Archives for April 2022

The section of the Atlantic Coast on the southern portion of Portugal has been on my to do list for a long time. When the PA-11 was based in Portugal, the section of coast managed to evade my efforts, as it would have required a combination of an overnight stay plus a dazzling array of confusing and extra fuel stops. The distance involved does not work for a single fuel tank Cub though….it works with a Super Cub.

After takeoff, I was told to head out to sea by Seville Approach, as a restricted area, that thus far had never really been restricted was in fact restricted. That meant a bit of a climb, then a dance around that zone and an active “real arms firing area,” more than likely associated with the US base at Rota. With that behind me, the trip was a westbound routing at 1000 feet above the ground along the Atlantic Coast.

Just before arriving at the Portuguese border, I saw my first glimpse of marshlands and coastal rivers, which reminded me of the southeastern US. As I crossed the border and continued toward Faro, the marshlands associated with distinct barrier islands, which eventually gave way to the Ria Formosa wetlands, which look like a miniature North Carolina Outer Banks. It was a majestic swirl of sand, marshes, islands, and sea…. normally prohibited due to the nearby Faro Airport. I managed to convince ATC to allow passage along the coast, which they did. At one point, I was asked to hurry up (I was admittedly flying at low RPM) as an airliner was on the ILS.

West of Faro, barrier islands give way to rocky promontories and caves famous to the Algarve. West of Portimão, my intended refueling point, I cut the corner northwest bound, avoiding the southwestern tip of Portugal (Cabo de São Vicente), and crossed to the west coast of Portugal, heading north until the sun fell behind clouds. Instead of carrying on to Lisbon as I had hoped, I turned around and methodically made my way down to the coast to the southwestern most point in Europe.

The ancient Greeks and Romans had names for this place, the latter calling it magical. Once Catholicism got involved, invariably a miracle happened, for which a shrine was erected. That was tended to by monks, through the destruction of the shrine during the Lisbon earthquake of 1755. In the modern era of great social awakening, an enterprising German speaking individual has paid homage to the rise and fall of great civilizations and their attendant spiritual connection to this point of geographic significance by parking a food truck on the premises: “Letze Wurst vor Amerika.” Last sausage before America.

Once I found it on Wikipedia some years ago, I never forgot. I had to make my pilgrimage to the patron saint of overweight bellicose German tourists.

Refueling, or should I say “paying the landing fee” at Portimão followed, which was a colossal exercise in the depths humans can achieve by directing their collective efforts toward mediocrity and underachievement. What was most unbelievable from the entire affair was a fusillade to my wife, ranting about how “I prefer Spanish incompetence as at least they have the honor and bravado to tell you to your face, without any shame, that it’s not their job and if you don’t like it, land somewhere else. These seemingly laid back non-confrontational idiotic morons make me look like an asshole if I get rightfully on a rampage at their brazen stupidity.” Unsurprisingly, my wife took a page from the Spanish playbook and reminded me that flying is my problem, and if I don’t like it, perhaps I shouldn’t do it. Point taken. Though I am still not over the fact that I have developed an affection for Spanish smugness and obstructionism. Life in Spain alternates between a warm affection and a never ending battle of wit over the slightest minutia. I suppose I don’t mind it.

Like a good Iberian, once my little bitch fit was done (even if largely to myself), the tide of fury blew over, and it was back in the skies for a 2 hour flight to Spain, along the same coast in fading evening light. The Faro controllers let me fly along the coast again (“hold at the lighthouse”), which is a testament to the positive side of Portuguese nonchalance. The restricted area was still restricted, so back out to sea, then a blazing descent into the rolling plains of coastal Andalucía. Almost six hours on the tach, all of it along the coast…a very splendid day.

West of Huelva, Spain.

Isla Cristina, Spain…first appearance of coastal marshes similar to the southeastern US.

I have seen colors and textures like this in the Outer Banks and in the northern marshes of Bear Lake, Idaho.

Over the border to Portugal.

Barrier islands.

