Back in 1983 I was very proud of my 62.5 hours of perfect landings in my little Luscombe 8A, which I had just reupholstered with dashing blue and white Cadillac upholstery. Being in the “normal” airplane category, I even endeavored and successfully accomplished a few loops in a remote airspace not far from my home base, Quonset State Airport, the former naval air station in Rhode Island, with its 8,000-foot-long and 500-foot-wide runways.
Here it was, a bright, sunny, hot, and humid day, when I invited my good friend John for a short sightseeing trip during lunch. The Luscombe was tied down securely, John was in the passenger seat.
“Brakes, left mag, clear prop,” and I hand-propped the little 65-horsepower engine for an easy start. I removed the chocks, untied the airplane, and taxied to Runway 16 for takeoff noticing a stronger right crosswind than usual. No matter, we were off and flying in a moment.
What a beautiful day, beautiful blue sky, puffy white clouds, all stretching over scenic Narragansett Bay.
I turned left after takeoff and decided to show John a touch and go, setting up for Runway 16. Wind was reported 140 degrees at 15 to 20 miles per hour. Not really a problem since I had landed in similar situations with as little as a 300-foot rollout and had no problem then.
I was not paying that much attention to the right crosswind, and inadvertently touched down first on the left main wheel. Big mistake!
The wind pushed the tail to the left, using the left main wheel as a pivot point as the airplane heading was whipped wildly clockwise. The tail was now low. In an effort to not tip over I added full power. The little Luscombe swung to the left and headed across the width of the runway toward the high grass. I wanted to take off, but I continued through the tall grass until I hit a low, hidden stone wall.
That was the good news. On the other side of the stone wall was Narragansett Bay. And in we went, John, me, and my newly upholstered Luscombe. Ah, I remember the cool ocean water was so refreshing.
John started to panic as he exited the airplane and was struggling to swim. I told him to relax, we were only in 5 feet of water.
Shortly a crane showed up and lifted my poor Luscombe out of the water by its propeller. This was a very sad sight to behold.
I was truly embarrassed. Not good publicity for an instrument instructor, but I figured no one would know, until I saw the next day’s front page in the Providence Journal—me standing next to my poor Luscombe dangling by its propeller.
Carl Dworman is a CFI with more than 9,000 hours.