PLEA FOR HELP FROM A GROUNDED AUSTRALIAN PILOT
Hi Mate,
I am writing to you because I need your help to get me bloody pilot's
license back. You keep telling me you got all the right contacts. Well
now's your chance to make something happen for me because, mate, I'm bloody
desperate. But first, I'd better tell you what happened during my last
flight review with the CAA examiner.
On the phone, Ron (that's the CAA guy) seemed a reasonable sort of bloke.
He politely reminded me of the need to do a flight review every two years.
He even offered to drive out, have a look over my property, and let me
operate from my own strip.
Naturally I agreed to that.
Anyway, Ron turned up last Wednesday. First up, he said he was a bit
surprised to see the plane on a small strip outside my homestead because
the ALA (Authorized Landing Area) is about a mile away. I explained that
because this strip was so close to the homestead it was more convenient
than the ALA, and despite the power lines that cross about midway down the
strip it's really not a problem to land and take-off because at the
half-way point down the strip you're usually still on the ground.
For some reason Ron seemed nervous. So although I had done the pre-flight
inspection only four days earlier I decided to do it all over again.
Because Ron was watching me carefully, I walked around the plane three
times instead of my usual two. My effort was rewarded because the color
finally returned to Ron's cheeks. In fact, they were a bright red.
In view of Ron's obviously better mood, I told him that I was going to
combine the test with some farm work as I had to deliver three poddy calves
from the home paddock to the main herd. After a bit of a chase I finally
caught the calves and threw them into the back of the ol' Cessna 172.
We climbed aboard but Ron started getting on to me about weight and balance
calculations and all that crap. Of course I knew that thing was a waste of
time because calves like to move around a bit, particularly when they see
themselves 500 feet off the ground. So it's bloody pointless trying to
secure them as you know. However, I did tell Ron that he shouldn't worry as
I always keep the trim wheelset on neutral to ensure that we remain pretty
stable at all stages throughout the flight.
Anyway, I started the engine and cleverly minimized the warm-up time by
tramping hard on the brakes and gunned her to 2,500 rpm. I then discovered
that Ron has very acute hearing,, even though he was wearing a bloody
headset. Through all that noise he detected a metallic rattle and demanded
that I account for it. Actually it began about a month ago and was caused
by a screwdriver that fell down a hole in the floor and lodged in the fuel
selector mechanism. The selector can't be moved now but it doesn't matter
because it's jammed on "All Tanks" so I suppose that's okay.
However, as Ron was obviously a real nit-picker, I blamed the noise on a
vibration from a steel thermos flask which I keep in a beaut possie between
the windshield and the magnetic compass. My explanation seemed to relax Ron
because he slumped back in the seat and kept looking up at the cockpit
roof.
I released the brakes to taxi out but unfortunately the plane gave a leap
and spun to the right. "Hell", I thought, "not the starboard chalk again."
The bump jolted Ron back to full alertness. He looked wildly around just
in time to see a rock thrown by the propwash disappear completely through
the windscreen of his brand new Commodor.
While Ron was ranting about his car, I ignored his requirement that we taxi
to the ALA and instead took off under the power lines. Ron didn't say a
word, at least not until the engine started coughing right at the lift off
point, then he bloody screamed his head off.
"Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!"
"Now take it easy, Ron" I told him firmly. "That often happens after
take-off and there is a good reason for it." I explained patiently that I
usually run the plane on standard MOGAS, but one day I accidentally put in
a gallon or two of kerosene. To compensate for the low octane of the
kerosene I siphoned in a few gallons of super MOGAS and shook the wings up
and down a few times to mix it up.
Since then, the engine has been coughing a bit but in general it works just
fine if you know how to coax it properly. Anyway, at this stage, Ron seemed
to lose all interest in my flight test. He pulled out some rosary beads,
closed his eyes and became lost in prayer. (I didn't think that anybody was
a Catholic these days.)
I selected some nice music on the HF radio to help him relax. Meanwhile, I
climbed to my normal cruising altitude of 10,500 feet. I don't normally put
in a flight plan or get the weather because, as you know getting fax access
out here is a friggin joke and the bloody weather is always 8/8 blue
anyway. But since I had that near miss with a Saab 340 I might have to
change my thinking on that. Anyhow, on leveling out I noticed some wild
camels heading into my improved pasture.
