The Bob Dylan concert the night before had been wonderful; now it was time to go home. The previous day I had flown the Piper Aztec from Chatham, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod, up to Montpelier, Vermont, to pick up friends and bring them down to Mansfield, Massachusetts. The weather all over New England had been perfect. Today was forecast to be the same. After completing the preflight, loading what little baggage we had, and getting everybody seated, I started the left engine and then the right. The left engine came to life easily and settled down at a steady 1,000 rpm. The right engine started with a bit of a thud, which was unusual, but it, too, settled down quickly at 1,000 rpm and all the engine gauges came up to their normal readings.
I taxied out to the Runway 14 hold-short line and went through the pretakeoff runup and checklist, briefed everybody, latched the door, and started out onto the runway. The acceleration was smooth and liftoff came quickly. It was only after the gear was retracted and the power had been set for climb that I began to feel that something was wrong. I had the proper pitch attitude and the power had been set to the normal cruise-climb settings, but the airspeed was about 10 or 15 knots less than it should have been. I had several thousand hours in Aztecs and about 800 in that particular airplane. It was reliable and I knew what to expect from it. I was a little surprised, but it was running smoothly and all the engine indications were normal so I was not overly concerned. Perhaps some mud wasps had gotten into the pitot; I switched on the pitot heat and waited. No change. I opened the alternate static source. The needle jumped, but, again, no change. Maybe the landing gear was sagging and the gear doors had opened up a bit. I pulled the gear handle into the up position but heard no resulting "clunk" from the gear as it retracted back up against the stops. The gear hadn't sagged. The airspeed was still less than I expected, but the engines were running smoothly and all the other indications were normal. I continued the climb up to our planned cruise altitude of 8,500 feet and tried to disregard the airspeed indication. It had been outvoted by the smooth drone of the engines and the reassuring normal instrument indications, so we continued on. I set the autopilot and turned my attention to watching for traffic and pointing out sights on the ground for my friends.
We were coming up on the Merrimack River and about to cross into New Hampshire when Judy, sitting in the back, asked if all the white smoke that was trailing out behind us was supposed to be there. As I leaned over so I could see out the right side, the mental alarm bells went off. Sure enough, there was smoke coming from under the engine nacelle and extending out behind us like a thick rope; dazzling white in the brilliant sunshine. My attention went to the engine instruments. White smoke is oil smoke. As I sat back down, I glared at the oil pressure and temperature gauges. They were still normal, but there was obviously something wrong. I did a quick mental recount, and the smooth drone of the engines and the reassuring normal instrument indications were now outvoted by the airspeed indicator.
I explained to my friends that there was something wrong. I didn't know exactly what it was, but it apparently was some kind of oil leak. I said that I would prefer to bring the airplane back home to Chatham where our own mechanics could take care of it, rather than to risk having it become stranded in Montpelier. I also would be able to get another airplane at Chatham and use that to fly us all back up to Montpelier.
Rolling the Aztec to the southeast, I got a spectacular view of our "contrail" arcing out behind us, and I knew that at some point soon I was probably going to have to shut down the right engine. As long as it was running smoothly, wasn't on fire, and the oil pressure stayed in the green, I wanted to keep it running. I explained to my friends that when the oil pressure dropped to just above the red mark I was going to shut the engine down and that when the propeller stopped we would begin "drifting down" to about 5,500 feet.
About 40 miles southeast of Boston the oil pressure needle introduced itself to the red range so I shut down the engine. We began slowly descending from 7,500 to 5,600 feet. By then we were only about 20 miles from Chatham.
The entry to the traffic pattern and the landing were uneventful. Dan, the chief mechanic, was already unfastening the right cowl as I shut down the left engine. By the time I had gotten out and looked in, he had diagnosed the problem. "There's your oil leak," he said, pointing to a hole the size of a small grapefruit in the engine case between the front and middle cylinders. The "thud" when I started the right engine was the sound of one of the pushrods going through the side of the case. While the engine was running, oil had been sloshing and splashing out of that hole and onto the exhaust pipe, making the smoke. The airspeed was lower than it should have been because, although the engine was running smoothly, with a pushrod adrift it just was not able to produce the power needed to maintain the normal airspeed. Why the airplane ran so smoothly, I still haven't figured out.
I was reminded of something a good friend and a great mechanic told me once. "No airplane will ever let you down without warning. All you have to do is learn to listen to it and be able to understand what it's trying to tell you."
I have wondered whether I should have shut down the engine earlier or elected to land at an airport closer than Chatham. I was always told not to shut down an engine that is producing power unless it indicates, by gauge or sound or shudder, that it is going to come off the airplane. From my experience flying for a commuter airline, regulations dictate that a pilot return to the nearest suitable airport for landing. Chatham was the most suitable because the mechanics there were familiar with the airplane. Had the Aztec's engine made a move into the red arc sooner, or had vibration ensued, I would have landed earlier.
Most importantly, though, the airplane had said "thud," and I should have paid attention. It was trying to tell me something. If you don't listen to those clues, you may really need to have God on your side — just as Bob Dylan wrote.
Jack Cullen began flying in 1965 and now has more than 15,000 hours. He holds an airline transport pilot certificate with single- and multiengine land ratings, DC-3 and ATR-42 ratings, and a commercial seaplane rating. He is a Gold Seal Flight Instructor with more than 5,000 hours of instructing time.
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