It was 1947, and I had just left the East Los Angeles Airport (long since gone) in a Piper J-3C Cub, headed for the nearby practice area. My private ticket was still a long way in the future.
I flew under an overcast for awhile and then saw a large opening in the clouds. It was so inviting I couldn't resist. The overcast was only a few hundred feet thick.
I had never been "on top" before, and I was impressed by the new world below me. The cloud tops would become a familiar sight in the years to come; but to a 19-year-old student pilot, they looked like an endless supply of whipped cream stretching off in all directions.
But my delight was to be short-lived. It soon became time to start down, and I began to look around for the hole I had climbed through. It had vanished. I didn't know if it had closed up or if I just couldn't find it. More experience would later confirm that holes in cloud cover often close rapidly and that they are always much harder to find from above than from below — especially if you are not far above the tops.
The words of my instructor began to haunt me as I flew, searching first in one direction and then in another. He had repeatedly warned me not to get caught on top and that if I ever entered the clouds, I would lose control of the aircraft in a matter of seconds. I had no radio and my instruments consisted of an airspeed indicator, magnetic compass, altimeter, and a wire-and- cork fuel gauge. I flew around aimlessly, looking for a hole — any hole. But there was nothing below me except miles and miles of whipped cream.
I reasoned that if I got right over the top of the overcast and started the Cub going straight and level, maybe I could push on the stick with one finger and start a constant rate of descent. If I were careful not to touch the stick with anything but one finger, I knew I wouldn't be able to respond to false sensations. I also knew the clouds were only a few hundred feet thick and that there would be plenty of daylight below them.
I climbed up a few hundred feet and practiced this routine above the cloud deck. It all seemed to work pretty well, but I was hesitant to bet my life on such a recently concocted scheme. As time went by, however, the wire in the cork floating in the fuel tank kept getting shorter and I knew that decision time couldn't be delayed much longer. I had to give it a try.
I had no idea where I was, but I must have drifted south and into the approach area for what was later to be known as Los Angeles International Airport.
I got the Cub trimmed, tested the force on the rudder that would make it hold a direction and, with more than a little trepidation, started down into the whipped cream. Once inside, I was almost immediately bombarded with sensory inputs indicating changes in direction. It was all I could do to reject the temptation to grab the stick and start making corrections. But self-discipline prevailed and, although I certainly don't recommend it, my technique worked reasonably well.
However, when I broke out of the overcast, right there in front of me, on a collision course, was a Lockheed Constellation airliner with four of the biggest, shiniest, fastest-spinning propellers I'd ever seen. I could clearly see the pilots. Apparently, they were skimming along just below the overcast en route to Los Angeles.
Instinctively, I grabbed the stick with my right hand and pulled back ... hard. The Cub responded, and I found myself almost immediately up in the soup again. What happened next has never been entirely clear to me. All I know is that I was completely out of control. There was a lot of turbulence, and I remember a lot of stick and rudder action. I responded to every sensation. And although it must have been over in a matter of seconds, it all seemed to go on for an eternity.
It couldn't have been long, because when I did come down out of the clouds again, I was still in the Constellation's prop wash. Also, I was in a diving turn to the left. I kicked the Cub straight with the rudder, leveled the wings, and started a pullout. The G forces were much greater than I had ever felt before. The airspeed was in the yellow, but the J-3 held together.
After it was all over, I followed roads back to the East L.A. Airport and landed with almost none of the fuel gauge wire left showing in front of me.
I never did succumb to the lure of a sucker hole after that incident. It's one temptation that became forever off limits for me. One intriguing question is left over from that experience. Did the pilots of the Constellation ever see me? If so, they must have been as startled as I was, because the Cub and I must certainly have filled the Connie's windscreen for a fleeting second before we disappeared into the clouds again.
Ted Farrell, AOPA 539989, of San Marcos, California, is a CFII who holds commercial balloon and private glider certificates. He owns a Beech Bonanza and a Raven AX-7 balloon.
"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.
