The weather was typical of a mid-September day in the Southeast. A cold front had swept through the area the day before our afternoon flight from Winston-Salem, North Carolina, to North Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
As cold fronts so often do in this area of the country, it lost some — but not all — of its ferocity when it encountered the Appalachians.
According to the briefing, the front left a few lingering clouds in its wake. En route, we should expect just a layer of harmless cumulus at 4,500 feet with a few more clouds at lower altitudes and some scattered precipitation at the destination. Then came the first indication of what lay ahead — the briefer noted a slight chance of thunderstorms. "Should be widely scattered, no greater than Level 2 or 3; chances are good no storms will develop," he said.
At first I was ready to postpone the trip, but my confidence level was pretty high — this was my first IFR cross-country since receiving my instrument rating.
As we loaded the rented Piper Cherokee, I noticed that the clouds were scattered as forecast, but taller and darker than I expected. I picked up an IFR clearance to North Myrtle Beach, and it was just as I had filed: Expect 3,000 feet, direct Sandhills VOR, direct Myrtle Beach VOR.
We had been at 3,000 for less than 10 minutes, discussing where to have dinner the next evening, when ATC called. The controller asked that I climb and maintain 5,000 feet. I looked up at the puffy white, sometimes grayish, clouds and looked over at my wife. "We are going to go boring holes in the clouds," I said, watching as she searched my eyes for humor. "I'm OK," she hesitantly replied.
The Greensboro Approach controller handed me off to Jacksonville Center a few minutes before crossing the Sandhills VOR. The scattered layer was becoming less scattered and more ominous the farther south and east we flew. Still, there were only puffy white clouds that sometimes took on a grayish tint, their tops reaching 7,000 to 8,000 feet.
As we crossed the Sandhills VOR, I tuned a radio to flight service — and found there were Level 3 to 4 thunderstorms developing in the Myrtle Beach area.
I felt a chill run up my spine. My wife noticed my change in demeanor and asked what was wrong. "They are reporting thunderstorms in the Myrtle Beach area," I calmly said, but my mind began to race. I thought of asking for an amendment to my flight plan and vectors to the nearest airport. I peered in the direction we were flying as we popped out of another cloud, but the scattered layer was bordering on broken at times, making it difficult to see ahead.
I called the controller and informed him I had no radar or weather avoidance equipment on board, and asked him if he would watch his scope and steer me clear of any significant weather. He told me that currently there was nothing of real consequence showing on his radar between Myrtle Beach and us. I thanked him and continued on.
Twenty minutes later, Jacksonville handed me off to Myrtle Beach Approach. I asked the controller for assistance avoiding the weather, and she agreed — but her frequency was busier than Jacksonville's had been.
She soon instructed me to descend to 3,000 feet. The clouds now took on a wispy, almost foggy appearance. I could see the darkness up ahead, but I was still depending on the controller to inform me if things got nasty. Five to 10 minutes went by, and she instructed me to descend to 1,500 feet and expect vectors for a visual to Runway 5. The airport was 15 miles away at my present heading. "OK," I thought, "things must not be that bad if visual approaches are being used."
A V-tail Bonanza passed 500 feet below and a couple thousand feet to the right of us. I had heard him on the frequency as he approached from behind. No more than a minute later, we heard his frantic calls. He had run into some unexpected precipitation and was demanding vectors away from it. I assumed that since he was flying VFR, any amount of precip would be a concern to him. After all, I had heard nothing from the controller about any thunderstorms in the area, and she had told me to expect a visual approach.
We entered another wispy gray cloud, which obscured what lay ahead. I was listening to the controller as she gave the Bonanza pilot vectors. We popped out the other side of the cloud — and my heart froze. Dead ahead was one of the blackest, most ominous clouds I can recall.
My hesitation kept me from executing a 180-degree turn. The black wall was upon us. It was like entering a dark closet in the middle of the day. I reached for the switch that operates the panel lights and talked to myself: "Fly the airplane; get your scan going; it's not as bad as it seems."
I heard my wife take a deep breath. The rain was so hard, it was as if we had flown into a lake suspended in the sky. All I saw was water — hard-driving, fierce water. After reducing power and slowing the Cherokee down to maneuvering speed, I thought, "The@e is no way the engine is going to keep running in this rain."
Mesmerized by the rain, I remember adding power to arrest a 500-fpm descent. The remainder of my attention was spent keeping the airplane right side up, disregarding my heading. I was concerned about the descent only because of my proximity to the ground.
Finally, the controller inquired, "Zero-Seven-Sierra, what are your flight conditions?"
"Solid IMC! Heavy rain!"
There were a few seconds of silence, then she gave me a vector and told me to expect the VOR approach to Runway 5.
"No, thank you! I will just hold what I can for the moment! I'm kinda busy!"
"Roger, Zero-Seven-Sierra, advise when you are able."
Our time spent inside the thunderstorm was about seven to 10 minutes. But it seemed like an eternity.
The rain slackened, and we emerged on the opposite side. I saw the airport at 9 o'clock and about five miles, and I informed the controller that we had forward visibility. I turned to my wife, who was frozen in her seat with her eyes locked on the instrument panel, and told her, "You can see the ground now." She peeled her eyes away from the panel and sighed with relief. The controller sounded relieved, too. She instructed me to contact the tower. As I turned base at pattern altitude, I heard the Bonanza call the tower. Apparently, he had circled around the other side of the storm, out over the ocean.
As I turned final, a streak of lightning split the sky about a mile to the northwest of the runway. I rounded out, and another bolt smacked the ground a half mile from the runway. My wife let out a yelp, but I didn't let the lightning distract me from getting the Cherokee on the ground. When the ground controller asked me if I wanted to make a pilot report I said, "I was at 1,500 feet in the middle of a wall of water is all I can tell you."
The lessons I learned from this flight are threefold. First, never rely on ATC for thunderstorm avoidance. They may be too busy to accommodate you, and their radar isn't necessarily optimized for weather avoidance. Second, when in doubt, land and think it over. A smarter action would have been to land when I became concerned about the weather. And third, don't hesitate to execute an emergency 180-degree turn.
Randall E. Walker, AOPA 1073387, is a full-time student and freelance writer in Pinnacle, North Carolina. He is an instrument-rated private pilot with 250 hours.
"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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