w i n t e r
pucker factor
The Magic team decided to fly their Globe Swifts despite the poor weather over eastern North Carolina. The idea was to perform some low level maneuvers, thrill the disappointed crowd and get in some practice flying in shitty weather.
I had seen the fellas fly the day before when the weather was good and had dinner with them Saturday night so when they taxied out I gave them a wave and headed for the command center to check the weather. I was more worried about getting home than anything they were going to do in a Swift.
About 10 minutes into the show, and just as I got to the door of the command center, the Swifts were coming out of a loop about 50 feet off the runway in a finger formation. Just then the low man in the finger dropped out of formation. About that time I noticed what looked like a piece of confetti but much bigger falling down toward the tarmac. Wheels came down and the Swift landed, but I remember turning to a major standing next to me and commenting, "For and acrobatic pilot he sure doesn't land very well, eh?"
The major thought the same thing, but when the fire trucks and jeeps raced out to the plane it became clear this was not part of the show.
Turns out he lost part of his prop, which chewed through the cowling and unbalanced the engine so badly that the mounts gave way and broke loose. The engine dropped to the bottom of the cowl and knocked that off. That's what I saw falling. The plane was only on the ground two minutes when the engine fell completely off the front of the plane. One lucky pilot.
After that the next few hours are fuzzy. A few minutes later the base started taking lightening strikes from a storm that shifted last minute and the place was lousy with marines trying to clear 50,000 civilians off their base and away from the airplanes.
They cleared up the mess of a Swift left in the middle of the runway and I found the weather was not going to get much better. It looked as though I may be stuck in the barracks for the night and I turned my attention to finding a hanger for the AT-19. Fabric planes and hail don't get along.
As the afternoon wore on the base emptied, I had the plane put away next to a couple Harriers, and found myself smoking and having a beer with the major. The wind was gusting at 60 knots but a small window was opening up...or so it looked.
A military base is the perfect place to find out about weather. They make any FBO office I've ever been in look just plain silly. I was able to see all the information I ever wanted and on more radar screens then I've ever seen in one place. All of them told me the same thing. Once this front swung around it was gonna head north east and about 20 miles behind it was another smaller front. Between the two, nothing at all. My window.
I figured if I left at 6:00 I'd cover the 120 miles well before 7:30 and be home before nightfall.
I prepped the plane and was cleared for departure. The major waved as I taxied by, just as I had waved at the Swifts only a few hours before. The sky was still dark with one patch of blue and the windscreen was covered with small rain drops. Departure time was 6:05.
Our estimated altitude was to be 4,000 but there was no way we could go above 1,500 without hitting the base of the clouds. The air was the roughest I've ever felt and many times the main gear popped up from updrafts, slamming under the front seats. It was difficult to keep the AT-19 in level, correct flight, but not impossible. She should cruise at 115-125 knots. That night the headwind was so strong I was barely making 50 at times. It doesn't take a math wizard to figure I was wasn't going to make home before dark.
I kept riding updrafts and pressing forward on the yoke to let the wind carry me forward like a kite. It worked and at times I could, for a few minutes, hold 70 knots or so, but eventually I met that second front, the mix of a high and low pressure system just as the sun was going down.
I watched it disappear over the horizon and with it my instruments. The AT-19 isn't supposed t fly at night and has no lights on the panel. For a few more minutes I could fly using the waning horizon, but it was gone soon too. Lucky for me I had a small flashlight I stuck between my teeth and started my instrument scan. Altitude, attitude, turn bank, vertical airspeed, heading. Every once in awhile I'd check the other gauges, the manifold pressure, the airspeed, the oil temp.
I flew like that for half an hour before I picked up the beacon for SOP in the distance.
I was tired. I had to piss. I wanted a smoke. Best thing I ever saw were those blue taxi way lights. Best thing I ever felt was the ground beneath my feet again. I honest to God kissed the side of the plane, gave her a pat and thanked her for being so honest and bringing my ass home.
Almost three hours had passed since I left Cherry Point and I felt every minute of it. It wasn't the worst, but it was the worst I'd ever seen. Fred said it was about a 7 to 9 on a scale of 10. I kept my cool, I flew my plane home. I did my job, but for the first time ever there was a part of me that was glad to be home. To be on the ground.
I saw the sun set from just under 2000 feet. A huge orange marble, gone in seconds. I felt my ass leave the seat as we fell through pockets of emptiness and I knew what zero gravity felt like, if only for a moment. I had the intercom die and fixed a short while trying to hold course and being tossed about like a feather. I also saw enormous squall lines in the distance they made me glad to be where I was, even if it was rough. And I saw the better part of rural North Carolina. The fire breaks and the barns. The feed mills and the farms, and of course all the tall, green pines.
goodnight 4.3.01