Fuseta. Reminds me of some of the inlets along the Cape Lookout National Seashore in North Carolina.

Ilha da Armona. Ie, “hurry up as an airliner is on final.”

Past Faro, along the coast of the Algarve. I have a friend who has orchard property from his family nearby, acquired decades before all this development took place. He refers to the place as the “al Gharb,” which is the Arabic origin of Algarve, to express his raging disdain at the nonsensical overdevelopment of the coast. There does seem to be a “full speed ahead” approach to touristic development. 

Ribeira de Odiáxere, not far from Portimão.

West coast of Portugal. A certain majesty exists here.

Still the west coast…now southbound.

Approaching Promontorium Sacrum. The cape is to the right, as the ocean is both in the background and foreground. “Land of Serpents” according to the Greeks. “Church of the Raven” according to the Arabs.

Last Sausage Before America. I have completed my holy pilgrimage.

Back in the al Gharb. I stayed in a hotel in the center along the coast last October. It was to preview a Swedish registered Super Cub for sale down here. While there was nothing ostensibly wrong with it, I opted against the purchase. Less than two weeks later, I was in Norway signing paperwork for the aircraft in which I sat to take this photo. Anyhow, I took a quick test ride with the seller over this point, and water colors were majestic, as they were today.

Refueled. Portugal left, Spain right.

Chipiona, Spain. I am absurdly high due to heading out to sea for the restricted area.

Velvet texture before entering the circuit.

There are many reasons that I wanted to go to Gibraltar. It is a separate country, the rock is eponymous, the Strait of Gibraltar is naturally interesting, and the place separates the Atlantic and Mediterranean. The problem lies in the fact that Spain is not happy that it signed a treaty assigning sovereignty to individuals other than Spain, so the story goes that they assigned a lovely series of astonishingly annoying restricted areas along the coast, making flights into and out of Gibraltar difficult. That means a trip out to sea, which, as we know, Garrett does not like. In my prior visit with the PA-11, the reality of the distance involved and the out to sea trip meant that fuel was a problem, which meant a stop in Gibraltar itself, which meant significant fees to close the road, as well as clear customs both ways. I appropriately abandoned the idea in 2018.

With a better aircraft that could fly to Gibraltar and back, including the nautical jaunt, without fueling, I decided that it was time. Given that I had four hours of fuel, I started the flight frolicking in the normally restricted areas near the mouth of the Guadalquivir River, then proceeded along the coast toward Tarifa, Spain, the first point at which I had to be out to sea.

Along the way, a nagging slice of deviousness brewed, which was able to proceed from naughty thought to naughty deed. Since I could actually talk to Seville Approach (that is something of an issue at 1,000 feet above the ground, far from Seville), I asked if I could cross the Strait of Gibraltar, wander around a bit on the coast of Morocco, and return on this flight plan. “Yeah, no problem,” was the reply. Hmmm…

I wasn’t entirely sure that I would do it, though….I was sure I would do it. The crossing actually wasn’t that long, maybe 10 miles at the thinnest point. Winds were 30 knots out of the east, funneling through the Strait, which is very common. As soon as I could see terrain across the water in Africa…yes…Africa, I decided to go for it. Gibraltar itself would have to wait. If the engine quit, I had a life jacket and I’d get wet. If things worked out well, I might have been able to land it on a cargo ship, provided that it was heading eastbound into the wind.

The crossing was uneventful. I arrived at the Moroccan Coast, giddy as a school girl, and made a flight around Ceuta, a Spanish exclave in Africa. Spain oddly controls a small sliver of the airspace in northern Morocco, so I flew a few miles down the Mediterranean side, then a few miles down the Atlantic side, and then I returned. Fuel was one thing, as I had been lounging around Cádiz, not knowing I would make a transcontinental impulse decision. Another factor was thick haze and incoming clouds, which made further exploration somewhat moot. I will come back later.

