."

"Come on, I'll race you!" she calls, as she runs off ahead.

She's full of energy, Cob thinks, as he starts walking after her. I'll have to talk to her about that - this isn't the place to be taking risks. If she falls and splits her knee open on a rock, then my repair won't be pretty.

~

Andromeda's agent, Kyle, receives the call from the Miami Rescue Coordination Center. He is initially shocked that his client had gone missing in a helicopter. There's a flash of guilt, as well, since she was traveling on his instructions. Then relief that she is confirmed safe. Then disappointment she won't make it to New York, for the GMA segment he'd arranged.

By the end of the call he is pumped - this might be bigger than Amelia Earhart, he considers. Well, maybe not, but it's easy publicity, and he knows how to get the most mileage out of it. He won't be getting any sleep tonight, at least not until the West Coast has finally gone to bed.

He knows he can't fire up the publicity engine just yet. Andromeda will be expecting him to call her mother first, to let her know what has happened and that she's okay.

~

Cob is able to start a fire, cautiously, with the help of some AvGas and a lighter from the tool bag. There isn't much kindling on the island, only the larger logs remain after the last storm. So they drag a few of them together, to fuel a fire. They will be able to feed the large logs further in, as they burn away.

Their selection of food is minimal, just Cob's uneaten meals from the previous night. A sachet of red-bean chili, a sachet of fried rice, a packet of Peanut M&M's, a three-pack of breakfast bars, and a one-liter bottle of water. Combined with the remaining drinking water in the cabin, about forty fluid ounces in total.

"We'll need to wait for some coals before I can warm up dinner. So, I'm going to wash my flight suit," Cob says, while shedding the top half. Then he sits to unzip the ankle cuffs, so he can get the pant legs over his flying boots.

Cob is wearing shorts and a cotton tee-shirt underneath the coveralls. He knows he should be wearing long-sleeves, made of a natural fiber, if he's to benefit from the fire retardant properties of the Nomex fabric. But it's too hot for that in the Bahamas.

Still thinking of safety, he considers wearing his boots into the water, but decides they'll take too long to dry. So he'll just shuffle his feet when entering - that will scare off any stingrays before he steps on one.

He sheds his tee-shirt and leaves it with his boots and socks. Initially, he sucks in his belly, to pretend he still has the flat stomach of his army days, then decides he can't sustain that all evening, so relaxes.

Cob walks to the water in his shorts, with his flying suit over his shoulder. Andromeda is clearing the larger stones and shells from a small section of beach, and etching some marks into the sand. They smile at each other as he passes her, but he doesn't ask what she's up to.

The water is surprisingly warm, even for the Bahamas. There's over a hundred square miles of sandbars surrounding the island, and these shallows heat up more easily than the ocean. Cob wades in, until the water is up to his knees, then sits and begins rinsing his flying suit in the salt water, trying to remove the dark hair spray from the ankles.

Andromeda removes her shorts, revealing the bottom half of her bikini, tosses them towards the helicopter and calls out, "Cob! A special performance, just for you." Then starts dancing to a tune she's reciting in her head, hitting the marks in the sand as if her choreographer is there, critiquing her.

Cob is happy to watch Andromeda. The sunset is appealing too, but he gets to watch those most evenings, and there isn't enough cloud today for a special display. But the red sky in the west does make a nice backdrop for her impromptu stage.

Cob notices that Andromeda is dancing the same routine repeatedly. Obviously this is her exercise, or practice session for today. He thought about warning her against too much exertion - it will make her hungry, and they only have a limited amount of food. But he decides that their circumstances aren't that dire. They only have to make it through until morning, when a boat will come. He doesn't want to unduly worry her.

He's had enough of washing his flight suit, so wanders back up to the helicopter, to hang it over the tail boom. Then stops to watch, as the sun nears the horizon.

"Watching the sunset?" Andromeda asks, approaching from behind.

"Yep. Waiting for the green flash."

"That's just a myth."

"No, it isn't. But we won't see one today, the water and air temperature are too close. There won't be a mirage - an inversion layer - to bend the sunlight."

The sun is just touching the horizon now, so Cob takes a minute to get a small bar of hotel soap out of his toiletries, before returning to watch the final setting. There is no green flash.

When he turns around, Andromeda is gone, but her bikini is there on the ground. The mystery is quickly solved, as there is still enough twilight to see her swimming, where he was earlier. He's unsure how he should proceed. Should he bathe elsewhere? Should he strip off his own shorts and join her. He decides he'll take the towel from his bag and leave it on the beach for Andromeda.

"You can come back in, Cob, it's lovely and warm," she says, as he reaches the end of the dry sand and drops the towel. "That's a fashion bikini, not a swimming one. I can't get it wet."

Cob laughs at the absurdity of it, then wades back into the water. He knows Andromeda isn't shy. Neither is he, but he can't picture his nineteen-year-old self skinny dipping with a forty-four-year-old woman. It's not even dark yet.

Cob kneels in the sand, with the water up to his waist, and tries to wash with the soap. The salt water won't let the soap form a proper lather, but he manages to wash his face, chest, and underarms. As he rinses, Andromeda approaches like a Florida gator, in the shallows.

"I'll use the soap, if you're finished?"

"Sure, I'm done."

Cob passes the bar to the hand that breaches the surface. Andromeda gives a smile of thanks, reinforcing the gator impression, and withdraws to deeper water. She turns and stands up, the water lapping at her waist, while she starts on her arms with the soap.

Her back is towards Cob, but her bosom is large enough that every slight twist brings the side of a breast into view. He watches her for a while, as she moves onto her other arm. Then he lies back to submerge himself in the water, for a final rinse.