Saturday, August 26, 2006
Fifteen Seconds
(5)
We did not land at Goodland. We went through the motions. I flew the airplane (a Cherokee 180) through the the approach. We aborted the approach when the runway was not in sight at the appointed time. (And I just now realized that 4247J was a C-140, not a C-180. I have no idea what the tail number of the C-180 actually was but it was definitely a C-180, not 4247J, a C-140. Furthermore our 'student' in the back seat was a German student, come to America to learn how to fly for the airlines. I swear it.)
As I was flying us down into the soup during the approach, Dave called my attention to the ice which was crawling its way up the windscreen. I looked up and was horrified by the sheer volume of ice. This was much more ice than anything I had witnessed flying VFR. Huge chunks of it were literally moving slowly up and out, across the windshield.
Dave turned on my flashlight (I was required to provide a fully charged flashlight for this occasion) and shined it on the wings. The leading edges of the wings were covered in ice. I said something like, 'Let's get the fuck outa here!' Dave said something like, 'Fifteen seconds.'
I was infuriated. Dave was referring to our 'missed approach' time: if the runway lights were not visible in 15 seconds we were obliged to abandon the approach and climb to a safe altitude.
I felt that Dave - insane idiot that he was - was risking our lives. I decided at that point that if it became obvious that we were going to crash as a result of Dave's stupidity I would get in one last objection: a smash to Dave's face. I envisioned me smashing my fist into Dave's face just before we hit the ground.
Strange what you think about just before you think you might die.
We did not land at Goodland. We went through the motions. I flew the airplane (a Cherokee 180) through the the approach. We aborted the approach when the runway was not in sight at the appointed time. (And I just now realized that 4247J was a C-140, not a C-180. I have no idea what the tail number of the C-180 actually was but it was definitely a C-180, not 4247J, a C-140. Furthermore our 'student' in the back seat was a German student, come to America to learn how to fly for the airlines. I swear it.)
As I was flying us down into the soup during the approach, Dave called my attention to the ice which was crawling its way up the windscreen. I looked up and was horrified by the sheer volume of ice. This was much more ice than anything I had witnessed flying VFR. Huge chunks of it were literally moving slowly up and out, across the windshield.
Dave turned on my flashlight (I was required to provide a fully charged flashlight for this occasion) and shined it on the wings. The leading edges of the wings were covered in ice. I said something like, 'Let's get the fuck outa here!' Dave said something like, 'Fifteen seconds.'
I was infuriated. Dave was referring to our 'missed approach' time: if the runway lights were not visible in 15 seconds we were obliged to abandon the approach and climb to a safe altitude.
I felt that Dave - insane idiot that he was - was risking our lives. I decided at that point that if it became obvious that we were going to crash as a result of Dave's stupidity I would get in one last objection: a smash to Dave's face. I envisioned me smashing my fist into Dave's face just before we hit the ground.
Strange what you think about just before you think you might die.
