June 22, 1972. I moved the throttle toward the nose and held the stick of the Piper Super Cub fully aft. As speed slowly gathered, I relaxed the back pressure and allowed the stick to move slightly forward. The seaplane began to rise on the water as the floats made the transition from plowing to stepping, planing the surface of the water like the hull of a speedboat.
Acceleration increased and the end of the lake began to fill the windshield. Now we had the magical airspeed. A slight tug on the stick and we were airborne, the perfect beginning of our Alaskan adventure.
As we passed over the end of the lake, the engine failed. It didn't cough. It didn't belch. It didn't vibrate. It just went from loud to quiet, as if some cosmic hand had pulled back on the throttle.
I lowered the nose a bit more than in a landplane, to compensate for the added drag of the floats, but the tall timber ahead approached ominously. It appeared that I had enough altitude to make a 180 and return powerless to the lake. I banked left, which — for me — has always been the most comfortable direction of turn. But the beleaguered Cub sank more rapidly than I had anticipated. Floatplanes are poor gliders, especially while turning.
There were several seaplanes docked at the edge of the lake, which caused me instinctively to raise the nose in an attempt to balloon over them and get to the safety of the water. But the stick felt mushy, and I had no choice but to lower the nose.
The bottom of my left float struck the top of the wing of a Cessna 185 floatplane, which broke the Cessna's spar. This forced my airplane into an uncontrollable nose-down roll to the right.
The next thing I remember is being inverted and cold, trapped in a water-filled cocoon. Visibility in the cockpit was almost nil. I knew that I had little time to escape. Under the best of circumstances, I can hold my breath for only a minute or so.
I tried to pound out a plexiglass window with the heels of my fists, but the water resistance prevented an effective attack. My chest began to ache, and I was filled with fear. My God, I thought, so this is how it is going to end.
Then it dawned on me that my mind had turned to mush. I wasn't thinking. Idiot, I scolded myself, open the door! I found the handle, which moved easily. In less time than it takes to tell, I was standing in 5 feet of water, gasping for and filling my lungs with air. Rescuers from shore had waded to the aircraft and were extricating my passenger from the rear seat.
The good news was that — other than suffering from temporary shock — neither one of us was injured.
The bad news resulted in one of the most valuable lessons I have ever learned: Any pilot who flies somebody else's airplane without his own nonowner insurance policy jeopardizes his financial security and risks becoming involved in a legal quagmire that could last for years.
For reasons irrelevant to this discussion, the insurance for the Super Cub did not cover my use of the airplane. Even if it had, insurance companies are obligated to protect the owner of the airplane against loss, but not necessarily a pilot who is not the owner. At such times, the insurance company might pay the owner and then sue the pilot for its loss, a process known as subrogation. This can be quite a shock to someone who believes that the owner's insurance applies to him.
This can happen anytime that a pilot has an accident involving a rented or borrowed aircraft. Even if such a pilot is protected by the owner's insurance policy, he could still be responsible for the deductible portion of the damage, which can amount to a small fortune.
The only way for such a nonowner pilot to be assured of protection is for him to have his own insurance policy — which, thankfully, is relatively inexpensive.
If that isn't enough of an eyeopener, try this on for size: Several years ago, the owner of single-engine turboprop airplane invited a friend to fly his airplane. The owner, who was also a flight instructor, sat in the right seat, while his friend was offered the left seat.
The guest pilot — who had never before flown this type of aircraft — had difficulty during the landing. When the dust settled, the airplane was totaled. Fortunately, neither pilot nor passenger was seriously injured.
The owner of the airplane did not want to file a claim with his insurance company, so he opted instead to sue his friend for the loss of his aircraft. Even though the owner of the airplane obviously was the pilot in command, a California court held the friend responsible for the loss.
You've read the good news and the bad news about my Alaskan adventure. Now the sad news. After having a nonowner policy for 20 years, I had allowed my coverage to lapse a month before my accident. As a result, I had to pay for the airplane (less the salvage value of the floats). If it were not for a good attorney friend, I would also have had to pay legal fees amounting to more than the cost of the airplane alone.
My nonowner insurance policy has been in effect without interruption for the past 25 years. I never leave home without it.