I rode the winds coming over the coastal hills like a cowboy, getting thrown around as I blazed the opposite direction, infinitely faster on the return trip. Needless to say, I landed with a smile on my face. Just five months ago, I left with my new purchase on a foggy morning near Oslo, and here I just came back from Africa with the same Super Cub….

Salt flats and Guadalquivir River.

Chipiona.

Cádiz.

Faro de Trafalgar, Spain. They want Gibraltar back but named one of their own promontories after the UK. Wrong…. I did a bit of research and Trafalgar is derived of an Arabic etymology. This is one of the sites where the British Navy smashed the Spanish and French navies, so the reverse is true. The UK appropriated the name and has been rubbing it in their face ever since.

Punta Camarinal.

Tarifa, Spain….the beginning of the restricted zone, as well as the southernmost point in continental Europe. I thought Tarifa was a literal name that was connected to somehow collecting tariffs from ships through the Strait of Gibraltar. It is actually named after Tarif Ibn Malik, back when this part of Spain was part of the Caliphate.

Strait of Gibraltar. The Rock of Gibraltar is to the left (northern Pillar of Hercules).

Ceuta, Spain, an exclave in Africa. I am taking the photograph from Morocco.

Fnideq, Morocco, otherwise known as الفنيدق. Holy shit!

It looks so delightfully crazy down there.

Promontory of Ceuta. Ceuta is a restricted area (of course). Why not make things difficult?

Jebel Musa, Morocco. Ahem, جبل موسى. Southern Pillar of Hercules. 

Barbate, Spain. It used to be Barbate de Franco, because the dictator Franco would visit there. While it may appear that I am a jerk for bringing it up, it took 23 years from the fall of the dictatorship until the town changed its name in 1998.

Vejer de la Frontera. One cannot help but notice a tad of commonality with Moroccan architecture. Such an observation’s reception by a Spanish person depends on how culturally self-deprecating they are.

When I travel, whether by car, Cub, or Super Cub, I get it done. Wake up. Eat. Travel. Eat. Sleep. There is no other way to cross entire countries or continents using slow travel than to attack it with a vengeance. For some reason, however, when I share my travel exploits by small aircraft, I usually get a slew of suggestions about museums, castles, high end restaurants, and so forth. If I was retired, it is conceivable that I could visit attractions along the way, though even then, the reality that weather is usually only good for a few days at a time would kick in, and I’d be back at it, performing religious penance flying from sunrise to sunset. If my grandfather is any indication, he continued to engage in penitential road tripping to and from Florida until his death a few years shy of 90.

I therefore merely expected to place my posterior into a French taxi in Biarritz, drag myself into the hotel room, eat French food while working on my laptop (one gets curious looks doing this in France), and go to sleep, only to wake up, eat, and get back in the airplane.

My wife serves as a travel agent, waiting for the “all clear” to book a hotel room, when I know I will make a certain airport for the night. She found a great room at a cozy pseudo-British hotel one block from the beach at the old section of the city. When I got out of the taxi, the air was electrifying, with the sound of powerful Atlantic swells smashing against the rocks, and a California-style salt in the cool air. I spent some time watching the waves, which were illuminated by streetlamps given that it was already night.

The next day, the temptation to fall into sin materialized. I had contemplated a) just barreling into central Spain and “sorting out the bad weather once I get there” thus forgetting my coastal ambitions or b) parking my rear in France for a few days. It was just too pretty, and I was feeling too lazy. It is so much work to walk to a taxi, ride to the airport, drag suitcases to the plane, preflight, and get in it (much less actually pilot it all day). I thought it over many times, looked at the weather, and realized that the original plan was holding true perfectly. It was only sunny in Spain along the north coast. What was more, there was a strong tailwind….the entire way to Portugal, curving around Galicia and changing direction with my intended flight path. I had to remind myself that a) I always wanted to see this section of the coast and b) I will probably never have a chance like this again, with the heavens bestowing its glorious light and wind, whilst no other option works.

