Hi All
I can't find my second hideous misdemeanour while at the controls of my Arrow, but here is the first one - not for the faint hearted amongst you.....
We had yet again procured the services of a babysitter and so on 9th February 1997 I booked Bravo Charlie with the intention of having a relatively easy day flying to Oxford, having some lunch and then returning in the evening for a meal with friends. It was a beautiful day if a little hazy, but cold and bright on the ground. I went over the top with flight planning as I even filed a flight plan, believing that it would be easier to pass through the hallowed Solent Control. I think I took beacon hopping a bit too literally too as I planned to go via SAM – madness! We took off and all was fine as I routed towards the SAM VOR. Bournemouth passed me onto Solent Radar on 120.22 with ‘they have your details, have a nice flight’. I am sure Solent really didn’t need some PPL filing a flight plan to Oxford so they routed me to the west and north and then got rid of me as quickly as possible to Brize Norton. We tracked towards the Compton VOR, no problems, a bit scary near RAF Benson with ‘multiple contacts’ from Brize which were Bulldogs doing aerobatics and then quite soon we were a few miles from Oxford, bang on track with the GPS showing it just ahead, confirmed by the OX NDB. I called Kidlington (that’s the name of Oxford’s airport) and inadvertently lied when I said I had the field in sight. Could I find it, could I hell! To this day I cannot believe I missed it but I did and the first cock up of the day occurred when I realised I had almost strayed over another airfield which I later worked out was Weston-on-the-Green, a parachuting place – I gave myself a severe bollocking over that. Shortly after that I found Kidlington and we landed, paid a bargain, £5 at weekends, landing fee and sauntered off into the city of dreaming spires, or is it perspiring dreams, for lunch.
Oxford is a lovely place but having studied for a while at Cambridge I am obliged to say that it is not as nice as the light blue city. After a greasy spoon bacon sarnie (are bacon sarnies de riguer when flying, I always seem to be eating them?) we walked around the city and then got a taxi back to Kidlington where I picked up the METAR (current weather) and the TAF (forecast) for Bournemouth. Now either I misread the weather, or the TAF was wrong. I know if I wanted to I could get the weather for that day and check. The truth is I do not want to, because I think I misread it.
We taxied out, departed ‘20’ and were on our way following the same route back home, initially to the Compton VOR and then to the SAM. We flew past Compton and headed for the SAM VOR – it was all going very nicely. At Newbury I was fascinated by the sight of an infinite eiderdown of cloud complete with quilt effect that lay in front of me. It was briefly an ‘omigod’ moment, but then I thought what a fantastic opportunity this would be to use my IMC in anger.
I carried on and spoke to Solent who seemed a trifle concerned that I was going on to Bournemouth.
‘Bravo Charlie, would you like the latest weather’
‘Thanks, go ahead’
‘Visibility 1500 metres, overcast at 700 feet’ well below the minima for me.
My heart sank. The controller asked if we’d like to divert, but I said I’d carry on and see if it improved – what an optimist! I contacted Bournemouth radar who asked me what approach I’d like and I opted for radar vectors to the ILS. In fact this was the only option as I had neither of the ‘plates’ for the procedural NDB or ILS approaches. Fortunately the weather had improved a bit with the visibility out to 2000 metres and the cloudbase up to 800 feet – or so they said. I think we were at about 3000 feet, and I turned to my wife and said these prophetic words:
‘It won’t be very nice but we’ll be fine’
She nodded in silent comprehension and probably thought ‘merde alors’. With that Bournemouth told me they would vector me in for ‘26’ from the north to I would close the localiser from the right. I was getting quite excited with this, and obediently descended to 2000 feet on a heading of something like 200°M. We were straight into cloud and it was pretty bumpy, the instruments performing some bizarre Buzby Berkeley dance routine in front of my eyes. I had to report localiser established and was also cleared to descend to 1500 feet. I watched the localiser needle come off its stops and move towards the centreline. Anticipate, anticipate here we go, turn to pick it up……..I called ‘localiser established’ as the needle hit the centreline and continued past. ‘Shiiiiit’, I banked Bravo Charlie to the right to try to re-establish myself when the controller informed me of my height. I remember it was 1300 feet instead of 1500. Watch the glideslope, that’s moving up – wrong way, watch the localiser - still out to the right – I want my mummy! The controller then warned me again about my height this time about 900 feet when it should have been around 1300 or so.
I took my eyes away from the ILS for a second and was horrified to see the altimeter spinning as fast as the, by now, screaming propeller. ‘Fuck me’ I thought, I really needed to get a grip of this or very soon I felt sure I was going to be presented with a very accurate large scale map of Christchurch in front of me which would increase in size until it was 1 to 1 and we were history. Everything fell silent and somewhere a sixth sense took me back to my training, back to the basics. Aviate first, forget the rest, and in any case we were talking survival here. I managed to level the wings, put on some power and climbed and climbed. 600 feet became 650, 700, 1000, 1200 and the controller asked me what I was doing. After my wife and I had retrieved our faces from the sides of the cockpit and had checked that the interior of Bravo Charlie didn’t resemble the inside of a Maze prison cell I mustered a reply:
‘Sorry, I messed it up and need to do another’.
‘Are you sure you are qualified to do this sort of approach?’ he enquired.
‘Oh yes I have an IMC rating’.
