Any amount of objectivity would have helped me to see that in my mental state, I was not fit to fly. Objectivity, however, wasn't high on my list as I prepared to fly from near Birmingham, Alabama, to Greenville, South Carolina, in late October.
I received a good briefing, but none of it stuck in my brain. I know the briefer told me everything he should have, but I took off anyway. The real problem was the divorce that was going through my head at the time.
Takeoff and climb-out went off without a hitch. I set the autopilot on the Piper Seneca II and relaxed for a few minutes. Suddenly, the airspace around Toccoa, Georgia, got dark. I knew I was flying east, but this early darkness was ridiculous. When I removed my sunglasses, I saw the situation much more clearly. There was a wall of weather in front of me with prickly lightning all along it. Since I did not have radar, I called center and asked which end would be the easiest to circumnavigate.
The awakening process began. The controller, in a very cheerful, almost sarcastic tone said, "Well, sir, it goes off my scope above London, Kentucky, to off my scope below Waycross, Georgia. Which end would you like to try?"
The awakening continued. I made the next wrong decision by asking him to vector me through a "soft spot or hole" if he could. The controller said he would, and surely he tried his best, but obviously there were none of these holes to be had.
I figured 7,000 feet would be as good an altitude as any, so I pushed on. The ride grew steadily rougher. I heard the controller trying to contact another aircraft with no success. About the time I slowed to the rough-air penetration speed, I dropped the gear and one notch of flaps due to the severity of the turbulence. The controller called me to say he had lost contact with a Beech Queen Air whose last altitude was 7,000 feet, and he needed me at 9,000 as soon as practicable. I noticed and reported to him that I was going up at that time — not that I had a choice. Even with reduced power and nose-down pitch, an updraft had already started me climbing. He told me to report when I did stop, and I managed a terse, "Okay."
Unfortunately, I had not tied anything down, and I glanced over my shoulder a couple of times to see my golf clubs and suitcase levitating.
Reality had taken hold. Finally, I stopped rising at about 10,600 feet. The almost incessant lightning allowed me to see that the outside of the Seneca looked like a frozen daiquiri. Rime ice was on everywhere.
Then the roller coaster started down. The autopilot had beeped off, and I was flying with my left hand and holding on to the bottom of the seat with my right. I notified the controller of my top-out and reversal of direction. He informed me that I was clear of the Queen Air and to advise him when I could stop the descent. On the way down, the precipitation turned from sleet and hail back to rain, which washed the slush off. When I descended to 6,200 feet, I was violently ejected from the east side of the storm into light rain and light to moderate turbulence. By now, the divorce was a dim memory.
I wanted to land at Greenville Downtown (GMU) instead of Greenville-Spartanburg (GSP), so I had to queue up for my shot at the ILS to Runway 36, which interferes with the ILS to Runway 03 at GSP. During the vectoring, the rain and chop continued, which should have told me of some wind shear, but I ignored it. On the approach, I did notice that the correction angle did not match the given surface wind, but here again, it did not fully register. At about 400 feet agl, there was a strong buffet, and the localizer needle began to run to the right.
I put as much correction as I thought prudent, considering my position on the approach, but it was not enough. As the localizer needle approached the limit, I started to add power to go around. Then at about 250 feet agl, I broke out. Upon seeing the field at about two o'clock, I told the tower I had the runway in sight but was not perfectly aligned with it, or words to that effect. He cleared me to land anyway. I figured the horror was over and all that remained was a landing and dinner — not yet.
It obviously had been raining a long time at Greenville, and there must not have been much traffic (I can understand the latter). After I rechecked gear down, etc., I began bleeding airspeed off over the boundary. Of course the landing lights did virtually no good on a wet blacktop runway, so I went into the "land by the runway lights" mode. Just when I should have felt the bump of the Seneca's firm gear touching down, I didn't. Instead, I heard a splashing sound on the underside of the airplane and then a whoosh. The main tires aquaplaned on several inches of water and sprayed the belly. When the tires finally fell through the water, rooster tails came up between the nacelles and the fuselage. Next, the nose gear plowed down through the water and sent water into the props. The engines did not like this flushing one bit. At least I was on the ground and in reasonable control. I wanted to kiss the ground but the water on the ramp was over my shoe tops.
If you are not turned on and tuned in to the job of flying, it is best to postpone the flight or take alternate transportation. At least remember the option of turning around, and do not be bashful about doing it.
James D. Argo is an automation engineer living in Ashville, Alabama. He is a commercially rated airplane and helicopter pilot with an instrument rating and 1,200 hours of flight time.
"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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