From Finland to Germany in an Amphibious Aeroprakt

A few months ago, thanks to the newly founded European Seaplane Association, I came across a beautiful amphibious Aeroprakt A22. The Aeroprakt is well known for its robustness and exceptional visibility. This one was fitted with Full Lotus floats, suitable even for snow landings, a Garmin autopilot, and a 100 hp Rotax engine with very few hours.

There was, however, one small challenge: the aircraft, registered in Finland, was based in Kymi, only a few kilometres from the Russian border. After meeting the seller, and with the invaluable help of Mikko Sinervä, one of the leading promoters of seaplane flying in Finland, and Pertti Husa, examiner and inspector, I convinced myself to buy it. I would bring it home calmly, I thought.

Licence conversion and the weather challenge

The first step was converting my licence for Finnish ultralight operations and planning the ferry flight. In January I went to Finland for the conversion. Where an aviation licence already exists, Traficom does not issue a separate licence, but allows the pilot to fly after an examiner has made an endorsement in the logbook following two hours of flight. An endorsement, in practice.

As I have already written, the runway was covered in snow, but this was no issue for the Full Lotus floats. In Finland, Sweden and Canada they are particularly appreciated for their versatility: runway, water, snow — almost any surface becomes usable.

The two hours with Pertti were extremely useful, not only to get to know the aircraft, but also to become familiar with Finnish airspace and with those small local aviation habits that exist in every country.

Then the planning began. With a cruise speed of only 135 km/h, wind has an enormous impact on both flight times and fuel consumption. My planned route included a first stop in Mariehamn, in the Åland Islands, then Sweden, south of Stockholm and Kristianstad, and finally Germany, via Barth and Braunschweig, before reaching my destination: Egelsbach.

In February I made my first attempt, but came up against the unpredictability of Nordic weather. The forecast had promised a week of fine weather and calm winds. On the day of departure, however, freezing fog settled over Kymi and remained there for days, until I gave up.

In March I tried again. Mikko drove me from Helsinki to Kymi early one morning, under a perfectly blue sky and with normal winds. But the final weather check showed headwinds of more than 20 knots over western Finland, making the flight far longer than the Aeroprakt’s already generous endurance. Conditions did not improve all week, and once again I returned home.

Finally, departure

At the end of April, the skies cleared over half of Europe and the winds looked manageable. I jumped on the first flight to Helsinki. That afternoon, Pertti flew me to Kymi in his Skyleader. The Aeroprakt was already fully fuelled. After the checks, I started the engine, lined up on runway 34 and finally left Kymi for my personal adventure.

Just after take-off I looked south-east and saw Russia, beyond a short stretch of the Baltic. St Petersburg was very close. Pertti, who at 78 is far more energetic than I am, accompanied me in formation beyond Helsinki to make sure everything was all right and to offer assistance — including moral support. After passing the city on my left, he overtook me, rocked his wings, said goodbye and returned to base.

That was when my real solo flight began: the longest I had ever undertaken.

The change of season brought occasional, rather unpleasant turbulence, but the flat, varied and immense landscape gave me a sense of calm. Rivers, lakes and stretches of water followed one another with astonishing frequency. I thought that, in the event of an engine failure, I would probably find a place to land on water more easily than a field. Although I was on Helsinki Control, the airspace was almost completely empty. I heard only one or two VFR transmissions during the entire leg.

After two hours, the headwind increased. I still had an hour and a half to Mariehamn and began to see the end of the mainland ahead, with a myriad of islands and rocks in the distance. Faced with that unique spectacle, I allowed emotions to surface for a moment. Whether by chance or by God, the scene before me felt like an incomparable gift.

Soon I was over open sea. The turbulence stopped, but the headwind grew stronger. I ate two cereal bars and drank some fruit juice. My route took me over Kumlinge, an island I had chosen because it has an airfield which, although unmanned, can be used freely and could serve as an alternate. Naturally, the lack of fuel on site made it less than ideal, but at least it was a safe place to land.

I began checking the fuel gauges more often as they approached the lower limit, but Mariehamn was now in sight and, with twenty minutes of flight ahead, I was not worried. As is normal in Finland, landing is possible even with the tower closed. I made blind calls and landed on the very long runway.

I taxied to the apron in front of the Aero Club, where Bjarne Lindström was waiting for me together with other pilots. I was moved by their welcome. They gave me the access keys so I could leave the next morning, and Bjarne drove me to fill my two collapsible jerry cans before taking me to the hotel.

