"What next?" was the question my flight instructor always asked during my practice and review of emergency procedures. Little did I know how those two words would ring in my mind during a later in-flight emergency.
On a colder than normal October morning in the small southwest Texas town of Uvalde, I was about to use all the emergency training that I had previously learned. The weather was IFR, with ceilings of 900 feet and visibilities ranging from 3 to 5 miles in fog and rain at San Antonio International Airport. Clouds were layered from 900 feet above ground level to 4,000 feet mean sea level, with another layer beginning at about 18,000 feet. And it was pretty much the same all over the state.
I was to pick up two passengers who had flown in to San Antonio International at 9 o'clock that morning. I was running a little late for the 35-minute flight from Uvalde when I started the engine on my 1952 Beech C35 Bonanza. I took off and climbed to 5,000 feet in the clouds. I was very careful to check and double-check every instrument. The flight was uneventful, with the exception of the GPS, which would not acquire a satellite. I simply tracked the San Antonio VOR to the airport.
As I neared the airport, the controller vectored me to intercept the localizer for Runway 12R and gave me clearance to descend to 3,000 feet. It had been awhile since I had shot this approach, so I was extra careful not to overshoot the localizer. To slow the airplane to the 120-mph approach speed, I lowered the gear. Then it happened — a complete electrical failure. With no radio communications or navigation, I had to rely on the vacuum instruments to remain upright. I proceeded to fly the last assigned heading until I could check the circuit breakers, the master switch, and alternator switch. Nothing worked.
"OK, what next?" I thought.
I always carry a handheld transceiver when flying IFR, and I had recently charged the battery. However, I wasn't sure how long it would last. I quickly tuned to 121.5 and explained what had happened. I listened for a minute and heard no response. I transmitted again and again. I began to think that my handheld radio was malfunctioning also. I fumbled around and found the approach plate, which had fallen on the floor. After tuning in the approach frequency, I began hearing the controller vectoring everybody out of my way. It was a great sound.
After contacting the controller, I explained the situation, and he began looking for any VFR weather. The closest was in Houston, but I wasn't sure at this point how much fuel was left on board, and I was slowly losing altitude because the propeller (which is electrically controlled) was stuck at only 2,000 rpm. I asked for any other option.
The controller then vectored me toward Kelly Air Force Base and asked me about my experience with a PAR (precision approach radar) approach. Despite never having done a PAR approach, I said, "Sure, I'll take that."
By the time I got to Kelly, I was very busy, trying to keep the airplane upright with one hand, talk on the handheld radio with the other hand, follow the controller's instructions for the PAR, and perform what I could of the before-landing checklist.
The controller did an outstanding job of keeping me calm and letting me know how the approach was progressing. He would call, "right of course 10 degrees, turn left heading 015," for example. Because of my inability to climb, there could be only one attempt at the approach. Things became tense as I descended to 700 feet msl and I was still in the clouds. Then, at about 600 feet the clouds opened up and I was able to see the strobe lights about a quarter mile ahead. I had never seen a prettier sight than that huge runway at Kelly.
I thought my troubles were over, but, with no electrical power, I wasn't sure that the gear was down and locked. Upon touchdown I felt the airplane sinking too far onto the runway and saw the prop curl as it struck the ground. Not fun, but at least I was safe and the airplane was not damaged very badly.
Air Force personnel immediately surrounded the Bonanza and made sure that there was no fire hazard. They were all very hospitable. After a thorough medical exam and preliminary questioning, they let me go.
The lessons that I learned that day will always stick with me. Maintain your aircraft as if your life depends on it (it does), always carry a charged handheld radio, and listen to your instructor as he guides you through emergency procedures. You may feel that he is being overly cautious and that a total electrical failure would never happen to you, but in flying we all have to anticipate the question "What's next?"
John McDonough, AOPA 1094567, is a minister from Uvalde, Texas, who has accumulated more than 500 hours in 10 years of flying.
"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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