Waypoints

Editor in Chief Thomas B. Haines uses his Beechcraft Bonanza for personal and business flights.

Hustling away from the airplane toward shelter, I dodged picnic tables, patio umbrellas, chairs, and garbage cans tumbling around the yard, many ending up in the pool. At the poolside bar, someone screamed as a whirlwind of dirt and dust spun across the road and toward the bar and the rest of the complex at Flying W Airport Resort in Lumberton, New Jersey. I picked up my pace for the motel, but was mesmerized by the sight of the billowing black clouds and the pandemonium of the 60-knot wind gusts bee-lining it for the resort and runway.

I kept glancing over my shoulder, noting that the low-wing airplanes like my Beechcraft Bonanza were mostly still while the high-wing airplanes were rocking and twisting in their tiedowns. I had just checked the security of my tiedowns and those of the surrounding airplanes. Then all I could do was hope for the best and that the predicted hail would bypass us. A crack of thunder preceded the heavy rain just as I leaped one last garbage can and made it into the motel room. My wife and two daughters were peering out the door wondering if I had been swept away. A branch as thick as your thigh twisted off a tree out in the yard with a loud moaning noise.

Hello, gust front!

Such was the third time in a couple of months that I had felt the force of Mother Nature up close and personal.

A few weeks prior to our Memorial Day weekend visit to Flying W, I learned once again how much weather punch the not-so-mighty Appalachian Mountains can generate. En route to Greensboro, North Carolina, for this month's article on the HondaJet (see " Behind the Curtain," page 70), I endured some of the most brutal turbulence I've ever flown in. Although only "moderate" by official definition, it was unrelenting at my 6,000-foot altitude, which — naturally — put me right at the base of the clouds. Four thousand feet was too low for the terrain and 8,000 feet would put me in the clouds. Although icing wasn't forecast, I could tell by the temperatures that it could be an issue.

When I asked for ride reports for higher, an airplane at 8,000 said it was somewhat smoother there, with no ice, so I went for it. At 8,000 feet the ride was only tolerable, with items in the cockpit only slightly bouncing around as opposed to levitating. I could see a few holes in the clouds. Blue skies above. I asked for 10,000 feet and was soon bumping along in the tops of the clouds in what was just a little light turbulence.

By the time I got to Southern Virginia, the clouds had mostly dissipated, as had the mountain obscuration, and it was smooth sailing for Greensboro.

When the wind blows

As it was, my route down the edge of the Appalachians was supposed to be down the center of a trough, resulting — supposedly — in the calmest winds of the region. The trough stretched right along my route from Washington, D.C., to the Charlotte, North Carolina, area.

The Flying W wind experience was a good old-fashioned summertime gust front preceding a line of severe thunderstorms that caused a small tornado just a mile down the road from the aviation-theme resort. We had arrived at Flying W earlier in the day, flying VFR from Frederick, Maryland, to the resort, located just northeast of Philadelphia.

After landing on the resort's 3,500-foot-long runway, we tied down, checked into the motel, and were soon lounging by the airplane-shaped swimming pool, which is right next to the runway. It was a warm, sunny afternoon, but with the threat of severe weather late in the day. Mother Nature didn't disappoint. By about 4 p.m. the skies had darkened, clouds billowed like some angry sea, and then the wind began to pick up. We gathered up our pool gear and I went to check the airplane tiedowns while the rest of the family headed inside.

While the turmoil didn't last long, it was a definite reminder about how quickly weather can change.

Within 90 minutes of when it all started, the sun was out and we were playing volleyball. We flew home VFR the next day.

On southern breezes

A trip a few weeks earlier yet showed how important it is to be flexible when flying GA. I was scheduled to fly from Frederick to central Florida on an early March Monday. However, the forecast for Monday included snow throughout the Northeast. I called my passengers a couple of days in advance and suggested we leave Sunday instead, when the weather in the Northeast was forecast to be fine. Weather to the south was questionable for Sunday, but at least we would get out ahead of the snow.

We left the D.C. area under clear blue skies and enjoyed a smooth, cloud-free ride until southern North Carolina when we found ourselves above an undercast with some cirrus above. By central South Carolina we were in and out of the clouds but mostly between layers, just as the forecast predicted. Checking with flight watch, I learned that the winds at Hilton Head, South Carolina, the planned fuel stop, had increased to 10 knots gusting to 20 out of 70 degrees, a significant crosswind component to the single runway, 3/21. From experience at Hilton Head, I knew it was always turbulent just above the trees and on short final. I wasn't anxious to give it a try with a gusty crosswind, especially when Florence, Charleston, and Savannah, Georgia, were nearby with more favorable runway configurations. The decision to divert to Savannah was confirmed when I heard a Boeing 737 inbound to Charleston report a 30-knot airspeed loss on an extended final at 3,000 feet.

Meanwhile, still at 6,000 feet, we had only about 10 knots of wind, so I knew the ride down would be bumpy as we passed through the shear. Fearing the wind at Hilton Head, I had been considering the alternative airports since before leaving home, so it was an easy decision to change to Savannah, even though the weather there was worse than at Hilton Head. Savannah was reporting 1,100 overcast, six miles in light rain, and only 10 knots of wind — right down Runway 9, which is 9,300 feet long. Hilton Head was calling it 3,300 overcast, four miles in light rain, but with the strong crosswinds.

Savannah Approach vectored us well to the west and finally turned us inbound about eight miles outside of Mavis, the final approach fix. As we turned inbound, it was like someone threw out an anchor. At 2,000 feet 14 miles from the airport our groundspeed dropped to 85 knots while indicating 125 knots — a 40-knot wind. We were on top of a cloud layer in relatively smooth air crawling toward the airport. Anticipating the request from ATC, I dialed in the power to speed things up. Even at the glideslope intercept, I had to dial in more than the usual power to keep from stopping in midair. I finally set the airplane down on the long, brightly lit runway under very dark clouds that by then were dumping copious amounts of rain. The reported winds were 15 knots across the ground, but it seemed like more as I added power just to taxi.

The weather computer at the Signature fixed-base operation showed a big red box over central Florida where tornadoes were forecast as a line of strong storms moved in off the Gulf. Tops were reported to Flight Level 450. Two pilots flying a jet had just come in from Orlando. Their departing words were to not go south. Looking out on the ramp at the pouring rain and seeing the heavy thunderstorms facing us to the south, I decided to call it a day.

About 90 minutes later a tornado hit Melbourne, Florida, validating the severity of the storms.

It was a good decision to get out of the Northeast ahead of the weather, and I knew before departing that the weather in Georgia and Florida could preclude a completion of the trip in one day. This day the forecasts were accurate and planning paid off.

Just 15 hours later we were headed south in smooth air among just a few puffy clouds and mostly blue skies. What a difference a night makes.

To Mother Nature, though, it was just another day of testing pilot mettle.

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