I grabbed a Cessna Turbo 210 from the flight line and religiously preflighted it for a planned overnight trip from Cessna Aircraft Field in Wichita to Hilton Head, South Carolina. I was scheduled to give a speech about the future of general aviation and the role Cessna would play in it.
Wichita was offering up its usual summer humidity and mugginess even though the sun had not yet come up. But the sky was clear. The forecast also called for clear skies along the entire route so I decided to go. It was 1965 and weather reporting back then wasn't as advanced as it is today. Therefore, I still worried about the possibility of unpredicted weather on my route; it was imperative I get an early start.
I headed east out of Wichita, with the plan to overfly St. Louis and then continue on to Hilton Head. The winds aloft were behind me and the airplane had enough fuel to support this plan.
The weather had been clear when I departed Wichita. But soon enough I encountered increasingly hazy conditions and clouds began to form. I found myself descending to lower altitudes to stay below the dark clouds. And I was beginning to get nervous about being pushed lower and lower, but I had a schedule to meet. Then the sky opened up, just enough, and I saw my chance. After all, the aircraft had oxygen on board and I knew the Turbo 210 was capable of flying pretty high if need be, hopefully putting me above the clouds. So I climbed through the hole in the clouds in VFR conditions to get away from the ground.
And that's how I got trapped.
I was close to the end of my flight, at 20,000 feet, when the on-board oxygen system quit. It had worked fine until then, but it suddenly stopped working for unknown reasons.
Thunder bumpers were all around.
I was flying in canyons of roiling white puffy buildups, zigzagging like a wounded eagle. Worse, I was not instrument-rated and the factory aircraft I had grabbed for this trip had an instrument panel with only very basic navigation instruments, though state of the art in those days — a radio, a magnetic compass, an omni-bearing navigational aid (VOR), and an automatic direction finder.
It became clear to me that maybe I had gone beyond the point of no return. Without oxygen at 20,000 feet, I knew I could get into trouble; hypoxia would start setting in and I would lose contact with reality. But descending through those clouds without an instrument rating was not a terrific option either. I decided the only thing left to do was to keep going and seek help immediately.
Fortunately, the air traffic controllers were able to help me swiftly. They had me fly out to the ocean and drop down to about 800 feet above the water. The ceiling at Hilton Head was at around 1,000 feet. After what seemed like an eternity, I finally found the ocean, dropped down to just above the water, flew to the airport, and landed without incident.
When I checked into the hotel, I felt like I was spinning and my head was pounding with a monstrous headache. With two hours left before I was scheduled to speak, I went to my hotel room and rested in an attempt to get ahold of myself and control my condition. I felt so nauseous it nearly kept me from leaving my room at all when the time came to deliver my speech.
I don't remember giving the speech or going to bed that night. I do remember waking up the next morning and feeling slightly better.
The flight back to Wichita was uneventful; the Midwest weather had changed once again to clear and humid conditions. I worried, though, about what people at the factory would say about my presentation of the night before. Someone probably had called to tell them that a really weird guy at the podium had blabbered some unintelligible words.
After I returned home, the significance of what had happened finally hit me and sunk in. I was very lucky indeed to be alive. I immediately pledged to get my instrument rating. I also bought a small backup oxygen kit, spent even more time and care during preflight, and attended several AOPA Air Safety Foundation classes.
I continued to ferry aircraft outfitted with only basic panels, but whenever I saw adverse weather ahead I landed and waited it out. (The factory aircraft we ferried to Cessna distributors were generally not fully loaded with electronics — some only had needle, ball, and airspeed; they would receive a full complement of avionics when sold.)
Even when I had my instrument rating I would not push it. More than once I canceled a flight and arranged different transportation. It has proven me a lot smarter than I was on that daunting trip to Hilton Head.
Sometime later I heard that someone had called Cessna about my speech, saying it had been "a great contribution." Phew, lucky me.
Donald A. Gazzaniga, AOPA 315777, is a commercial pilot with multiengine instrument ratings. He was a Cessna Learn to Fly specialist and single-engine Cessna sales manager during the 1960s. After 45 years of flying and more than 11,000 hours in the air, he was grounded for medical reasons. Diagnosed with congestive heart failure, he has been instrumental in developing a program to help others with the same condition. For more information, visit the Web site.
An original "Never Again" story is published each month on AOPA Online. Additional information on the cause and effects of hypoxia, and about flying VFR on top is also available on AOPA Online.
"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].
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