No pilot needs to be reminded that flying can be a dangerous and costly endeavor if common sense isn't part of his or her makeup. I fell victim to just such a flaw during my early piloting days.
In 1951, even as a fairly recent private pilot, I thought of myself as a "hot rod," possessing exceptional piloting skills and capable of surmounting any flying situation. I felt this way in large part because I had finally accomplished what most pilots dream about in their teens — learning to fly.
In those days, I was flying out of the Bethany, Connecticut, airport (which closed in the 1960s) at an FBO operated by an ex-Boeing B-17 pilot who had flown numerous missions over Germany. Bethany, at the time, was the oldest airport in New England and could boast of famous early pilots like Bert Acosta and Clarence Chamberlain, whose names have long been forgotten.
One evening after preflighting an Aeronca Champ, I took off with a friend to practice maneuvers. Like many times before, I was expecting just another routine flying session. I never could have imagined what lay ahead.
When I finished practicing, I took my friend on a tour of our city, which was about eight miles from the airport. My friend had never been up in an airplane and was having trouble recognizing some of the local sights. I nonchalantly circled a familiar landmark at the farthest end of town, and I began to realize that it was getting late — the lights of the city were starting to appear.
I looked at my watch; it read 8:15 p.m. It was late August, the sun had already gone down below the horizon, and a dull, reddish glow lit up the western sky. I had never been checked out to fly at night and was more than a little interested in getting back to the airport before it was completely dark.
As I looked around in the gathering gloom, another surprise became apparent — a light ground fog had silently crept in, enveloping the entire area. My heart began pounding. As I turned back toward the airport, I glanced at the altimeter. Our altitude was down to 1,100 feet! Without a thought I had recklessly lost 1,200 feet since I left the practice area — precious altitude that I needed.
But this wasn't all that worried me. I looked down and noticed that we were barely making progress against a stiff headwind. I realized that we wouldn't be able to make it back to the airport before dark. Just to make matters worse, the Champ was a trainer used during daylight hours only, with instruments that couldn't be read in the dark.
I looked at my friend and pointed to the lights below. "Look down there," I said. "You've never seen a city lit up from the air before, have you?" I don't remember his answer. I kept thinking, "He doesn't know that I've never flown or landed an airplane at night." I also knew that if I became noticeably shaken, he'd probably panic, worsening the situation.
Fortunately, the Bethany airport was located between two radio towers; all I had to do was spot them and we'd be home. The steady throb of the engine, while reassuring, didn't relieve my growing anxiety. The minutes before I sighted the towers in the darkening sky seemed the longest I had ever spent in the air.
By this time, it was dark. I headed for the area where I figured the grass strip should be and circled once in the hope that someone would turn on the runway lights. No such luck. While it seemed like there usually was someone around for late flights, I could only assume that the person didn't know about my late flight. The surrounding void seemed to close in and mock me.
Just barely able to see the grass strip's borders, I decided to land. I took out my cigarette lighter and flicked it to see the altimeter. That night I was glad to be a smoker. I was at 700 feet, not a bad estimate of pattern altitude for a neophyte blindly feeling his way to the ground. I made what I thought was the proper pattern.
On the base leg, as I was making the turn to final, the airplane shuddered — the Champ was about to stall! I dumped the stick and straightened out. I could make out the vague outline of the runway now as my feet began shaking uncontrollably on the rudder bars.
When I thought I was about the right height off the ground, I pulled the stick back slowly. I felt the ship sink beneath me as seconds turned into what seemed like hours. Finally, wham! The Champ bounced high into the air, then hit the ground hard and bounced again, rolling to what felt — and probably was — a zigzag halt. I taxied over to the hangar and nervously cut the switch. My heart was still racing, and my blood pressure must have been sky high. I never was so relieved to be on the ground.
Driving home that night, I mulled over the dangerous events of the evening. If I hadn't indiscriminately lost altitude, I might not have had the headwind and would have returned home sooner — though I didn't give any thought to wind direction before it was against me — and the airplane's groundspeed didn't concern me in the least until it was too late and the time element in the situation became critical. I thoughtlessly ignored my responsibility toward my passenger — I should have taken the precaution of getting checked out for night flying before taking a flight that late in the day.
Most of all, I had been lucky — the flight could have concluded with a cracked-up airplane and injury or death for both of us.
As fundamental as it was, I felt that I had learned much about flying the hard way after this "lesson," though I wouldn't recommend it to any student. Needless to say, I was fully convinced that I no longer belonged in the "hot rod" category.
William Vassallo, AOPA 516181, spent World War II serving on the second USS Yorktown aircraft carrier (the first carrier bearing the Yorktown name sank in the Battle of Midway). His 750 flight hours were spread over 27 years.
"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; or sent via e-mail to [email protected].
An original "Never Again" story is published each month on AOPA Online ( www.aopa.org/pilot/never_again/), and you can see an index of "Never Again" articles published in AOPA Pilot ( www.aopa.org/members/files/pilot/idxna.html).
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