Aces High Bulletin Board
General Forums => The O' Club => Topic started by: beet1e on June 27, 2005, 01:00:13 PM
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Of course, this thread is not limited to VFR pilots. If you've been IFR and lost, that story would be even better!
I've got my story, but I'll wait for someone else to go first. Describe the error that caused you to be lost, and how you got out of it. Include all ATC bollockings, if you infringed controlled airspace.
My story takes place in France, involves thunderstorms, and a 180° change in wind direction as I was about to land.
Over to you.
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Searching for what I wrote....this post will change...
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Was riding right seat with a guy that was playing with his new yoke mount Garmin GPS. Destiniation was Quakertown PA.. when he set up for Stewart International, I piped up with..
"Unnh, thought we were going to Quakertown?"
(i'd been eye balling the navigation out the window with a strip chart. Hobby of mine.. small boat/ocean navigator, can't help it, I DR damn near everywhere I go, on the water or in the air)
"..this IS Quakertown" was the reply. (Now, folks, Quakertown is a very small lil strip, in the boondocks and uncontrolled. Pilot is very buzy with the dash and is turning base on a FedEx hub...)
"negative.. unless FedEx flies into Quakertown, in which case you might wanna eyball the 727 moving onto the taxiway. Might I suggest you respond to Flight Following, I do believe they have radio traffic for you..
;)
Last time I flew with THAT guy!
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Flight gave man the final dimension with which to measure his wanderlust. Surface transport—the ship, the oxcart and the Ferrari—are all captive of plane geometry, yet it was with a plane that man was finally able to travel UP. (And, inevitably, DOWN.) So relentless was this upward urge that a flying machine went up to the moon eventually, and then it was no longer a plane but a spacecraft.
That an airplane was capable of a third dimension was incidental to its value, for aircraft were not for going up and down like an elevator, but for moving from one point to another. That moved aviators back into plane geometry; pity, for if they’d only to move vertically, pilots would never have learned how to get lost.
This peculiar talent for going the wrong way isn’t limited to me alone. Almost all pilots, from the beginning of the science of air navigation, have managed to arc off toward distant horizons with none of the blessings God gave such lowly creatures as pigeons, which manage to find their way with little fuss. Humans have a rotten sense of direction. Given the advantage of height conferred by air travel, one might have expected us to do a little better than our meager biological inheritance allows. But no! Put a human in the air and that piece of ground he treads daily will look as foreign as the dinner you ate coming up after a track meet. Charts and compass only obscure the issue using symbology and abstraction to clarify confusion.
Getting lost is grim stuff if one uses up all the fuel before finding a place to land. Every pilot who has gotten lost has known that weird constricting in the gut which accompanies the growing realization that he hasn’t the slightest idea of his position in space and time. All the tools that science has provided him—beacons, airways, omnirange, various instruments—are but trinkets if he loses reference to a known point. Granted, time and technology have greatly improved the well-trained airman’s chances of finding himself; a vast web of electromagnetic signals now laces increasing portions of the globe with the equivalent of highways that one merely follows or uses for reference. But even with addition of GPS and various other tools of navigation, we still manage to get lost!
Students of flight spend as much time acquiring the skills needed to keep track of where they are as they do learning the behavior of the aircraft. Because air travel is rapid, it only takes a moment’s inattention to lose track. Err only a few degrees off course and after an hour you’ll find yourself lost by miles. As you can tell, it’s very easy to get lost, which may account for its popularity.
Getting lost is a tense time for everyone, but worst for the lost one. To the spectator viewing the stupefied pilot through the lens of stories, there is a certain poignant humor to each situation, perhaps because the poor pilot’s fix reflects something of the human condition. Being just a little bit wrong is so very different from being exactly right. And now the time has come for me to tell you a little story. Every person has a moment in their life when they were really scared. As with many things in life, good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment and as you may know, the wrong decision going at 180 knots can make you a very permanent part of the landscape. Flying in itself is not inherently dangerous, but it’s very unforgiving to any recklessness, neglect or inattention. I’ve had to come to grips with some very harsh realities over the years. Foremost, every time I step in the cockpit I’m forced to come to the realization that this machine can kill me, as it has many of my friends before me. I learn a very valuable lesson: ‘The Go-No-Go Decision.’
