I was a new pilot, and I was feeling increasingly confident about my flying. This particular flight was supposed to be fun — a routine night flight to sharpen my skills and spend quality time with my 10-year-old daughter, Stephanie.
It was an early evening in February as Stephanie and I strapped into the rented Cessna 172 at a fairly busy towered airport in southern Louisiana. I'd flown the plane many times and had even soloed in this same 1969 Cessna. The only problem it had ever given me was when I had flown to a small airfield, stepped out to stretch, and returned to find the battery dead. No problem: I called home base and the mechanic flew out. The electrical problem was fixed, and the plane was quickly returned to service. That was two and a half months ago.
I meticulously went through my preflight. Flashlight handy? Check. I'd learned the flashlight lesson from an earlier goof-up and wasn't going to forget one ever again. When I turned the key there was a bit of hesitation before the propeller swung around. After a few sluggish revolutions, the engine finally fired up. I wrote off the slow start to a cold engine.
At the departure end of Runway 22 Right, I went through the before-takeoff checklist. When I came to the item "check flight instruments," I quickly scanned the gauges. My eye hesitated on the ammeter, which seemed to be a hair off-center, but I dismissed that. When I had questioned the mechanic earlier about a borderline-high oil temperature reading, he had told me that the gauge was not calibrated correctly and not to worry about it. Why worry about this?
The tower cleared me for takeoff, and I headed for a nontowered airport 25 miles to the north. I intended to shoot touch and goes at three airports before flying back home.
En route to my first stop, my scan again paused at the ammeter. The needle was in the discharge range. I wasn't overly concerned — big, dumb mistake — though I did flick off the landing light.
After an uneventful first stop, we climbed to 2,000 feet and headed west toward the second airport on our circuit. I was soon acutely aware of the deepening dusk, because I found myself straining to see my dimly lighted instrument console. Now, even this novice knew something wasn't right. Nervous, I looked at the ammeter. This time, the truth smacked me upside the head: The gauge is working fine, lunkhead, and it's trying to tell you that your alternator is not recharging your battery. I flashed on myvlanding light. Sure enough, every light inside the plane went momentarily black. Yeeooh! Off went the landing light. Off went the nav lights.
I tried to sound calm as I told my daughter that we were going home early and turned toward the southeast — and into a pitch-black sky.
When I switched back to approach control and clicked the push-to-talk, the dim radio lights flickered. I waited. ATC didn't respond. I heard some garbled transmissions, then nothing. I switched to com two. Same thing. After asking my calm, collected daughter to point the flashlight at the instrument panel for me, I fumbled with the transponder knob and dialed in 7600. Whew! I thought, relaxing a bit. At least now ATC knows I can't talk with them — assuming the transponder has enough juice.
Within minutes, I spotted the rotating beacon and steered for it. Now I could see nothing in the plane without my daughter dutifully aiming the flashlight. Then it struck me: I don't have lights to signal the tower with! I tried to calm myself. Just remember what you were taught: Note the pattern of the other traffic and just slip in.
I yelled at my daughter through our dead headsets to help me scan the sky for other aircraft since they couldn't see us. Still, I reassured her, ATC was following us on radar and letting the other airplanes know where we were. Like a good copilot, she soon pointed out a plane on a straight-in final for Runway 22 Left. Then we spied another. Flashlight beam trained on the altimeter, I began a descent for a left downwind for 22L.
I flew within a mile of the tower and waited anxiously for some kind of light signal. But nothing came, so I turned gradually and cautiously onto a left downwind. Still, no acknowledgment from the tower. Soon I was abeam the numbers. I pulled on the carb heat, backed off the power, and hit the flaps lever. Oops, no flaps. They're electric too.
Approaching base, I had never before been so conscious of the importance of my airspeed indicator, and I had my daughter focus her beam on it — and keep it there. I saw an aircraft in the distance, probably preparing to land, but I was too focused on flying my own plane to give it much thought. Surely ATC was handling the traffic for me.
I turned final and headed for the parallel strip of white runway lights. As the invisible pavement rose up to meet my Cessna, I silently thanked my tough-as-nails flight instructor for the time he turned off my landing lights on final approach. Finally, my wheels touched. I don't remember how smooth the landing was, because I was so happy to simply have the plane, my daughter, and myself all safely down on that 7,000-foot runway. As soon as I began the rollout, I realized I had to negotiate a maze of taxiways without taxi lights. But wait a minute: Surely there'll be a reception party waiting for me? Probably one with flashing lights.
As I slowed down, I saw no emergency vehicles speeding across the field to confront the mystery plane. No one was there with a bright "Follow Me" sign to lead my plane past airliners to the safety of the ramp. So, I slowed down to almost a crawl, and very carefully threaded my way down taxiways, across 22R, and finally to the ramp. I expected to see the line guys assembled outside, eagerly waiting to pummel me with questions about the flight gone awry. But no, the flight deck looked even more barren than usual.
I shut down and climbed from the Cessna with my daughter. Gently squeezing her shoulder, we entered the FBO. The mechanic, who was watching TV, barely noticed our entrance. Neither did a couple of line guys, who were chatting. I asked them if the tower had called. They said no. I told them I was the guy who just landed without electrical power. They didn't know anything about it. I called the tower, and told them what had happened. "You mean you just landed between that transport and the Brasilia?" The controller was shocked. I was shocked. I told them I thought they'd followed me on radar. "Nope. Never saw you," the controller said. I hung up the phone, stunned.
It's been a few years since that night. When I run through a checklist now, you can bet your bottom dollar the ammeter gets more than a cursory glance.
Stephen J. Caldas, AOPA 1381785, is an instrument-rated private pilot with more than 560 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.
Related Articles
