Never Again: Rental pilot reluctance

I’ve always tried to do thorough preflight inspections, but especially so when flying an unfamiliar airplane or one that others have flown before me. Since these aren’t my airplanes, I don’t have the owner’s familiarity and awareness and must rely on others. However, over-reliance can lead to dangerous situations, as I learned the hard way some years ago in Danbury, Connecticut.

I had flown the Tecnam P92 Echo out of the local FBO on several occasions without incident. However, the last time I had flown it, I had submitted a squawk regarding the elevator: It had felt sloppy during flight. I therefore paid special attention to it during the preflight inspection on this day. Although nothing looked loose or unusual, something didn’t feel right, so I returned to the office and asked if this had been addressed by the maintenance crew. I was assured that it had and that everything was OK. As a relatively low-time pilot I was reluctant to challenge the experts, and I pushed my little niggling worry to the back corner of my mind.

On takeoff, the little Rotax quickly accelerated us down the runway. I eased back on the stick and the airplane climbed swiftly. As the threshold flashed by below, a slight shudder ran through the control stick. Turbulence, I thought—not unusual in this weather. I banked to the north and continued to climb. Fifteen hundred feet and I retracted the flaps. The shudder came again, only stronger—this time accompanied by a banging sound, as if somewhere, behind me, someone was trying to get my attention. Whatever it was, it worked. I became hyper alert. Waiting for whatever came next, I continued to climb. More altitude can only be good, I reckoned.

Bang. Bang.

The noise increased as the shaking got worse. The stick bounced around in my hand and controlling the airplane became more difficult. Then the banging stopped as suddenly as it had started. But so did the movement of the stick. I had no pitch control. I could still move the stick side to side, but fore and aft—it was frozen. I had to get back on the ground before things got worse.

“Danbury Tower. One Two Zero Sierra Foxtrot. I’d like to return to the pattern,” I radioed the tower.

Pushing the transponder button, I let the controller know where I was and gently banked to the right, away from town and out over the hills east of the airport.

“Sierra Foxtrot, right downwind, Runway Three Five. Number two to land.” The controller advised. “Report midfield.”

“Report midfield. Sierra Foxtrot.”

A Citation jet coming in from my left was on short final for the intersecting runway, 26. It passed behind me as I continued downwind for Runway 35. This gave me time to think about how I was going to get the airplane back on the ground.

I could bank the airplane, but I couldn’t adjust pitch. How was I going to manage? I didn’t want to make any sudden moves or use any force on the stick.

Farther downwind, I added 10 degrees of flaps. The nose pitched forward. More flaps, and more of the hills below became visible. I retracted the flaps and the nose pitched up again. I had some control.

The elevator was jammed. But, what about the trim tab? I added some up trim and the nose pointed higher. Between flaps and trim, I figured I could land this thing.

“Sierra Foxtrot, say intentions,” crackled through the headset as I turned onto the base leg. “Are you staying in the pattern?”

“Negative. I’ll want to pull off and check the plane. I’ve got a bit of a problem,” I replied, banking the airplane onto the final approach.

“Are you declaring an emergency?”

“Negative. I’ve got limited control, but should be OK.” I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt.

I deliberately came in a little high, avoiding the swirling winds that usually greet anyone landing on Runway 35 on a hot day. Engine almost at idle, full up trim, controlling the pitch with the flaps. (Oh, for a Johnson bar instead of an electric flap control.)

Half flaps. Airspeed a little above the stall. One hundred and fifty feet over the pond at the end of the runway. Looking down, I noted the resident swan, oblivious to my passing, as it glided across the mirror-smooth surface. Fifty feet over the threshold. The runway approached so slowly. It seemed to take forever. Just above the runway I cut the power and the main wheels touched lightly and I was on the ground. A touch of brakes, a quick turn, and I was off the runway.

I pulled into an out-of-the-way corner of the apron and shut down, anxious to learn the cause of my predicament. I’d heard of stones being kicked up on gravel strips and jamming the elevator. But this was a paved runway. What could have happened?

Climbing out of the cockpit and looking back, it was immediately obvious. The elevator sat askew, its left side drooping down. I was told that one of the two bolts that normally held it in place was broken; one piece was gone, and the other was jammed into the hinge. Who knows what would have happened if that had gone, too.

The lesson I learned that day has stuck with me. Regardless of what I’m flying or with whom, if something doesn’t feel right, I address it. I won’t push those niggling worries away anymore. I’d rather look foolish than stupid.

Sebastian Teunissen is a private pilot, remote pilot, and a dedicated tailwheel enthusiast who lives in Lubec, Maine.