The weather was not good, but it was not bad. The clouds were in two layers, both broken. For an hour, drizzles had come intermittently from the scud below. My route was from Wilkes-Barre Pennsylvania, to Igor I. Sikorsky Memorial Airport in Bridgeport CT, just east of Norwalk. I had flown solo over the eastern Penn “hills” –some of the ridges rise to 2000 feet—before, and had a mind’s eye picture of the terrain and route.
It seemed to be clearing as I fastened my belt. An occasional shaft of sunlight came through. The Grumman Tiger with its 180 HP engine had felt fine on the check flight, and I had been surprised at its pleasant landing characteristics. Because the tail rides high when the ship is at rest, the amount of backward stick travel at the moment of stall is negligible.
At the end of the runway I braked the ship to crosswind position, checked the engine, tested the magnetos, wheeled upwind and took off. That was mistake number one.
I took my time climbing, scanning the clouds as I gained altitude. It didn’t look bad at all. Coming back downwind, I had 2500 feet, so I set off across the first ridge enclosing the winding river. Ahead of me, almost at right angels to my course, the river made a turn. Almost immediately, the scud began bothering me, and I turned toward a lighter spot. I was not more then three miles south of my course when the river appeared. I spotted a checkpoint, headed slightly south of east and checked both the deviation and variation of the compass. So far, so good.
Here the terrain played out, affording me plenty of places to get down in case of engine trouble. I was about to lean back with a sign of satisfaction, open a can of Coke when scud began whipping by. Rain splattered against the windscreen. I throttled back and nosed down, an eye on the altimeter and the tops of the hills. Should I turn back? The return to the airport would be easy, I knew that. But from 2000 feet, light spots appeared ahead and it was hard to give up a quest.
That was mistake number two.
Now it was nip-and-tuck with the scud. I couldn’t get over a 2000-foot ridge without pulling up into the stuff, and I was not a trained instrument flyer. I reasoned that I could go through a notch in the range at the right, keeping a valley of a branch of the Susquehanna in sight for 15 or 20 minutes for safety. In that valley within easy range were three airports, Riverside, Berwick and Wilkes-Barre. The clouds kept pressing down. I found myself at 1500 feet anxiously peering ahead at the ridges in my path. They ran from 1500 to 2000 feet. Ten minutes passed. I cut through a notch in another ridge. Now, for the first time, I was not quite sure of my position. I studied the map anxiously as turbulent air occupied my stick hand. Landmarks were at a premium. I still had time to cut north to the river and follow its valley to the haven of an airport. But if I did that, I might be stuck there all night.
I elected to abandon all thought of the river and to rely on my compass. If I held to a course slightly south of east, I reasoned, I must, with a following wind, come reasonably close to my objective. If unconsciously I veered south, I had to pick up Staten Island or, at worst, the South Jersey shore. If I veered north, I was bound to cross the Hudson River.
I hadn’t remembered so many hills on the course. And here was a lake I could not place on the map. Still, just south of east had to get me there—unless the compass had been calibrated wrong. I drove on , getting a little mad. I was sure I would cross and recognize the ridge split by the Delaware Water Gap. It was raining now and then, and the windscreen was getting dirty.
I couldn’t turn back if I wanted to. I didn’t know where to turn. Ducking up valleys had destroyed my sense of direction and as for the map, it had gone completely cockeyed. I certainly would tell the FAA about that! I scotched my worry with a singsong reassurance that just south of east must bring me out at some recognizable place. But the ship was pitching and, more often the not, I was not sure just where south of east was. Light-plane compasses swing like a blues singer.
I went on. The choice was not mine. Happily, the hills were lower. I measured them by rule of thumb and the altimeter as the ship went over them.
The tanks held four and a half-hours of fuel; no worry on that score. The rain had stopped, but the visibility was getting worse by the minute. For the twenty-fifth time I glanced at my watch. I had been out two and half-hours.
