*****
(I wrote the following to a friend who shares my interest in flying little airplanes.)
Hiya, Smiling Jack,
As I was saying....I drove the 45 miles to a little airfield on the far West side of Detroit because of a Cessna 150 renting there for only $14 an hour. That's a pretty good definition of the "good old days," don't you think?
My instructor had introduced me to the airport the week before, when we flew the same plane on the same route I was now about to fly solo. The field had a skinny little runway; I had no idea of how difficult it would be to find on my own.
The instructor had cleared me to solo out of the field--or so I imagined. Sure he did--didn't he?--maybe he did--of course he did! I was convinced. So, I convinced the airport manager of that, rented the plane for an hour, pre-flighted it and climbed aboard.
The starter pull-knob had been replaced by a washer with a big enough hole in it for your index finger. Tacky! It worked, and I do tend to like things with idiosyncrasies. But let me amend that: except airplanes with idiosyncrasies.
Take-off was fun, as usual, and I enjoyed the idiot-free first half of the flight. Have I mentioned I was not alone? The spirit of Alan Ladd sat beside me in the co-pilot's seat. We were delivering a load of contraband to the rebels in Rangoon, who depended on us jaunty flyboys for their very lives. I also smoked a cigarette and pretended I was an airline pilot.
Luckily, the freeway was in view because, on the way back from whence I came, I couldn't find the bleedin' airport. That skinny little runway was lost in suburbia. And finding the airport had taken on an especially poignant meaning, what with certain revoltin' developments.
Halfway through the hour, Alan and I noticed that the left fuel gauge still read full, while the right fuel guage read half empty. Hmmm. It's not supposed to happen that way. Both guages had read full at the start of the flight and they are supposed to feed simultaneously. I checked to make sure the fuel tank switch was properly set.
It appeared we were running out of gas--and rather rapidly at that. Half a tank in half an hour? At that rate the fuel would be spent by the time we got back to the field--assuming I could find it. I immediately got on the horn to inform the airport manager of the two problems, and to ask if he had a clue for me.
The radio didn't work. It may have been transmitting, but it certainly wasn't receiving. Dead silence, everywhere on the dial. I had to assume it was broken. Still, I announced both my predicament and intentions to the cosmos, just in case. In view of the accumulating problems, my intention had become to land at a field called Willow Run.
Now, let's see: running out of gas, bloody well lost, broken radio...and dusk was approaching! But remember, there was the freeway, I-94.
Fifteen miles West of Detroit Metropolitan airport, adjacent to I-94, sits a huge airfreight terminal--Willow Run. At least I knew where it was, so I felt confident in the decision to peel off to the West and land there.
I have no explanation for what happened next. Nosing the little plane onto final approach, with a wide, welcoming runway before me, I noticed the unusual blue color of the control tower. Like a lightning bolt it struck me...that was Detroit Metro's tower! I was landing at a major International airport by mistake.
From the cockpit windows of a number of airliners, suddenly scurrying out of my way, a little Cessna with a flaky pilot was seen to hang an abrupt ralphie out of Metro and scuttle off to the West.
By now, approaching dusk was adding to the anxiety level. There was even a thunderstorm brewing in the distance. It was with enormous relief that, one: I hadn't been sucked into a jet engine at Detroit Metro, and two: that Willow Run finally appeared in the immediate distance.
Over the freeway and over the fence I floated (Alan had bailed out), when out of the dusk and much to my alarm I realized that the section of pavement on which I was about to land was cracked and broken, a long-closed runway. I was stunned, with no clue what the hell to do about it.
It was instant decision time, so I landed, broken concrete or no. After all, I was there already, and I wanted the hell down!
I've flown in only one 150 trainer that had a stable nosewheel. This wasn't that aircraft. The well-worn nosewheel hit the broken pavement and set up a side-to-side banging you wouldn't believe. I was sure it would collapse at any moment--to be followed by my immediate and violent demise. I did what I could to lighten the load by pulling back on the yoke, but the nosewheel was slapping away like an angry snake.
It held, god bless it, and the slapping slowed as the plane slowed. Finally, the $14 airplane rolled to a stop. The idiot had landed. That I was alive and in one piece seemed strange and unlikely to me. Feeling numbed by everything, I watched a pickup truck coming my way with yellow light flashing.
I was expected. The distant Detroit City Airport had received my blind radio transmission and relayed the plan to land at Willow Run. I assume the folks at Detroit Metropolitan had also been informed of my little problem, but they still had to deal with me. I hope I was a pleasant change of pace for them!
Once inside the offices at Willow Run, I was interviewed, FAA forms were filled out, and the instructor was telephoned. He vigorously denied checking me off to solo the area, and I have to confess he may have been right. I may have heard him say what I wanted to hear him say. At the least, it was a miscommunication that could have cost my life.
It was agreed that he would fly to Willow Run in his own plane with a friend aboard to ferry the 150 home. The authorities had the guy check the radio and the gas guages before we left. My claim was confirmed; they were both faulty.
The mood on the flight back was one of pissed-off silence. He sputtered his anger at me, and then deferred to the noisy environment of his little Piper. When we arrived at the home field I endured a furious airport manager, threatening me with the suspension of my student license, etc. But I knew the real reason for his anger; he'd been caught red-handed with an airplane that shouldn't have been let out of the hangar, much less rented to a student pilot. I presumed he was in a spot of trouble for that.
Driving the long miles home, a deep feeling of satisfaction came over me. I was alive! A growing sense of accomplishment settled in with each passing mile. By home I was feeling like King Kong. It was a remarkable feeling; I'll never forget it.
In spite of my ineptness, I'd faced life-threatening consequences, beaten the odds, and man-handled a tricky aircraft through a precarious predicament. I'd come in over the fence on a wing and a prayer, landed safely, and I was now laughing like a loon. Screw you, Fate!
Of course, I shouldn't have been up there in the first place. The first fence I floated over was the wrong one. I'd lost my airport. And I wasn't prepared for the closed runway, the radio failure, the gas guages, or much of anything, really. Even Alan Ladd had bailed out.
But, I was alive--and it had only cost fourteen bucks! Needless to say, excellent communication became the holy grail of my future flying lessons. And, by the way, I heard nothing from the FAA, so my student ticket remained valid. Beware!
*****
Other stuff:
The Beat
Tribal Progress
El Rio Grande
Bad Poetry
