Dick took off from Manado, on the most northern tip of Sulawesi, at around 7:00 in the morning of 07 June, and flew almost due north towards Manila. I repaired to the airport lounge to wait for my Garuda DC 9 flight, due off around 8:30AM.

I don’t mind airport lounges, provided I am able to read a book or magazine and can get a beer. That was not to be in Manado. Freddy F C Wentuk—the briefing officer who had been a great help in organising clearances for Dick’s flight, landing, immigration and customs clearances, as well as fuel for the helicopter, the day before — had come in on his day off to help out and insisted on waiting with me.

Our communications were rather stilted, being limited mostly to some pidgin and a lot of smiles and nods, mainly serving to keep me from my book, and by eleven I'd single-handedly drunk the bar dry—not as great a feat as it sounds.

But then I was glad Freddy had stayed. A barefoot soldier, with a filthy uniform and several day's worth of whiskers, but a very functional looking gun, demanded to know where the helicopter had gone and that I get it back immediately.

Freddy explained, in Indonesian, that everything was in order, at least I suppose that's what he said in a very condescending tone, but the soldier refused to accept it and kept his rifle trained around the region of my navel. I tried to reason, smiling all the while to hide my uneasiness, and wished that Freddy would stop pointing behind his hand at the soldier and then circling his ear with his finger in that universal sign of craziness.

I gave the military man a postcard with a picture of the helicopter on it and he shrugged, muttered and left — maybe that's all he ever wanted. Maybe he was as crazy as Freddy reckoned.

Danny H. Kusumapradja, the immigration official who’d cleared Dick earlier, joined us and I tensed a little, you never know in Indonesia. Then Freddy put the hard word on me for some money for each of them.

As I have mentioned before, Dick and I had a policy of no bribes to anyone. Although this was partly a matter of principle, it was also as a personal challenge to each of us and of our ability to negotiate strange requests in foreign countries without resorting to bribes. Bribing seemed too easy and, communications being what they are in the aviation world, word would precede us down the track pretty quickly.

Anyway, both Freddy and Danny had been a great help, Freddy had even come in on his day off and, because I really thought they'd earned it and that I wouldn't need their help again anyway, I asked Freddy how much he was paid. It was the equivalent of US$20 a month, plus a house, as he proudly added, so I figured a twenty dollar tip for him and ten for Danny wouldn’t break the bank. Their surprise and genuine gratitude was a reward in itself for me.

Another Garuda DC9 arrived around mid-day and I saw my bag; containing the spare camera, film and radio communications books for the rest of Dick's flight across the Pacific and weighing about 45 kilos; wheeled across the tarmac. Having connections to make in Jakarta to be in Manila that night, it was with some relief I anticipated my departure call.

Unfortunately someone suddenly realised that the new aircraft was reserved for a general and his entourage, so I was forced to return to the lounge and eventually watch my bag being wheeled back across the tarmac to the first DC9, while the second aircraft waited for the general.

The good news was that the second DC9 had brought up a spare part for the first. One rumour said it was an exit window to replace one that leaked on the way up.

‘Ready soon,’ another rumour.

An hour or so later, when everyone who wasn’t actually required to work was asleep on a bench or the floor and the afternoon droned on with the flies, someone decided that the waiting passengers could go on the second DC9 and the first one, when it was fixed, could wait for the general.

I watched carefully to see that my bag made its now familiar journey across the tarmac to the second DC9 and once more prepared to leave. But I wasn't called. Apparently the people who were booked on that flight had precedence, so I waited and watched while the aircraft departed - with my bag.

If I’d been able to take that flight I might have made my connection, but now it was impossible, so I reverted to Plan B—wait some more and look forward to another night in the Borobudur, my favourite hotel in the world, in Jakarta, or Plan C—another night in Max Onibala’s small but charming Manado Inn, and try to forget that Dick couldn’t wait because he had a ship to catch off the Kurile Islands in a few days.

I didn’t want to offend Freddy by telling him that I could now do without his help, so I was still unable to concentrate on my book, and the afternoon drowsed on in a stultifyingly desultory way until, at around four o’clock, there was movement at the station — the general arrived at the terminal and Freddy and Danny disappeared without a word.

I was surprised because I thought they regarded me as a friend and, besides, Indonesian people are generally very polite. But, before long, they were back, all smiles. Freddy took my arm and led me out of the terminal building towards the, now repaired, DC9 where he gestured that I should board the aircraft. ‘What about the general?’ I asked. He continued to smile and replied, ‘Someone will wait here.’

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I accepted immediately. Perhaps my friends had somehow gotten through to the general and one of his entourage was going to spend the night in Manado — perhaps my earlier visitor with the gun or, more happily, someone with rellies in Manado who would appreciate another night.

In China they call it guanxi, or ‘back door’. Whatever. The few dollars I had given them was the best value for money I’d ever had.

