On a bright July morning I stepped enthusiastically onto the T-shaped dock of Folsom’s Flying Service in Greenville, Maine, looking forward to an hour of solo seaplane practice in a Cessna 172 for my upcoming single-engine seaplane rating flight test. Tethered in a north-facing line, with right wings over the dock, was a collection of high-wing seaplanes. Beyond the dock was a half-mile of sparkling blue water, green hills, and the town of Greenville to the left, at the south end of Moosehead Lake. To the right, the lake widened and stretched 41 miles north. I completed a preflight of the 172, starting with pumping water from the floats and then proceeding as with a landplane. I climbed up and found full fuel in the right wing tank, but did not bother with the left tank since it was standard practice at Folsom’s to leave the left tank empty. Because floats are heavy, seaplanes have a chronic weight problem, and Folsom dealt with this by leaving the left fuel tank empty and always operating with the left/right/both fuel selector on the right tank. This gave plenty of fuel for training flights and saved one tankload’s weight burden.
With the wind from the south, I needed to back taxi northward and then turn into the wind for takeoff toward the town of Greenville. It was necessary to taxi far enough north to give sufficient “runway” to take off and achieve a comfortable altitude before crossing the shoreline, passing over Greenville, and then turning downwind to practice landings and takeoffs. On my first takeoff, I back-taxied to what I thought was a sufficient point, turned, and applied power. I left the water and passed over the shoreline at about 500 feet. I thought, This is a little low—if the engine failed now, I could not turn back to the lake. I looked straight ahead and saw a football field with a hayfield beyond. I could only imagine how my name would be mud if I landed Folsom’s 172 on a football field after deliberately foregoing the chance to back-taxi on a 41-mile-long runway.
I turned downwind and then made several touch and goes, touching and going from farther north, thus providing myself touchdown space straight ahead if necessary after takeoff. As I made circuits, there was never a point at which I could not have returned to the lake in the case of an engine failure.
After the fourth landing, just after touchdown, the engine stopped cold. I found myself drifting in the middle of Moosehead Lake, forced to contemplate use of the wooden paddle that was attached to the float struts.
I ran through the engine failure checklist, mighty glad to be doing so as an Argonaut rather than aeronaut. First item: Switch fuel tanks. I looked at the selector valve and, sure enough, it was on left. I glanced at the left fuel gauge, which in this 172 was a sight tube in the wing root: Empty. I glanced at the right: Full. With the fuel selector switched to Right, the engine fired up, and off I went for another half-hour’s practice—after which I returned to the dock and tied up the Cessna.
In the 47 years following that July day, I have often reflected on the links I forged in a chain that might have led to an embarrassing incident, or worse. 1: I was lulled by the security of “full fuel” after observing a full right tank, where only the right tank mattered (so I thought); 2: I did not check the fuel selector; 3: because of my inexperience, I did not back-taxi as far as I should have to give enough distance for a safe emergency landing on my first departure. 4: fuel exhaustion—at exactly the wrong time—did not occur.
What did I learn? Before every flight, I ask myself: “What is peculiar?” Many accidents are preceded by some insidious, non-routine event or situation poised to adversely affect a flight, but escaping notice in a routine preflight. Any peculiarity should set off hypervigilance prior to flight. In my case, the Folsom fuel tank procedure was peculiar, and I did not properly respond. Second, I repeat to myself the adage about the three most useless items in flying: The altitude above you, the runway behind you, and the gas back at the airport. The adage that July day, modified for seaplane flying at Folsom’s was: The altitude above me, the 40.5 miles of Moosehead Lake behind me, and the gas in the non-selected, full fuel tank.
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