Suddenly, ahead of me loomed a shoreline. It was a straight shoreline, what I could see of it, and for all I knew, the water stretched eastward for 3000 miles to Europe. The fact was I could not see 500 feet ahead of the ship’s nose.
Well! I wasn’t so dumb after all. I knew now. This was South Jersey. I drew a sigh of relief, leaned back and pop’d that can of Coke open. Now I would fly just east of north, crossing the New York Lower Bay and Brooklyn, then LI sound to Bridgeport. That might take 30 minutes, maybe 40. Through the haze I saw the shoreline bear left sharply. The map corroborated that. But I couldn’t see the sand spit stretching north from the Atlantic Highlands. Well, the visibility was miserable anyway and I was right on an airspace reservation, so it was best to follow the shoreline. With something below me I might recognize with a little study, I failed to check my map. That was mistake number three.
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The terrain failed to gel. What should have been Raritan Bay turned out to be a little inlet. Now, instead of returning to the shoreline, I struck inland. I don’t know why. I was bewildered, and for the first time, definitely uneasy. Where was I? I could be north of my course, but then I would’ve crossed the Hudson. Obviously what I had seen back there wasn’t the Jersey Shore. I began wandering north east, afraid to go back under miserable visibility conditions to try and find the ocean although the shoreline sticks out like a sore thumb. That was mistake number four, according to my count. More accomplished fliers probably have added up a dozen by now.
Now if I were north of my course, I argued, and had crossed the Hudson, a course due south would bring me to Long Island Sound. I turned south, flying five minutes to the second. I gave up. Too soon, as it turned out. I was more then three hours out. I had something more then an hour and quarter left of fuel. Flying over some fields and seeing some football stands I passed over a school. Being low enough the title read “Joel Barlow”.
“Redding!”
That was in Connecticut. I felt my face getting red. Then I had been north of my course and I had crossed the Hudson—but how had I done it without seeing it, I could not figure it out. The track I had made began crystallizing now. I had been blown ever so slightly northeast. In 175 miles of flying, the better part of it by compass alone, I had emerged over the shore of Long Island Sound at a point where the shoreline ran almost a north-south direction. That had confused me. At that moment I had been less then seven miles off course. Now I would fly slightly west of south, strike the sound and follow the shoreline east. That was mistake number five. I should have flown directly to Danbury and checked the weather. But Bridgeport couldn’t be more then 20 minutes away.
The visibility was getting worse. I dropped from 2000 feet to 1500 and finally 1000. The sound popped up out of nowhere. I cut southeast, flying just offshore. The shore was hard to see, so I edged closer. Then, as I strained my eyes to keep the shoreline in view, a squall struck.
The ship was tossed around like a leaf in a gale. I had to keep an eye on the horizon or run the risk of stalling and spinning in. I dropped to 100 feet. The line between the sound and land was dim. If I stayed over land, I ran the added risk of colliding with something. But dint of pulling and hauling, I managed to get the airplane headed out over the sound. Now I dropped down to within 10 feet of the water. I had to. The rain was coming down in sheets.
I was riding on a miniature gale, lashed by rain, straight east over the choppy waters of the sound. Updrafts and downdrafts rocked the ship. For the first time in the eight months since I had received my solo certificate, the idea entered my head that I was going to join that select company of pilots who had not been able to walk away from an airplane. This was my last ride. In the next three of four minutes the conviction that my number was up became so fixed that, even while fighting the ship, I found my self wondering when and how they would find the wreckage.
Then, to the southeast, I saw a lighter spot in the sky. I could not turn but I could crab, foot by foot. Presently the rain began to lessen. From my meager 10 feet of altitude I climbed to 200 for a space to breathe. I was soaked through, but whether from rain that streamed into the cabin or from sweat, I didn’t know or care. As I turned, picking up the Long Island shoreline, I could see the squall still raging over the water. The visibility was not too good and rain still pelted the ship, but the way to Bridgeport was clear. Later I measured the distance from the point where I encountered the squall to the point where I came out. In a 120-mph plane I had been blown 20 miles in four minutes.
