A dawn flight out of the desert in a F-27 to Tripoli. The flight was a puddle hopper stopping at various locations along the way and at midday we were approaching the last stop, Zella, and the landing was clearly going to be a challenge. It was February, the sandstorm season, and a thousand foot blanket of blowing sand covered the area. At ground level the visibility would be 200m at best and the ground and sky would merge together in the same muddy brown colour.
And so it proved, the first approach was aborted and the second fared no better. As we climbed away and circled around for another go my anxiety began to rise, I knew enough about aviation to understand that it was the third approach that killed you. After that approach failed things became more dynamic, again and again we circled steep and low, struggling to line up visually with the single runway. There were oil rigs all over the place, up to 200 feet AGL, and we barely rose above them. Once I saw the startled face of the Derrickman on the Monkey Board as we swerved past in the murk.
With every failed attempt I was trying hold back my rising sense of panic. True fear was beginning to grip me and I felt utterly helpless. To try and control myself I counted every approach and tried to keep track of where we were. I checked the location of the exits and the dangling first aid kit again and again. Good strong airframe, maybe with a low speed impact I might just make it.
Each low level manoeuvre started to be much more aggressive and by the eighth approach I had started to loose even hope. This is where I die I thought, with a pilot determined to pick up a VIP.
Then after one violent low level lurch it was over. The power came on, the gear came up and we climbed away. At 1000' we burst into the clear sunshine, a deep blue sky from horizon to horizon. It took a while for the fear to leave me completely but it felt as if I had been re-born.
Not all these trips ended up so well:
