It was a perfect spring day in Northern California for taking some fellow employees on a pleasure flight to see the San Francisco Bay and Napa Valley. We had just finished a fantastic dinner at Jonseys Steak House at the Napa County Airport and were getting ready to depart in my Piper Turbo Arrow III for San Carlos Airport to drop off one of my passengers.
My runup and takeoff were normal. I reached cruise altitude over Concord and was proceeding southwest through Oakland’s Class C airspace with a clearance to fly over Metropolitan Oakland International Airport’s North Tower at 2,500 feet, cross the bay, and land at San Carlos. Bay Approach handed me off to Oakland’s North Tower, and I checked in with all of the usual information.
Suddenly—without any visual cues, smoke, sputter, or panel lights flashing—my engine ceased to function. At first I wasn’t sure what had happened. It was slightly quieter than usual, but the prop continued to spin and I was still flying. Then I realized that I was losing airspeed, and the gauges confirmed my suspicion. There was a smell of avgas that quickly disappeared, along with my hope for survival.
I could see one of the runways at Metropolitan Oakland International and asked my pilot/passenger in the backseat if he thought we could make it. I think that I knew the answer before I asked, but hoped I was wrong. His response confirmed that we were in big trouble. I called North Tower to relate my situation. They asked my intentions, and I realized that the smart and correct response was to declare an emergency. During this time, the cockpit continued to get quieter and quieter. Airspeed! I had inadvertently applied back pressure to the yoke in an effort to maintain altitude. My airspeed had dropped to 80 knots before I attempted to get to my best-glide speed.
My emergency training reminded me to fly the airplane, find a place to land, and then deal with the engine—in that order. As North Tower asked for the number of souls on board and we descended through 2,000 feet, I began searching downtown Oakland for a place to land. I’ll never forget looking below, knowing that this could be my last flight and that I was taking two friends with me.
Oakland had cleared me to land, not that it mattered. After confirming my inability to make it to the runway, they again asked my intentions. I had none. Then, as I continued to scan in larger circles for something flatter than a skyscraper, I noticed a large stretch of asphalt southwest of my position. I told Oakland that I was gliding toward some docks on the coast and would call them, if I was able, with the outcome. I was approaching 1,000 feet.
As I got closer, I noticed an especially long area of asphalt about 150 feet wide. It couldn’t be—but it was. A large yellow X marked the closure of Runway 24 at the Alameda Naval Air Station. I had an 11,000-foot runway right in front of me. With the runway found, I attempted to restart the engine. In the heat of the moment I forgot to switch fuel tanks, and I put the fuel pump on Low instead of High.
I dropped the gear and executed a forward slip. Being short was not an option. We landed about one-third of the way down the runway and came to a quite peaceful stop. Now my thoughts turned to a possible fire as we quickly exited the aircraft.
Another aircraft relayed my message to North Tower that we were on the ground and OK. An Oakland police helicopter flew overhead to tell us that the military police from the base were on their way. Now my attention turned to my airplane and what had happened.
The next day, with a mechanic and FAA inspector in tow, we examined the aircraft and found that a $4.50 brass extension fitting to the fuel system had snapped, rendering me a glider pilot. That accounted for the brief but distinct smell of fuel. It had, however, been leaking for quite some time, as evidenced by the black residue near an existing crack.
I learned a lot that day. A more thorough preflight (see " A Prelude to Takeoff," p. 65), including a time-consuming removal of the cowling, might have revealed the problem sooner. My emergency procedures for engine restart were poor at best and could have contributed to a fire. I should have consulted the emergency checklist. And I had forgotten a basic rule when I forgot to switch tanks. My aircraft is fuel-injected, so I put on the low-speed fuel pump instead of the auxiliary high-speed pump—and left it on. The operating handbook states that if the engine does not restart after using the auxiliary fuel pump, the pump must be turned off, because cold fuel will be pouring onto a hot engine if the problem is a broken fuel line. This is what happened to my airplane, and only luck prevented a fire.
I have a new appreciation for the question, "What would I do if my engine quit right now?" Although rare, airplane engines do, without warning, abruptly quit. Fly the airplane. Fortunately, I realized that my airspeed was falling before I stalled the airplane. Navigate. Find a place to land, because your engine may not restart. Communicate. Let somebody know what’s going on.
Roger Welling, AOPA 1210896 , of Anaheim, California, is the owner of a 1977 Turbo Arrow. He is the director of business development for Ryder Systems Inc. and is an instrument-rated private pilot with 1,250 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.
Related Articles
