Never Again: What doesn’t kill us

At the end of a relaxing and fun-filled Bahamian vacation, we were en route to Republic Airport in Farmingdale, New York, in our Piper Arrow to drop off my dad before completing the last leg of our trip to Bedford, Massachusetts. The weather briefing had noted an inversion over Long Island, but the abstract knowledge of that phenomenon had not really made an impact—at least to the extent of understanding what must be done to stay out of the freezing temperatures that lay beneath the warm upper layer in which we were so comfortably flying.

In a crisp, no-nonsense way, the air traffic controller for New York Center said, “Two-seven-two-one Romeo, you’re cleared down to three thousand feet.”

To me, but not to him, Arnold muttered, “That’s going to put us right into the freezing level.”

“Tell him,” I urged. “Ask to stay where we are.”

“New York Center, request for two-one Romeo,” he said, more tentatively than I now realize was called for in our situation.

“Go ahead, two-one Romeo,” came the response, after a steady stream of rapid-fire communications to other aircraft in the area.

“Three thousand will put us below the inversion. Request present altitude for a while longer.”

“Unable, two-one Romeo. Descend and maintain three thousand Cross DREMS at three thousand five hundred,” came the authoritative and, I thought, unsympathetic reply.

I braced myself for the worst as we descended toward what I trusted was the runway, consoling myself with the thought that no matter what, it would all be over soon.Did we really understand what could happen? Probably not, until it did. The ice formed quickly, encasing the wings in an opaque outer skin. The decrease in airspeed was not quite so noticeable in the descent, but declared itself as soon as we leveled off. We were in trouble and couldn’t afford to remain in the ice any longer than necessary. The problem was our alternatives had all but vanished with our descent: freezing temperatures down to the ground and not enough airspeed to attempt a climb to warmer air. Flying on to Farmingdale in this condition was out of the question.

Arnold was more assertive this time. “Two-seven-two-one Romeo is experiencing severe icing. We’re going to need to divert to Kennedy for landing.”

“Roger, two-one Romeo. Cleared to Kennedy Airport. Descend to two thousand. Altimeter is two eight eight seven; winds are calm, ceiling indefinite, moderate snow, one quarter of a mile visibility. Are you declaring an emergency?”

“Affirmative, New York.” This time there was no hesitation.

My father, in the back seat, had been uncharacteristically silent during what he had come to recognize as a crisis, even without a headset to overhear the conversation. Camera in hand, he was clicking away: photographing the instrument panel, us, the sections of the airplane’s exterior that he could see from his position. I didn’t notice then that he also had his portable dictating machine running to record all conversation and transmissions.

“Dad, what are you doing?” I asked in a voice that conveyed anxiety and a measure of disapproval.

“If we make it,” he chuckled, “I want pictures and a soundtrack.”

Some of the tension that had been mounting dissipated as we, too, pictured ourselves narrating our tale, accompanied by visual proof. The “if” of the statement, however, hung in the air.

The voice of the air traffic controller brought us back to the task ahead. “Piper two-seven-two-one Romeo, cleared for the ILS approach to Runway Four Right at JFK.”

As Arnold acknowledged the transmission, I thought, OK, this is it. Just 10 more minutes, and it will all be over.

The thought was broken by an expletive coming from the left seat, in response to an absence of the familiar green lights that indicate that all three gear are down and locked. That reaction was accompanied by red lights flashing and an unbelievably loud and persistent warning horn coming from the airplane itself.

In response to Arnold’s request to have the tower visually confirm gear up or down in the final phase of our approach, came the cautious response that the worsening visibility might not allow for such a check. I braced for the worst as we descended toward what I trusted was the runway, consoling myself with the thought that no matter what, it would all be over soon. Minutes seemed to stretch into hours.

What I didn’t expect was what came next. When the tower could not confirm the position of the gear, the controller directed us to climb and circle to the left at 2,000 feet for another approach while he cleared the area.

Climb! How was that possible? With the accumulating ice, our airspeed in straight and level flight with full throttle was down to 100 knots. Lifting the nose for a climb was out of the question.

This time the controller was not calling the shots. With his shoulders heaving up and down, Arnold told me, “No way are we climbing. We’re going to do what we have to do to stay in the air.” He banked the airplane gently and held our 1,000-foot altitude as we circled back toward the final approach fix for the active runway.

For the first time, I found myself wondering about those people who say that their lives flashed before their faces in moments of impending death. Why wasn’t mine? I tried to force myself into some final thoughts, believing that the next 20 minutes could be our last. It didn’t help to have the panel lit up with warning lights, the gear warning horn still blaring, and the stall warning sounding intermittently. The sound of my dad still snapping pictures from the back seat only added to a sense of confusion and anxiety.

Final descent—again—and thankfully, the ground! Feeling the gear absorb the landing, softened by about four inches of fresh snow, was an unexpected treat. The gear itself had not frozen—simply the switch.

As we taxied off the runway, the action was outside the airplane rather than inside. The emergency vehicles and fire trucks escorted us in, with rotating lights and intermittent sirens cutting through the blowing snow. Ice was falling off the wings in large chunks, and the controller was instructing us about completing the necessary paperwork for our declared emergency. And my father was still recording the event for posterity.

A few drinks later, the event was history. But the lessons from it have continued to inform our flying and our appreciation for what “pilot in command” actually means. When ATC denied the request to stay at our current altitude, that was the time to declare an emergency. My dad and his recordings are no longer with us, but the primary takeaway has strengthened our understanding of pilot in command when it matters most; and we recognize to this day that what didn’t kill us did, in fact, make us stronger, better-prepared pilots.

Charmian Sperling is an instrument-rated private pilot living in Lincoln, Massachusetts, who flies a Piper Meridian and a Cessna 150.