Into Sweden

The following morning at 7:30 I was at the airport, but the wind was making the light poles on the apron vibrate. I was rather nervous about the possibility of being stuck in Mariehamn. I laid the fuel bags on the wings and unscrewed the cap just enough to use it as a tap over the filtered funnel, trying not to bathe myself in fuel because of the wind.

Meanwhile I prepared the flight plan, necessary for crossing borders, and filed it directly from ForeFlight. The first leg was Stockholm Skavsta, about two hours away. But the wind kept increasing and large clouds were moving low over the airport. The METAR suggested they were at 2,000 feet, but perhaps because of the perspective, or the lack of vertical references, they looked much lower.

Bjarne appeared on the apron to say goodbye. Together we checked the latest weather report and I felt reassured: the wind was 20 knots, but well aligned with the runway. More importantly, once airborne it would give me a very useful push towards Sweden.

I thanked him again for his extraordinary support.

“You see,” he told me, “wherever I have flown, I have always found someone willing to help. Now I want to return the favour to whoever passes through here.”

In one simple sentence, he captured one of the most beautiful and essential aspects of airmanship.

I climbed into the aircraft, started the engine and called the tower. From the taxiway I lined up on runway 03 without needing to backtrack. I received my clearance, applied full power, and after only a few metres the Aeroprakt climbed almost vertically. I retracted the landing gear and flaps and left the airport heading west.

I remained in contact with the tower until handover to Sweden Control, although the first two frequencies I was given were not in use. Finally, on the third attempt, Sweden Control answered. They cleared me through several restricted areas, and at 1,400 feet I continued towards Skavsta.

I saw showers in the distance, but my route was clear. I passed cruise ships, idyllic islands with private villas and jetties, and wondered about the lives of those who lived there. Near Stockholm the turbulence began. Nothing extreme, but the continuous jolts and the impossibility of climbing to smoother air began to tire me.

I called Skavsta. The wind was from the north, but the runway in use was 26 rather than 34. I was probably close to the certified crosswind component, but with such a wide runway I could correct by a few degrees and landed gently.

I taxied to refuel, then went to the terminal to pay the landing fee — only fourteen euros — have lunch and prepare the flight plan for the next segment. Even though the next flight was domestic, a flight plan was still required to depart.

Back at the aircraft, I completed the checks and started the engine. This time I had to backtrack to the intersection of the two runways, and within moments I was airborne again.

By now the thermals were violent. I decided to extend the route slightly and follow the coast, parallel to my planned track, to benefit from the laminar flow of the sea breeze. After about half an hour, however, I had to rejoin the magenta line and continue inland.

Commercial traffic to and from Stockholm filled the frequency, but Sweden Control had no trouble finding gaps to clear me through other restricted areas. I continued at 1,500 feet, then was passed to another frequency. The thermals calmed a little and I could enjoy the landscape more: large fields, farms, forests and lakes. Although I had the ICAO chart with me, the visual references were so similar that pure visual navigation would have been a serious challenge.

One hour from Kristianstad, imposing clouds began building ahead. Visibility was still good, but ForeFlight showed significant precipitation moving in from the west. I lost contact with Sweden Control and called the next frequency, which accepted me without issue after I briefly explained the situation.

Ahead, the terrain rose, and I climbed to 2,000 feet. The mass of cloud looked threatening, but vertical separation was still sufficient. As a precaution, I checked nearby airports and lakes where I could stop if needed. Behind the hills I could see Kristianstad, although visibility appeared to be decreasing.

One of the greatest risks in such conditions is accidentally entering IMC only a few hundred feet above the ground. The turbulence had disappeared. I monitored the visibility calmly and mentally prepared myself to use the autopilot if necessary.

Fortunately, once beyond the ridge, visibility improved. I descended and prepared for the approach. The tower welcomed me on frequency, and a few minutes later I was taxiing towards the grass in front of the local club’s simple but very welcoming clubhouse.

Unexpectedly, inside I found Filip Nilsson, president of the club and also of the Swedish Seaplane Association. We sat down with a coffee, talked about seaplanes and flying, and ideas for future projects emerged naturally. Filip offered me a lift into town, where I walked, ate a hamburger and relaxed my back, tired from the lack of lumbar support in the Aeroprakt.

Towards Germany

Saturday morning. The taxi was waiting outside the hotel and I explained to the driver that we needed to stop at a petrol station to fill the cans before going to the airport. Since the car was a Tesla, a few people smiled at the irony when we pulled up at the pump.

On the way to the airport I spoke with the driver, a young man originally from Syria. He told me he was afraid of flying. I told him about my trip, how I had started flying, and how several people I knew who had once been afraid of flying had later become pilots. When we arrived at the Aero Club, he took the school’s contact details to organise a trial flight.

