In January 1998, on Super Bowl Sunday, I logged a few frightening moments of glider time in a Cessna 172. Only seconds after passing over the numbers on the departure end of the runway on takeoff, I faced one of a pilot's worst nightmares: sudden and complete engine failure. But it was my own fault.
It started out as an ideal Sunday afternoon to go flying. I had passed my private pilot checkride just 13 months prior and had accumulated a little more than 100 hours of flying time. I have access to an older Cessna 172 based at a short grass strip near my home. There are more times when I can't fly from this field than when I can because of the winds and the one-way approach, but this was one of those unusual clear and windless winter days that could not be passed up. Not being a football fan — but a flying fool — I took advantage of the weather and airplane. My friend Derick had been after me to take him up, so I gave him a call and he quickly agreed to accompany me for a sightseeing tour.
Derick had never been in a small airplane before, but he had been a helmsman on a Navy submarine. He was interested in everything from the preflight to the instruments and controls. All was normal during the preflight inspection, including the several ounces of water drained from each fuel tank. The old bird had not seen the inside of a hangar for many years, and small amounts of water in the fuel had been common in the 20 or so hours that I'd flown the airplane. The first departure of the day was uneventful. Ironically, after arriving at pattern altitude, I remember telling Derick, "Relax, the dangerous part is over."
After touring the local area and flying several tight circles over Derick's home for photos, I allowed him to handle the controls to get a feel for the aircraft.
The day was getting late, so I decided to head toward another airport, in Crewe, Virginia, to top off with fuel. After a good landing, I taxied up to the pump, helped myself to the ladder and fuel nozzle, topped off both tanks, and paid the bill. Because of the fading daylight, I only checked the left wing tank sump as I was boarding to verify the amount of fuel that was taken on. Big mistake!
Startup was normal; runup was normal: mag check, carb heat check, fuel valve on, controls free and correct, and engine instruments in the green. Another good look at the pattern and windsock, and then taxi onto the active. Full throttle, verify takeoff rpm, note oil pressure in the green, airspeed coming up, 50 mph, lift nosewheel, 65 mph, rotate, pitch for V Y, 900 fpm climb indicated (I love this thick winter air), airspeed pegged at 65 mph — all was rosy. Then it happened: a slight backfire and shudder, then the engine quit. Dead, cold, deceased, propeller stopped, nothing. The only sound that could be heard was my heart pounding. I was well past the end of the runway with only 500 to 600 feet of altitude beneath me.
I could not believe what had happened. It was like being in another world — quiet and almost tranquil — until I realized the stall warning horn was blaring at me and this was not a dream. Time to wake up! Good training still freshly etched in my head told me to apply rule number one: "Fly the airplane until it's no longer flyable." That training, ultralight flying, and frequently operating out of short grass strips were about to pay off. I lowered the nose and pitched for best glide. I took a moment to make sure the throttle was full open (I banged it into the dash with my palm), I glanced to see that the mixture was full rich, and I knew the fuel valve was on. All this was done in vain as the prop was stopped, just sitting there in a vertical position, and there was no time for an attempted engine restart. I am ashamed to say that other things such as turning the master switch off, switching the fuel valve to the Off position, and popping the doors open did not come to mind. There simply was no time — an emergency landing was going to take place in the next 30 seconds or so. The only question was where.
Turning back to the airport never entered my mind. I was way too low to ever complete a 360-degree turn anyway. I decided to fly straight ahead, but there was a large area of timberland in that direction. There was a field at my one o'clock position a mile or so away: too far for the altitude remaining. I looked to my right and almost directly below there was a small field. With no better options, I committed to it.
I deployed full flaps, put the nose down, and entered a right turn with as much of a slip as I dared. I could see a clothesline pole on my right, a jutting tree line with a gully on the left, and a space of about 60 feet in between. Somehow I was able to "thread the needle" and make a hard flare, missing the clothesline pole with the right wing and staying just out of the gully with the landing gear on the left. With plenty of rollout speed, I was looking at a line of saplings straight ahead with a house just beyond. I put a bulge in the firewall pushing the right rudder pedal trying to make the old girl line up with the remainder of open field, but without much success. I was on wet, slick grass. Then the nosewheel gained some traction, and the plane felt like it would cartwheel to the left. I neutralized the rudder a bit and I could feel it settle down. By now I was very close to, and heading for, the line of small trees, but my speed was down to a minimum.
Perhaps I gave up trying to control the plane or perhaps I had given it all I had as I skidded to a halt into the saplings. Fire was my greatest concern at this point. I yelled to my passenger, "Bail! Bail!" and out of that airplane we went. After my knees stopped shaking enough to walk properly, I surveyed the damage to the airplane. The trees had caused sizable dents in both wing leading edges. The prop had turned vertical and rubbed up against a sapling, bend.ing one tip and the engine cowling. But Derick and I were OK, with not a scratch or even a seat-belt bruise.
I was now beginning to feel anger, mostly at myself. Having a gut feeling as to why the engine quit, I pulled the fuel sampler tube from the glove box and checked the left wing tank sump. A trace of water appeared in the bottom of the tube with the same result from the right tank. I looked under the cowling at the gascolator and there was the culprit. The liquid in the glass bowl had a pinkish coloring. I drained it into the fuel sampler and found rusty water. I realized my anger was because of my own neglect in not purging a fuel system that was known for water, especially after refueling.
The water was there because this airplane had sat outside and been flown less than 50 hours in the past 10 years or so. I had been concerned about the fuel quality at the airport, so I took several fuel samples at the pump without a hint of moisture (I kind of wish there had been). During the flight, I had made several tight circles for Derick to take pictures of his home, with additional uncoordinated turns to show how the rudder works. All this dislodged the existing water in the fuel tanks, allowing it to work its way to the gascolator at one dreadful time.
Since this incident, I have been on the lookout for emergency landing spots during flight — and especially on takeoff. I try to head to those spots as soon as practical on departure. When flying to an unfamiliar landing area, I take notice of each departure end of the runway. The best time to look is while in the landing pattern, especially on the upwind or crosswind leg. Try to make a mental note of those areas for use during takeoff. Don't be ashamed to ask someone at the facility for the best or safest departure procedure. I also grab all the altitude I can after takeoff. But, above all, I never neglect a thorough preflight!
H. Michael Merchant, AOPA 1315661, owns a tractor and equipment dealership. He flies a 1956 Cessna 172 primarily out of grass strips and has about 400 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.
