As is typical of the weather in the East in January, the day started out gray and overcast and got progressively worse. I had prepared myself for this weather four months before by training and earning my instrument rating. The training was fresh in my mind and I was sharp.
I left southern New Jersey, flying a Cessna 210 with four passengers on board, bound for Long Island, New York. It was 8 a.m., and the weather was overcast with a 3,000-foot ceiling and tops to 6,000 feet. The temperature was 45 degrees Fahrenheit. It was forecast to drop to a 2,000-foot ceiling with tops up to 10,000 feet by late evening and turn colder. I planned to be back by 3 p.m. to avoid being in the clouds at night with freezing temperatures. Flying time was about one hour each way. Part of my planning included bringing my portable intercom to connect four passengers because the intercom on the 210 could support only three. I wanted to be able to communicate with everyone, and this proved to be a wise decision.
The trip to Long Island was uneventful. We were all in high spirits anticipating a successful day negotiating a contract with one of my vendors. No one was thinking of the developing weather situation we would face on the way back. After all, the flight would only last one hour so we had until 2 p.m. to take off. As the negotiations dragged on, the weather was deteriorating noticeably. I finally ended the session at 2 p.m., with plans to continue at another time. The trip back to the airport took 20 minutes. After preflighting, filing, and getting a clearance, we were in the air by 3 p.m. All seemed normal. I filed for 6,000 feet but got 8,000.
The last complete conversation I had with a controller, after reaching altitude 20 minutes later, was right before I turned on the pitot heat. The brief conversation was chilling. I heard the controller say something to the effect of "I am losing your transponder." Then silence and blank radio displays. Why so sudden? Then I remembered that I was using a portable intercom that had an old battery, and it was supplying the power for my conversation with my passengers and no one else.
I had lost all electrical power: no lights, no radio, no flaps, no landing gear, and few instruments. My passengers listened as I explained the situation to them. It would be completely dark in less than an hour, we were in a very busy corridor, we had no navigation, and then the pitot tube froze so we had no airspeed.
I had never flown in a simulator so I had never seen this type of situation before. On the positive side, we had three hours of fuel, an altimeter, flashlights, and vacuum gauges, and relatively calm air.
I made a determination that at 2,000 feet, if we had not broken out, I was going back up to find a hole somewhere. New York City has tall buildings and since I was heading in that direction, I did not want to have a chance encounter with one. I pulled back on the power and started to descend. I judged my descent speed by the unwinding of the altimeter. The lower I got, the darker it got. The two flashlights burned steadily, one on the altimeter and one on the attitude indicator. It was tense.
At 2,000 feet I had to admit defeat and warned everyone that it was useless to descend further, and would be safer to go back up and find a hole. One of the passengers screamed, and I feared that panic was setting in. He screamed again and started yelling something about lights. Out of my window was nothing but darkness and clouds. When I looked to the right, I saw the lights too. After focusing on the lights I realized that they were runway lights.
The right wing had broken out in a cone of semiclear air and with just 10 lights or so of the runway visible to me. I banked right, directly for the airport at 1,500 feet. It was John F. Kennedy International.
I still had the formidable task of landing without flaps or landing gear. The flaps stayed up but we managed to pump the gear down. No "three in the green" for assurance, though. I flew by the tower. ATC vectored nearby traffic away from the area. The last runway I saw in use was by a 727, and it was the one I would try for. Poor choice. It was with the wind and I could not slow down. I bounced hard three times—50 feet, 40 feet, and 30 feet. The gear obviously was locked down. I was near the water at the end of the runway. I pushed the throttle in at the top of the last bounce and my 210 started to fly. I circled around to land into the wind and, to my surprise, my groundspeed was so slow that I could have outrun the airplane. It was the best no-flap, crosswind landing I ever made. The news helicopter that was chasing us disappeared, as well as the Coast Guard boats and fire trucks. After 28 minutes, the airport was back in business.
The preparation for this emergency situation started with my training. My instructor and I had worked hard. He drilled me on partial-panel flying. I listened when he told me to always be prepared with the correct equipment, flashlights, etc. He also advised me to have a portable radio. I will never fly into IFR weather again without one—or without battery-powered navigation equipment such as a GPS.
The airplane I flew had just come back from having a new alternator installed. I was the second person to fly it. A wire on a post of the alternator was not tightened down correctly and it had vibrated off in time. My time. The worst time. But sometimes things just work out.
Robert E. Black, AOPA 1005015 , of Medford, New Jersey, has been a private pilot for 15 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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