To the Water Barrier and Beyond
Published in Motor Boat & Yachting , December 31 1965, Written by: Donald Campbell

The only man to have broken both world land and water speed records in the same year, DONALD CAMPBELL recaptures vividly the tense atmosphere and the bleak conditions of just a year ago, when on 31st December, 1964, he pushed an ageing "Bluebird" to a new 276 mph record on Lake Dumbleyung in Western Australia.

BLUEBIRD lay motionless. I had been in the cockpit, harnessed, helmeted and masked, for an hour and a half, waiting for the "All Clear". The time: 3.14 p.m. Thursday, December 31, 1964. The place: Lake Dumbleyung, 140 miles southwest of Perth. Western Australia: shade temperature 120'. Ahead of me lay the buoy line and two miles away the beginning of the measured kilometre. Beyond it just below my horizon was moored Leo Villa, controlling the attempt. We were linked by radio with all patrol craft, timekeepers and shore base.

Judgment of surface conditions for speeds over 200 miles an hour is tricky: that which looks calm to the casual observer can be deceptive and treacherous. At 190 m.p.h. Bluebird will ride smoothly; at 200 m.p.h. she will start a gentle pitch: at 210 m.p.h. the cycle will build up to between four and seven pitch-cycles per second, accompanied by a vertical acceleration of +4 to +6 G. At 215 m.p.h. comes the edge of the barrier. At this point vision starts to go; instrument panel, nose, water and horizon become one vibrating, merging blur. The right foot, however tightly wedged on the throttle, goes out of control. The engine revolution counter oscillates wildly, faster than the eye can follow the needle. To venture beyond this point is to recall Mr. Punch's advice to the man about to get married - "DON'T". In this situation a hand throttle is useless, since directional control is akin to running whilst carrying a shallow tray full of water. Both hands are best kept on the wheel.

In l955, on Lake Mead in Nevada, U.S.A., the ambition had been born to break both the land and water speed records in the same year for the very simple reason that it had never been done. We estimated that it would take three years. Now, nine years, one wrecked motorcar and a fractured skull later, we were desperate. The world's automobile record had been broken in July and this current attempt on water followed in South Australia four months later. After the floods, gales and mushy salt that dogged us with the car on Lake Eyre, it all seemed comparatively straightforward. Yet it had happened all over again. The weather went haywire, accompanied by the first flood of the River Murray in twelve years. Hundreds of acre-feet of ice-cold water from the melting snows of the Australian Alps poured daily into the warm body of Lake Bonney and the temperature differential caused continual surface turbulence. Twice I had hit the water barrier, once coming rather close to the brink.

Precious days had passed into weeks and by the middle of December, the level of the lake was still rising daily. There came the agonising decision stay put where we had every possible facility or move to a remote virgin site, unaffected by the teeming river. I chose the latter. The move to Lake Dumbleyung, 1,600 miles away to the west was accomplished in three days. The enthusiasm of the Western Australian Government and all concerned caused a slipway to be laid and a base camp established in equal time.

Alive With Creepy-Crawlies
Lake Dumbleyung is a shallow oval in the dusty wheat-growing belt between Perth and Albany - six miles of green, murky water, the perimeter ringed with rotting trees. There is no adjacent town and the area is alive with creepy-crawlies of all descriptions. Our first morning in camp Tonia, my wife, went to make our bed: and in it found a scorpion! Around the caravans were bull-ants, poisonous spiders, the odd snake and on the lake an even greater menace - ducks by the thousand.

