...from “I’ve Got To Write a Book!”
by Ira Wiggins
Flying Days (part 5)
At least on one occasion that “hood time” practice proved useful. I was en route alone the short 40 miles from France Field, near the Atlantic end of the canal, to Paitilla (downtown Panama City) airport on the Pacific side. There was a line of clouds in my intended path but, in filing my flight plan, I had been assured that Panama City weather was clear and would remain so. Within 15 miles of my destination I encountered the low, scattered clouds which soon thickened to become broken with interesting cloud “canyons” and passageways to follow at an ever diminishing altitude. When flying in marginal weather it is a good idea to have at least two “outs” or alternate plans. The best one is usually a 180 degree turn - to go back where you came from. This day I had no passengers and was feeling adventuresome, so I continued until the inevitable happened: the clouds had closed in behind me and some were obscuring the tops of hills. I couldn’t go lower and by now I was in an oblong area completely surrounded by clouds. Directly below me was a reasonably straight dirt road with no apparent power lines or telephone poles. I flew up and down over the road until the “campesinos” (country folk) walking along it must have wondered what I was up to. I was vainly hoping the clouds might have mercy and part just enough for me to scoot out and head back home. No such luck. I had visions of landing on the road and having the plane confiscated by the local guardia while I languished in jail. The guardia near the Canal Zone are sometimes less tolerant of Gringo shenanigans than the guardia in the more remote areas of Panama. I made a decision, took a deep breath (the last one for the next few minutes) and “inadvertently” climbed into the clouds and kept climbing as I contacted Panama radio to give them my location and predicament, asking for a “DF steer” to Paitilla airport.
“Are you instrument rated?” was their first question.
“Negative,” I confessed, “but I don’t anticipate any problem.” - doing my best to sound confident.
The controller asked me to make an “identifying turn” and immediately made the comforting announcement “radar contact”. In less than five minutes (it seemed like 50), by following his directions as to heading and altitude, I suddenly popped like a cork from a bottle into dazzling sunlight and was happy to so inform the controller, who wished me a pleasant journey. Panama Radio, at that time, was being staffed and run by U. S. personnel of the FAA. For the next few weeks I anxiously awaited the inevitable letter from the FAA with its reams of forms to be filled out, asking for an official explanation of how I came to be involved in flying illegally - IFR without an IFR rating. The forms never came. The FAA does have compassion.
*****
March 23, 1976 - Flying a Cessna 170-B, a four-place tail-dragger, we made an early morning take-off from France Field with our two close Canal Zone friends Carl and Bartha Peterson. He was a physician working for the Panama Canal Co. and a long-time friend from Hillsdale, Mich. We were on the start of an adventure which Carl had instigated and planned.
Our first stop was at the tiny, primitive airport of entry-exit on the banana plantation at Changuinola, Panama. There we obtained gas from 50 gallon drums, hand pumped and strained through a well-worm chamois cloth. This latter procedure was to filter out dirt and water. My local guardia was cheerful and friendly as he checked our passports and wished us a pleasant journey. He would see us on our way back.
Our next stop, a short 30 minutes away, was Limon on the Atlantic coast of Costa Rica. With a rather cursory examination of our luggage we were quickly cleared through customs at the airport. Immigration was another matter. We were informed that we must hire a taxi and go in to the office in the center of town for this chore. There was no taxi at the airport but they would call one for us. A 15 minute wait, a 15 minute ride into “el centro” and there to wait in a tiny office building marked “immigrecion” until an official showed up. He leafed leisurely through our passports, pronounced, “You don’t need anything in your passports. Adios.” -and we were on our way. Back at the airport an official heard our story, exclaimed, “The man is an ignoramus!”, made a note in our passports with his ball-point and waved us on our way. The stop in Limon had taken two hours.
Our final destination was Barro Coloredo, Costa Rica on the Atlantic coast adjacent to the mouth of the San Juan river which separates Costa Rica from Nicaragua. There our guide met us and showed us to our quarters. It was through him that Carl Peterson had made arrangements for a trip up the San Juan river by motorized dug-out to Lake Nicaragua - bird-watching, antique bottle hunting, perhaps to sight one of Lake Nicaragua’s famous “fresh-water sharks”, and general sight-seeing. This was to be a “roughing it” trip with no fancy accommodations or equipment.
