It was a warm and hazy Friday in September, and I was on my last flight lesson of the day at the aviation college where I was a new faculty member. My student for this lesson was an Air Force ROTC pilot candidate who had flown with me many times before. Ron was instrument rated and would soon be going for his commercial pilot check ride. The objective for this lesson was to prepare Ron for his final check ride in a flight dynamics course that I taught.
This flight was a little unusual in that we would have two passengers. One was a friend of Ron's who had taken some flying lessons. The other was my sister, who was a private pilot and was excited about finally getting her long-awaited ride in a Mooney.
I checked the dispatch record for any maintenance problems on the Mooney as Ron completed the preflight inspection. The airplane had just had its 100-hour inspection the day before. Although it previously had a persistent oil leak, the mechanics had found nothing wrong. The leak was attributed to overzealous students who liked to "top off the oil" before each flight. I confirmed that the oil level was 6.5 quarts.
We took off and headed for a nearby Air Force base, where we were planning on doing a no-gyro approach. Our request was denied after several minutes of vectoring because of conflicting traffic, so we proceeded to do an NDB approach into the airport where my sister was waiting.
I checked the oil and fuel levels again as Sherry got in the back of the Mooney. The oil level was still at 6.5 quarts. We set off on a zigzag course for the 20-minute flight back to our home airport as Ron flew under the hood without the benefit of his gyro instruments. As we neared Manchester (New Hampshire) Airport, Ron attempted to get a clearance through the airport traffic area (ATA) at 3,000 feet. We were answered by loud squeals on this busy afternoon as numerous pilots transmitted at once. Clearly a clearance was not forthcoming, so we began a climb to 3,500 feet to get over the ATA and continued to monitor the frequency for traffic information. I knew that our position was about 7 miles northeast of the airport, but visibility was only 4 miles in the hazy setting sun. Below, I saw a familiar group of small lakes. I had used them as a checkpoint on my first solo cross-country flight. I remembered circling over them as I gathered up the courage to call the tower. While I was reminiscing, something in the cockpit quickly caught my attention. The needle on the oil pressure gauge was as far to the left as it could go. I checked the oil temperature gauge and found that it was also off the low end of the scale — no oil pressure or temperature. (A mechanic later explained that because there was no oil in the engine at the time the gauge was observed, there was no temperature to measure.)
"Ron," I said, "look at this." I pointed at the gauges and waited for his reaction. The look on his face mirrored my own concern. We wanted to get on the ground — fast.
"I'm going to get vectors to Manchester Airport," I said in a voice that was calmer than I felt.
I reached for the transponder to squawk 7700, but the engine began to seize before I had the second seven dialed in. The power surged, and the propeller sounded as though it had been pulled back to a low rpm; the noise in the cockpit rose to a deafening level. It was irritating — like fingernails on a chalkboard — as metal scraped against metal. The instruments became a blur from the intense vibrations.
I don't remember when Ron stopped flying and I began. I just remember having the controls and turning to what I hoped was a heading for the airport. The radio was eerily silent now — as if all the traffic in the area could hear our engine tearing itself apart.
"Manchester Approach," I said, "this is 802 Delta Whiskey. We have no oil pressure, and we're losing power. We need immediate vectors to the airport."
The tower's reply was drowned out by a loud bang from the left side of the engine. Dark smoke poured into the cockpit. Ron was securing the engine and attempting to clear the smoke by closing off the air vents as I flew toward an unseen airport.
"Twelve o'clock! Twelve o'clock!" I heard the controller yelling. In my stressed state of mind, I wondered why the controller was bothering me with traffic information at a time like this. Then the smoke cleared, and we saw the airport — at 12 o'clock.
As we glided toward the airport, I discovered that a Mooney gets very nose heavy without the benefit of thrust. It occurred to me that Ron had the electric trim wheel at his disposal — as well as bigger biceps. I gave the controls to Ron on base leg. My 200 hours of experience as a glider instructor in Grob 109Bs was invaluable to me now as I supervised Ron's unpowered approach.
I had never seen Ron do a better landing in the Mooney — although I am sure my impression was affected by my elation at being on the ground. I stumbled as I got out of the airplane — partly due to the slippery oil that blackened the right side of the airplane and partly due to my shaking knees.
A 6-inch-diameter hole was visible on the left side of the engine where the connecting rod had broken through the crankcase. The removal of the engine for further inspection turned out to be an easy task: It nearly fell out because three of the four attachment bolts had sheared from the intense vibrations. There was a crack in the crankcase that had started the loss of the entire oil supply and subsequent failure of the connecting rod. The sudden uncommanded low rpm of the prop was explained by pieces of metal from the engine that trapped oil in the power piston in the propeller hub, thereby increasing the propeller pitch.
My student and I both learned some valuable lessons on that flight. We learned that "losing an engine" can take on a whole new meaning if the engine is not shut down immediately when the trouble is accompanied by vibration. We were reminded that a recent inspection is no guarantee of the airworthiness of an airplane. Our experience showed the importance of knowing the location of suitable landing sites and the glide performance of the airplane.
That eventful flight also made me think about how I prepared my students to handle emergencies. How realistic were the emergency situations I simulated for my students? Where was the smoke and the unbelievable racket an engine makes when it seizes? What about the instrument panel that shakes so badly you can't change frequencies to issue a Mayday? Do simulations imply a lack of urgency, when in reality the engine is about to break loose of its last attachment bolt?
A few weeks later, N802DW had a new engine installed. I flew it several times on good VFR days. Although I sometimes vowed I would never again fly that airplane in the clouds, I was soon faced with an instrument student and an IFR day. I managed to dismiss images of gliding to an airport through the clouds as I called the FSS for a weather briefing.
"Eight Zero Two Delta Whiskey?" the briefer queried. "Maybe you don't know about this," he said in a confiding voice. "I heard that airplane had serious engine trouble a few weeks ago."
Shirley M. Phillips is an airline transport pilot with 3,700 total flight hours. Following this incident in 1986, she joined a commuter airline and logged 1,100 hours in a Saab 340 before the airline ceased operation. She now flies for recreation from Hendersonville, North Carolina.
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from others' experiences. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double-spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701.
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