Like a slow walk to the gallows, I dragged my tired self and pile of belongings out to the tarmac, almost snarling how I’d rather not be exerting so much effort. 20 minutes later, when I turned downwind to depart to the west, I saw the turquoise waters of the Atlantic, and my gallows drudgery changed to immense satisfaction.

Part of the problem was that I wasn’t sure where I would end up for the night. I was plunging into Spain and Portugal, in sections largely manned by AENA, the hideous (as far as GA is concerned) state airport operator. More than likely, the day was going to end up with some kind of nonsensical and expensive cluster, followed by crappy weather the next day.

After flying for about an hour, I overcame my hesitance of flying over water with such steep coastal terrain….I think I stopped caring as it was too pretty. Then with consistent blazing tailwinds, followed by updated calculations where I would only have to fuel once before landing in Portgual for the night, I realized that my plan was going to work. The wildcard had been removed. My mood switched to transcendence.

The coast was positively stunning, especially when the snow-capped Picos de Europa came into view, which are a sub range within the Cantabrian Mountains. The whole experience was illustrious.

I cut the corner over Galicia, with angry tailwinds over what looked like Spanish Pennsylvania. Then I arrived at the Spanish west coast, where the Föhn wind coming off the Galician highlands made it so warm that I flew with the window open and coat off, for the first time in the Super Cub. After a disproportionate amount of time over water far from land, I reconnected with a coastline devoid of rias, which looked like Big Sur.

Upon arrival in Portugal, the tailwind switched to a headwind, and the sun went away. I landed for the night near Porto, happy as a clam.

The next day, the weather was a solid headwind, cloudy, with showers and Saharan dust. I got the snot beaten out of me as winds roared off the Portuguese hills towards the coast. Instead of flying along the beach, I pointed straight to a fuel stop in Évora, then direct to Trebujena in southern Spain. At one point, I almost had to turn back due to visibility and then things suddenly cleared as I approached the Atlantic. Thunderstorms over Seville meant a slightly longer route along the Atlantic before, of all things, flying straight into a dust storm on long final.

When it was all said and done, 16 hours were put on the tach in three days. I had landings on the Mediterranean and north and south coasts of Atlantic Spain. The trip covered five countries, four languages, the highest peak of the Alps, highest peak of the Pyrenees, and a trip along the Cantabrian Mountains as well as my longest coastal run to date.

Saint-Jean-de-Luz, France. Spain is the hill on the right horizon.

Basque Country.

Approaching Bilbao.

Cabo Mayor, near Santander.

I am not in the mood to exert the effort to identify exactly where this is. Its pretty though, and I was enjoying it immensely. Never mind…found it by chance. “Isla de los Conejos” on the right. Rabbits Island. 

The cove on the center right foreground is “Playa de los Locos.” “Crazies’ Beach.” Picos de Europa behind. I must say [somewhat narcissistically] that I know a thing or two about composition….

Somewhere else along the coast.

Galician Highlands. I find it intriguing that Francisco Franco (fascist dictator of Spain) and Fidel Castro’s father were from Galicia. Chance? Or is there something in the water?

When I texted a friend the above photo, he asked “are you going to eat pulpo a la gallega?” I had no clue what it is (octopus…) and did not respond. My next photo was the below, taken at the mouth of the Ria de Arousa. His reply was “that is where they catch them.” It was redeeming that, should the engine have quit, I could have climbed onto one of those and hung out, instead of getting blown out to sea in the ferocious east wind.

Southbound along the west coast of Spain. Looks a bit like Sweden.

West of Vigo, where the coast starts to look like Big Sur.

Limia River. Spain left, Portugal right.

Next day…flying over eucalyptus forest while getting the snot beaten out of me by wind. Light rain was fouling the windshield with orange Saharan dust.

Atlantic Ocean…Doñana National Park, Spain. I would fly into a dust storm 25 miles from here….

And the haboob on long final. The airport lady made a point to clarify that Spaniards call it a “calima” and not a haboob, though the Arabic term is a bit more amusing. It was much less menacing once I was flying inside it.