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     Batam, Riau Islands, Republic of Indonesia

     Friday, 24^th December 1993, Christmas Eve

     Batam is the largest city of the Riau Islands, as well the name of the island it rests on.   It’s a compact, roughly oval-shaped island south of Singapore.  

     Being 531 miles northeast of Jakarta, it took the 737 1:36 to cover that distance. 

     Long before it became a boomtown, Batam was a backwater of the Riau Archipelago, with fishing, maritime trade and piracy being its main activities.

     In addition, Batam Island is so close to Singapore, I could actually see its outline on the horizon, from my 14^th floor balcony when I lived at the Sea View Hotel.

     Hang Nadim Airport was on the northeast end of Batam Island, and had a single runway at 8,202 feet in length, running southwest and northeast (Runway 220°/040° magnetic).

     It also had a single VOR DME instrument approach to Runway Two-Two with an MDA (Minimum Descent Altitude) of 470 feet (401 feet above ground level).

     It did not have an ATIS (Automatic Terminal Information Service), which is a taped radio broadcast regularly updated to give pilots the current weather at the airport and runway conditions.  So I was completely dependent on the Indonesian Control Tower Operator to give me the up to the minute weather.  I got nothing out of him weather-wise; instead, upon making initial radio contact, as there was no other air-traffic at this backwater, he immediately cleared me for the VOR DME Approach to Runway Two-Two.

     At the time I felt this was very odd, because as I approached the airport, my radar was painting a massive thundercloud sitting smack on top of the runway.

     Was I being led down the garden path, dear reader?  Oh, yeah...stick around.

     Fortunately for me that day, I had a Singaporean First Officer (Co-Pilot) named Kevin, who understood English which gave us good lines of communication, plus he seemed to be an average pilot.  Therefore, since it was Christmas Eve, I gave Kevin this leg to fly as a Christmas present.

     Never say I don’t have “Holiday Spirit,” dear reader.

     As we bored into this thundercloud, its turbulence bouncing us with prejudice, Kevin homed in on the VOR radio station.  Passing over it he then tracked outbound on the 062° radial to 5.5 miles and executed a 180° turn to the left, intercepting the 222° radial, which lined us up for a straight-in approach to Runway Two-Two.

     Throughout this procedure we’re blind as a bat in the belly of this gigantic thundercloud, being beaten up, as Kevin continued the profile descent to the MDA of 470 feet.  Unfortunately Kevin only got us down to 550 feet when we reached the MAP (Missed Approach Point) upon crossing the VOR, located four–tenths of a mile off the runway’s threshold.  We were still inside the cloud, altogether blind, with no runway in sight!

     Instantly I took control, pushing the throttles to “climb power,” while hauling the nose up to a climb attitude, as I commanded the following:

     “I’ve got it!  Missed approach!  Flaps fifteen!”

     Kevin relinquished control and raised the Flaps from Forty to Fifteen.

     When I got a positive rate of climb, I commanded:

     “Positive rate...gear up!  Advise the tower!”

     Kevin at once raised the landing gear...then advised the tower we were making a missed approach.

     At that precise moment a hole in the cloud opened up and I caught a glimpse of the runway.  As I was committed, I pressed on with the missed approach procedure.  However, I felt we should attempt another approach for Kevin didn’t get us down to the MDA of 470 feet.

     Please note, dear reader, everything happens fast when executing a missed approach.  If I had an Indonesian First Officer, who couldn’t understand my English commands, I’d be screwed, blued and tattooed!  Thank God for Singaporean Kevin!  

     To make a long story short, I executed a second approach and got us precisely down to 470 feet at the Missed Approach Point.  Where we slammed into a solid wall of rain and cloud in what they call “zero-zero” conditions (zero visibility in both horizontal and vertical directions), with no chance in hell of locating the runway!  Once again I executed another missed approach.

     Obviously this tropical thunderstorm is going to hammer the airport for the next couple of hours, before moving off the airfield.  Due to its intensity a third approach is out of the question.

