The first leg of my trip was from Van Nuys to Twenty-Nine Palms in the desert. The air was fairly smooth as I passed over lots of airports: Burbank, El Monte, Chino, Riverside, March Air Force Base. A trip through the Banning Pass and a turn northeast took me to Twenty-Nine Palms and its two T runways for an easy landing, refueling, and a cool drink. An instructor signed my logbook, and I got back under way quickly, anxious to reach cooler weather.
On the second leg of the flight, I crossed the Coachella Valley, heading for Bermuda Dunes and the pass between the San Jacinto and Santa Rosa mountain ranges. East of Ramona, I checked in with San Diego approach control, and they told me to report abeam Gillespie Field. Descending to 4,500 feet, I intercepted the 077 radial of the Mission Bay VOR and turned west to track it inbound.
South of Gillespie Field I called approach control, and they told me to report Jack Murphy Stadium. From there, I was told to contact Lindbergh Tower on 133.3 MHz. After getting the ATIS, I called the tower. The controller reported two airplanes in the pattern and told me to enter a right downwind for Runway 27. From about five nautical miles out I descended to 2,500 feet.
The approach end of Lindbergh Field's Runway 27 is only a few streets from downtown San Diego's tall buildings and I hesitated to descend to pattern altitude. I eventually descended to the pattern altitude of 1,200 feet, but as I banked left to enter the pattern and looked down, it felt much too high. I had just adjusted my altimeter setting and I double-checked my altitude. It was correct, so I figured it must be OK. As I swung around to the downwind leg, I was looking directly at a whole bunch of buildings ahead. They seemed awfully close.
Then I called the tower: "Cessna Two-Seven-Nine-Eight-Juliet turning downwind mid-field for Runway 27. " ATC responded, "Nine-Eight-Juliet, you are number two behind the Twin Otter turning base." I spotted the traffic and prepared to fall into line.
Then came an unexpected call from the tower: "Nine-Eight-Juliet, there's been a change in plans, turn downwind for Runway 31 and call the tower on 118.3." I repeated and copied the amended clearance, but I was momentarily confused. Then I glanced at the chart and the ground beneath me and saw that I was directly abeam the intersection of Runways 27 and 31. All I had to do was go past it and then turn right to a heading of 130 degrees and I would be downwind for Runway 31. Of course, that headed me closer to a whole new set of even taller buildings.
I switched the comm frequency and called the tower on 118.3. The controller said, "Roger, Nine-Eight-Juliet, make short approach, cleared to land Runway 31." Well, I was happy to make a short approach as I really didn't want to get any closer to downtown San Diego than I was already. I was way up at 1,200 feet and Lindbergh Field is essentially at sea level. If I had to make a short approach, I would have to dive for the runway. As soon as I had passed the south end of Runway 31, I cranked the 150 around to the right in a 45-degree bank, dropped in 20 degrees of flaps, put the nose down, and made a dive for the runway at 75 knots.
Oh, boy! That felt like fighter pilot stuff. I was aimed steeply down directly at the threshold of Runway 31. I felt good at making such a short approach and glanced at the altimeter, which was passing through 600 feet. With all that airspeed, this wasn't going to be a short-field landing, but Runway 31 was about 4,000 feet long so I was in no danger of running out of asphalt. As I passed over the threshold at about 200 feet I dumped in the rest of the flaps. I was slowing and retrimming the airplane at just about 75 feet agl when a silvery Boeing 737 filled my windscreen flashing across my path for a landing on Runway 27. It couldn't have been more than a couple of hundred feet away - and then the whirlwind hit me! The nose pitched up, the right wing dropped, and the stall horn wailed. I rammed the throttle in, shoved the yoke forward and cranked it left, kicked hard left rudder - and completely forgot the flaps. The 150 straightened out but skidded right and wasn't climbing. Now I was east of Runway 31, heading into a long row of sawtooth-roofed buildings at about 40 to 50 feet above the ground.
Suddenly I remembered the flaps. Then I made the next mistake - I put them up all at once, too late remembering that I was supposed to put the flaps up gradually and hearing my instructor saying, "Count out one monkey, two monkeys, three monkeys." The plane started to sink into the roofs of those buildings - and I didn't clear the first few by more than a few yards before the 150 started to climb.
As I slowly climbed out of the rooftops, over the radio came a voice: "Nine-Eight-Juliet, you can make a one-eighty and land on Runway 13 if you like." It took awhile to make sense of the call; my head was still coping with the airplane and the climb. Then I began to understand. I was now at about 800 feet and essentially on a left downwind for Runway 13, and there was no wind. I could fly past the end of 13 and make a normal approach. I felt as though I were in a dream.
I finally got myself under control and called the tower and asked if I was cleared to land. "That's affirmative, sir, you're cleared to land Runway 13, repeat, cleared to land Runway 13."
At this point I was working on human autopilot: turn, throttle back, flaps, airspeed, more flaps, trim airspeed, that looks about right, gentle back, hold off, hold off, I'm down. Thank God! Call ground. What's the frequency? Oh, there it is, in the Flight Guide. "Yessir, I'd like to taxi to JimsAir. No, sir, I'm not familiar; would like progressive taxi instructions." And so I finally got to JimsAir with a ground handler guiding me into the crowded general aviation parking area.
I was still in a daze after I had shut down and secured the plane, when a large man in a tie came out of the Jims-Air FBO and announced very authoritatively, "You can use my phone to call the tower." I guessed he must be the FBO manager, and I thought that the tower people wanted to talk to me. But as I walked inside, he said, "I imagine that you would want to tell them a few things."
Well, yes, I guessed I did. I wanted to know why they cut things so close and that's what I asked when I called the tower on the phone. I told them who I was and what I had been flying and asked them why they had not warned me of possible wake turbulence. The answer was guarded: "Well, sir, the jet had not yet landed," and nothing more. I didn't know what to say. Could it have been my fault? At that moment I was unsure. But I knew no one had said "Land and hold short of Runway 27"; the controller had said, "Make a short approach."
Going home was happily an anticlimax. After takeoff, San Diego departure control vectored me to the Mission Bay vortac, and I canceled flight following. I didn't want to talk to anyone; I just wanted to use my eyes. I climbed to 4,500 feet and followed the coastline all the way to the VFR corridor over Los Angeles International Airport, over the Sepulveda Pass, and to Van Nuys Airport. I was home.
My flight instructor and I agreed that there had been a communications breakdown between me, the tower controller, and the other airplane. Perhaps the tower was trying to honor the no longer very practical idea of "first come, first served." Even though I wasn't at fault, I learned an important lesson-pay attention to LAHSO procedures. Read the Aeronautical Information Manual and be sure you understand how LAHSO works before you find yourself at an airport where it is likely to be in use.
Related Articles