As I climbed out, shaken and weak, in front of Bridgeport Air Service, the imperturbable Gary “Speed”, who had been taking his airplanes in stride for more years then he cares to remember, was lolling in the doorway of his office.
“Just get in?” he asked, glancing incredulously at the whipping windsock.
“Yes, I got lost, very badly lost.”
“Lots of guys get lost,” observed Speed.
“But not like I got lost, or as scared as I got,” I objected reaching for a chair for support.
“Lots of guys get scared, plenty scared. How about a cup of coffee?”
I felt better somehow.
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No pilot ever becomes lost, just 'temporarily unsure of their position'. I never did get lost but I might as well have. One fine summer evening I was meandering back to the airport. Intending to fly close to the zone but not into it then intending to skirt southbound and re-enter the zone at the closest straight in point.
ATC called, casual as you like. ' Charlie Uniform , What's your present position? ' They know damm well, ' I muttered to myself with their new radar.' Looking out for a landmark. I realised it was all rather flat and featureless then made the mistake of clicking the mike before engaging the brain. All that came out was a vague um, ah north of...south of. Very unprofessional.
'Radar shows you six miles south of Trim hdg 090. Call approach on xxx for vectors.' was the curt reply. They thought I was lost dammit. Rather than compound the whole thing and protest. I ignominiously followed their vectors across terrain I knew like the back of my hand. Even though I was solo in the aircraft I was bright red and hoping nobody I knew was monitoring the frequency. I learned about flying from that.
The second time I didn't get lost was on a cross country that passed close to but into the zone of an airport perched on a foggy boggy hill. I called them as a routine and monitored their frequency. At this point I found myself above a thin but obscuring layer of cloud. Then they called me with those fateful words. 'What's your present position?' Again I fatefully hesitated and desperately switched on the VOR which I wasn't using and dived through the cloud to get a fix. They had no radar and had an airliner lined up ready to go. They asked him to hold and he complained putting more pressure on me. In retrospect I should have simply lied because I knew I was well west of their zone. Eventually I saw a town I recognised and called it in.
Another lesson learned.
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RGR that cpxxx, although I prefer the term "circle of uncertainty" LOL.
Been there a couple of times;)
RTR
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Scary Wolfala.. mighty scary. Glad you got outta that one with a whole skin.
I use a strip chart clipboard and pencil.. and mark it up. My 'scan' includes a look down, and I update that chart about every 5 min or so. If mister chart and mister terrain don't agree.. (I instantly get that gut clench when that happens) relocating myself becomes priority #1.
Next.. the compass. This is a guess.. but it sounds like you didn't trust the compass in the Tiger. Get a good one. A REAL good one.. Get it professionaly installed and 'swung', get it re-swung every time a new piece of gear goes in the dash. Twice now I've been caught offshore in hideous conditions with a major electrical ah-crap.. DR and a good compass saved my bacon both times... and both times I was tempted to go on gut instinct instead of what that compass told me... the compass was right. If I'da followed my gut insteada that dimly glowing swaying card I would NOT be here now... if there's one piece of gear that you have all the marbles in.. it's that cottin-pickin compass. Use it, get used to it, and BELIEVE it.
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I haven't been lost yet, but there was one point where I THOUGHT I was. This was covered back in my 'Learning to Fly' thread where, on a cross country to Dagget (Barstow) without VOR coverage, I flew a leg past Apple Valley without any sort of roads or whatnot to use as landmarks. After like 10 minutes of flying, I started my planned descent without being able to see my airport. After a few minutes, I started to get leary when, loe and behold, I came out around a mountain, already perfectly lined up on the glideslope.
That was the day I became a dead reckoning true believer.
Wasn't lost, in fact, I was EXACTLY where I planned, problem was, I didn't trust the plan yet. :D
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Originally posted by Chairboy
... After a few minutes, I started to get leary when, loe and behold, I came out around a mountain, already perfectly lined up on the glideslope.
That was the day I became a dead reckoning true believer.
Wasn't lost, in fact, I was EXACTLY where I planned, problem was, I didn't trust the plan yet. :D
Nailed it. ;)
WTG!
