It was a perfect day for flying: severe clear and unlimited visibility. I had taken a vacation day to fly with the family from Dallas to San Antonio, Texas, for a much-needed long weekend retreat.
We headed to the airport early to check out the Cessna 182 we had rented. I had flown this airplane often and was quite familiar with it.
A problem became apparent as I walked to the airplane. Oil had accumulated inside the cowl flaps and had covered the top of the nosewheel pant. While the airplane had a history of leaking oil, consuming about a quart every two hours of flight, this leak had me concerned.
I taxied the airplane to the maintenance hangar. The mechanic pointed out the source of the leak and said replacement parts were on order to correct the problem. "Shouldn't be a problem, just check the oil after you land," he said as he added three quarts. Armed with the confidence that I had done the right thing, we were off.
Our flight was progressing normally. I had been keeping a close eye on all the instruments. Everything was normal and in the green. Suddenly, a very loud ping from the engine resonated through the cabin. I started to run through my options and began looking for the closest spot to land. The engine began to shake violently, and the whole airplane along with it. To make matters worse, oil was beginning to accumulate on the windshield. My only thought was to get the airplane down as quickly and safely as possible.
Instinctively, I throttled back the engine and trimmed the airplane for the best glide speed. Since I was on an IFR flight plan and in direct contact with Houston Center, I declared an emergency and explained what happened. Without delay the controller replied, "Horseshoe Bay, 11 o'clock and 16 miles." He cleared us direct.
It appeared at the time that I had plenty of altitude to make it. Horseshoe Bay Resort Airport was visible, but the windshield was rapidly becoming obscured with oil. Fortunately, the heaviest accumulation was on the passenger's side.
We still had more than enough altitude to make the airport, even though we were some 12 miles out. With eight miles to go, I confirmed with ATC that I had the airport in sight.
The unicom at Horseshoe Bay is monitored, and I explained my situation and asked for assistance in getting to the airport. The airport manager grabbed a hand-held radio and ran outside to give me visual guidance. Throughout my attempted approach he was constantly relaying information on height above ground, direction, and distance.
Six miles from the airport, I decided to turn a base leg for a normal approach. Since I assumed I had plenty of altitude, this seemed like the logical thing to do. On the contrary — my maneuver to a base leg cost too much cherished altitude. I was at only 800 feet agl with six miles to go.
Landing short of the runway is not an option at Horseshoe Bay. Water, hills, wires, roads, and houses make up much of the landscape along the approach. I had one last hope, which I really didn't think was even an option. I decided to add some power. The engine had been idling all this time, still turning and spewing oil on the windshield. I pushed the throttle in slowly to full power.
Miraculously, the engine began producing more and more power, but the airplane was now shaking even more violently than before. The little forward visibility I once had was totally gone: Oil now came in the windows which we had opened earlier in case I needed to stick my head out to see. But we were holding altitude. Even climbing (although not much more than 50 fpm). The vibration of the yoke was intense, making it difficult to keep the airplane under control. We would make the runway. The calm voice on the radio reassured me all was OK and that I was moving in the right direction.
Over the threshold, we were slightly right of the runway and about 150 feet above touchdown. I glanced at the airspeed indicator; it read 90 knots. I was too high, too fast, and landing downwind with no forward visibility.
We drifted about halfway down the 6,000-foot runway and were running out of pavement fast. The once calm voice on the unicom was now becoming more urgent. I could now see the left edge of the cement out the side window and began to flare. I knew I was a little high, but if I held the nose off, eventually it would come down, and hopefully soon. It did and with a thud. We bounced back up in the air. My heart began racing again; I sensed perhaps only 800 to 1,000 feet of runway left. I decided to get as much friction with the ground as I could on my next bounce, so I laid on the brakes while still airborne. Since I couldn't see what was at the end of the runway, I couldn't take a chance on overrunning. Better to bend a little metal, I thought.
We hit hard again. The sound of rubber screeching on concrete was loud and distinct. Again we bounced, but only a few feet this time. I stopped with about 300 feet of runway left — more than enough. We had made it; everyone was safe.
The airplane looked as though it had flown through a solid cloud of oil; doors, tail, wings — all were coated. We also blew the tire on the right main landing gear. I guess applying the brakes in the air and hitting the ground with them locked wasn't such a good idea after all.
The problem with the engine turned out to be a broken rod. The bolt connecting the rod to the crankshaft gave way, putting a 6-inch hole in the top of the crankcase. It was a miracle that the engine still ran. The piston and rod were lying in the top of the cylinder, away from the crankshaft, allowing the engine to continue to turn (albeit with a lot of stress).
Just renting, does not allow me to abdicate responsibility for knowing that the aircraft is safe and maintained properly. In the future, if I have a bad feeling that can be traced to some real problem (such as an oil leak), I will not go.
Dennis J. Honan, AOPA 1004414, of Carrollton, Texas, holds a private pilot with instrument rating. He has accumulated 350 hours in six 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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