He must have pissed himself laughing at that, it must be one of the most stupid things ever heard on the R/T! Was I an idiot or what? Out of practice flying VMC let alone IMC and I chose to use my IMC in anger for the first time when Bournemouth had become enveloped in a pea-souper. We roared out into the evening sun and continued climbing. My wife was a broken woman sitting beside me I remember she looked as if she had shrunk! I was cursing my stupidity, what had I done wrong? She said that we should be careful of other aircraft in the area trying to do the same thing and I made the comment that it wouldn’t be a problem as there weren’t likely to be any other idiots up here.
Bournemouth radar piped up and grabbed my attention away from my ‘if I survive this I am going to give up flying’ reverie. ‘What would I like to do now?’ they politely enquired. I thought of Southampton, I could go there – no the weather had worsened since we flew over the SAM VOR. I should have taken the offer of the diversion. Okay, um, what next? The controller asked me if I would like to try another approach. Hooray, it had all cleared.
‘Bravo Charlie would you like to copy the weather?’
‘Go ahead’
‘Visibility 600metres, overcast 100 feet….’
I didn’t bother listening to the temperature and the pressure. I wanted to say ‘are you taking the piss?’ I declined his kind offer so he suggested a diversion to Bristol. Our daughter was at home, we had a dinner booked, diverting wasn’t an option. My brain found the ‘statistics’ part of itself and ran some details. ‘Get home-itis’ is one of the major causes of GA accidents – carrying on in bad weather. No I didn’t want to become one of those. I thought of Louise, just 2 years old – and a lump appeared in my throat. I was calm, I didn’t panic, if I had I think we would have been killed, but the awful reality of what I had done, or nearly done, and my current predicament were slowly and painfully dawning on me. I thought positive – for starters we had loads of fuel left, and decided on the diversion option. I was unfamiliar with Bristol so I enquired about Exeter.
The weather there was much better although we would have to descend through a layer of cloud around 2000 feet or so but only a thin layer. I could manage this, and by now I had had enough time to realise that the major fault of my approach was my speed.
I told Bournemouth radar that I wanted to divert to Exeter and so set up the GPS and the ADF to get me there. After about 15 minutes I noticed in the gathering dark a gigantic black patch a few miles to the north. I assumed it was a hole in the clouds so I turned right to investigate thinking I could get under the cloud and route toward Exeter. By this time I had climbed to 5000 feet, and so started a slow descent to take me down into the hole. The controller had a fit:
‘Bravo Charlie what are you doing?’
I reassured him about the hole investigation and said I’d call him back. We descended into the hole – 3000, 2000, 1000, 500 feet and by this time we were low over Sutton Bingham reservoir. It was pretty murky and I thought I just could not risk trying to pick my way across the ground to Exeter to the south-west. There was only one option, to climb back out of the hole. Up we went, poor old Bravo Charlie must have wondered what it had done to deserve this. Eventually we levelled out at 5000 feet again and I spoke to Bournemouth radar. I was getting a bit desperate now and asked them if they could ensure that they handed me directly over to Exeter approach. That wouldn’t be a problem.
Bournemouth radar told me to contact Exeter and probably thought ‘thank Christ we’ve got rid of him!’ I dialled up the Exeter approach frequency and was mightily relieved to hear them straight away. They gave me first the weather and then the cost of keeping Exeter open. I wasn’t too interested in the cost, I just wanted to land but I thought it was a bit of a cheek telling me that when he must have known that a) I had no option and b) I was not in the best frame of mind. Next they gave me a steer for the localiser and a descent and once again we went down through the cloud, but nice and slowly this time. Localiser established, we popped out of the cloud and there ahead were what I thought were four white PAPI’s. Fantastic, we were a bit high on the approach but we were going to be okay. As time progressed I couldn’t help feeling that the ILS and the GPS seemed to be a little bit out with respect to the PAPI’s, but I continued the approach using the ILS. After a few minutes I realised that the lights were actually the floodlights of an outdoor sports field! Was this never going to end? Beyond I immediately saw the ‘Christmas tree’ of approach lights and the real PAPI’s – two red and two white – perfect.
I did a greaser of a landing (something had to go right) and we taxied in and after an hour and forty minutes tacho time we shut down. We had survived and the relief was better than when you’ve had to wait all day to go for a pee! I paid the landing fee, we got a 50% discount because there was another unfortunate diversion behind us, so he had to pay £70 too because of the airport being kept open just for us. I thought it strange that a 146 was being readied to take holiday makers off to the sun somewhere and couldn’t help feeling I and the other pilot had been fleeced somewhat. Nowadays it wouldn’t happen because true weather diversions are generally free, but I didn’t care – we could enjoy a few beers and prepare to get back home tomorrow. I phoned the Bournemouth controller to thank him for all his help and to tell him we had arrived safely and he seemed pleased to – ‘I was worried about you there for a while’ he said in his slight Scottish accent, ‘I was worried myself’ I said. We joined the others from the ‘172 that had landed after us and found a hotel a bar and food.
Laying in bed that night I was in one way very pleased, I had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. Yet the defeat that had been written large in my mind was completely of my own making and I pondered on just how close we had been to meeting our maker. I think we were in injury time and the whistle was in the referee’s mouth, but he just didn’t quite blow. The grim reality really hit me and I couldn’t stop thinking about how stupid I had been (was the weather as predicted?) but also how lucky too. I relived the events time and time again and thought over what I had done wrong. There were probably a whole litany of errors but the main one was my speed – I flew the descent much too fast which would make picking up the ILS difficult in VMC let alone IMC. ‘It won’t be very nice but we’ll be fine’ I had said – how true that statement was! Tomorrow would be another day and at last I fell asleep.
Not a nice experience at all, the second one was worse - thank goodness I gave up!
Rob