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Was many years ago while still green. Thousand hours and change later, still scares the **** out of me.
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Getting lost is just finding a new way to get somewhere!
I know a VFR pilot. She's pretty quick too ;)
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I always fly with a garmine 296 on my yoke and I know most of southern Ontario like the back of my hand.
So I have not been lost yet. I also have a spare GPS in my flight bag.
I think it is impossible to get lost with a GPS on your yoke. It has 4 hours of battery life if the cigar lighter socket crapped out as well. I never fly without it.
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I had a few moments of "whut woo", to borrow a verse from Scooby Doo, on my second cross country solo when i was 17.
The problem is, I second guessed myself.
I was looking at my chart for a lake that should be up ahead and i still didnt see it. I figured something was really screwed up and thought maybe I missed my check point.
For a good few minutes, I was convinced I fluffied up.
Then I figured I would do some deduction. I used the nav radio to get my fix figuring out what beams I was on with the 3 VOR stations that were available.
Turns out that the headwind was higher than thought, so I simply hadnt reached my checkpoint yet.
Phew.
Flight training: $3,500
VOR radio stack: $5000
Not making an arse of myself on radio asking for help figuring out where i am: Priceless
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Back in 77 while taking lessons. I was all of 17. I was on my long cross country Crystal, MN airport to Montevidio, MN to Park Rapids, MN and back to Crystal.
Flying Piper Warrior II N3332Q, the same bird I solo'd in.
No problem getting to Montevideo. Back otw to Park Rapids and I'm getting nervous when the time I should have been there passes, I drop down to see if I can read a water tower on one of the small towns. Then I spot a big lake in the distance and head that way, thinking it's Mille Lacs lake. I promptly fly over Camp Ripley, the Army base in northern Minnesota. OOPS! Thats a no no, but I now know where I am and find Park Rapids before heading back to Crystal. Of course the ride is really bumpy otw back and it's the only time I can feel myself getting a bit airsick, but I get back and put the plane away.
Didn't tell my instructor about that restricted airspace I'd flown over and through. No one said a word and I never heard anything about it.
Almost as bad as when a buddy and I went up in matching warriors to do a bit of rat racing and dive bombing. We messed up the radio channel and were on Twin Cities approach control. We both had heart attacks when they came on and let us have it.
Weird to see two different airplanes do a double take and peel off in opposite directions trying to sneak back in and land without getting in trouble :)
Dan/CorkyJr
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I was flying over what I tought was central Virginia a few weeks ago, but NORAD was very helpful in letting me know I was over DC.
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Interesting stories, guys. HangT – one of the problems with aircraft compasses was the noobs who would take off their headsets and place them on top of the instrument panel, next to the compass. It seems some people don’t know that headsets contain magnets.
Cpxxx – I hope the mods will go easy on this: I smiled to myself when I saw your story and that your registration was Charlie Uniform. The plane I was flying in the following incident was November Tango. Seriously! Maybe I’ll post a pic of it later. So, we are a right pair of...
Just before a trip to SW France, I got a call from my club manager (FBO) to say that the ADF had been removed for repair, and the transponder was…. iffy. OK, I could live without the ADF, but I insisted on the transponder being fixed. All was OK. My flying partner and I made use of the two VOR receivers from home base (Enstone, near Oxford), skirting round the SW of London avoiding Heathrow, and then east parallel with the south coast to Lydd passing MIDhurst VOR enroute. In those days (before EU borders were fully opened) you had to clear British customs outbound at a designated airport, then land at a immigration/customs designated airport in the country of destination. (That’s all changed now, but there were still special considerations if carrying foreign (eg. American) passengers at late as 1996) It was a lot of arsing about, and for this reason amongst others, we got only as far as the French town of Poitiers for an overnight stop. Next day was OK – overcast but visibility 10km+. Next port of call was Perigueux – from memory about 120 miles S of Poitiers. There’s an NDB at Perigueux which of course was no use to us without the ADF. No problem – we flew a back bearing off the Poitiers VOR. The VORs in France were usually good for about 100 miles range at VFR alts. (I was not an alt monkey in RL – lol) As expected, the VOR signal began to weaken at about 100 miles, and the needle began to swing a little. The other VOR receiver had however picked up the Limoges signal, and its reading suggested that, assuming we were still on track from Poitiers, we should be close to our destination – just over that next ridge, just west of that town, as my partner concurred. We got over the ridge, there was the town, the hill, but no bloody airfield.