We spent the next day exploring the local area and hearing how, at one time before the Panama Canal was built, the San Juan river was chosen by the U.S. as the preferred route for a canal between the Atlantic and the Pacific. As the choice was about to be made, Nicaragua thoughtlessly published a new stamp proudly showing an active volcano. This effectively subdued the proponents for the “Nicaragua route” and attention was shifted to Panama. Preliminary work had already begun on the intended deep-water port at San Juan del Norte and we were shown some of the abandoned machinery now rusting in the adjacent swamps.
It was a likely spot for antique bottles. Some of the local boys showed Carl a spot where many had been found, indicating that it had been pretty well pieced over. Within 10 minutes we heard a whoop from Carl. He had located and dug out a nice bottle for his collection - a square bottle with a blob seal. The rest of us came up empty handed.
It was in the bottle-hunting area that Betty, while wearing thongs, stepped on a large thorn which penetrated into her heel. The thorn came out readily but the next day the area was painful and fiery red, obviously infected. None of us had brought any antibiotics, nor were any available in the small town. Finally our guide located 8 throat lozenges, each of which contained a minute amount of tetracycline. The total amount of tetracycline was equivalent to less than half that contained in a single capsule of tetracycline as given orally for infections but it was our only hope. We had betty swallow them all as a single dose. Within 24 hours the infection was remarkably better - whether due to the medication or good luck we will never know.
While in the bottle-hunting area Carl and I, soaked with perspiration in the tropical heat, decided to have a refreshing dip in the near-by shallow stream and stripped down to our undershorts and gratefully (if not gracefully) threw ourselves face-down in the cool, clear stream. We had hardly time to heave a sigh of ecstacy when we started being bitten hard enough to make us exclaim, “What the hell!” and stand upright. Our guide laughed and explained that it was only the “sardinas” showing their territorial rights. Each time we’d relax and lie still they’d nip us - not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to make us wonder if they had. And sometimes on most tender parts of the anatomy. The finny little creatures were audacious minnows only about two inches long.
115 miles upstream from the mouth of the San Juan river lies Lake Nicaragua. That was our destination as we started out shortly after dawn the next day in a large dug-out cayuco with another local guide - by motor, of course. The guide had thoughtfully provided cushions for the long ride on the hard, wooden seats. The weather was beautiful, but the hot tropical sun was relentless. Several times I took off my shirt, dipped it in the river, wrung it out and put it back on. AHHHhhhhhhh!!! The tropical scenery was breath-taking and there were birds of all kinds in profusion. As we passed the boats of fishermen we saw several in the process of catching large tarpon.
Approaching the first set of rapids, our guide steered to a small dock on shore and bargained with a local man, who was familiar with the ever-shifting channel, to take us through.
Oddly enough, the entire river and control of its traffic belong to Nicaragua, due to a trade with Costa Rica some years ago for a piece of land at the river mouth that Costa Rica wanted. Thus we had to stop at three different places along the way to have “zarpes” checked and pay a small fee to a Nicaraguan official. At each stop pleasantries had to be exchanged and social amenities observed, consuming one half to three fourths of an hour each time. It did give us a chance to stretch our cramped legs.
Late in the afternoon we arrived at the tiny village of El Castillo, so named because of the ruins of an old castle there. We were about halfway to Lake Nicaragua and ready for a night’s rest. The only hotel in town had vacancies. A double room in the crude wood-slab building was $1.25 per night. It was a tiny room, only slightly larger than the home-made cot which was the only piece of furniture gracing the room. The cot was made from crossed two-by-fours between which canvas was stretched - army-cot style. A thin blanket lay folded in the middle. Spiders and cockroaches kept us company. On the rail of the back porch was a tin washbowl and a pitcher of water for ablutions. Out back was a wooden “two-holer” strategically located over a creek. The creek was dried up. Ah well, we were getting the adventure we had bargained for. We had brought a few sleeping pills for just such occasions and were thankful for them as we drifted off into dreamless sleep. It had been a long day.
The river at El Castillo held the second set of rapids. Our guide again arranged for a local man to steer the boat through the treacherous waters but this time we remained ashore and he picked us up on the upstream side of the rapids. Passing through a third rapids en route we arrived at the town of San Carlos on the shores of Lake Nicaragua by early afternoon. In this somewhat more modern town we managed a fairly decent (by Central American standards) hotel with a shower and good food.