Once again I refuelled the Aeroprakt by laying the cans on the wings and slightly opening the caps. Meanwhile I completed the checks and filed the flight plan. The next destination was Barth, EDBH. According to my calculations, the flight should take around one hour and twenty-five minutes.

I took off with blind calls, as the tower was still closed, and after a few minutes left the mainland behind, finding myself over the lead-grey Baltic Sea. To the right I could see the white cliffs of Denmark, but ahead there was still no sign of Germany. Cargo ships and ferries passed below, while the headwind made it difficult to reach even 100 km/h over the ground.

For a few minutes I felt suspended in a dream: the dark sea with no visible limits, the silence, and the calm of the wind. I flew over an offshore wind farm. Contact with Sweden Control was weak until I lost it entirely. I called Langen Information, and the controller received me with some hesitation, apparently unsure how to shorten my callsign.

I continued towards Barth. By ten in the morning, radio traffic in Germany was already intense, and at Barth there were three aircraft in the circuit. I landed and found the apron already busy. A couple stepped out of a Bristell with a Labrador. A DA42 used for aerial photography landed to refuel just after me, while two Cessnas were preparing to depart.

I went to the tower to pay the fees and close the flight plan. Here too, the landing fees were negligible, and the friendly operator even offered me a coffee.

Already feeling at home

The next leg was Braunschweig, a city devoted to aviation, home to the LBA, the German aviation authority, and to one of Europe’s most respected aerospace faculties.

As soon as I left Barth’s frequency and contacted Langen, I heard a flood of requests overwhelming the controller. It was a typical, extremely busy spring weekend. The turbulence was relatively strong, so I climbed to 4,000 feet, where the air was much calmer. Langen announced that advisory services could no longer be provided because of excessive traffic.

I climbed to 4,250 feet — an unusual altitude — to minimise the possibility of unexpected encounters. Below me, rapeseed fields coloured the landscape. After two hours I was approaching Braunschweig. I received clearance via November 1 and November 2, with a warning to watch for gliders north of the runway. Immediately after November 2 I received landing clearance and touched down at 15:18 local time.

To leave or not to leave?

Sitting at the table of the pizzeria on the edge of the apron, I relaxed my muscles and thought. I wanted to get home that evening, but I was tired. The constant turbulence, the relentless radio traffic and the Aeroprakt’s imperfect ergonomics had taken their toll, adding to the fatigue of the previous two days.

I asked myself whether continuing to Egelsbach at all costs might be a classic case of get-home-itis: the pressure to reach the destination that leads pilots to make mistakes.

I rested for about an hour, stretched, walked around, and eventually convinced myself to depart. Egelsbach requires PPR for ultralight traffic and grants it only when the pilot also holds a PPL or higher. I wrote to Egelsbach to request it.

Dietmar, one of the friendliest and most passionate people in EDFE operations, replied within moments approving the request. I prepared to leave. The Braunschweig operations officer offered me fresh fruit for the flight, which I gladly accepted.

At 17:25 local time, I started the engine and received take-off clearance, departing via reporting point Echo 2. I climbed to 5,000 feet. The turbulence had almost completely disappeared, and I enjoyed the landscape and the afternoon light. High clouds filtered the sun’s rays.

Traffic on Langen remained extremely heavy. At one point the controller warned me of a glider apparently less than a mile away. I could not see it. I turned on all the lights and rocked the wings to make myself more visible. The glider seemed to come even closer. I had ADS-B Out switched on, and most gliders in Germany are equipped with FLARM or other receivers. Fortunately, I was soon told that the glider was no longer a factor, and I continued.

I lost contact with Langen and called the next frequency, which also covers Frankfurt and Egelsbach. That simple radio change made me feel even closer to home.

In the distance I saw the Taunus hills, then the shapes of Frankfurt’s buildings, and finally the tower where I work. Then came the moment to leave Langen and call Egelsbach.

The voice on the frequency did not recognise me at first, but sounded surprised not to have to repeat the transponder code, as often happens with visiting pilots. I joined downwind, lowered the gear, reduced power and selected flaps.

“Wind calm, welcome home,” said the voice on frequency, which had now recognised me.

The wheels touched the asphalt of my home base gently. Fourteen hours and forty minutes of flight had passed since departing Kymi two days earlier.

As I parked, pilots and people from the local flight schools approached, asking questions about the journey and the aircraft. We chatted for a while. Then I was alone.

An adventure is something new and unknown. I am certainly no pioneer, but this had been my personal adventure. I thought of all the people who had helped me, out of friendship or out of love for the air.

I was a different person from the one who had left two days before.