Our first trial run on December 23rd had been comic-opera with a twist. The birds showed a complete contempt for Bluebird until the craft was almost on top of them. Then they found they had underestimated the speed of this strange decoy bearing down on them at 200 m.p.h., they went under, sideways and upwards - two got caught in the slipstream and followed the contour of the cockpit canopy, three narrowly missed being ingested by the jet air intakes. In self-defence, I was forced to evasive action and a dead stop. The Western Australian Government waived all regulations. Game wardens moved in. All patrol boats were equipped with shotguns which blazed away in every direction when taking up station. The wardens had only to kill three birds before they got the message. Thereafter, once a boat started, they took to the banks rapidly. This problem was followed by wind, ceaseless and unrelenting. Christmas Day dawned, everyone was in position at 3.35 a.m. but there was nothing in our stockings. The weather deteriorated. At 10 oclock we stood down, the weather forecast was hopeless. Timekeepers, observers and police flew back to their families in Perth, and a well-deserved Christmas dinner.

Feeling very far from home, our little band of "pommies" and two South Australians contemplated the solitude of the lake. Christmas is Christmas wherever it is spent. I flew our Aero Commander over to Perth, exchanged seasonal greetings with some equally fed-up air traffic controllers, collected a sack and climbed back into the sky. At Dumbleyung, the little band of ten looked strangely incongruous in the emptiness of that vast land. In the sweltering heat, it seemed a long way from home, snow and Christmas pudding. I taxied up to them at the end of the strip and emerged, complete with red cloak, white beard and traditional swag. Despite the "Turkish Bath", it was worth every moment. The party over, we drove 18 miles to the nearest country hotel.

Cold beer was very welcome, but nothing compared to the luxury of a fresh-water shower. At 6 p.m. we made a routine check with the meteorological office at Perth: forecast - wind south-easterly, l5-20 knots. On Boxing Day, we were out again at 3.30 a.m. The white-capped waves were breaking on the sandy shore. At 5.30a.m., the wind quite suddenly dropped, a panic call was put through to Perth for timekeepers and officials. They moved in record time just 2 1/2 hours later to be greeted by the return of the teasing wind - a hot, searing wind which filled the air with clouds of fine, choking dust.

Four more days passed. New Year's Eve, the sixteenth anniversary of my father's death, dawned with the same white-crested waves still breaking on the shore. The weather forecast: wind south-easterly, 10-15 knots. Our spirits were at an all-time low. Ten weary years of intense effort, many bitter disappointments and now, when success had seemed so very close, we were beaten, not by an admirable competitor, not by mechanical troubles with which we could have dealt, but by the cussedness of the Australian elements. Men wandered or sat aimlessly in the shade of gum trees as the waves broke, mocking us in our despair.

The Wind Dropped
At noon, the wind dropped, quite suddenly. Within the hour, patrol, refueller and rescue boats, timekeepers, observers and ambulance were on station, ready. The calm continued. Bluebird was moored beyond the fringe of rotting tree stumps, facing down the course, starter boat alongside, power plugs in - waiting like a greyhound to be unleashed. Radios crackled periodically, reporting surface conditions over six miles of the lake. The air was deathly still, the swell dying. Minutes dragged and seemed like hours. I thought back over fifteen years of record attempts, three rather extraordinary accidents, the water barrier, a number of world records and then realised that I was still alive through staying a coward, through waiting, whatever the cost, until conditions were perfect. Now we were on the razor s edge - there would never be another chance in my lifetime of the two records in one year. The inner battle raged - -Take your chance, the wind will be back any moment - Go on, man. Go!" The temptation to overrule Leo became almost irresistible. I thought of father and wondered what he would have done of Leo's inner thoughts and the intolerable burden he was carrying - of President Eisenhower's words as he looked at pictures of the mangled wreckage of Proteus Bluebird in 1960. He turned to Tonia -

