Never Again: Undone by a no-brainer

I am not like the guy who traveled down the East Coast to fetch a cabin-class Cessna twin that was out of annual and for which he had no multiengine rating. I remember his case well because I was flying with a student near my home base of East Hampton, New York (HTO), when I heard the local fire department report on the CTAF that an airplane was down and burning in the densely developed village of East Hampton. A pilot like that is asking for trouble. I fly very conservatively. My most adventuresome days were long ago. I do not enjoy the dry mouth that comes with an impending sense of terror, especially with passengers aboard.

How remarkable it is that I could have met my fate, and nearly killed a good friend, making a 10-minute VFR trip in a well-equipped Skylane from East Hampton to Francis S. Gabreski Airport in Westhampton Beach (FOK) on a February day a few years ago.

The nearest TAFs called for good VFR but with clouds overhead. The trend through the day was for clearing and increasing northwest winds. Both airports reported broken ceilings above 2,500 and 10 miles visibility.

We found no surprises on the way to Westhampton, but during lunch the sky darkened a little. When I checked in with a briefer, I found nothing had changed. Decent VFR (for a 10-minute flight, anyway) prevailed in the area and nothing suggested otherwise en route. I considered going home IFR, just to get in a little time, but I was wary of ice in the clouds.

We took off and turned east under an indefinite ceiling that I had good reason to believe would stay well above us all the way to East Hampton. But at 800 feet, with no visual clues other than the abrupt disappearance of the horizon and the ground, we flew right into the clag.

I was concerned but not terribly alarmed. My instrument skills were current and I had good control of the airplane. There was no ice—not yet, anyway. I briefly considered calling the tower, making a 180-degree turn, and descending back toward the airport to sort things out—probably to land and file IFR. I also figured I could get a pop-up clearance from New York Approach if I asked, but something in me resisted.

How long could this last? Another minute or two? If I stayed at or below 1,000 feet eastbound, I would not interfere with any IFR traffic, and I’d be well above any obstacles along the way. As a line boy at East Hampton in my college years, I had worked for a VFR-only charter operator whose pilots frequently relied on scud running to complete missions. I was an experienced and careful pilot with about 2,000 hours. Couldn’t I pull off the same feat?

I knew following the scud-running example was not the correct or legal way to proceed, but I had only a few miles to go and we’d be VFR any second. Right? I set my Garmin 496 to show terrain and obstacles and continued to the northeast, intending to fly out over Peconic Bay.

Once over the water, I started down, promising myself to descend no lower than 500 feet. We did not break out and I continued with a growing sense of dread. How far and how low did this mysterious, unreported stuff go? How was I going to get visual again to make the approach into East Hampton if the METAR was wrong?

In my growing sense of alarm, I struck on what—incredibly to me now—seemed then like a good idea. I set up for the GPS approach to Runway 10 to East Hampton, which was reporting good visibility and 2,500 scattered. Meanwhile I monitored New York Approach for the possibility of conflicting traffic as I proceeded, waiting to break out.

I did not pay much attention to the 496 as I concentrated on the final approach course and descended just a little below 500 feet: I lived in the area and “knew” it to be low, flat terrain with no towers higher than a couple of hundred feet mean sea level. Sure, there were some tiny hills in the Noyac area, but there was no way we could hit any of them.

At that moment, as I took a break from my instrument scan to peer ahead out the windshield, a big tower poked through clumps of cloud. I’d forgotten all about it. Now it was at 12 o’clock, same altitude, less than a mile away. I instantly initiated a bank to the left just as the English lady in the 496 started crying, “Obstacle! Pull up! Obstacle! Pull up!”

I had been hoping my trusting passenger had not noticed the mess I had made. Now there was no doubt he knew things were not right. “We’re fine,” I told him. “I saw it in plenty of time.”

I climbed to 800 feet heading northeast, thinking it was well past time to call New York Approach and accept the risk of some ice for a nice, safe IFR approach. That’s when, all of a sudden, we flew out of that weird wall of cloud between Westhampton and East Hampton and emerged into sunshine and scattered cumulus.

As we climbed to pattern altitude and set up for a landing at nearby East Hampton, my delighted passenger exclaimed what a great pilot I was to have safely brought us home. He was just being nice. I’d nearly killed him, and we both knew it.

How easy it was to go wrong on such a simple, unthreatening flight. You don’t have to be a cowboy to make bad decisions. The more creative thinking in which one indulges at a moment of crisis, the greater the risk one will do something stupid. Always have legal outs for every situation and stick to correct and legal procedures, the way airline pilots do.

Don’t let circumstances lure you into hemming and hawing about a critical situation. In the case of inadvertently flying VFR into IMC, make that 180-degree turn and get back to VFR. If that doesn’t work, fly the airplane and call approach for help.

Peter Boody is a retired newspaper editor who now flight instructs at East Hampton, New York.