It was the summer of 1971. The weather was promising to be perfect for the upcoming Father's Day Fly-In at the Shelby (Ohio) Community Airport. My wife Emily and I were looking forward to a fun-filled day with our close friends, Bus and Martha. The day started perfectly, but it was to be a day long remembered for its imperfection.
Bus had just purchased a one-third interest in an early model Beech Bonanza. He was thrilled with his purchase and anxious to show it off. We were to fly from the Tri-City Airport in Sebring, Ohio, to Shelby for breakfast and be home in time to enjoy our traditional Father's Day dinner celebration.
Bus was 10 years my senior; I had learned much about flying from him and thought of him as a mentor. On the other hand, I had accumulated more flight hours than Bus in complex airplanes. In fact, Bus had been my copilot on many flights. It was out of the ordinary for me to be sitting in the right seat while Bus was flying. Since he was the owner, I assumed that he was the pilot in command. Besides, I didn't even have a yoke in front of me.
The flight to Shelby was perfect. We arrived at the now-busy airport at 9 a.m. There was much activity on the ground as well as in the pattern. As we circled to pick up sequencing for our final approach, I noticed that rides were being offered in several airplanes and there were many people along the east side of the north/south runway.
Bus turned onto a base leg behind a Piper Comanche that was landing to the south. Used to flying Piper Cherokees, he began to crowd the landing Comanche a bit. The Comanche touched down just as we turned final. At this point, we were a bit closer than I considered prudent, but we continued our approach.
We were flying in Bus' airplane, but I was the more experienced pilot. This point is relevant, because it ultimately contributed to the dilemma we were soon to face. Bus turned to me and asked, "Shall I go around?" I was totally fixated on our landing approach and the decreasing distance to the Comanche. Not thinking about my response, I said, "Whatever you think." My response should have been an immediate and emphatic, "Yes!"
The psychology of this situation was simple. Bus had perceived me to be the more experienced pilot. I would keep things in check and alert him to danger. My perception of Bus was as a mentor whom I rarely questioned and from whom I had learned much.
I watched with growing alarm while we approached a stall as Bus slowed the Bonanza in order to increase the distance between us and the now-stopped Comanche. As we descended closer to the ground, the stall light began to wink intermittently, and Bus began to add some (not enough) power, flattening the approach. We hit on the main gear with a strong thunk about 30 feet short of the paved runway. I remember assessing the landing as hard, but probably not damaging to the airframe. I could see the end of the runway ahead, clear, and heaved a sigh of relief. That relief was short-lived as the Bonanza jerked violently to the left. At the time I had no idea what had happened. I assumed that we had hit a chuckhole or remnant fence post.
As we continued, I observed Bus cranking in full right aileron and adding full power. The left wing lifted, and we began to align with the runway. When I looked up, I gasped! Straight ahead was a Piper Tri-Pacer taxiing toward us on the left side and very close to the runway. We were correcting to the right, but not fast enough. I braced for the imminent head-on impact. As we neared the Tri-Pacer, the Bonanza — still correcting toward the runway and lifting its left wing — hit the Tri-Pacer's left wing just outboard of its lift strut, shearing the wing completely off. This impact jerked us further to the left, collapsing our right landing gear and heading us directly into a group of people waiting to get rides in a Piper Apache. Our right wing, now on the ground, slid under the Apache's wing, striking the landing gear and bringing us to a halt.
A long moment of silence after we came to rest was broken by Bus yelling, "Quick! Out! There's gas all over!" The right wing tank had burst, drenching the entire scene in fuel. We weren't out of danger yet. As I struggled with the only cabin door, I discovered that it was jammed. I was pushing on the door with all my might, when Bus' adrenaline-fueled arm struck the door with such force that it dented the panel under the window, popping the door open. I scurried out on the now fuel-slippery wing, pulling the wives from the cabin and falling clear. Bus was right behind me. When I stood up, I was amazed by the sight of the debris-strewn field along our crash path. There were chunks of metal and fabric from the Tri-Pacer, plates and cups dropped by hastily departing spectators — but, thankfully, no bodies.
For several months after this incident, I was haunted by the vision of people scurrying out of the path of our out-of-control airplane. I have relived the anxiety of that moment often. It is especially disturbing when one considers what the consequences could have been.
An analysis of the events revealed that at the moment of touchdown, our left wing had struck a pedestrian crossing the runway! He had decided to cross the runway at the threshold, well under (normally) landing traffic. At the moment of impact, he had turned to look down the runway, with his back to the approaching Bonanza. The heavy landing had compressed the left gear strut, lowering the left wing tip so that it struck the 200-pound pedestrian just below the buttocks. He was carried about 100 feet, and then rolled off the back of the wing right in front of the Tri-Pacer, just before we clipped its wing. Incredibly, this person was not seriously injured.
All in all, a pretty distressing Father's Day: three destroyed airplanes, a disrupted fly-in, and many questions from the FAA. In my opinion, this accident may have been avoided if the PIC issue had been clearly defined prior to takeoff. I also think that sitting in the right seat of an aircraft without flight controls may disengage the mind of even an experienced pilot.
Phil Marquette, AOPA 452589, of Uniontown, Ohio, is a 3,500-hour instrument-rated private pilot who owns a Cessna T210 and a Cessna 150 Aerobat.
"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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