Never Again: Smoke Screen

Ditching has always been a possibility, so much so that the thought doesn’t really bother me anymore. Pilots who have ditched 210s say that they don’t flip as long as you’re slow and the gear is up.

I’ve been flying in the Bahamas since 1978. 64M and I have been from one end to the other of the surprisingly large archipelago, which extends 600 miles from Walker’s Cay off Palm Beach to Great Inagua, northeast of Cuba. It’s a wonderful country, and there are many remote, beautiful, and unspoiled islands to explore by airplane.

I’d taken off alone from Nassau early on a Saturday morning heading west toward home in Naples, Florida. The weather was beautiful and clear with a slight headwind at 6,000 feet. I was relaxed; I make the trip often, since my firm conducts marine and environmental consulting work in the Bahamas.

While I was talking to Miami Center about 15 miles off the west coast of Andros Island, a funny smell came to me and then pow! The cabin filled with smoke almost simultaneously. Assuming the engine was on fire, I immediately started a 180-degree turn toward Andros but could no longer see outside the cockpit.

Switching to instruments, I reported to Miami something like, “smoke in the cockpit, need heading toward nearest airport…north Andros.” I was starting to gag on the smoke.

My senses focused on getting the windows open to clear the smoke—no problem since I do a lot of aerial photography with them open. The smoke thinned out a little. I still couldn’t see forward, but out the window below was the beautiful blue sea on the shallow bank west of Andros. I decided to dive the airplane to try to snuff out the assumed fire and get closer to the sea. Then a better idea: slip the airplane to clear more smoke and get down to mother ocean even faster, with my raft and survival gear ready to go.

While in the steep descent I was too busy for the radio and didn’t ask permission, but I remember Miami saying, “Nine-four-six-four-Mike descend your discretion” with a heading to San Andros airport. The heading was what I’d instinctively rolled out on during the slip; having flown the route hundreds of times, somehow I just knew. Miami’s calm assistance and understanding was appreciated.

Twenty-two years prior to the incident I was severely burned in a gasoline-fueled yard fire and decided that death by fire was not the way for me to go. While fire had not appeared in front of me, my hand was ready to go for the fuel shutoff if it did. I’m an ocean engineer and have always been comfortable around the sea and prepared to ditch. The slip was getting me closer to the ocean in case fire reared up and I had to cut the power. The wind was blowing on shore, so I knew my raft would wash up on the west side of Andros if I ditched.

The smoke cleared a bit more, and Andros loomed in front of me. No safe emergency landing there—nothing but bush, pine forest, and rocky terrain until the airport some seven miles inland. Ditching seemed better than a landing in rocky terrain with full fuel tanks, but suddenly it was too late as 64M roared past the coast doing 200 knots at 1,000 feet coming out of the descent. The engine seemed to be running OK, and the smoke continued to dissipate as the airport approached, to my joy.

Gear down, nothing; no gear motor noise, breaker checked—nothing!

Executing the longest go-around of my life, I pumped the gear down and the green light showed just as the runway lined up again. Slipping the airplane a second time to less than 100 feet, the airplane landed in seconds with a thump. Still no fire as 64M taxied to a little ramp at San Andros. It wasn’t even 8 a.m., but a mechanic walked out as I exited the 210, smoke still rising from the cockpit.

“Got a little problem?” he asked.

“Big problem,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about it at that moment, but I asked him to investigate why the airplane filled with smoke so quickly and completely.

Friends own a lovely island resort on the east side of Andros called Kamalame Cay. They were home, and that’s where the Bahamian taxi driver headed. During the whole incident I’d remained strangely calm and composed, but about halfway to my friends’ home the taxi had to pull over as I went into the bush and threw up, trembling. I guess my old fire/burn history came back to haunt me, and my mind was a mess for several days as my friends graciously cared for me.

The mechanic called a few days later and said the gear motor had kept running after retraction coming out of Nassau—no engine fire. I never noticed it running, just the usual sound of the gear clicking up into the retracted position. The gear motor was burned up, copper windings and all. The hydraulic fluid reservoir was also empty, but enough fluid was in the system to pump the gear down, which I’m told is by design. The mechanic guessed the hydraulic fluid had become extremely hot and vaporized as the little motor cooked off; I don’t know, but there was sure a lot of smoke from somewhere.

I’m describing this incident to benefit other pilots as “Never Again” encounters have helped me over the years. The moral of my story is always keep your cool and get the airplane on the ground. Throw up later! It may not be as bad as you imagine, so never panic.

Todd Turrell of Naples, Florida, has flown charter, cargo, seaplanes, and mosquito control in DC–3s. He has logged nearly 6,000 hours.