When I was 22 years old, I thought I could do no wrong. I was a senior in college and had already completed my instrument and multiengine ratings, and I was trying to accumulate enough flight hours to obtain my commercial certificate.
Three fraternity brothers and I decided to avoid the 16-hour drive to spring break in Daytona Beach, Florida, and rented a Piper Arrow for the flight from Terre Haute, Indiana.
After a week of pure pleasure in Daytona, it was time to pack up and head back to college. We used every last minute available to say goodbye to the sand, sun, and our new acquaintances. We knowingly pushed ourselves toward a later-than-planned departure.
Even though we were now in a race against time, I remember having to force myself to complete a thorough preflight and weather briefing and to familiarize myself with the flight plan. The enroute weather was perfect, so I elected to file VFR.
According to my logbook, the wheels left Florida at 6:20 p.m. Because of a 15-knot headwind, I decided to make a fuel stop at Athens, Georgia, earlier than planned. It was pitch-black by the time we departed Athens, but I felt relieved that we had topped off the fuel tanks to the brim. I climbed up to 10,500 feet and engaged the autopilot. It was an unusually smooth, silent, and black night. It was almost as if I were sitting on my own living room couch — completely motionless, without even the slightest bump.
The third-quarter moon quickly disappeared below the horizon. The stars, combined with a few surrounding city lights, provided a small amount of background illumination. I dimmed the cockpit lights to maintain my eyes' adaptation to the dark.
Shortly thereafter, all three of my passengers fell into a deep sleep. I too began to feel fatigued as a result of a week's worth of fun and sun, but I continued to fight off the sleep with every last bit of energy that I had. I turned down the cabin heat, drank a Mountain Dew, and turned up the volume on the ADF, which was already picking up radio station WLS in Chicago — and we were in northern Georgia. I even tried to strike up a conversation with the Flight Watch folks, but they also seemed tired so late on a quiet Sunday evening.
Finally, I thought, "Maybe I can rest my drowsy eyes just for a few minutes." I switched to a distant VOR and coupled it to the autopilot, double-checked all instrument indications, changed the fuel selector switch to a full tank, and slowly blinked my eyes.
The now-stronger signal of the ADF blaring in my ears woke me up from what I thought was a quick blink of my eyes. I scanned my flight instruments: attitude, altitude, heading, all good, but ... why is the VOR giving me a "From" indication? I quickly looked over at my fuel gauges; surprisingly, the full tank I thought I had just switched to was indicating one-quarter tank remaining. This confirmed my unconsciousness of at least two hours. I immediately lit up the cockpit and began struggling with maps and charts, trying several VOR stations before I finally received a good navigation cross-reference, which indicated that I was somewhere in southeastern Illinois.
After desperately regrouping, I landed safely at our intended destination less than an hour later. My three passengers never woke until I shut off the engine, and to this day they know nothing of our return flight.
Since then, I have added some 5,000 uneventful hours to my logbook and hope to continue flying. I have often speculated ... had I not awakened, I would have run out of fuel — and ideas — directly over Chicago.
Michael E. Hassel, a major in the U.S. Army, is an aviation evaluator at The Presidio in San Francisco and has accumulated more than 5,000 hours in 25 years of flying.
"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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