Student pilot electrical failure
My little airplane was familiar, and I was very comfortable in it. Really, it was to be no sweat flying alone to Santa Barbara. I could pretty much just follow the coast, and Southern California Approach (SoCal) would take care of me, even giving clearance into the Los Angeles Class B airspace.
I received familiar taxi instructions and left the tiedown at Montgomery Field in San Diego. Runup was uneventful as always: flight controls, left mag, right mag, carb heat, suction, ammeter. Looking good.
"Cessna Seven-One-Four-Sierra-X-ray, cleared for takeoff, 2-8 right, straight-out departure."
"Four-Sierra-X-ray, cleared for takeoff 2-8 right."
Boy, had my radio communications improved since the early days with my first instructor, Jon, who had recently taken a job with a commuter airline. Funny how I used to panic and frantically motion for him to do the talking. Now it was no problem. I had heard so many people make radio mistakes I figured I was just one in a crowd doing her best, and that was good enough. Like altitude, Jon had told me, SoCal is our friend. Just outside Montgomery Field's airspace I contacted them to ask for flight following to Santa Barbara.
"Cessna Four-Sierra-X-ray, climb to 6,500 feet."
Smooth, smooth, smooth. I completed the cruise checklist from memory and began my usual search for areas to land in the event of an emergency.
As I came up on the Queen Mary and Long Beach, I began to anticipate and mentally rehearse SoCal's call and my response for clearance into the Class B airspace. There were a lot of airplanes out that beautiful day, so I wasn't concerned that they had not yet contacted me. But when they did, it was not the call I had expected.
"Cessna Seven-One-Four-Sierra-X-Ray, your transponder is intermittent."
"Four-Sierra-X-ray, acknowledge that, I will recycle. Recycling."
Oh great, I thought that thing was fixed. A pause.
"Four-Sierra-X-ray, I am not receiving your transponder at all."
"Four-Sierra-X-ray-sir, if my transponder is not working I would like to return to Montgomery Field."
A long pause, while I edged closer to the Class B airspace, waiting for the controller to acknowledge.
"Four-Sierra-X-ray, did you receive my last transmission?"
"Four-Sierra-X-ray-yes, sir, I did."
"Four-Sierra-X-ray, did you receive my last transmission?"
"Four-Sierra-X-ray-radio check?"
Another pause, while SoCal had meaningful conversations with other airplanes and I began to realize with horror that I was the only airplane in the sky that could not be heard. Finally:
"Four-Sierra-X-ray, if you are still receiving me, make a right turn to a heading of 030."
I turned quickly to 030. See? I can hear you. Tell me what to do next, and I will comply. I checked the instruments. The radios were flashing at me. A communications failure? I thought it was just the transponder. How are they connected? Electrical failure? The airplane had started fine, and the ammeter was fine during runup. What had Jon told me? The red light next to the ammeter! But no, it wasn't on, and the ammeter needle was centered, just as it had been during the runup. The circuit breakers were fine. I ruled that out. Man, the controllers are busy. Remember me up here on a 030 heading? Forget it, SoCal, I'm going home. I banked to the right and turned the airplane south toward Montgomery Field. The radios stopped flashing, and the lights didn't come back on. I squawked 7600, knowing the signal would not be received by anyone.
"I've lost my radio," I said out loud, and my headset didn't transmit the information to my ears. Well, this seemed inherently unfair. I'd waited a long time for good weather, and then I lost the transponder, radio, and now I couldn't even hear my own voice. Thank heaven I didn't have to worry about fuel. I looked down to verify, and was stunned to see both tanks registering well below empty. I had never seen them like that, and it nearly panicked me. If I ran out of fuel I wouldn't even be able to call mayday, and it would be horribly quiet all the way down.
Calm down-you visually checked the fuel before you left, right? Oops, no, I had not performed the most crucial preflight item. I had ordered fuel; I had noted while inside the FBO that the truck was next to my airplane-I assumed to fill it-but I had no visual memory of full tanks to comfort me. What in the world did fuel gauges have to do with a failed radio and transponder? Maybe I should land at John Wayne-no, that's busy airspace, with big airplanes. Once I was abeam the mountains I would be committed until Oceanside.
I checked the ammeter and light again and searched my mind for advice Jon surely must have given me on this point, but I recalled nothing. It suddenly occurred to me that I had not adjusted the altitude when I turned around. I dove for 5,500 feet. Now what? Light signals. Very soon I was going to have to remember what they meant. I looked at my kneeboard and reviewed them.
At this point I did something I immediately knew was unwise-I so very much wanted to communicate with somebody that I yanked out my cell phone and called my boyfriend. I just wanted someone to know I was in a bind. Thankfully there was no coverage, since I couldn't very well have a conversation with him. I knew very well that both my instructors would have killed me for being so foolish, so I put the phone away.
I flew past the Oceanside airport and considered my options. Once I passed Palomar, there were precious few places to make an emergency landing if those fuel gauges turned out to be correct. I dreaded the thought of entering Montgomery's busy airspace without communications and landing without permission on one of its two very crowded runways. I was abeam Palomar by now, and boy, did it look inviting. I decided to get the heck down and lost a lot of altitude very quickly with an awkward forward slip while simultaneously looking up runway information.
Hoping to catch their attention, and unsure of what my altitude should be, I overflew the runway west to east just inside its airspace, with an eagle eye on the tower. No light signals were forthcoming. They were landing to the east that day-a rare occurrence in coastal airports in Southern California. I made a mental note to thank Renee, my second and current instructor, who told me if I ever entered a pattern without a radio to first observe the traffic flow.
Maybe I wasn't low enough for the tower to understand my intentions. I turned around and leveled off in an early downwind at traffic pattern altitude. I watched the tower like a hawk for light signals, but there were none. I wondered what they must be saying to a pilot who entered their airspace and joined the pattern without permission. Here came somebody in for landing. I widened my downwind leg so he would know I had seen him, extended to give him time to land, and then turned base and final. I shouted the prelanding checklist to myself, noted and wondered why the airspeed was higher than normal on final, made the best crosswind landing of my life, and taxied off the runway.
Fortunately, the airplane was facing the tower, and I put my hands up to my headsets to indicate I could not hear them. Finally they gave me a flashing green light, and I taxied to the transient parking. The FBO there was enormously helpful moving the airplane to a service hangar, and a nice guy at the caf� bought me lunch while I awaited a ride.
Naturally, as I learned the next day, I had experienced a total electrical failure. Why it happened that day is still unclear, as my mechanic said the alternator had probably failed the last time I flew, or even the time before that. I would have assumed the ammeter would deflect all the way to the left, but it hadn't. Now during runup I look for any tiny deflection, and I physically move as far right to do so as I can, to eliminate parallax factors.
By the time I checked the red light, it had either already failed, or it couldn't be seen in bright daylight. The airspeed on final was higher than usual because the flaps are electric and so never came down. If I had looked further, I would have noticed that the VORs weren't working. Both fuel tanks had indeed been fully fueled.
Now that I have my private pilot certificate, and I am well past the tension of that day, I have the luxury of being glad for my electrical failure. I know that whatever happens, just fly the airplane. And I always, always visually check the fuel tanks before I get in an airplane.
"Learning Experiences" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for students and pilots to learn from the experiences of others. It is intended to provoke thought and discussion, acknowledging that actions taken by the authors were not necessarily the best choices under the circumstances. We encourage you to discuss any questions you have about a particular scenario with your flight instructor.
-- By Shirley Long Rogozienski
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