"Well, if I had to be involved in that. I'd rather be in it than watching it", he said. How right the President was, Leo, now 65, dynamic, wise old Leo. He could see and assess conditions in that measured kilometre - which from two miles away I could not. We all knew, - a moment too long and our chance was gone for ever - a moment too soon and the end was the same. Poor old Leo, the decision was his. I must have dozed. At 3.14 p.m. my earphones crackled - "Leo to Skipper: conditions pretty damned good - flat calm, speed unlimited. GO!" The cockpit thermometer was reading 142 degrees. The cockpit canopy closed with a familiar click; I checked it locked, pressed the transmitting button - "Skipper to Maury: all stations ready, all stations go: power on now". I checked the wheel free and central, master switch on, low pressure fuel valve on, pressure breathing air on, mask valve closed, harness tight. The starter solenoids went home, the engine accelerated. The r.p.m. built up - 500, 600, 700: high pressure fuel valve on. There was a muffled clap of thunder as the turbine lit and then the jet pipe temperature climbed - 400, 500, 600 deg. C. The revs were leading: it was a normal start. I looked over to starboard: plugs were out, the starter boat clear. The final moment had come. I increased thrust, the nose began to lift. Then came the tricky period at 25 knots, water cascading over the rear spars - a fraction too much power at this point and water is sucked into the jet intakes and the engine dies. Ahead stretched the buoy line and my sighting mark at the lakes end. The nose was up: I increased power to 80 per cent: the nose began to drop as the craft accelerated: at 80 m.p.h., a quick virage to port to unstick the transom. Now she was fully planning level with 100 per cent power. Another five seconds and we were up to 200 m.p.h.: there was a mile to go and the acceleration rate seemed sluggish. I remembered the air temperature. At 220 m.p.h. the effect of ram air came into play and she accelerated again. She pitched slightly and then was over the top of barrier speed: 260 m.p.h., half a mile to go and still accelerating. The beginning of the measured kilometre came up at 275 m.p.h.; four seconds later. Leo's launch in the middle of the course: still accelerating - 290 m.p.h.

Around the 300 Mark
She cleared the end of the kilometre with the airspeed indicator flicking around the 300 m.p.h. mark. I eased the throttle, the speed fell away. I was on course and had the eastern starter boat fully in view to starboard. I let her come off the plane gently and turned slowly to let the wake die, signalled Leo and the timekeepers to be ready for an immediate return. The officials were right on their toes; they gave me 283 m.p.h. for that run. The intense heat was affecting radio performance. Leo passed the -All clear" and I was now on course and accelerating again. The nose lifted, a fraction too much power and the inevitable happened. The engine died. The eastern starter boat was half a mile astern but coming up rapidly. I released the harness, opened the cockpit and, with a muttered curse, poured the sweat from my mask: to my horror there were the first gentle but unmistakable signs of returning wind. I was now desperately low on fuel. We would just have to gamble. The launch was now alongside, power plugs went home and the turbine fired. The nose lifted and this time we were away without mishap. The transom unstuck with just a mile to go before the measured kilometre. She accelerated, buffeted as she crossed her own wash and entered the kilometre at an indicated 250 m.p.h., clearing the western end at 275 m.p.h. I eased the power and breathed again. All things being equal, a new record was ours. There followed the agonising moments, waiting for timekeepers' confirmation, moments in which one prayed nothing had gone amiss with the equipment. I idled her towards the slipway: then came the magic words from the timekeepers: an average speed for the two runs, 276 m.p.h.

I cut the engine, looked down at my fuel gauges. There was five seconds of fuel left. Ten minutes later, white-capped waves were breaking around us. That night we celebrated. In the light of camp fires, Bluebird, on her cradle, looked rather as an old war horse who has heard the last bugle call, battle scarred, proud and lonely. Rivets were going in her hull, there were pin-holes in the engine combustion chamber casing, her skin still showed marks from the sinking on Lake Mead. I looked at Leo Villa and the men who had maintained Bluebird, thought of Ken and Lew Norris who had designed her in 1954 for a maximum life of two years. Now, ten years later, she still defied the sporting might of America - after all those years, still the world's only craft to have safely exceeded 205 m.p.h. Now she was at the end of the trail.

What of the future? Nine years ago, Britain held all three major world speed records - air, land and water - the only nation ever to have done so. Now the U.S.A. holds air and land. The air is lost to us for ever and Craig Breedlove of California, following his recent magnificent and courageous 605 m.p.h. on the Utah Salt Flats, has announced his intention of going after the water speed record in 1966.