Right island, wrong runway
I was born and raised in the suburbs north of Chicago. Lake Michigan is a major influence on the weather, recreation, employment, and even learning simple geography. Schoolchildren who live anywhere north of Gary, Indiana, are taught that that the lake lies to the east, that the sun rises over the lake in the east, and that if you start walking and find yourself wading into deeper water with no land in sight, you're probably walking east. At age 38, I finally had the chance to learn to fly. I joined a great flying club at Waukegan Regional Airport north of Chicago. The airport was a good one at which to train. The air traffic controllers in the tower were pretty tolerant of student pilots. The airport layout helped--it was just about three miles from the Lake Michigan shoreline, which made finding your way home extremely easy. Also, the long runway at the airport pointed at the lake. If you were on right downwind for 23, you were flying northeastward toward the lake. If you were landing on 5, the lake would be behind you on downwind. What could be easier?
My training started in August 1993, and I proceeded at an average pilot's pace. That winter the club announced its big annual fly-out to the Bahamas in May, and my training became a horse race. My girlfriend (now my wife) and I were going, even if I didn't have my private pilot certificate. The club's chief pilot graciously said that he'd give me dual all of the way down and back, if necessary.
As preparations progressed for the trip, I redoubled my efforts to complete the training. An understanding boss allowed me to use a couple of unscheduled vacation days to complete my solo cross-country flights on those days when the weather would allow it. On the day of my checkride, the Sunday before our departure, the weather became unflyable during the oral exam. The examiner, knowing the situation, made arrangements with her regular job to fly with me on Tuesday morning. I passed the checkride, got checked out in one of the club's Cessna 172s Tuesday evening, and we were ready to depart Thursday morning.
The flight from Chicago to the Bahamas was a tremendous learning experience. Club policy dictated that a high-time instrument-rated pilot always rode with me in the right seat. But those segments of the flight that I could fly VFR were all mine. Since several pilots and three club 172s were making the trip, two instrument-rated pilots would fly "my" airplane on legs where instrument flight was required, while I rode in the back and my girlfriend rode in the back of one of the other airplanes.
The biggest thrill going down was on the second day, leaving Fort Pierce, Florida. After topping off the fuel tanks and renting our floatation gear, our chief pilot told me that he would ride with us on the over-water segment to North Eulethera Airport. Wow--a three- day-old temporary in my pocket, and I'm flying an international flight over water. Unbelievable!
We spent three days on Harbour Island, a short water and land taxi ride from the airport. This is what general aviation is all about--the ability to go to more out-of-the-way locations. The people were friendly and the water was warm. Two former club members joined us in their Mooney. Some spouses arrived commercially, bringing scuba equipment that the club aircraft couldn't carry because of weight restrictions. Because of weight, the extra people, and the fact that fuel wasn't available at North Eulethera at that time, our next stop would have to be planned carefully.
Our destination was Walker's Cay, about 70 miles away, a small island with a marina, a hotel, a fish hatchery, and a runway that bisects it. Runway 9/27 is 2,500 feet long, and 12 feet msl. This would be the location where we would purchase fuel (they had avgas then) for both the ferry trips back to North Eulethera to pick up the extra guests and luggage and our flight back to Florida. The plan was for the "extras" to take commercial flights out of Walker's Cay after a two-day visit there. We were concerned that everyone had planned carefully and knew exactly where we were going, as Walker's Cay is a small place in a big ocean just west of the Abacos. As it was, our aircraft would already be down to 2.5 hours' endurance on leaving North Eulethera.
We departed North Eulethera shortly after noon. I was flying in the left seat. After setting course, we sat back to watch landmarks go by and monitor our time. Our two biggest concerns were crossing the stretch of water between Harbour Island and the Abacos, and then finding our destination at the end of the flight. Once we were over the Abacos, we had plenty of alternates in case the fuel burn wasn't what we expected. Since 54091 was the slowest of the club's 172s, everyone else was probably going to be on the ground by the time we got to Walker's Cay.
After clearing the Abacos Islands, we started scanning the ocean intensely for our airport. Suddenly, there it was. It had to be! There were two runways, the longer one being east-west, and the harbor matched our charts and the pictures we'd studied. We called unicom to get an advisory and announce that we were inbound. A customs officer told us that the winds were out of the east at 20 knots and Runway 9 was in use. I thanked her and started making my position announcements. We joined left downwind for Runway 9.
At this point, all seemed normal--checklists were completed, and traffic calls were made. We made our turn to base, and then to final. As we were flying over the runway, I said to Ed, the pilot in the right seat, "Man, we are eating a lot of runway." "Yeah--we are," he said. As the Caribbean was rushing to meet us at the other end of the runway, we both said, simultaneously, "Go around." OK, full power--stop the descent; set 20 degrees of flaps--start a climb; make the call:
"Walker's traffic, Cessna Five-Four-Zero-Niner-One, going around, staying in the pattern, landing runway niner, Walker's." At 500 feet, turn crosswind, continue the climb, and get rid of the flaps. Now we're downwind, we'll make the downwind call and do another GUMPS:
"Walker's traffic, Cessna Five-Four-Zero-Niner-One, left downwind, landing niner, Walker's." Before I had a chance to start my prelanding checklist, the radio crackled to life:
"Hey, Zero-Niner-One! You're going the wrong way!"
What? No way! What happened? We looked at the directional gyro and the magnetic compass, and sure enough, we were going the wrong way! How could that be? We looked around, announced that we were crossing the airport at pattern altitude and proceeded to join the proper pattern and land on runway nine. I'm just glad that our training had kicked in and kept us from landing on a 2,500 foot-runway with a 20-knot tailwind. I'm also glad that several pilots fell over themselves getting to master switches in aircraft to tell us what we were doing wrong.
So, how did this all happen? What made us ignore the fact that we had didn't have to cross the island after flying in from the "west" to join a left pattern for an easterly runway--ignoring a wet compass, DG, and our navigation?
All of the clues are in the story I just told you. First, two Chicago suburbanites were flying to an unfamiliar location. These same two pilots, one fairly high time and one brand-new, were anxious about finding our destination on a small island, in a big ocean, with about an hour's reserve in our tanks.
The next piece of the puzzle is that it was after noon when we arrived. The runway numbers weren't painted on the runway. Finally, and probably the most insidious, was this: In our minds, because of where we grew up, the sun is always over big bodies of water when it is in the east. I can still remember the momentary confusion and sudden sense of revelation when the radio came to life to tell us of our mistake. And I wonder how many attempts we would have made if we had been the first to arrive.
Lessons learned--always check and crosscheck. Make sure the picture makes sense. Don't let anxiety override your thinking. "Fly" the flight before you go--I should have realized that we had to cross the island if we were going to land to the east. And when things aren't right, don't try to force it to work. That go-around was probably one of the best aeronautical decisions I've ever made.
By Bob Meder
"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.
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