     And here’s where I’ve discovered a strange anomaly, regarding Southeast Asian aviation.  Upon studying airline accidents out here, generally in a weather situation such as this, it’s usually on the third landing attempt that disaster strikes.  The Asian pilot is so disorientated that he’ll smite the earth well short of the runway, or a hill, or even the control tower, or other tall structure next to the runway.  Apparently the Asian pilot becomes so rattled at his inability to locate the runway, he throws all good judgment out the window, attempting that third approach in order to save face.  

TG Flight #261’s Third Approach at Surat Thani during heavy rain with no visibility.

     Oh, yes, dear reader, we’re back to that old Asian problem again.  I, in contrast, am pilot in command and have 115 lives in my hands – passengers and crew – and refuse to place them at risk.  Not on my watch.  Screw “face!”   

     As I’ve got a couple of hours to kill, waiting for this thunderstorm to move off the airfield – plus I don’t have that much fuel to waste - the sole option I have left is to head for our alternate airport.

     Which brings me to another dilemma, dear reader.

     In our filed flight plan, BOURAQ has selected Pekanbaru, Indonesia, as an alternate airport, which is 191 miles southwest of Batam, and will take my 737 a good forty minutes to reach.  

     I’m reluctant to attempt this trip for these reasons:  Perhaps the weather is just as bad there, as it is here, preventing me from landing with little fuel reserves.  Or none of the instrument landing navigation aids are working.  Or the runway has been closed for maintenance; a frequent possibility out here.  And last, but not least, I’ve never been to this airport and am totally unfamiliar with the nasty surprises awaiting me there.  Since I can’t get any up to date information on these matters from the Batam Control Tower Operator, I mentally delete Pekanbaru as an option.

     Instead, I give my first officer this command: “Kevin, tell the tower we’re going to Singapore.”

     Kevin relays this information to the Batam Control Tower, which in turn responds with the typical Asian noncommittal response, “Standby...”.

     This prompts me to give the further command, “Kevin, fuck the ‘standby.’ Switch over to Singapore Approach Control at 120.3, declare an emergency due to weather, and that we’re landing at Singapore Changi.  Then check the ATIS at Changi.”

     Please note that for some weird reason, I don’t stutter in an emergency situation; so why Singapore, dear reader? 

     Firstly: Singapore’s Changi Airport is merely 18 miles from Batam, which means we can be on the ground in 13 minutes with lots of reserve fuel. 

     Secondly: having operated out of Changi for five years, I’m certain all instrument landing navigation aids will be working, both runways will be open, and, through breaks in the clouds to the north, I can almost see Changi.  Indicating the weather is far better up that way.

     Kevin contacts Singapore Approach Control, relays my message, and they give Kevin a transponder code, telling him to “Squawk Indent.”  Kevin dials in the code and punches the “Squawk Indent” button, lighting up our position on Singapore’s radar screen.  Singapore confirms they have us on their radar and gives me a heading to fly, informing us to plan on an ILS approach to Runway Two Right at Changi. 

     This heading sets me up perfectly on a 45° intercept of the Localizer for Runway Two Right.   

     Upon receiving the ATIS at Changi, Kevin reports the weather is clear, all navigation systems are working, and both runways are open.  My suspicions are confirmed.

     Despite all this good fortune, dear reader, a new problem surfaces in my grey matter. 

     BOURAQ Indonesian Airlines doesn’t have international operating authority as of yet.  They are exclusively restricted to domestic operations within the borders of Indonesia.  This is why myself and my crew, as well as all 111 passengers, don’t have any passports or visas in our possession.  Therefore, bottom line, I’m deliberately inserting ourselves illegally into a foreign country’s airspace and consequently on to its soil.

