It was already dark at 6:30 p.m. The Beech Sundowner, which I had been flying twice a day, almost every day, was nowhere to be seen. A Cessna 172 that had not been flown that day was available but was practically barricaded by other aircraft on the ramp. I was in a hurry to get my instrument rating, so my instructor somewhat reluctantly agreed to take the Cessna. We pushed the aircraft out from between its neighbors.
After the effort to extricate the Cessna, I noticed that the pilot’s shoulder harness did not have an inertia reel, making it frustrating to reach the instrument panel. A weak overhead lamp illuminated the panel, and there were no post lights. I got an uneasy feeling when I realized that the clock was positioned in the dimly lit upper-left-hand corner of the panel.
The first approach went well enough. It was a good time of day for practice approaches. Our intention was to do three or four attempts at Honolulu’s VOR approach to Runway 4.
The sweep second hand on the instrument panel clock was supposed to tick through two minutes, 36 seconds while I descended to the minimum descent altitude of 460 feet. As if in collusion with the minute hand, it now evaded me in the dim cockpit. Mischievously it would disappear, only to blink when I studied it long enough. I became fixated on the clock.
"Watch your altitude," said my flight instructor. The altimeter showed less than 400 feet. My claustrophobia-inducing hood dipped and swayed as I applied power and gently eased back on the control wheel.
Then there was nothing. Not a sound. Silence descended on us like a sonic boom as the engine simply quit. Only blackness ahead as the seconds froze, then a crunching splash. The landing light lit up the windshield as it penetrated the water’s surface.
I hung upside down by my shoulder harness; its unresponsive inertia reel just may have saved my life. Was that water lapping at my head?
My instructor was already in the water. I could not find the buckle to my shoulder harness. Where is it, after all, when you’re upside down? Suddenly I lay crumpled up on the ceiling of the airplane. Both doors had miraculously popped open.
The wing was as sturdy and stable as a pier; crawling on my knees, my hands and feet made crunching sounds like someone compressing a beer can. We must be on a reef, I thought. I discovered we were not by plunging into the water.
We were, according to later calculations, a mile from shore. The white taillight shone inverted from six or seven feet off the water, adding to the eerie effect of the submerged landing light. There were no swells to speak of, and only the lights in the hills behind Honolulu were visible. We elected to swim to shore.
Bermuda shorts and T-shirts were our only clothing. Life vests, of course, were in the seatback pocket of the airplane. We agreed that swimming sidestroke would be adequate to combat whatever current might resist us. More—or at least equally—important, we could keep a conversation going, not lose sight of each other, and make every attempt to keep our spirits up.
Twenty minutes had passed since impact. The thrashing noise of a helicopter interrupted our trek. It seemed directly overhead, the arc of its searchlight passing within yards of us. Idiotically, we called out and waved our arms. The chopper moved in ever-widening circles. It appeared that we would be on land before its lights reached our position.
At nearly 8 o’clock, the hiss and roar of surf made its way across the night. Sure enough, just ahead, a swell rose, arched its back, and leapt toward the house-size boulders deposited to protect the reef runway. In terror we realized that we had come all this way to be dashed against the rocks.
The boulders were indeed huge, but there was a small stretch of beach. From our vantage point in the water, we saw the fire trucks looking for us along the rocks and shoreline. The chopper made one more pass, its light a stone’s throw away. We walked onto the beach.
An overzealous newspaper reporter later wrote that we had radioed we were low on fuel. The truth is, the shock of engine failure left us speechless right down to impact.
In retrospect, it is very clear how lack of awareness contaminated the evening. I can still see the Cessna 172 parked behind other aircraft. I can still feel the pressure of the unrelenting shoulder harness and see the instrument panel barely within reach of my fingertips. The clock was such a major distraction in its location that I should have, then and there, before we even started the engine, postponed our lesson. My ambition to get my instrument rating as quickly as possible got in the way of good common sense and the dictates of wisdom.
Since that experience, I do not allow any kind of pressure, self-induced or otherwise, to rush me into things. I explain to my students the vital importance of peace of mind, of letting that small voice in the back of your mind have the respect and obedience it deserves.
We will never know why the engine failed. The airplane was never recovered. I do know now, however, that conscientious and deliberate—and safe—flying begins on the ground.
David Kraul is a freelance writer living in Honolulu. He is a commercial pilot and flight instructor with more than 1,000 flight hours.
"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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