We saw much evidence of shark remains on the beaches and shores of the San Juan river and were occasionally able to get a fleeting glimpse of one swimming by. In San Carlos we met some young American men who were working for the Smithsonian Institute. From them we learned that the famous “freshwater sharks” of Lake Nicaragua are not a different and unique species at all. It had long since been conclusively proven by tagging (the program was still going on) that the lake sharks are simply the common Atlantic bull sharks which migrate up and down the San Juan river. They can live very well in the freshwater lake but can not reproduce there. It is thought that they may spend some time becoming gradually acclimated in the brackish water at the south of the river. All of this had been printed in scientific journals but somehow the word hadn’t gotten around very well. Perhaps Nicaragua feels that a unique shark species is some additional drawing card for tourism and thus is not inclined to advertise the truth of the matter. Incidentally this shark in Lake Nicaragua is not as vicious as has been rumored. There has been only one recorded fatal attack and that was in shallow water.
After a few days in the San Carlos area we decided to make the trip back downstream in one day, so arose for a daybreak start.We were fortunate to have with us on this trip a boat captain who had formerly plied this river for a living and he knew the rapids by heart. He was glad to trade his services for a ride back to Barro Colorado. This expedited the trip considerably. We made a stop at El Castillo for gas and the usual three stops for ‘’zarpes” from Nicaraguan officials. It was downhill all the way but after the first two hours it started to rain intermittently and then steadily. At times we had trouble seeing the shores through the downpour. We had raincoats and plastic seats for protection. I had my billfold and my handkerchief in separate small plastic bags in my pocket. All was cozy and at one point I huddled down comfortably and decided just to be sullen for a while. Shortly I realized that a stream of rain-water had been sneaking silently down the folds of my raincoat and was rapidly making a very soggy 2pin my lap. Not much could be done at that point so I remained silent, motionless and glum. Darkness was settling by the time we arrived at Barro Colorado. The shower (warm eater was neither necessary nor available), warm meal and clean bed were indeed welcome.
The morning of our departure we took off bright and early, hoping to have less trouble than before clearing customs and the “imeigracion” official in Limon. Carl and I took the taxi to town, leaving the women at the airport. Our hopes were shattered. This time the official decided we did need a stamp in our passports but “the man with the stamp is out in a boat.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“Perhaps about noon. Come back then.”
We were getting the shaft. If he was wanting a bribe we did not catch on. We left without showing our fury and stopped at the hotel next door to ponder the situation while we sipped a refreshing drink. At this time of year afternoon thunderstorms were common in Panama and we wanted to get home before they set in.
I turned to Carl with a suggestion. “Let’s see if we can bluff our way out of the country. The weather usually turns bad in the afternoon and if we wait we will have to stay overnight. The worst that can happen is: a. They can refuse to let us take off from this airport, or b. when we land in Changuinola, Panama (30 minutes away) they can refuse us entry and we will have to fly back to Limon for the proper clearance.”
“Sounds good to me. Let’s go! But better not tell Betty and Martha until we are in the air. They might veto the idea or their faces might give us away.”
At the airport the guardia greeted us with a smile and said, “Todo esta bien, Capitan?” (“Everything okay, captain?”) no request to see our papers.
‘Muy bien, gracias.”
The tower gave us permission to take off. Once in the air I immediately changed frequencies. If they were going to try to call me back I didn’t want to hear about it.
So far so good. We had cleared the first hurdle.
On landing in Changuinola, Panama we were greeted by the same congenial guardia who had been so friendly on our stop the en route to Limon. He was frustrated and flustered at not being able to find the exit stamp from Costa Rica in our Passports.
“Oh, well, it’s there somewhere,” he said as he smiled and waved us on our way.
An hour later the man came to sell us gas from a five-gallon drum again and we hastened to get airborne. From there the weather turned a little rainy and it appeared we might have to land and wait for better flying condition, but we were able to contact a pilot in the air who informed us that the weather at France Field was completely clear. With this knowledge we felt safe in continuing and half an hour later we landed at our destination in bright sunshine.
End of “small flying adventure”.
*****
Sept. 3, 1977 - Flew the Cessna 170-B to Ailigandi, a small strip on the mainland adjacent to the island of Ailigendi where a mission hospital is located. Took 60 dozen eggs for the hospital. Strived to make the landing as smooth as possible. Joked with Betty about “death by smothering with scrambled eggs.”
Sept. 5 - En route back to France Field the ceilings lowered to an unacceptable height and we were forced to land on a primitive strip on the mainland adjacent to the small native village of Nombre de Dios (name of God). Due to our low altitude I was unable to make radio contact to cancel our flight plan. This concerned me as I did not want the U.S. Air Force out looking for us. The small native village had no telephone service. We had become acquainted with a few people there so walked about to look for a likely home in which to spend the night. As we walked in the village I became aware of the sound of a jet aircraft far above the clouds and out of sight but obviously heading north, probably for Miami. Idea! I ran as fast as I could but by the time I arrived breathless at my plane I could no longer hear the jet. On a chance, I tuned to the Panama departure frequency and broadcasts “Commercial jet heading north from the north coast of Panama, this is Cessna N74800. How do you read?”
