It's a good time to be on the ground

Yesterday I stood out on my patio and watched a wild and active squall line screaming in from the west. NOAA had issued tornado watches and to our north were tornado warnings. This fast moving front was full of maliciousness. It’s a good time to be on the ground.

In my flying career I had some experiences with the worst violent CBs (cumulus nimbus) and during that time watched science in boring detail only confirm what my first instructor, Buck Greenfield, warned me of. ‘Only the gods live in the CB, not man’. You never forget your first or worst encounter but, also, you tend not to forget any of them. The first was as a student in a T-craft. The shifting winds from a nearby CB had me chasing the wind sock around the runways of the wagon wheeled North Perry airport in the late summer 1956. A relieved instructor, Buck explained to me how wind near CB would seem to change direction and velocity at a whim, and the need to keep that in mind. This later would be codified by meteorologists as ‘micro burst’ and ‘wind shear’.

(Me as a lineboy in 1957)

But I was in for more instruction ‘la natural’ later. August 2, 1958. By this point I had my private license and was building time toward my commercial. My brother John and I sat out on a long cross country in the Luscombe 8a, my father had just bought ($2,500) just so we could build our flying time. Again the weather gods were laying for us nymphs. I headed north for GNV Gainesville with a fuel stop in Sebring. Out of Sebring the sky ahead grew nasty with huge towering Cumulus. At that point I was IFR (I follow roads). Up ahead I saw what looked like a path between heavy rain shafts and sunshine on the ground just beyond. What I actually saw was big open pits of white and yellow sand. I flew into a real sucker hole. Next the sky around me dumped its heavy wet load right on us. My visibility was fast departing and I pushed the old Luscombe over to maintain visual contact with the ground. My altimeter soon read 200’ and I found myself with a forward visibility of about ½ mile. I could just make out the pines trees and the path of the road I was following. I needed to do something fast. I reached over to grab a chart (the one my brother was using), a quick glance told me if I stayed on the road, I would come to a fork, and if I stayed to the left, Groveland airport would be ahead on the right side. I just had to hang on.

Sure enough the fork came up and I veered left staying to the right of the road. The rain came down harder and my visibility was about ¼ mile. Meanwhile my brother John had not said a word but was definitely watching out the right side. Suddenly, directly below me I saw a tetrahedron! It showed the wind was from the same direction I was flying. I was able to just discern an opening in the pines beneath me. John yelled “Runway!” I made a hard 360 left turn and lined up on what appeared to be nothing more than a lighter opening amongst the vast green of the pine trees.

At this point I was just feeling for the ground. We bounced hard than settled firmly on the ground. It was a rough runway and muddy. With the rain crashing down, mud flying, all I tried to do was keep the airplane level and straight. As the airplane started to slow I became aware of “objects” going passed the airplane. Bushes? I could not discern what they were. Soon we hit a big bump, the airplane bounced and rolled quickly to a stop. Up right and engine running.

It was some time before the rain let up and my brother and I were able to get out of the cockpit and survey the Luscombe and our surroundings. The airplane was fine even though throughout the rain and the landing she sounded like she was coming apart. But the rest of our discoveries - - - well it left me wondering. For we had actually landed in a cow pasture- - - full of cows - - - who were now in a somewhat state of panic. Those “objects” I was aware of during the landing were those cows, we were barely missing! And what I thought was mud was the “cow pies” i.e. manure being kicked up by the wheels. The bottom of the wings and parts of the windshield were covered with it. The big bump we hit just before stopping was either a cow path or very shallow drainage ditch. Off to our left I could see the tetrahedron, firmly encased in vines, making it unmovable even in a hurricane!

Over to our right was a house. The oddity of it was, it was built on top of a hangar which contained no airplane but a tractor. At this point we noticed a lady standing there, hands on hips and in a state of panic just like the cows. What kind of airport is this?

The answer is, it had been an airport – once. The chart I had grabbed from my brother was over 4 years old (my newer chart showed no airport at all) and thus as confirmed by the lady, had been closed about 4 years. Well, the skies, the cows and the lady all simmered down after awhile. The three of us herded the cows off to one end of the pasture and my brother and I fired up the somewhat smelly Luscombe and bounced our way into the air.