I hate bloody camels and always carry a loaded .303 clipped inside the door
of the Cessna just in case I see any of the bastards. We were too high to
hit them, but as a matter of principle, I decided to have a go through the
open window. Mate, when I pulled the bloody rifle out the effect on Ron was
friggin' electric!
As I fired the first shot his neck lengthened by about six inches and his
eyes bulged like a rabbit with myxo. He really looked as if he had been
jabbed with an electric cattle prod on full power. In fact, Ron's reaction
was so distracting that I lost concentration for a second and the next shot
went straight through the port tire. Ron was a bit upset about the
shooting (probably one of those pinko animal
lovers I guess) so I decided not to tell him about our little problem with
the tire.
Shortly afterwards I located the main herd and decided to do my fighter
pilot trick. Ron had gone back to praying when, in one smooth sequence, I
pulled on full flaps, cut the power and started a sideslip from 10,500 feet
down to 500 feet and 130 knots indicated (the last time I looked anyway)
and the little needle rushing up the red area on me ASI. What a buzz, mate!
About half way through the descent I looked back in the cabin to see the
calves suspended in mid air and
mooing like crazy. I was going to comment on this unusual sight but Ron
looked
a bit green and had rolled himself into the fetal position and was
screamin' his freaking head off.
Mate, talk about being in a bloody zoo.
You should have been there, it was so bloody funny.
At about 500 feet I attempted to level out. For some reason we continued
sinking. When we reached 50 feet I applied full power but nothing
happened; no noise, no nothin. Then, luckily, I heard me instructor's voice
in me head saying "carby heat, carby heat". So I pulled carby heat on and
that helped quite a lot, with the engine finally regaining full power.
Whew, that was really close, let me tell you.
Then mate, you'll never guess what happened next!
As luck would have it, at that height we flew into a massive dust cloud
caused by the cattle and suddenly went I.F. bloody R. You would've been
bloody proud of me as I didn't panic once, not once, but I did make a
mental note to consider an instrument rating as soon as me gyro is
repaired. (Something I've been meaning to do for a while now.)
Suddenly Ron's elongated neck and bulging eyes reappeared. His mouth opened
wide, very wide, but no sound emerged. "Take it easy," I told him. "We'll
be out of this in a minute." Sure enough, about a minute later we emerge;
still straight and level and still at 50 feet. Admittedly, I was surprised
to notice that we were upside down and I kept thinking to myself, "I hope
Ron didn't notice that I had forgotten to set the QNH when we were
taxiing".
This minor tribulation forced me to fly to a nearby valley in which I had
to do a half roll to get upright again.
By now the main herd had divided into two groups leaving a narrow strip
between them. "Ah!," I thought, "there's an omen. We'll land right there."
Knowing that the tire problem demanded a slow approach, I flew a couple of
steep turns with full flap. Soon the stall warning horn was blaring so loud
in me ear that I cut it's circuit breaker to shut it up, but by then I knew
we were slow enough anyway. I turned steeply into a 75 foot final and put
her down with a real thud.
Strangely enough, I had always thought you could only ground loop in a tail
dragger but, as usual, I was proved wrong again. Halfway through our third
loop Ron at last recovered his sense of humor.
Talk about laugh. I've never seen the likes of it. He couldn't stop. We
finally rolled to a halt and I released the calves, who bolted out of the
aircraft like there was no tomorrow.
I then began picking clumps of dry grass. Between gut wrenching fits of
laughter, Ron asked what I was doing. I explained that we had to stuff the
port tyre with grass so we could fly back to the homestead. It was then
that Ron really lost the plot and started running away from the aircraft.
Can you believe it? The last time I saw him he was off into the distance,
arms flailing in the air and still shrieking with laughter. I later heard
that he had been confined to a psychiatric institution-- poor bugger.
Anyhow, mate, that's enough about Ron. The problem is, I just got a letter
from CASA withdrawing, as they put it, my privileges to fly; until I have
undergone a complete pilot training course again and undertaken another
flight proficiency test. Now I admit that I made a mistake in taxiing over
the wheel chock and not setting the QNH using strip elevation, but I can't
see what else I did that was so bloody bad that they have to withdraw me
flamin' license. Can you?
