Soon after earning my flight instructor's certificate and a multiengine instructor rating, I was sure that I knew it all. I'd seen everything that I could in the world of aviation and I'd survived.
Certainly there was nothing challenging about the planned flight — I would leave my home base of Ellington, Connecticut, in a Cessna 172 and fly to Bridgeport, which was only about 50 miles away. There I would pick up two clients and continue to Vergennes, Vermont, for a rather elegant dinner at the Basin Harbor Club — I was determined to impress my two clients.
Adding to my sense of omniscience, I did impress them. We rolled to a stop on the grass strip, parked under the evergreens adjacent to the runway, and walked to the main lodge for dinner. All too soon it was time to go, but we didn't. We discussed everything but business — the mark of a truly successful sales call. I knew that I'd have to refuel at Bridgeport if I was to make it back to my own bed that night, but I reasoned that I would have no difficulty doing so, since Bridgeport's airport is a busy place and there was bound to be an FBO open. I was wrong. We landed at 12:30 a.m., and not a light was on other than those lining the runway. Declining an offer from one of the clients to spend the night at his house, I quickly calculated that I had about 35 minutes of fuel left for the 20-minute flight to Ellington. I had been flying for three hours and 45 minutes. "I could make it," I told myself.
"With ease," my client agreed. Navigating at night is simple in the Northeast because you can see your destination city lit up from miles away. I took off and stayed low, reasoning that a climb would only burn more of my precious fuel. But by staying low, I got lost because I couldn't see those city lights. I felt the rise of panic in my stomach as I had been in the air for 30 minutes since leaving Bridgeport. I had no idea where I was; one grouping of lights looked the same as any other, and none of them looked like an airport — a bit of geography I wanted desperately. I calculated and recalculated how much fuel I should have left and knew that I should have none.
With my last bit of professionalism I called Bradley Approach and asked them to point out Ellington for me. I didn't explain the entire situation, so they had no idea what kind of trouble I was in. They identified me on radar and said that Ellington was 12 miles away; it was one o'clock. At 120 miles per hour, I'd be there in just six minutes. I would be running on fumes; but, with a little luck, I'd make it. The six minutes stretched to what seemed like hours; I was now 45 minutes out of Bridgeport and hadn't heard a thing from Bradley. I didn't realize at the time that my seemingly routine request for directions hadn't amounted to the establishment of radar contact — they'd simply pointed out Ellington and then forgotten about me. I knew what my situation meant — I would be making a forced landing at night into the unseen terrain of eastern Connecticut. The engine was about to quit. I was going to die. Adding to my despair was that it was my fault and my fault alone and that everyone, friends and foes alike, would know that "pilot error" was the kindest label they'd assign for what I'd done. I thought about the irony of my recent instructor's certificate — "Well, it's not like he shouldn't have known," they'd say. The full weight of my arrogance fell on me as I picked up the microphone and informed Bradley that I was fuel critical and requested vectors to the nearest airport.
"You passed it 15 miles ago," came the reply. "Turn left heading two-four-zero, squawk zero- one-two-three." Radar contact was established almost immediately. Approach was on the air with me almost continuously for the next seven or eight minutes, calling off the distance to Ellington and correcting my heading. Maybe they were just being helpful, or maybe they could hear the stress in my voice. Finally, "Ellington is 12 o'clock and a quarter mile. Do you have it in sight?" I did. The lights were out, but I recognized the airport. I came in on final high and fast but decided I'd rather run off the end of the short strip than attempt a go-around. With the tires squealing on the asphalt, I came to a stop just feet from the runway's end and taxied to the parking area. Still in shock, I drove home, wondering why I'd been spared — or if perhaps I hadn't and this was what the afterlife was like.
I returned to the airport the next afternoon and was taken aside by the man who fueled the airplane. "George, do you know how much fuel I put in that 172 this morning? 40.1 gallons," he said. The look on his face told me that he also knew that this 172 held only 39 gallons of usable fuel. I guess he saw from the look on my face that he didn't need to lecture me — I had already gotten the point.
What was the point? Basic things: Plan your flight and know that assumptions you've made are accurate (Will the FBO truly be open when you land there for fuel?). If you want to take advantage of landmarks — specifically cities — at night, you have to have some altitude. "Radar contact" means that and nothing else. I had assumed that since ATC knew where I was, I had flight following. Finally, never assume that you know it all. You may have wonderful skills, but often it's the simple things — the most trivial matters — that can set the stage for disaster. Respect your abilities and know your limitations. A flight instructor's certificate doesn't revoke the laws of flight.
George M. Woods, AOPA 894989, a physician from Scotts Valley, California, has accumulated 2,200 hours in 18 years of flying. He recently earned a helicopter rating.
"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.
