In honor of the luck of the Irish, describe a moment or experience of luck (close call, serendipity, etc.). No more than 1,000 words.
Landing Luck
by Mike Whelan
“Let me see that Log Book sticking out of your back pocket,” Jack, my flight instructor said. I was afraid he’d notice it, but I also wanted the other students to see that I wasn’t just the Janitor.
Student pilots were issued log books to keep track of their training. The log book had to note date, place and time of take-off and landing, training and aircraft info., climate conditions, and any related comments.
At 17, I left home and landed a job as the night watchman and janitor for a small, fixed-base operator airport, where the owner gave flying lessons to 6 or 8 students. My compensation was a small wage and flying lessons. The airport was in a small rural community just east of Tampa, Florida. The airport had a north/south 3,000 ft. white, crushed-shell runway.
It was necessary to have at least 40 hours of flight time and to pass an FAA written and flight test to get a license. Usually, it took 10 or 12 hours of dual time with an instructor before you were ready to solo, that is, fly by yourself.
I had soloed just the week before and, Jack, the owner/instructor, had told me, “Now it’s up to you. I want you to fly three hours a week and practice turns and stalls, spins and recovery. Do some touch and goes, too. Remember to pre-flight the airplane and always, always have a watch with you when you go up because that gas cap fuel gauge is old and unreliable.”
I handed my log book to Jack. “Just as I thought, you haven’t flown a lick since soloing. You can’t learn to fly sitting down here. Tomorrow, after school and chores, I want you get up there and practice,” he said handing my Log book back.
Monday, I finished sweeping up and with a great deal of trepidation walked out to the J-3 to do a pre-flight walk around.
Mark, the airplane mechanic who rented space from Jack, was doing a 100-hour service on a small private plane in the hangar.
“I’m taking the J-3 up for some practice,” I announced.
“Be safe,” he yelled back.
I completed the pre-flight and could find nothing amiss. The J-3 was a 1942 steel-framed cloth-covered, single-wing basic airplane powered by a 60 hp Continental four-cylinder engine. That’s about the same as a 1970 VW Beetle. It had a 12-gal fuel tank and typically used 5 gal/hr., sometimes more. And with an iffy gas gauge, the pilot had to resort to gauging fuel level by measuring time. No more than 2 hours tops.
The cockpit dash had only 4 gauges. A tachometer, altimeter, oil pressure/temperature gauge and airspeed indicator. There was also a magnetic compass and a ball & bank (an air bubble in an arc’d tube of liquid to tell degrees of up or down angle). Throttle was the same as a lawnmower, a knob pulled out to govern the amount of fuel sent to the engine. The electrical was turned on or off by toggle switch. There was a “stick” rather than wheel to steer, side-to-side/up and down. No radio was required! Small plane pilots could use a flashlight to communicate with airport towers when necessary. Pilot and passenger (if there was one), sat in canvas sling seats with the pilot in the rear.
The J-3 was started by hand-propping, then pulling the roped, wooden wheel chocks free as you jumped in the cockpit. I guided the J-3 to the end of the runway, looked around for other air traffic and seeing nothing but lots of small puffy clouds, throttled out for full power. At 20 mph the rear wheel lifted off the ground; at 35, I pulled the stick back a little and at 40, or so, I felt the plane lift off the runway. Level flight until air speed hit 55 and then pulled the stick back about 15 degrees, till I was at 500 feet, then did a 90° turn to the left, still climbing, then 45° turn right to leave the flight pattern.
We practiced at 3000’ generally. I throttled back the engine RPMs and trimmed the stabilizers for level flight. Then I practiced right and left turns trying not to lose or gain altitude while doing so. Did a hammerhead stall or two and recovery. Even did a spin. Pulling out the throttle for each maneuver. All the things we had practiced so far.
When I looked at my watch, I saw that I’d been aloft for over an hour. Time to get back to the airport and do some touch and goes.
As I looked around, I noticed that those puffy little clouds had joined up and now, for as far as I could see, there was a solid blanket of cloud cover. I had no idea where I was in relation to the ground. The top of the blanket was at about 1500 feet. I had no idea how thick the blanket was or what was under it. Was I over Tampa, a large city with skyscrapers? Was I over Tampa International airport, and was there a passenger jet about to break through in front of me?
For 30 minutes I wandered the airspace pondering what to do? With 30 minutes of fuel left it was time to make a decision. I gently pointed the nose down and ventured through the clouds into the unknown.
Within seconds, I broke through and to my utter relief and amazement, I was in perfect position to enter the landing pattern of our little airport.
Landing was joyously uneventful. I taxied back to the hangar area, filled the tank with a little more than 11 gallons of fuel, tied the J-3 down, and with shaking legs, walked back to the office.
There was a note on the office door from Mark.
“Left early to take the wife for Corn-beef and Cabbage. Happy St. Patty’s Day!”
Happy, indeed…with a good bit of luck.
A Shortcut and a Close Shave
By George Kent Kedl
Passing under bridges in a sailboat is scary. From the view in the cockpit, the mast always seems too tall and the bridge too low, and even when there is plenty of bridge height, it’s frightening to watch as the boat approaches.
A bridge on the Okeechobee Waterway, a shortcut through Florida for sailboats that are small enough, nearly gave me a heart attack. By my calculations, the railway lift bridge was just high enough for us to pass under when it was fully open. We’d have only inches to spare.
Pam, arms crossed, looked at me, “What if your calculations are wrong?”
She of little faith!
“What if the current pushes us into the bridge when it’s closed?”
“What if the water level is unusually high?”
“Will the channel be wide enough to turn around if we have to?”
“Is it worth the risk just to save a few days?”
And finally, “Why are you in such a hurry?”
I was already nervous. In years of sailing, we’d never tried to sail under such a low bridge. Pam’s questions did not boost my confidence. What was driving me?
I was not looking forward to our arrival in Chesapeake Bay for another haul out and work on the boat. I’d also be returning to teaching for a while, the very thing I dreaded and was running away from. I was not in a hurry.
The Okeechobee Waterway was going to be new territory. I wanted to sail across Lake Okeechobee and see some old-growth cypress forest. We had chosen to run off to sea in a sailboat to see new places and explore the world. So, despite Pam’s misgivings, we headed into the waterway.
As it turned out, Lake Okeechobee was not very interesting, just a flat open expanse. We had a gentle breeze and an uneventful sail. The only challenge was to stay in the channel because the lake was so shallow. We saw no cypress forest.
Shortly after leaving the lake, we got our first view of the railway bridge in the distance. It seemed so small it was daunting. As usual, it looked too low even though it was fully raised. Pam’s questions haunted me. The current intensified in the narrow channel, pushing us toward the open bridge. Then, moments before we were to pass under it (or not), a deafening horn blasted, lights flashed, and the bridge began to descend without warning. Too late to stop, I rammed the throttle forward and gripping the tiller with all my strength, prayed we’d make it through.
I envisioned the mast trapped between the rails, shaved off by the oncoming train like a whisker in a Norelco razor.
Ting, ting, ting! The antenna on top of the mast raked the girders of the descending bridge as we scooted beneath it without an inch or a second to spare.
Pam stood stock still. Her reproachful eyes said, “I warned you!”
After my heart slowed enough to think I said to myself, I really must start listening to Pam. What I said to her, however, was, “See, I told you we would make it!”