I was flying my Pitts, practicing maneuvers for my "free" program (in the Unlimited category of competition aerobatics, that means 18 maneuvers). I was practicing over an open field about seven miles from the Plymouth Municipal Airport in Massachusetts. My two friends and former students, Sonny and Damian, were on the ground with a handheld transceiver, giving me feedback on how the maneuvers looked.
About a third of the way through the sequence the power faded as though someone was smoothly pulling back on the throttle. I quickly grabbed the fuel wobble pump and start pumping. It was an instinctive reaction from the fuel pump failure that I had encountered a few years ago, but it quickly became apparent that my efforts were not productive. I was in level flight at about 1,000 feet agl, showing 15 inches of manifold pressure and about 80 to 90 mph indicated. It was dangerously slow for a Pitts, but at least I wasn't headed down at an alarming rate. A quick look around revealed that there was no fire, no smoke, no fuel leak, and no sign of any structural damage. In short, nothing to make me want to put the airplane down right away or bail out.
One part of me wanted to head to the airport, while another part pointed out that I had an open field below me, wet and soft from recent rains — but certainly survivable. There were mostly trees and rough cranberry bogs between the airport and me; and if the situation deteriorated on my way home, I wouldn't want to land there. I spent about a minute circling the field while troubleshooting the problem.
I decided on a compromise. At 1,000 feet and 80 mph, I headed toward the airport on a more circuitous route that took me over potential emergency landing fields. As soon as I began to head toward the airport, I noticed that I'd dropped to 800 feet. A quick look at the manifold pressure gauge showed 14 inches. It was getting worse, and I decided to set down in the field that I had been circling. By the time I'd picked the driest-looking spot and lined up into the wind, I was down to about 100 feet. The field looked so good that I didn't even bother to open the canopy. The touchdown was smooth, the rollout was good, and then suddenly it was as if someone was standing on the brakes. With the stick full aft, the tail lifted slowly, at first up to level — and then everything was green as the nose dug in. Another jolt and everything was still.
I managed to slide the canopy back and get out within a matter of seconds. The vehicle that Damian and Sonny were driving came barreling through a hole in the fence and promptly sank up to the axles in mud. The police and fire department arrived soon after. There weren't many forms to fill out and not much explaining to do. The fire department, police, and the FAA were sympathetic and very helpful.
The problem turned out to be a sheared cotter pin in the bolt that connects the throttle cable to the throttle valve. The remnants of the cotter pin were still in the bolt.
The field that I landed in was a sod farm. It was smooth and flat, but the soft sod had packed up into the wheel pants until the wheels locked up, causing the Pitts to flip. The fuselage and top wing were badly damaged and took months to repair. My competition season was wiped out.
Did I do the right thing? In the few years that have passed, I'm still plagued by the same thought: If I had headed toward the airport at the first sign of trouble, perhaps I would have made it. Perhaps I would have saved myself a lot of aggravation and the insurance company a lot of money.
Instead, I had opted for the sure thing. I stayed over my emergency landing field until I had a clear idea of the problem. In those few minutes, the situation deteriorated to the point at which I had no choice but to land. If I had immediately headed for the airport, would I have made it? Maybe.
I could have known for certain that staying over the field was the right thing to do if I had headed toward the airport and failed to reach it. In the last few seconds before I hit the trees, I would have known absolutely and positively that I should not have tried it.
In short, we have to be willing to go for the sure thing. It's almost always the right thing.
Jim Thompson, AOPA 951039, is a former nuclear engineer who owns and operates Mass Acro Aerobatic Center in Plymouth, Massachusetts. He is a 4,300-hour commercial pilot and CFI who owns a modified Pitts S-1T.
"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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