     Forcefully I shoved this realization out of my conscious realty, dear reader.  FTFA (Fly The Fucking Aircraft); I refused to allow this problem to interfere with my concentration.  I’ll deal with this problem after I get my passengers safely on the ground.  For right now it’s FTFA!  This is also why I didn’t bother with the distraction of making an announcement to the passengers.  They wouldn’t understand my English or aviation terms anyway.  When we get on the ground I’ll have my Singaporean Purser make the announcement in Malay.  Things were really happening fast...I simply didn’t have the time to screw around with a P.A. announcement.  FTFA! 

     After intercepting the ILS and descending on its glide slope, my 737 got below and free of the broken clouds, revealing a beautifully clear day at Singapore. 

     Upon smoothly touching down on Runway Two Right, I cleared the runway and was directed by Ground Control to parking slot #304, at the empty airfreight North Apron in the middle of the airfield.

     While taxiing, I had the Singaporean Purser report to the cockpit and make a P.A. announcement in Malay; explaining why we’re at Singapore and not Batam.

     Locating #304, I pulled in and parked, switched over to the APU, and shutdown both engines.  Currently the APU ran all electrical items, plus one air conditioning pack.  As Kevin read the shutdown/securing checklist, a white van pulled up to our L-1 Door, immediately behind the cockpit on the 737’s left side.

     At which point the Purser electrically extended the aircraft’s built-in air stairs.  A couple of men jumped out of the van and quickly climbed the air stairs.

     Oh boy, dear reader, here comes the inquisition!  They’ll probably want to determine if I’m an “airborne coyote,” illegally smuggling 111 Indonesians into their immaculate country!

     A Singaporean Ground Agent stuck his head in the cockpit, asked for a copy of my General Declaration, which lists all passengers and crew, then took Kevin under his wing to go file a flight plan back to Batam, and arrange for fuel.  No questions about why or what we’re doing here.  They departed in the van.

     I’m a bit on edge though, dear reader, fully expecting a visit from some Singaporean Government Official wanting to violate me as I’ve no doubt broken a dozen international laws.  I wondered if declaring an “emergency,” at the get-go, will allow me to “skate?” 

     Satisfied that everything is secure in the cockpit and the APU is doing its job, I decided to get out of the chair and stretch my legs.  Stepping out of the cockpit, I nearly had a heart attack!

     A big airport passenger bus had pulled up alongside the L-1 Door and was devouring all of my passengers!  As we’re all illegals, we are supposed to remain sequestered on the aircraft, and not disappear into the bowels of Singapore! 

     The Singaporean authorities are definitely going to toss my Yankee ass in prison over this, dear reader!  Please forgive my paranoia; this is my first experience at being an airborne international coyote.

     I grabbed one of the Singaporean Gate Agents and demanded to know where my passengers are going...and can he get them back on the aircraft, ASAP?

     He flashed me a large, patient grin; obviously he’s been through this exercise before.  Then calmly explained that my passengers are being taken to a secure holding area, where they can telephone their friends and family; advising them they’re still alive.

     One thing I have always enjoyed regarding the Singaporeans, dear reader, in general they usually have their ducks in a row.

     Kevin eventually was returned to the aircraft, where he reported the flight plan was filed and, after many phone calls, he managed to track down the BOURAQ Agent with the gas credit card, so he could pay for the fuel and landing fees.

    Later all of my passengers were returned intact, and we were refueled.  After one hour and fifty-six minutes on the ground we got back in the air.  Fifteen minutes afterwards I landed on Runway Two-Two at Batam under clear skies; as I predicted the thunder-bumper had moved off the airfield for parts unknown. 

     At long last I reunited my passengers with their loved ones and friends, patiently waiting at Batam.

     All in all on this Christmas Eve, in true holiday spirit, I was able to give my passengers the best Christmas present possible, dear reader.  I ultimately delivered them to their destination without either injuring or killing them.  At last I finally had time to make a P.A. announcement, and wish my deplaning passengers a “Merry Christmas.”  But I stopped myself, and hung up the microphone without uttering a word; basically because these Muslim-heathens don’t celebrate Christmas.

So much for Christmas...and Santa Claus.

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