I was the first person on board, the general’s party still being engaged in the departure parade and inspections, and as the stewardess showed me to my seat she pointed out, with considerable pride and delight, that the over-wing exit window alongside which I was to sit was “new”.

This information, together with the fragments I’d heard throughout the day about the reason for the delay of the aircraft, made me realise that I’d drawn the seat alongside the faulty emergency exit window, the one that wouldn’t seal!

Outside, the troops stood stiffly to attention while the general boarded and the doors were closed. Freddy and Danny stood alongside the troops grinning and bowing towards my window — had they known about the window?

As we taxied out for takeoff the crew started to pressurize the cabin and air hissed from around the window exit—it still wasn’t sealing! Should I tell them and be delayed again? Would it blow out at altitude, causing an explosive decompression, and shred my not inconsiderable frame through the exit gap and into the void?

Having been an operations instructor with Qantas, I knew that it was more likely to seal as the pressure increased so I pressed hard against it pulled my seat belt very tight until we reached Kemayoran (Jakarta domestic airport).

Kemayoran was bedlam as usual but I found my bag, surprise! and made it to the Borobudur by about 8:30PM. Too late for any flights to Manila and, alas, too late for a room at the Borobudur, but Arie Thysen, the duty manager, gave me a note to the manager of the Sheraton and I was able to book in there.

Now I was surprised by one of those feelings that you sometimes get after a day in unusual surroundings or circumstances, after you return to relative normality.

Although aware of the time, without thinking about it I’d assumed that it was quite late, around midnight say, and I was disoriented to find that it was not yet 9:30 PM. I’ve had the same feeling after a rough day’s sailing, or even arriving back in the morning after an all night sail, a feeling of dislocation, of not being able to put all of the events into the same personal framework.

Anyway, if I was going to catch up with Dick in Manila and be of any use the next day, I’d have to move smartly in the morning, so I dined and went to bed.

At six in the morning I rang Lynn Johnson in Sydney, my liaison with Qantas, and asked her for the airline and departure time for the first flight that would reach Manila. She told me Philippine Airlines and that it was leaving at seven.

Less than an hour to get to Halim and check in!

Having spent over an hour getting through Kemayoran the previous day, and realising that international departures take a lot longer anywhere, I was tempted to ask about later flights. Then I thought, give it a go, if I missed it at least I’d be at the airport for the next one. So I asked her to book it for me by computer, dressed in a rush, grabbed my bag, checked out and took a taxi for Halim airport.

At about this time my presence of mind must have deserted me entirely. I actually told a Jakarta taxi driver to hurry! Never do this! No matter how late you are. It’s like handing Jack-the-Ripper a knife and telling him to go for it.

Then . . . disaster! We were about half way to the airport when I realised that I’d left my ticket for the rest of the around-the-world flight in my room at the Sheraton. My first impulse was to go back, but then I’d miss my flight for sure and trying to turn my personal Juggernaut around now that I had liberated him, made that an impossible thought. Since I wasn’t going to use my Qantas ticket for this flight anyway, I decided I could cancel the rest and get a new ticket issued in Manila. Also, the pseudo uniform jacket Dick had bought for me in London, and which I’d also left behind, could be replaced. So we barrelled on.

At Halim I found that only First Class seats were available on the PAL flight. What a pity, I thought as I paid for the one-way ticket with my bottomless American Express card. Thereby sowing the seeds of a potential disaster.

Having stopped over for a couple of hours in Kuala Lumpur, it was mid-afternoon by the time my flight reached Manila.
We were late in and had arrived with several other flights so the immigration queues were quite long, but they seemed to be moving reasonably quickly.

By this time I was alert with a sense of urgency, a type of tension that not only keeps me pushing forward but intensifies my senses so that I am extremely aware of anything that could help my progress. It’s a “willing” of things to go my way, a feeling so strong that, at times, I nearly believe that I am “making things happen”. Of course, I couldn’t possibly really believe it, I was working with Dick Smith and he’s one of the world’s leading sceptics.

Now, as I shuffled forward, I wasn’t aware that my ability to “will” things was about to be tested to the limit.
When I handed my passport to the immigration officer I smiled and he smiled back. He looked at it and smiled again as he asked me for my ticket. My smile turned rigid and the blood ebbed from my face instantly leaving it bathed in a cold sweat.

By the time he said, ‘You have no visa Sir?’ I had realised my mistake. At that time you could stay in the Philippines for two weeks without a visa, provided you had an onward or return ticket. Of course my onward ticket was in the Sheraton in Jakarta. He was still smiling and looked patient, not so the people behind me.

Now my “willing” went into action. Perhaps I did swallow first, but I smiled, and said, ‘It’s my fault, I’ll get out of the queue and wait until you have time.’ He motioned me around behind his station and told some passing officer to get the supervisor.

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