A few years ago, my friend John and I were returning from the Merced (California) Fly-In in his Thorp T-18. Following close behind was his friend Mike, an aerobatic pilot flying his homebuilt Christen Eagle. En route to the Torrance Municipal Airport, we landed at the Harris Ranch Airport in Coalinga for lunch. This was our last chance to get fuel for the rest of our trip and I asked John if we should fill up.
"We have enough to reach Torrance with a 30-minute reserve," he answered. "If that's what the book recommends and John concurs, then that's good enough for me," I thought.
After departing Harris Ranch late in the afternoon, we decided to fly over a developing cloud deck. I've always loved flying on top — nothing but puffy white clouds below and clear blue skies above. I would never have considered doing this on my own, since I had fewer than 60 hours in my logbook. John, on the other hand, had more than 2,000 hours as a VFR pilot. Checking in with flight watch, we learned that Torrance had a broken ceiling at 1,200 feet. My inexperience led me to believe that broken meant that the clouds were all broken up over Torrance and we'd have no problem descending between them. With confidence I kicked back and enjoyed the cruise.
We followed our only means of navigation — a single VOR receiver — to Torrance. When we arrived, we realized that there were no holes. We were down to our minimum fuel reserve, and guess what? There was nothing but beautiful puffy clouds for as far as the eye could see in any direction. "Why aren't the clouds all broken up as promised?" I thought.
Several questions went through my head: "Mike's Christen Eagle didn't even have an attitude indicator; how would he descend through the clouds? Why didn't we put more fuel in the airplanes? Why are we on top of these now-ugly clouds? Why didn't I drive my car?" Like it or not, this ride was to conclude with us as statistics or survivors in about 30 minutes. John immediately called Los Angeles Approach and advised them of our situation.
Over the radio, a calm female voice asked — among other questions — "How many souls are on board?" She advised of an opening in the clouds at Long Beach, so we headed that way. No luck. She then advised us to try Santa Monica. Nothing but solid clouds. After doing some more checking, she indicated that there was a hole directly over Camarillo, where the reported ceiling was 800 feet. Of the 30-minute fuel reserve, we had used about 10 minutes, and it takes about 10 minutes to get to Camarillo in the Thorp.
John decided to go for it. We were completely committed. Once we arrived in the area, we were forced to find the hole. If we couldn't find it, we'd have to descend through the clouds. It'd be very difficult to find the airport in near darkness at an altitude of less than 800 feet. John asked Mike how he'd get down if there was no hole. Mike replied that he'd go into a spin, descend through the clouds, and try to recover as he broke out. (A spin is the only way you can control the airplane and maintain an attitude with no visual reference). By now, I hated those clouds and wished that we could buy some fuel.
Not taking things for granted at that point, I got the VOR set up to pinpoint Camarillo. John flew us to the vicinity. After a few anxious minutes, there it was. The hole! We could even see part of the runway through it. John went into a corkscrew with Mike following close behind. We broke out underneath and made an uneventful landing at Camarillo.
We stayed overnight in Camarillo. The next morning we checked the airplanes and found three gallons of fuel in John's Thorp and one and a half gallons in Mike's Christen Eagle. If Mike had to do a go-around he would never have made it.
In retrospect, I learned that a VFR pilot has no business flying cross country "on top." I also learned that a broken ceiling means that from six to nine-tenths of the sky is covered. In addition, if you think you're in trouble, then you probably are. Immediately ask for help from someone on the ground. Finally, in my opinion, the VFR daytime 30-minute fuel reserve is not enough of a margin for safety.
Guy Spencer, AOPA 938051, of Redondo Beach, California, works in the automotive business. He is a 350-hour private pilot who has been flying for more than 12 years.
"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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