Get me home, Clarence

Eight solid months as a private pilot had trained me to plot courses, draw on maps, and check weather forecasts. By 4 a.m. the following morning I was deep into the AOPA website. I worked up several route options, checked weather, and searched for posted temporary flight restrictions.

By 5 a.m. I slipped past the gate and into Corona Municipal Airport (AJO). It would be a 10-minute flight to Riverside Municipal Airport (RAL) where I’d unite with my Dawn Patrol buddies. Fumbling in the dark alongside my recently purchased 1978 AA1-C Grumman, I blurted out, “Wake up, Clarence.” I’d named my airplane after the former owner. He had flown this little Grumman well past his eightieth birthday.

With yellow lights of the city twinkling and stars slowly fading above, I snapped out my weather request via cellphone. Weather related we did have a high situated over California causing a slight east to west wind. “When you get to Riverside Airport, expect a six- to eight-knot wind from the east that will be building all day,” I was told.

The sun lay hidden just below the horizon. At my command all 115 horses roared to life barreling down Runway 7. Houses and buildings slid beneath as we rose to enjoy the first rays of sun over California.

Doing the usual announcements because the tower was still closed, I turned a one-mile final over the City of Riverside.

"Why take a plane that's flying and maybe even able to climb, and attempt to change its attitude? Forget airspace ahead or the field behind you."By the time I returned to the east side of the field, my friends were chomping to go. Once we agreed on a route, I quickly fired up the airplane and chased the lead airplane to 25 for departure. The windsock indicated about a seven- to nine-knot tailwind from 080, but the runway was extremely long and a bit downhill. The outside temperature was cool and I believed departure was no problem.

The Cessna 140 ahead of me departed first. As the airplane lifted skyward, I took a running start onto Runway 25 to gain some extra speed for liftoff. About midway down things seemed responsive and yet, something felt strange. Ahh! Tailwind! Let’s stay on the ground here a bit longer and gain some more speed. I delicately lifted the nose again. The airplane pulled left. I waited a few moments and pulled the yoke back a bit harder. I seemed to almost drag Clarence into the air; however, my yoke pressure for some reason felt excessively heavy. Was something wrong?

As the runway evaporated behind us, I noticed buildings ahead were not dropping beneath my forward view. “What’s going on here?” I sputtered aloud. The instinct to pull back on the yoke was overpowering. My eyes darted across the panel. Airspeed was horrifically low and dropping; rpm had stopped at 2,100. I was beginning to sink.

“Oh my gosh, I’m going in! I’m going in, I screamed. “Fly little buddy, fly.” So many things rushed into my mind. How would this day end up? How will it feel to slam into something? What will they say about my crash? I honestly couldn’t believe it was happening to me. “Riverside traffic, Grumman two-two Uniform, low power!” is all I could transmit. As it happens, my former instructor was in his airplane and had been number three in our expedition that day. He was not only hearing; he was watching the whole thing from the ground.

Trees and buildings were just ahead. Suddenly, a hangar story flashed through my mind. One day, my instructor had related that while training for some advanced flight certificate in a simulator, one of his twin engines lost power on takeoff. My instructor said that he just kept flying the airplane straight and level. He made no attempt to turn back. When I asked him why, he said, “Why take a plane that’s flying and maybe even able to climb, and attempt to change its attitude? Forget airspace ahead or the field behind you. Fly the plane.”

I was now locked in a mortal battle between lift and drag. I began to trade tiny bits of height for a knot more of airspeed. My instructor had taught me this trick in our slow flight lessons. Great at 3,000 feet—but at 130 feet it was a nightmare. I was right on the edge of stall and one mistake might send the airplane into hard ground.

I slipped above the first buildings and trees, and then, as in past training and to my utter astonishment, the airplane began to rise. Just a bit at first and then again, a bit more. There’s 200 feet, then 220. Seconds dragged by. I was climbing with indicated airspeed under 70 knots. A two-seat Grumman with short wings below 70 knots in a climb with low power? Not good.

“Get me back, Clarence,” I said quietly. “Please get me back.” Frantically my eyes darted across dials, switches, and fuel knobs looking for anything that was not set correctly.

At 350 feet and about three miles out, I began what I felt was a 1-degree bank. I nudged Clarence slightly left, keeping an empty field below us. By 450 feet and after about three more minutes, we had earned 130 degrees of turn.

“Can you make the field, two-two Uniform?” came my familiar, calm, experienced instructor’s voice.

“I think I can but won’t leave this open area until I can get more altitude,” I mumbled back.

“Stay with it, two-two Uniform. Just make the plane fly!” Then for a moment as I looked at the runway a mile ahead tunnel vision began to clear. With 500 feet below me and airspeed now nearing 80 knots, I took my first few breaths of safety.

We touched down past the numbers. “Thank you, Clarence.” As I began a slow taxi back to my starting point, I mentally reviewed emergency procedures. Fly the airplane. Check! Start on the left. Check! Work to the right. Check! Fuel pump, gas lever setting, and then—whoops! I looked down through the yoke and saw something glinting in the morning sun.

Bingo! My keys! In my rush to be number two off the field that morning, I’d sacrificed my checklist and forgot to make sure my key position was on “Both.” A slight click to the right with two fingers was all it took. The engine roared back to life again.

Fellow aviators, someday “slow flight” might be all you and your airplane have going for one another. If done correctly, you can earn the critical time needed to do the next right thing. So, if and when things get sweaty up there, just make that airplane fly. It will do the rest. 

Bob Lamberton is a pilot in North Carolina.