My Piper Arrow was in the shop for a routine oil change when the mechanic called me at work. He said that the oil drain plug head was rounded off, and he wanted to put in a quick-drain. I replied that I vaguely remembered an airworthiness directive (AD) about aftermarket quick-drains on Piper retractables and that after he checked on the AD, it would be OK to install a quick-drain.
The airplane ran perfectly afterward, and I made many flights during the following months. However, I did notice that it seemed slow; I wasn't getting full book performance. At the next annual inspection, I asked my mechanic to check all the rigging to find the reason for the drop in airspeed.
The mechanic called me back to say that he'd found the problem. The nose gear wasn't retracting fully, and the gear doors weren't closing completely. He adjusted the linkage to take care of the problem.
This brings us to the fateful day. I was flying out for lunch with one of my pilot friends in the right seat. After takeoff, I retracted the gear. The nose gear hit the quick-drain. The quick- drain did what it was supposed to do — it drained out all my oil, quickly.
We were about five miles from home when I realized the oil pressure was reading zero and, after initially rising, the oil temperature gauge also fell to zero. I knew instantly what had happened and that engine failure was imminent.
First, I made a quick 180-degree turn; then I got on the radio to make a Mayday call and give my location. The engine soon shrieked and shuddered and went quiet.
"Fly the airplane," I thought. I set up the best glide speed and looked around for a field. Certainly there was no point in attempting a restart. There was no panic, no fear. I had done the drill with my instructor many times, and I had never been hurt doing the drill. Mostly, I was angry. I knew that my engine was ruined, and I realized that sheet metal might be torn up on landing.
I picked a field, set up a pattern, and continued on down. Everything was looking good, but the ground looked rougher as I got lower, so I decided to leave the gear retracted. The wind was a little stronger than I'd guessed, and I was a little short of the field. I left the flaps retracted. Now, the glide path was looking good; I knew we had the field made.
My friend saw them first and yelled, "Power lines!" They were right in the glide path. Should I go over them or under them? There wasn't much time to decide. I was already slowed down — if I pulled the nose up, I might stall. That would be fatal for sure: I went under the wires. I gained a little speed and landed a little too flat. We were sliding and bumping along, and I was sure we'd be OK. But there was a rise in the ground, the nose dug in, and we cartwheeled.
Luckily, there was no fire. The fuselage was lying on the its side and the only door was underneath the crumpled wreckage, but we were hurt too badly to move. We had to wait until the emergency crews arrived to cut us out.
The real forced landing was not quite like what I had practiced, but I was glad I'd had the training. Had I been a little less skilled, we might have been dead, but had I been a little more skilled, we might have survived unhurt.
To maintain your skill, practice forced landings all the way to the runway. And find out how much you can increase pitch to clear an obstacle.
After an engine failure, make a tight spiral right over the field.
Practice slowing down to minimize your forward impact speed, but don't develop a high sink rate. That's how you get vertical-crush injuries of the spine.
What do I do differently now? I still fly IFR, but I don't launch into low weather. I don't take off unless the ceiling is high enough to allow me a chance of finding a field and gliding to it.
When my airplane goes in for an annual inspection, I spend a little extra time with the new mechanic. I ask about ADs for my airplane and double-check that all ADs have been complied with. ADs are not something the FAA puts out just to make a pilot's life more difficult.
My mechanic is named on my insurance policy; after servicing my airplane, he flies it first. The extra cost is minimal compared to the peace of mind that it gives. I've also learned to think like a first-time passenger: "What happens if the engine quits?"
Dr. David J. Schwartz, AOPA 695956, is a dentist from West Bloomfield, Michigan, who now owns a Mooney M20J.
"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.