****ing Aida, was my initial response, as we circled around in disbelief. More of an annoyance than anything else. We knew exactly how to get to Limoges if need be. But where was Perigueux airfield? Had we got the right place? Checked the maps, the spellings etc. We were over a remote area of forest. Bordeaux was at least 100 miles away to the SW. I knew I’d be lucky to make radio contact at that range at that alt., so…
…climbed to 4000ft. Called Bordeaux and explained the position. His first question, not surprisingly, concerned fuel endurance – 4 hours. I had to squawk 7003 and then he was able to see me – 25 miles from the destination airfield! With a vector from Bordeaux, I found Perigueux easily. I had already been in radio contact with them earlier. The runway was 12, wind 120/20knots. A different voice from the first one advised me that there were thunderstorms in the area, as suggested by the angry crackling of the radio. Funny how these aviation incidents seem to come back to back, because on final approach to 12, the original voice came back, and sounded as if he’d rushed across the room. The wind was still 20 knots but was from a new direction - now 300 or 320 – can’t remember exactly, but I knew I didn’t want to be landing on 12 with a 20 knot wind from any direction starting with a 3 – lol – so opened up the power to abort the landing and reposition for 30. Other than that, I was never lost, especially when I joined a GPS equipped TB10 syndicate. But… there are traps. If manually entering a waypoint or destination that was not in the GPS database, I learned to check the coords listed against the map. There were quite a few errors in the Bottlang guide at that time.
Just in case you are wondering why I asked for reorientation from Bordeaux and not Perigueux – it’s the language thing. Yes I know that English is supposedly the international language of aviation. The real world is different, and I found that ATC’s command of English was typically in direct proportion to the size of the airfield. I did not want to risk a further balls up by confusing ATC at Periegueux (a small place) with a request for VDF or “QDM” as it was known in Britain back then. I would also avoid using words like “to” and “for” and “right” – except to mean the opposite of left…
…a Garuda Airlines A300 crashed on approach to Medan in Sumatra in 1997. I was in Jakarta, capital of Indonesia, myself shortly afterwards and just by chance met a guy who was part of the investigative team involved. He told me that the dialogue from ATC had included the somewhat Americanised English expression “right now” to mean “immediately”. The instruction from ATC had gone something like ”Turn left, turn right now”. The Garuda pilot was confused by this, and maybe ATC could not understand his confusion. The pilot questioned ATC saying “Turn right now?”, believing the original instruction to have been superseded. ATC apparently gave the go ahead, thinking the pilot meant “immediately”. The plane turned right instead of left, and crached into a mountainside. All 234 aboard were killed.
So if you ever fly anywhere foreign, watch your language!
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Seriously, I've never been lost while flying, because in the northwest USA, I can always pick out about three snowcaps, and since I do 90% of my flying east of the Cascades, no rain, blue sky. Its easy to tell where you are when you can see Three Sisters, Jefferson, and Hood on the horizon.
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Holden! Wow, the 3 sisters - all above 10,000ft. I've flown in that area myself - from Mahlon Sweet to Bend and back, in a p*sspot C152. Perfect weather - temp 100°, dewpoint 45°! It's never that good over here.
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Most of my flying is done from Klamath Falls, Bend/Redmond, Sunriver, Reno, John Day, maybe only once or twice a year do I head over the Cascades, maybe only when the steelhead are running on the Umpqua.
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Originally posted by beet1e
Holden! Wow, the 3 sisters - all above 10,000ft. I've flown in that area myself - from Mahlon Sweet to Bend and back, in a p*sspot C152. Perfect weather - temp 100°, dewpoint 45°! It's never that good over here.
