I had been a private pilot for about 6 months when my father and his two brothers decided that they wanted to learn to fly again. They ended up buying a real cream puff 1965 Cessna 150 that had been restored and maintained by the longtime owner and his partner, an A&P mechanic. A $100 buyer's inspection at my FBO revealed only minor discrepancies. The inspecting mechanic remarked in his report that the compression ratios were phenomenal for an original engine. I was convinced.
I put a few hours on the 150 myself, taking advantage of my father's third of the partnership. One day I was to take my brother and my best friend up for some sightseeing around the Lake Chelan valley in Washington, where my parents live. My brother drew the short straw and went up with me first.
Our route was to take us past our parents' house and on toward the granite peaks of the northern Cascades. We took off from the Chelan Municipal Airport and climbed to 5,500 feet. Fifteen minutes later we were within 3 miles of their house, which sits on the shore of the lake, which has a 1,000-foot elevation. With 130 hours under my belt, I was confident in my abilities but aware that I had limitations without an instructor present.
Nonetheless, I decided that a buzz job of my parents' house would be a practical and rewarding maneuver. I considered the risks minor, and my brother concurred. Having committed my ego to a strafing run, I tried my best to formulate in my head an impromptu checklist for this unfamiliar procedure: mixture Rich, carburetor heat On, mags Both, airspeed below the yellow arc, run-up throttle every 500 feet, and remember to clear the ears.
With the long, steep glide established, I began considering the pull-out. We would come in parallel to the shore, so I was confident that I could maintain good clearance from persons and property, but my planned level-off at 200 feet agl and immediate left turn would require a higher G- load than I was accustomed to. I was pretty impressed with how far ahead of the airplane I was.
Even with the descent progressing as planned, my cold-sweat gauge indicated that I was well within the caution range of my ability. I pressed on, nonetheless, promising myself that I would exercise extreme caution during the pull-out maneuver.
I added gradual back pressure and that carnival-ride thrill sprang up in my stomach with the increased G-load. Two hundred feet agl became 150 feet, and the houses flashed by at 120 miles per hour. The VSI finally went positive and I rolled left, paying close attention to the G-meter in my gut. Moderate bank, nose level; I was pretty good.
My brother grabbed the seat edge and the door ledge and let out an "All Right!"
I was definitely on top of this ship, I thought.
With the attitude level and airspeed declining rapidly, I pushed the carb heat Off and began to throttle up. The engine responded with a series of backfires and surges. At full throttle the engine began shaking the airplane violently. Our carnival ride was over.
My first instinct was to find 70 miles per hour. I simultaneously throttled back to where the violent shaking was replaced by the classic airplane-in-distress-engine sound: Rrrr-Put- Rrr-Put- Rrr-Put�. Heading away from shore, I fought off the blur of excitement and disbelief and tried to form a plan. I recalled the proper ditching techniques as I began a gradual turn back toward shore.
There was a short sandy beach that I knew I could reach, but I still hadn't committed enough to the possibility of a crash landing to instruct my brother. To my surprise, 70 mph and 1,400 rpm had resulted in a 200-fpm climb and my short sandy beach would be made. These encouraging numbers, despite the question of how long they would remain encouraging, switched me from survival mode to salvage mode. I circled the approach point to the beach, used my knowledge of the area to estimate the next best landing spot in the direction of the airport, and headed off on a course to it. I continued in this manner, with the airplane describing a connect-the-dots course from one landing site to another while maintaining a nerve-wrackingly slow climb.
After several long minutes I grew comfortable enough with the altitude we had gained to attempt to diagnose the problem. My suspicion was that the long, cold glide had fouled the plugs despite my having cleared the throttle several times. Simple solution: lean the engine to run hot and burn off the fouling oil. The second I reduced the fuel in the mixture, the engine choked. Ramming the mixture forward again in a panic, I was relieved when the engine resumed its sputtering.
Resolved to leave well enough alone, I let the airplane carry us to the airport at its own pace. I landed fast, not touching the throttle until we were well committed to landing and subsequently using most of the runway to stop.
It turns out that the problem went far beyond just an ill-advised buzz job. The comment that my FBO's mechanic had made regarding the "phenomenal" compression ratios in all four cylinders was meant to be read as a warning, not an endorsement. The confirmation of other airworthiness items was derived mainly from examination of the logbooks and not an actual in-depth inspection of the airplane. I shouldn't have assumed that we had gotten more than a cursory inspection for $100 of the mechanic's time. The ensuing examination of the engine revealed that a bad starter flywheel had been feeding metal filings into the oil for some time and that this abrasive oil had eaten away the cylinder walls and rings. So much oil was getting through to the combustion chamber that one cylinder had become completely fouled during our long descent. This condition, of course, was not a sudden occurrence. The problem surely had existed under the previous owner.
The lesson for me was the private shame of knowing that I had loaded so much unnecessary risk onto myself and my brother, who trusted me. I know that he's the type who would have been far more impressed by hearing me explain what could have gone wrong, rather than what had gone wrong.
It wasn't long after this incident that the airplane in which I had taken my first solo flight crashed, killing the pilot and his passenger. Its wreckage came to rest several hundred feet from the home of the pilot's parents.
Todd E. Hubbard, AOPA 1073891, is a residential designer living in Lynnwood, Washington. He is a 170-hour private pilot who has been flying for 5 years.
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from the experiences of others. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701.
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