NEWS ARCHIVE

December 28, 2003 Kelvin's Last Flight The first production PAC 750XL bound for the US departed Hamilton, New Zealand, under cloudy skies, and set course to Pago Pago (American Samoa) on December 23 NZ/December 22 US, distance,1850 miles. Ferry pilot Kelvin Stark departed Pago Pago the next morning and made the next stop in the Northern Hemisphere, on Kiritimati (Christmas) Island, distance 1600 miles. He called from Kiritimati (Christmas) Island, giving us an update on his planned ETA, commenting that the plane was a dream. We would love it. Sorry, he wouldn't be here for Christmas, but would call again from Hilo (Hawaii), distance 1200 miles. He arrived in Hilo the afternoon of Christmas Eve, and spent that night and a lazy Christmas morning resting in Hilo. The usual departure from Hilo is around 5:00pm local time, guaranteeing a daylight take off and climb. The short tropical sunset would soon plunge him into darkness. He called around noon on Christmas day, the weather looked good, a front had passed through California and there was a predicted tailwind of about 8 knots. He said he would call prior to departing, and was flight planning for a 14 hour flight. By now he had flown very long overwater legs, and had a firm understanding of the aircrafts performance, commenting that it was going better than predicted. The 2300 miles from Hilo to California was what Kelvin called "The Big Ditch." With 800 US gallons of useable fuel on board, Kelvin could stay airborne for over 18 hours, more if he really needed to stretch it. While four hours seems like a lot of reserve, Kelvin was acutely aware of the possibility of weather changes, perhaps the need to divert around a thunderstorm, and the possibility of a wind shift. I received a call from Kelvin's wife, April, at around 5:00 PM Hawaiian time. He was on his way. Once level at his long range cruise speed, he would top off the aircraft tanks from the ferry system, establish contact with Oakland Center on the HF(High Frequency) radio, and settle into the familiar routine of fuel management, communication, and flying. It's a quiet place, the Pacific, at night, alone. Kelvin might occasionally make a blind transmission on "Guard" (121.5, the distress VHF frequency which everyone on this route monitors) to get weather information from opposite direction traffic. The smooth hum of the engine would have been unwavering. If there was a hint of moonlight, and he bothered to look, he would have seen an atmospheric distortion caused by the heat of the exhaust. He might turn on his CD player, orchestrating some phantom orchestra that was assembled just through the windshield, right there, on the cowl. He would be checking in at invisible waypoints, with improbable names like Barts, Cluts and Cleo, to name a few. He would stay hydrated from many bottles of water, as he sat in his bright orange survival suit, designed and proven to keep you alive for 12 hours in freezing water. But something went wrong on this routine trip. Somewhere in the small dark hours just before dawn, a nagging seed of doubt began to grow, make the heart beat in his ears, send the eyes through a complete scan, make him wide awake, feel hot, cold, sweat. At 4.28 am Pacific Standard Time, Kelvin contacted United Flight 48, outbound from Maui to the mainland. It seemed he was low on fuel, and declared an emergency. UA 48 relayed the information. The US Coastguard was notified, the crew assembled, waited for precise coordinates, departed and set a course from their base in Sacramento, California, to GPS coordinates hundreds of miles off the coast. Over the subsequent hours he was in contact with several commercial flights, and had listened to their suggestions, and had tried them. The airline crews, some former mechanics, pulled together to help this man in trouble. He had Center call me, and in the pre dawn I went through the aircraft manual, suggesting a couple of things. Nothing helped. The USCG C-130 was in radio contact long before he could see it. In the interval between establishing radio communications and visual contact, the situation was discussed, options considered and decisions made. It was a tremendous comfort, beyond words, to see the big white Hercules approaching fast, the throttles fully forward, emitting four long trails of smoke. When the C-130 reached him, he had about 15 minutes of fuel remaining. In thousands of hours of ferry flying, this was going to be a brand new experience. The Coastguard crew and Kelvin had discussed the ditching procedure. The waves were not too bad, there was a cross swell wind, but in general things looked good. Approach speeds and directions were discussed, what to expect throughout the ditching, the need to stay calm and oriented. Kelvin would soak the information up like a sponge, but staying calm was what Kelvin did on a daily basis. Joked about his predicament. A question from a commercial jet gave Kelvin and everyone a moment to pause, step outside the immediate. Was there anything he wanted to tell his wife? He pondered a moment before replying. Kelvin opened the crew doors at about 1,000 feet. This was to insure that the doors would not jam if the fuselage twisted during the landing. The bright yellow, red and blue plane looked funny with the gull wing doors open as he continued the decent, the Hercules staying with him as far as it could. He flared just above the water and would have had an airspeed of 30 to 35 knots, still well above the stall speed at this light weight. He held a nose high position allowing the great big, high lift wings, to generate the maxim lift, slowing his forward speed still further. The main wheels touched just prior to the nosewheel. The nosewheel touched, dug in, and the aircraft flipped easily onto its back, settling on the water with the wings on the surface, in a slight nose down attitude, upside down. It was a textbook landing, perfectly controlled and flown like the professional he was. No one could have put that beautiful new plane down better. Somewhere in this moment, Kelvin Stark passed away. The US Coastguard crew made several passes, dropped a raft, and began a four hour loiter. They were heartbroken. If you spoke to Kelvin for 2 minutes, you felt like an old, trusted friend. It would have been a bitter pill to take to be that near, and yet not see Kelvin's head pop up from under the aircraft, with his sly smile. Another USCG C-130, an Air National Guard C-130 and a HA-60 helicopter had been dispatched. Under worsening sea conditions, rescue swimmers found Kelvin still strapped in. By now the plane was lower in the water, and removing Kelvin had to be weighed against the safety of the rescue team. It was determined to be very risky, and the attempt to recover Kelvin was abandoned. As the C -130 crew made their last orbit and pass, the plane had settled in the water with only a portion of the tail exposed. Kelvin Stark, 58, from Tauranga, New Zealand, began yet another journey, only this time, he left no flight plan. He will be looking out for his friends and all those who came to his assistance in his hour of need. Note: In October, 2003, Kelvin flew the prototype PAC 750XL from Hamilton to Mojave, Ca, and back. I estimate he accrued almost 100 hours of flying during that 14,500 mile trip. On that ferry, I flew with Kelvin from Honolulu to Davis, California. Some of the above I have first hand knowledge of, some I have gathered from speaking with those involved, and some I have deduced. I may have some things wrong, but they are correct as I know them now. At the time of writing, an accident investigation is being mounted. Like all accident investigations, it will take time. Facts will be gathered. Hopefully, at the end of it all, we will have learned something. However, we may never know exactly what went wrong for Kelvin. Kelvin is survived by his wife, April, and 3 children by a previous marriage: Ascinda (Cindy) Stark, 28 years old. Residing in Scotland, she is an Architect. Regan Stark, 23 years old. Residing in Scotland, he is a Rugby player. Cameron Stark, 19 years old. In NZ, a student studying sound engineering.   Philip Esdaile Utility Aircraft Corporation