Some 10 years ago my flying buddy, Charlie, and I planned a flying trip from Chico, California, in the Sacramento Valley, to Eureka, on the northern California coast. It was early spring and the first weekend since January that it had not rained.
An early morning call to flight service confirmed that the weather along our route was forecast to be good — 10 miles' visibility, scattered clouds at both 4,000 and 7,000 feet, and a broken cloud layer at 10,000 feet. Weather conditions at Eureka were 53 degrees, with a dew point of 48, calm winds, patchy fog, and 5 miles' visibility. The forecast for early afternoon was for improving conditions as a fast-moving cold front passed. Chico was mostly sunny at the time of our departure, with only partly cloudy skies at 10,000 feet as we launched for a round-robin flight that would terminate back at Chico by dusk.
We had been planning this flight for several months so that I could take the aerial photos necessary for a summer school geography course that I taught. Flight distance was 128 nm, or about 70 minutes of flying in our rented Cessna 182.
However, once aloft, we did not see a dissipating storm system as forecast. Clouds forced us to lower our cruising altitude by 1,000 feet. Then we saw the coastline and noted the offshore fog. But why worry? The forecast never mentioned fog along the coast, and I was willing to accept an error in the predicted ceiling.
In addition, the temperature aloft was three to five degrees colder than forecast. At 8,000 feet, the outside temperature equaled the dew point; snowflakes periodically stuck to the windshield. These were the clues that the forecast weather would not be anywhere near correct.
Our flight took a little more than an hour. On the way, I exposed three rolls of film, noting the trails, lakes, patterns of settlement, and geological formations. We spent little time discussing the geographical wonders we saw from the air because we were uneasy about the developing fog bank and the persistent cloud layers that should have evaporated.
On our arrival, we were able to see that the coastal fog was beginning to form in earnest less than one mile offshore, but with light winds observed we didn't think it would be any problem for our return trip near sunset. But within an hour, during our walk in downtown Eureka, we started to feel and smell moisture. This could not be! But sure enough, the fog was moving onshore.
Fog at the airport was now at 1,000 feet, having changed from a few clouds when we arrived to a broken condition that soon became overcast. The updated forecast was radically different from the one provided prior to our departure in Chico. We were informed that the cold front decided to become a stationary front; that our late-afternoon return flight now would be definitely hampered by night and morning coastal fog; and that cloud layers above were still 4,000 and 7,000 feet scattered, but the ceiling was 11,000 feet broken.
We thought about staying the night and taking off the following morning, but the local aviators at the FBO convinced us that we could find a pocket to break out of the overcast. "Head south along the coastline and you'll find the break in the overcast; the cold (upwelling) current is weak there," they said. Being convinced that they knew more about the local conditions than we did, we departed on Runway 26, heading directly into the depths of the fog that was now rapidly moving onshore.
As soon as we cleared the town, we turned left and headed south, hugging the coastal shoreline at an altitude of 950 feet, just 50 feet below the ceiling. At the same time we turned on all electrical systems, including the navigation, beacon, and landing lights, as we heard traffic somewhere in our vicinity. Our intention was to be visible to other aircraft in the area, but we soon found that the alternator couldn't keep up with the electrical load.
The ceiling began to lower as we headed south. This was not at all what the pilots in Eureka had told us to expect. The fog was not dissipating either. We dropped our altitude as the fog lowered to just under 600 feet. As I thought about making a one-eighty and returning to the airport, we entered IFR conditions and lost all sense of direction to the coastline.
I yelled over to Charlie (who was acting as pilot in command on this leg), "Turn right 270 degrees and climb at 85!" During the turn the coastal cliffs emerged through the cloudy-gray fog as Charlie turned our aircraft away from sure disaster. I knew that the coastline was backed by cliffs that protruded up to 2,500 feet msl, but I didn't realize that we were so close.
Scanning the instrument panel to double-check Charlie's maneuvering, I noticed that both fuel gauges were reading less than one-eighth full. Did the FBO not fill the tanks as we had instructed? I did recall paying for the fuel. A final thought: The fuel gaps were not secured. We were losing fuel, and we didn't have enough for the return flight.
Then the radios went out. We tried the VOR receivers and they, too, were dead. What a situation — VFR pilots in the fog, no radios, running out of fuel, and thinking about the possibility of ditching in the ocean. We knew we would die for sure as the cold water temperature would produce severe hypothermia within several minutes, if we survived the landing. The next few minutes seemed to last a lifetime.
I was at a loss for words until after we broke through the fog. After several minutes of intensive mental contemplation and discussion with Charlie about the airplane's newly discovered problems, it dawned on us that we had an electrical overload. Turning off the lights, we saw the fuel gauges, radios, and VORs functioning once again. What a sigh of relief! Above the fog were the cloud layers as forecast. We flew between the layers, and the remainder of our flight home was uneventful.
Charlie and I periodically talk about our near miss with death on this flight. I should have known better. I know that a temperature and dew point within 5 degrees Fahrenheit (2 degrees Celsius) of each other means that low clouds and fog could appear, especially as the air cools in the early evening.
Never again will I trust someone else's call about what is and isn't safe. In this case, Charlie and I risked not only our lives but also the lives of people in another aircraft — an aircraft that could have been making an IFR approach to Eureka. With no radios we would not have known, and we were certainly in the wrong. A much better judgment call would have been to stay overnight, since neither one of us was instrument-rated. By the way, now I'm quite aware of the limits to the alternator capacity of the Cessna 182.
Garrick B. Lee is a retired college professor and currently flies for a Part 135 charter operation in California. He has more than 1,300 hours' flying time.
"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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