“Loud and clear, Cessna N74800. Go ahead.”
“Cessna N74800 was on flight plan from Ailigandi to France Field, Canal Zone. Forced down by weather. Landed at Nombre de Dios and will spend the night. Unable to contact Panama Radio to cancel flight plan. Please transmit this message to them.”
The pilot, professional that he is, repeated my message word for word and confirmed that he had transmitted the message to Panama Radio. We slept well that night in the house of the Jorge Gondola family, a native negro family with whom we had previously become acquainted. We had suspected but did not confirm until morning that they had given up their own bed for us to sleep in.
*****
Sept. 17, 1977 - Flying along the Atlantic coast of Panama in the vicinity of Fort Sherman (a U.S. military post) we observed what appeared to be a huge splash of water in the sea far out from shore. “Fort Sherman must be having artillery practice,” I observed to Betty. As we watched, the column of water did not fall back into the sea. It was then that we realized we were witnessing a water-spout - one of three that we had occasion to see during our one year stay in Panama.
*****
April 28, 1978 - one of the incidents of which I am less than proud. We were flying an STOL Maule (N325X) in which I had had little experience - five hours total time. In the back seat were Bob&Evelen Thomas, long-time friends from Jonesville, Mich. - he a minister. We were taking them to visit the Kuna indians of the San Blas islands. In landing on the narrow, short air-strip at Porvenier the direct cross-wind was in excess of my capability with the aircraft, which had a lower tolerance of cross-wind than the aircraft I had usually flown. As a consequence I was unable to maintain directional control. Despite my best efforts, we headed obliquely for the shore, rolled over a small embankment and did not stop until both main wheels were in the surf, the broken tail wheel resting on dry sand. Most embarrassing, but fortunately no injuries.
*****
March 13. 1981 - Betty and I flew a Cessna 172 to the big annual fair at David, Panama. I was part owner of HP865 - Panamanian registration at that time being required of all aircraft based in Panama. Upon preparing to leave, the pre-flight examination showed one wing-tie to be shattered. Questioning the local workmen I found that a huge, four-engine U.S. Hercules C-130 had brought a military orchestra in to the fair and, in taxiing, had produced enough prop-wash to cause the small Cessna to tip sideways and strike one wing-tip on the cement parking ramp. No tie-down rings had ben provided - only chocks. From the tower operator on duty I obtained all pertinent information about the registration number of the Hercules, name of pilot, time of arrival and departure, names of witnesses, etc., for I felt this represented improper and careless taxi procedure - in other words, negligence, for which reimbursement was indicated. I decided to “fight City Hall” and see if I could collect damages from the U.S. government. Secure application of duct tape to the wing tip made it airworthy for the trip back to France Field. I submitted a bill and explanation to the U.S. Air Force in the Canal zone. To be sure, the usual amount of red tape was involved but, in the end, to my pleasant surprise, they paid the bill in full. The U.S. government is not an unapproachable, unassailable Rock of Gibraltar after all.
*****
I retired as a civilian employee of the U.S. Dept. of Defense in the Canal Zone of Panama effective 13 April 1982. We stayed for one month longer to enjoy the tropical pleasures of Panama, our last flight in Panama being to spend a week snorkeling and relaxing at our favorite island, Nlalunega, a stone’s throw from Porvenir.
In addition to its tropical climate we were led to retire in Naples, Fla. by the presence of an active airport with omni, flying club, avionics shop, Cessna dealer, aircraft rental and Civil air Patrol. I had accumulated over 1,400 hours of flying time and had no intention of retiring from flying. The C.A.P. proved to be my “cup of tea” with the opportunity not only to fly but to associate with other pilots. One of our duties and joys was the occasional flying on “sundown patrol” along the gulf coast looking for boats in distress. In addition there was the occasional emergency call to fly out to search for a downed aircraft or to locate the ELT (emergence locator transmitter) signal from a supposedly downed aircraft. I say “supposedly” because some 97% of these were false alarms, due to the inadvertent triggering of the ELT, but it was important to find them and get them turned off, for on occasion they might be hiding the weaker signal from an actual downed aircraft.
The two licenses which I have, over the years, cherished the most are my license to practice medicine and my pilot’s license. They former will, I expect, soon expire due to disuse. The latter I hope to keep active for many happy years yet.
