We were on the second leg of a flight from Long Island MacArthur Airport in New York to Palm Beach International Airport in Florida in a 1965 Cessna 172 Skyhawk. I was flying with the owner of the airplane, Mark Slovin, a student of mine who was working on his instrument rating. We were using this pleasure flight to visit our respective mothers in Florida as his required IFR cross-country training flight. The first leg took us to Salisbury, Maryland. At the FBO in Salisbury we refueled, did another preflight, filed another IFR flight plan, and departed.
It was January, but the temperature was mild and 2,000- to 4,000-foot ceilings were forecast along our route to Wilmington, North Carolina. The plan was to spend the night in Wilmington and proceed to West Palm Beach the next day. Because of the ceiling and headwind, it was a slow trip for the 172. We were averaging 60 knots groundspeed, and at one point I actually could see automobiles below us on the Interstate going faster than we were.
I was training Mark in this airplane at least twice a week, and he allowed me to use the Cessna for personal flights. I had probably flown this airplane a total of 100 to 150 hours prior to this evening. At that point in my flying career, I had approximately 500 hours in single-engine Cessnas and a total time of more than 1,000 hours. As an instructor, I teach all of my students that single-engine Cessnas have the least reliable fuel gauges of all aircraft, and strict fuel calculations are a must. I perform meticulous fuel calculations on all my flights.
After we departed Salisbury, the weather conditions showed a definite improvement. Our groundspeed started to increase and we were no longer in the clouds at our assigned altitude of 6,000 feet. I put Mark under the goggles as the ceiling improved, and we were enjoying a pleasant night flight. About one-half hour away from Wilmington, Mark suggested that we push ahead to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I did my calculations and decided that we would land in Myrtle Beach with 45 minutes of fuel remaining. I asked the controller to amend our destination, and we continued onward.
I had made this same trip on Victor 1 at 6,000 feet at least four or five times previously. I was fairly comfortable with the routing, and I was familiar with the Myrtle Beach airport. It was now after 11 p.m., and I knew that the tower would be closed. I also knew that with the prevailing winds we could expect to use the southwest runway, bringing us over a golf course on a straight-in approach. With the airport in sight, the Myrtle Beach Approach controller told us to change frequencies and cancel IFR on the ground. We canceled our flight plan and changed to the common traffic advisory frequency. At that time, we needed a slight left turn to line up with the runway, which was well lit.
Then there was dead silence—the engine had quit. Mark was in the left seat and I was working the radios from the right. I knew that the golf course was between us and the airport and that the ocean was to our left.
I immediately went back to approach frequency and announced, "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday." The controller informed us that the airport was six miles at 12 o'clock and the beach was three miles at 9 o'clock. We opted for the beach. We couldn't see it, but we did see the ocean and a condominium with lights still on. We made another left turn toward the condo. It was automatic. Just like I trained all my students: Best-glide airspeed, pick a landing spot and aim for it. Maintain airspeed, maintain airspeed. As we approached the condo, we were able to see the beach and line up for a landing. Full flaps, 60 KIAS, touchdown was textbook. We stopped on the beach, and we were staring at the remains of a pier about 100 yards ahead in the dark.
Mark and I got out of the Cessna and congratulated each other and began to examine the airplane for any signs of damage. Everything looked fine. We found a pay phone, called the police, and explained what had happened. We called a tow truck to move the airplane away from the water line because the tide would be coming in overnight, and then we retired to a motel, planning to contact a mechanic in the morning.
The next morning, the mechanic called the FAA flight standards district office and I was interviewed over the telephone. Now, in the light of day, Mark, me, the mechanic, and some line guys drove out to the beach to look at the airplane. We all looked into the gas tanks and found the right tank empty. The left tank had the approximately 45 minutes of fuel that I had calculated.
The mechanic started up the airplane and let it run for about 10 to 15 minutes. No problem. He left the fuel valve on Both, just the way we had flown it all the way from New York, and was confident that the airplane would be fine for flight. He emptied two five-gallon fuel cans into the tanks, and we prepared for a beach takeoff. We notified the local police and they blocked off the beach for us, and we departed to the north. After liftoff, we landed at Myrtle Beach Grand Strand Airport to top off the tanks.
Mark and I and the mechanic sat down for a discussion back at the airport. We deduced the problem. The right tank burned off more fuel than the left until it was actually empty. In straight-and-level flight, no problem. When we banked left and raised the right wing, there was no fuel to gravity-feed the carburetor. Fuel starvation. In our haste to make a safe landing, we had made another left turn to the beach, still keeping the right wing (and empty fuel tank) high. If we had rocked the wings, the propeller probably would have come alive.
When we returned to New York, we contacted Cessna to question them about one tank's burning more fuel than the other. They explained that the fuel vent, which is located below the left tank, is vented to the right tank. The ram air comes into the vent and, in essence, pressurizes the right tank, which in turn causes more fuel to be forced into the carburetor than from the left tank. During any extended flight, we should always expect the right tank to use more fuel than the left.
The good news is my fuel calculations were correct. The bad news is that we learned a serious lesson the hard way. My training for engine-out emergencies made my response automatic, which saved our lives. A great deal of luck was also involved. When I think of losing an engine at night, it makes me shudder to know the that more threatening possibilities exist than being only three miles from a beach at low tide.
Paul Gretschel, AOPA 798834 , of Coram, New York, is an ATP and a CFII. He is a partner in a 1969 Piper Cherokee Six.
"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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