As I made the 20-minute drive to my Piper Cherokee's tiedown at Republic Airport in Farmingdale, New York, I thought about the fun awaiting me. VFR pilots chronically suffer the weather, consistently in that unenviable position of having to make a judgment call - proceed with the flight or wait for another day. On this day, however, there was little doubt. The flight was a go.
The flight was to be a short trip to Block Island, Rhode Island. Once airborne, with clearance to enter the overlying Class C airspace, I could expect to touch down at Block Island Airport in a little under an hour. If permission was denied, however, I would have to fly over the water on either the northern or southern shores of Long Island, depending on what runway I used for departure. Or, if I was in the mood, I could descend to below 1,200 feet agl and fly low along the southern shore. However, with the presence of unlighted towers along that particular route of flight, good judgment told me to try for the clearance or take the long way around.
On a day with limitless visibility, flying over Long Island is great because you get a complete view of the tiny piece of real estate that is home to some of the wealthiest Americans.
But for now, I just wanted to get into the air, regardless of the view. I parked my car and ran to the airplane like an 8-year-old running to the candy store. I had a flash thought that I should call flight service for a standard weather briefing, a ritual before taking a flight. Then I looked up at the clear blue sky and decided it wasn't necessary.
Ground control cleared me to taxi to Runway 19, then cleared me for takeoff. I requested a left downwind departure to the northeast, but a congested traffic pattern forced air traffic control to instruct me to maintain 1,000 feet and fly the runway heading until clear of the Class D airspace. This would take me over the inner shoreline separating Amityville, Long Island, from Jones Beach State Park.
Once clear of the Class D airspace, I climbed to 4,500 feet and turned left to a heading of 090 degrees. I contacted New York approach control and announced, "New York Approach, this is Cherokee-Eight-Three-Three-Five-Sierra." I waited patiently for three minutes (which seemed like forever while circling over the water). Just as I was ready to call again, I heard, "Cherokee-Eight-Three-Three-Five-Sierra, this is New York, go ahead." I responded, "New York, Cherokee-Eight-Three-Three-Five-Sierra; four thousand, five hundred feet; three west of the Robert Moses Causeway; direct Block Island." They told me to squawk 0413, descend to 3,500 feet, and maintain present heading. Once established in Class C airspace, I could proceed as requested.
With radar contact established, I began to feel that calm that descends on a pilot after the airplane is level and the VOR needle is centered and fixed for the destination. I moved my head from left to right and all around me to observe the vastness of the water and trees below. It's what a fellow pilot friend of mine describes as a Zen moment - being one with the sky and the airplane.
About 15 minutes into the flight, while crossing Brookhaven Airport, I began to see a black haze in the distance. It looked as though that haze was well over the Atlantic, away from the airplane and me. I was mistaken; as I flew past the Hampton Bay area, the clouds appeared from nowhere. I immediately called New York Approach and requested a descent to 2,500 feet. New York responded with, "Negative, maintain three thousand, five hundred while in Class C." It became ever more clear that I would probably need to keep descending to stay clear of the clouds. By now, 25 minutes into the flight, the bad weather was overtaking the entire eastern end of Long Island and Block Island-a situation I should have contemplated before taking off.
I now determined that the weather would prohibit me from flying within prescribed VFR minimums. I radioed New York flight service on 122.6 and requested an in-flight weather briefing. I explained that I was somewhere over the Hampton Bay area and needed the latest weather update. The briefer could hear the panic in my voice. I insisted that I was a VFR pilot and the weather was deteriorating by the second. The briefer responded with the worst sort of news. He said, "Cherokee-Eight-Three-Three-Five-Sierra, airmet for IFR flight conditions throughout the Eastern Long Island region, find a suitable airfield and land your aircraft immediately."
Frantic, I contacted New York Approach and declared, "I am a VFR pilot and need to land at the nearest airport." By now, visibility had so decreased that I was bobbing and weaving to fly between the clouds. The situation was growing dangerous.
My glasses were beginning to fog from my perspiration. So great was the sweat on the palms of my hands that I was losing my grip on the yoke; my headphones were sliding off; I felt as though I were falling to pieces.
I could not allow myself to be overcome with emotion. I needed to focus and land my airplane. And as if the situation could not get any worse, it began to rain. I was faced with a situation that causes fatalities - poor visibility caused by clouds and rain and a pilot not qualified to fly in instrument meteorological conditions. My pulse really began to race; I could feel the blood drain from my face.
New York Approach instructed me to change frequencies to the Francis Gabreski Airport tower in Westhampton. I radioed the tower and requested a straight-in approach to Runway 6 The tower called back and asked for my position; I did not know. Visibility was less than one mile. I declared that I was a VFR pilot and needed help to the airfield. ATC told me to squawk 0411 and ident. Within seconds, ATC called my position as northeast of the field. I should have realized that by checking my directional gyro, but because I was so focused on trying to find the airport, I forgot the most basic of aviation cannons: aviate, navigate, and communicate, in that order.
I managed to pull it all together, finally, and intercept the correct heading. I descended through the clouds, and the airfield came into view. Once down, I let out a big sigh of relief. I taxied to the main terminal and waited for the inclement weather to pass. A pilot sitting in the lounge asked, "What happened to you up there?"
"I don't know," I said. "I guess I lost control." I would never again let my excitement about going flying overwhelm my better judgment. Next time, I'd get a weather briefing.
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