In all my years I never forgot the very details of that day. One that lived on to form a life time goal. You see that was the first time I had ever seen or heard of an airport home. To live on an airport with my own hangar, own runway, became a life long endeavor that to this very day, is one of the dreams I’ve been able to fulfill.

Same Subject forward to mid summer 1962.

I am now a newborn DC-3 co-pilot flying for DuPont Aero Finance out of MIA. Every day we fly a 10 leg group of trips for Bahamas Airway between Florida and Freeport, Grand Bahamas. The Freeport Port Authority is actually subsidizing the trips, but Bahamas Airways does not have enough airplanes nor crews, so we (crews and DC-3s) are leased out to them and we fly under their colors and call signs. The DC-3 we fly (N142HD & N203ZZ) are well used and in good shape. They have Wright 1820s engines (no cowl flaps) and dual VHF and one ADF receiver. Plane basic.

The trips are easy, short, and almost always perfect with weather. But there are days. On this particular day I learned that not all captains should be captains. But when they are captain, they ARE the captain. Period. At least that was back then. Now with the new concept of cockpit crew management and leadership, calling out a captain with an obvious flaw in his command decision has enhanced safety though the industry. Not back then.

The weather along the Gulf Stream that flows north along the Florida east coast, takes on its own character in the summer. When conditions are just right, the warm stream water will build massive CBs along its length just off shore, making a sort of non moving front between the Bahamas and Florida. As the day progresses, this “front” moves on shore, seemingly sucked in by the on shore breeze created by heated air rising up and down the center spine of the Florida peninsular. It was thus on this day I got my third CB scare.

We and our trusty DC-3 were headed for West Palm Beach from Freeport. We had seen the CBs building on the trip out of Lauderdale. My captain, who didn’t like me, decided that we were going to make our trip at something like 6,000 feet (I remember the altitude higher than normal). Anyway that’s about the altitude we penetrated a massive CB - without help of an on board radar. The first thing that hit us was the rain. A gigantic roar engulfed us and static filled our headphones. Then the bumps, just trimmers at first that got more pronounced to the point I looked out at our wings. Yep they were bending all right! Now the rain was blowing around the windshield seals and through openings I didn’t know existed. I was getting wet! Then suddenly there was a mighty slam and I felt myself pushed down in my seat by G forces as the airplane hit a massive up draft. I watched the artificial horizon which showed us wings and nose level, but the rate of climb was pegged at over 3,000 feet per minute!! There is just no way a DC-3 can do that, but the altimeter confirmed it. The captain pulled the power back and pushed the nose down. She continued to climb with the Wrights at idle. Not only that the airspeed was building up! “Gear down”!! “Flaps down”!! I did as I was told, but none of this was making sense. Here we were power at idle, gear and flap down, airspeed climbing, rate of climb at 3,000 feet/minute. It seem to last forever. Then the rate of climb stopped and we seemed to hang in the air suspended. Then wham! I was now floating in my seat as we hit a down draft! The rate of climb became a rate of descent! “Shit”!!! I checked my right wing. It was still there! I saw the captain push the throttle forward. “Give me full RPM. Gear up! Flaps UP”!! I obey. I shove the prop governors to the high stop. Reach down and pull the gear valve lever up and than the flaps. The Wright 1820s are now screaming at max power. I check the attitude gyro horizon. The wings are level but the nose is high. Why aren’t we climbing?!! At our altitude and rate of descent, we’re going to hit the water in a minute or so. I am scared.

Suddenly we are out of it. All of it. The CB has literally pissed us out of its bottom. We are in clear air and it’s almost smooth. The captain quickly brings the engines back with the throttle and calls for cruise RPM. As I finish setting the RPM, I happen to look over at the captain but I immediately could only focus on what I saw beyond him. For there, not a ½ mile off our left wing, was a silver, snaking, wavering, water spout.

I’ll not go into all the details with a long story, except some 2 or 3 months later I’m at a meeting with my boss and our chief pilot. My observations and those of others got this captain fired. Sometime after that I did some soul searching, listened to the older sister of a school friend, made my confession of faith and was baptized (full dunking brother). That December, I quit the airline, and enlisted in the Army (I was about to be drafted). But just before that I met a beautiful black haired, almond eyed beauty. Neither she nor I knew we’d be man and wife some 3 years later but I knew the moment I saw her I was in love. And where did I meet her? On the very steps of the church where I was baptized.