In the summer of 1977, I flew with a colleague from Islip, New York, on Long Island, to Washington, D.C., for a conference with Adm. A. Martin, Navy Capt. Ted Wilbur, and a few other important dignitaries. We were proceeding with the acquisition of the USS Intrepid to convert it into a museum.
I am a commercial pilot with multi-engine and instrument ratings. My colleague was then our corporate pilot. He also owned a Cessna 172.
After the four-hour meeting, we returned to Washington National Airport (now Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport). The forecast was for scattered thunderstorms along our intended route back to Long Island Mac Arthur Airport. I suggested to my colleague that perhaps we shouldn't take the northeastern route over the Atlantic Ocean, and instead take a more westerly route over land. But this was his Cessna and he was pilot in command, and he chose the northeastern route. He was also instrument-rated and since we were both air traffic controllers, we knew the delays in the system if we filed IFR. We decided to proceed VFR, saving time on a more direct route, not knowing what was to come. It almost cost us our lives.
We filed our flight plan and received clearance for departure. About one hour into the flight, I could see cloud buildups at a distance along our intended flight path. Again, I suggested that we take a westerly course. Again, he stubbornly elected to proceed as filed.
We were at an altitude of 7,500 feet about an hour later when, all of a sudden, the sky became pitch black — from daylight to nighttime in a matter of seconds. Then it started to hail, thousands of small marble-like hailstones hitting the windshield. I looked down from my side-door window and could see whitecaps on the ocean surface. All I could think of was that the windshield would crack apart and we'd be bombarded with hailstones, that the engine would choke for air and quit, and we'd fall out of the air into the six-foot waves below, never to be seen or heard from again.
I immediately radioed New York Center and said, "This is Cessna Seven-Five-Two-Three squawking 7700 at 7,500 feet in heavy turbulence and hail, requesting vectors assistance." Immediately we were instructed to turn to our left and descend to a lower altitude. As we started our turn, the hail changed to heavy rain, then light rain, with the sky becoming lighter. Finally we emerged into bright daylight. As we leveled off at 3,500 feet, we told the controller that we would be landing at Mac Arthur within the hour and would pay a visit to New York Center soon after.
We landed on Runway 31L and taxied to the tiedown spot. We shut the engine down and went through the checklist. We talked about how lucky we were to arrive in one piece. Then we climbed out of the airplane. What we saw scared us both. The propeller blades were chipped in many places and the wheelpants were dented as if someone had taken a ball-peen hammer to them. The leading edges of the wings exhibited the same hammered-like dents. That's when my colleague turned pale and started to shake.
I then said to him, "Next time, when I suggest a different route, you'd better listen." He agreed, and we headed for the New York Air Route Traffic Control Center to thank the controller who had helped us in.
Michael D. Piccola, AOPA 073112, retired from the New York Air Route Traffic Control Center in 1980. He helped found the USS Intrepid Sea, Air, and Space Museum in New York City, and builds model aircraft. He has been flying for more than 25 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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