It was a typical Florida day in the middle of June, and the weather looked as if we could make the return trip from Miami's Opa Locka Airport to North Philadelphia Airport. I planned a short stop en route to stretch our legs and get a small lunch — no sweat, I thought. Mother Nature, however, had something else in mind for this 400-hour know-it-all pilot.
I had command of a then-factory-new Mooney Mark 21 that I had rented from our flying club. Another couple and my wife and I had a great time in Miami after a delightful flight down. Because of the weight limits of the Mooney, our luggage was sent by commercial airlines.
The early morning weather looked great, and I had checked with flight service for the weather affecting our flight. I was only somewhat apprehensive, as the report indicated that there would be rising thunderheads along our route later in the day. This is relatively normal for the southern corridor in June.
I filed a VFR flight plan (I was not instrument-rated) with the intention of requesting flight-following service from ATC. We pressed northward at 11,500 feet smoothly and peacefully, with just the drone of this beautiful airplane's engine.
About three hours into the flight, I started seeing cloud pillars ahead, on both sides, rising to about 25,000 feet. Every once in a while I had to alter course to avoid penetrating a rising column, then return again to our desired heading.
As I leveled out on course after one of these deviations, I saw two rising walls of cloud, with what appeared to be blue sky between them. I went for it. We quickly found ourselves between two walls of churning gray fury, but heading for a gray wall — not blue, as I had thought.
"Oh, how I wish that I knew how to do an Immelmann turn," I thought, as I realized that I didn't have enough room to make a one-eighty. I told my passengers in as calm a voice as I could manage that we were about to enter some bad turbulence and to make sure that their seat belts were fastened. Remembering my flight instructor's comments to keep calm when entering an emergency situation and not do anything abruptly, I slowed to maneuvering speed and lowered the landing gear to dirty up the sleek lines of the Mooney.
Then it hit — first, a flash of lightning across our windshield, followed almost immediately by what seemed to be thousands of bits of hail bouncing off the all-metal airplane and sounding like hundreds of riveting guns simultaneously working us over. Next, all of the flight instruments went crazy — the altimeter sped wildly up and down, the turn-and-bank didn't seem to know which extreme to hit, the airspeed indicator did a samba from below stall speed (with the stall horn blaring incessantly) to redline and back, the artificial horizon was totally confused, and the vertical speed indicator looked like an over-excited dog's tail wagging. I did have the sense to let the Mooney's Positive Control System (wing leveler) do the best it could while I carefully watched the airspeed and very gingerly tried to compensate for the wild convulsions with elevator control only.
While my passengers knew that this was not normal by any means, they didn't fully realize the extreme gravity of the situation, but I did. I truly felt that we were not going to survive this predicament, as the tremendous forces on the airplane were sure to rip off an appendage. Visions of my life and my young daughters flashed through my mind. I could see headlines about the impending crash. After what seemed like an eternity, we were suddenly out of it. We were in a large, clear hole that led all the way down to the ground.
I circled around inside the area and got down under the clouds, headed toward the coast, and landed at the Georgetown County Airport in Georgetown, South Carolina.
There were plenty of lessons learned from this incident. The first was to give wide berth to any kind of thunderstorm. If that isn't possible, don't hesitate to make a one-eighty before the opportunity disappears. Also, continuously check with in-flight weather services in order to spot developing weather patterns before they get to be a problem. Last, don't be pressured to fly on in deteriorating weather — the need to get there today is not worth your life.
Jack P. "John" Fath, AOPA 233005, of Trevose, Pennsylvania, is a retired electrical engineer who has been an AOPA member since 1962.
"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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