For a brief period my wife and I lived in a fly-in community in Florida. We operated a business at the Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport. Our offices were about an hour away by car, but a delightful 15 minutes by air in our Bellanca Super Viking.
Our business day typically began with an exhilarating early morning commute, and in the late afternoon we were able to clear away the clutter of the business day with 15 minutes of freedom that only flying provides.
Florida favors daily flights; however, that doesn't mean that weather can be treated lightly, for when it becomes inclement, it can be very challenging. That was the case on one particular afternoon as we headed home to prepare for a getaway to celebrate our wedding anniversary. The tower controller, upon clearing us to depart, reminded us of a sigmet for a line of thunderstorms and the potential for rapidly changing winds. As we turned northwest from Runway 26, we saw the rapidly advancing squall line to the west. It was still some distance away, but it was converging with our flight path, and I factored it into the approach to our home field. Winds were from 340 degrees at 20 knots, gusting to 30. I planned a landing on Runway 33.
I turned final about one and one-half miles from the touchdown point on Runway 33. The squall line was now only a mile or two to the west, and we could see heavy shafts of rain below it. The wind was strong, but the ride was smooth. There was plenty of time to land and taxi to the hangar before the torrents fell.
At this time of year the first 1,000 feet of Runway 33 is a little soggy because of less-than-excellent drainage, but the field is 4,000 feet of very smooth turf, and the daily commute had honed my landing skills. I was consistently on the ground and off the active within 1,500 feet. As we crossed the tree line, the wind shifted abruptly. The leading edge of the squall line had reached the runway at the same moment that we did.
Suddenly a 20-knot headwind was a 20-knot tailwind. The change in groundspeed caught me off guard, and as the runway raced below us, I muttered into the headset, "This isn't working out."
With power off, I floated down the runway and forced the Bellanca to the ground. I realized that we were rolling too fast and began to brake. We skidded straight down the center of the runway, the wet grass providing little traction. I tried pumping the brakes, but momentum continued to propel us. It was frighteningly evident that we were going to run out of runway.
I had two options. First, continue straight ahead into a smooth catch basin at the end of the runway. But a view through the spinning propeller conjured visions of a collapsed nose gear, prop strike, and resultant engine damage. The alternative was to try to angle the airplane off to the right side of the runway and exit the last taxiway onto a runoff area leading up to a neighbor's ramp. This would extend the usable runway by about 400 feet. I nudged the Bellanca to the right. I was close to the last taxiway exit, and the speed was dissipating nicely.
Almost at the exact instant of relief for a successful outcome to this difficult situation, the right main gear hit a damp, barren patch of ground and dug in. We began to ground loop to the right. The rotation was so slow that I thought we would just reverse direction and come to a complete stop. Unfortunately, side loads overcame the left main and it began to collapse.
It seemed like slow motion as I watched the left wing tip settle to the ground. My wife, a seasoned flyer and former flight attendant, who up to this time had been completely silent, sighed, "Oh, no." When real time resumed, I shut the engine down and we exited the airplane. With the realization that the anniversary trip was now off, we tried to assess the damage. It was not severe, but it would prove to be expensive.
In retrospect I see any number of things that I could have or should have done. I could have waited the squall line out. It passed within 30 minutes, and flying on the backside was fine. The runway had been receiving less than proper care by the club management and that barren spot should not have been there. But, in reality, this was pilot error.
It amazes me how much of our flight training leaps to our assistance when we are challenged. In 20 years of flying, I have dealt with everything from physiological emergencies to engine failure. I called on a dozen skills, at least, in dealing with this one. But the one skill that would have saved the day somehow eluded me. Why, after I muttered those predictive words — "This isn't working out" — didn't I shout, "Go around!"?
Richard G. Elliott, AOPA 480997, of Coral Springs, Florida, is a 27-year AOPA member who has accumulated more than 2,000 hours in 22 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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