Mahlon Sweet was where I did my single touch & go the other day, to their bemusement. They're building a new runway, and there's a neat safety innovation. Not only does ATIS include '...New runway three under construction, DO NOT LINE UP WITH THIS RUNWAY, it is CLOSED' but they also have the ubiquitous X's painted and, this is my favorite, they built big X's out of lights that are propped at a 45 degree angle at each end of the runway shining up along the glideslope. T'ain no one accidentally landing there, not if they can help it.
I never though about the CPS (Cascade Positioning System), I'll have to use that next time I'm in the air. :D
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I got temporarily lost once in the southern Green Mountains of Vermont once, for about 15 minutes. It was my first cross-country solo in a fixed-wing, Cessna 172... I was a helicopter pilot already for about 4 years, so I figured it would be easy.
Only problem is... flying in an airplane is much higher than a helicopter, and your perspective is very different. I was probably overconfident in my "experience", too. Anyway long story short, I realized I had missed a waypoint somewhere, and flew in circles looking for a recognizable landmark. Finally flew over Mt. Snow airport... which had the name painted on the runway in huge letters. :)
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I once got told about a Harrier pilot who was on VFR approach to RAF Leeming. He was cleared to land but didn't arrive. Turned out he landed at Dishforth airfield (AAC) to the south by mistake! Oooops! :)
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Originally posted by beet1e
Cpxxx ? I hope the mods will go easy on this: I smiled to myself when I saw your story and that your registration was Charlie Uniform. The plane I was flying in the following incident was November Tango. Seriously! Maybe I?ll post a pic of it later. So, we are a right pair of...
Well if we combined Charlie Uniform and November Tango maybe we could fly a triangular cross country:( (I'll get my coat) Just be glad you've never flown Golf Alpha Yankee Sierra Xray.
Replicant that landing thing happens all the time. I remember a British aircraft arriving at my local airfield. No tower there. He called the field in sight, called finals, landed and requested parking.
Only when he was greeted by some grim looking men wearing camouflage and toting Steyr assault rifles did he realise he had landed at the nearbly military base .:lol .
But they have had they're problems. A few years ago a Fouga Magister of the Irish Air Corps was on a cross country. Becoming temporarily unsure of his position and flying into the 'circle of uncertainty'. He decided to follow the coast south til he hit Dublin. Trouble was he was already south of the city. But even so, Ireland is a bit small and in a jet he should have seen something he knew. The Fouga magister has an endurance of about an hour and a bit so he soon ran out of gas. Unbelievably he put it down in a big pasture near Cork completely undamaged. Not often you see a jet in a field. Full marks for his flying, nul points for his navigation. :eek
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I was in a rush to land my kills at A42, when I realized the ack was firing at me and they had captured the base and I didnt realize it! Talk about a mix-up..I...what? Oh..real life? I dont fly..its too scary.
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cpxxx LOL, and just to show I wasn't BSing, I've lifted a pic of the aircraft from a print. Apologies for the crappy quality. I had a half share in this Piper Warrior PA28-151, with a leaseback arrangement to the flying club. Got to say I was pretty appalled at the way people treated her - climbing in to the cockpit with middy boots, standing on the seats. But worse was to come. Some dork who'd just got his PPL-A having been a microlight pilot decided to take NT to his microlight club to show off. Trouble is he had not checked the length of the field and/or the runway requirement for NT. He landed but realised the field was too small, decided to go around but realised he'd left that decision too late, so piled it into the end of the field.
We expected repairs to take at least a year. The plane was worth about £28,000. This was 1991, the time of Norman Lamont's ERM experiment and 15% interest rates, so we couldn't afford to have £28,000 tied up in a hunk of bent metal when it could be earning us £4200pa in a bank. So we asked the insurance to pay us the anticipated cost of the repair. We got £25,000 and then sold the avionics for £3000, so it worked out quite well.
I avoided club leasebacks after that. Part of the problem was that I could never get my plane when I wanted it! Plus the other things I mentioned.
NT at Booker (Wycombe Air Park), shortly before leaving for Quimper, France (via Cherbourg) c1990
(http://www.zen33071.zen.co.uk/nt.jpg)