California’s Monterey Peninsula is no stranger to rapid weather changes. Visiting pilots are often caught off guard by the sudden marine layer of fog spilling in and limiting the airfield to instrument-rated pilots only. But on Saturday, April 4, 2009, the skies shone blue and the ocean sparkled. Two weeks prior, during my first flight review, the winds had been brutal—reaching peak gusts into the 40s. It had been a perfect chance to practice flying in windy conditions with an instructor in the backseat of the Citabria. Nonetheless, the experience had unnerved me
Wind conditions are predictable—blowing consistently off the ocean. The winds had subsided, although there was something odd in the air. As I preflighted I watched uneasily as the windsock first swung east, then west, then west to south. This wind change usually occurs earlier in the morning. It shifts from blowing from the east off land toward the ocean to blowing west off the ocean to the land.
The airplane had just undergone a 100-hour inspection and it showed with almost clear, hard-to-see oil on the dipstick. I didn’t particularly like being the first pilot after maintenance. I checked the trim control and shook my head, thinking I had gone out of preflight checklist sequence. The line service supervisor drove up and asked about fuel. Three-quarters of a tank was showing on both sides. We were only going on an hour-long sightseeing adventure, but I asked for a topoff.
My passenger was a low-time fellow pilot who did not have tailwheel experience. Over a year of personal struggle he had gained weight. I hadn’t really noticed.
We climbed into the Citabria. At engine start, I was cleared to taxi to Runway 10R. Winds were 100 degrees at six knots. Our usual runway was 28L. The wind sock swung from one side to the other as I taxied. I moved the stick accordingly, first to the full forward position to compensate for the wind at my tail, then to the right and forward to compensate for the crosswind. Making a 180-degree turn for runup, I became disoriented. What was going on? The wind was still at my tail.
Pressing my full weight on the brakes, I could not keep the airplane from creeping forward during runup. I asked my passenger to put his feet on the backseat brakes as well. Flight controls were free and correct. I continued to struggle. After runup, I muscled my way up to the hold-short line. Flustered and distracted, but determined not to give in to my anxiety, I told the tower I was ready for takeoff.
I rolled out onto the centerline. With focus lost and distraction on the wind I disregarded the takeoff checklist—no lights, no transponder on.
As I eased the throttle full forward, the normal, easy pushing forward of the stick to bring up the tail was turning into a fight of strength and will. It felt stuck aft. In my training, I had practiced engine-out emergencies after takeoff but never aborting with the engine at full throttle. I used both hands to push the stick forward. The airplane momentarily lifted but touched back down. In that airborne second, the nose weathervaned to the left. Taxi lights, the runway edge, and gravel were now in our forward path.
I pulled back on the stick. The nose hung in the air. The stall warning horn screamed. An agonizing aerodynamic stall and spin eventually stopped all forward motion. Landing gear sheared off. Both propeller blades curled. The left wing crumpled and dug into the ground. The airplane lay fatally cocked to the side of her belly in the gravel and dirt and dust on the opposite side of the runway.
I had my private certificate two years at the time of the accident, with 300 logged hours, including 70 in tailwheel aircraft. In this accident, judgment and decision-making were overridden by distraction and my feeling that “I can push through this.” I had always been diligent, by the books, cautious—sometimes overly so. If it happened to me, it can happen to anyone.
Related Articles
