Logbook Tales – In the soup

• By Michael Smart
• June 27, 2014
• 5 Comments

Bright sunshine and a magnificent view disappeared as the twin engine Piper Seneca descended into the white blanket covering the eastern seaboard. The dense, widespread cloud cover had been generated by an approaching cold front, and the reported weather at my destination on Long Island was a six hundred foot ceiling and one mile visibility, above the landing minimums, which didn’t mean the actual weather matched the report, or might not change for the worse before my arrival. A dark grey cocoon surrounded the aircraft as it descended deeper into the overcast beyond the sun’s penetrating light. Fingers of condensed moisture streamed across the wings, and raced in beaded lines across the Perspex windshield. A dull green glow reflected against the enclosing wall off the starboard wing, a corresponding red glow on the left.

The obscured view beyond the cockpit no longer held importance. Its usefulness for flight reference nonexistent. Instead my attention was entirely focused on the instruments before me, my gaze shifting in a slow scan from left to right, back and forth, ensuring a stable, wings level descent before tackling the next task. It was about to get busy real fast, and I was operating the aircraft single pilot. In the club seating behind the cockpit sat my daughter and her friend. I’d picked them up from a weekend spent at another friend’s home in Boston. In the right cockpit seat next to me my wife, more precisely ex-wife, but that’s a different story for another time. A non pilot and nervous flier, she required several bloody marys before any flight, private or commercial. I sensed her apprehension the moment we entered the clouds.

I had three minutes to study the approach chart I’d fixed to the yolk mounted clipboard. The enshrouding clouds presented the impression of motionlessness, but the aircraft was piercing the thick stew at a hundred thirty miles per hour. I was familiar with the approach, Islip MacArthur my home airport. And I wouldn’t be flying the entire approach as depicted on the chart, instead following approach vectors provided by air traffic control. But I studied the chart nonetheless, refreshing my memory of the essential details including step down altitudes, minimum descent altitude, and missed approach procedure.

My hands, thankfully free of the normally clutching and squeezing grasp of my ex, moved in accompaniment to the information on the chart, anticipating and preparing ahead of the swift moving aircraft and dynamic procedures. I dialed in secondary frequencies on the VHF radio and toggled them to standby. I set frequencies and course radials on the navigational VORs, and set the countdown timer for three minutes. A glance at the GPS and primary VOR confirmed the Seneca closing on the Initial Approach Fix on Long Island’s north shore. Further confirmed by recognition of my call sign surfacing from the background chatter in my headset, delivering instructions in one long staccato sentence.

“One Two Zero Papa Fox turn heading one eight zero descend and maintain two thousand five hundred contact approach one one eight point zero.”

“Heading one eight zero, maintain two thousand five hundred approach one eight point zero, One Two Zero Papa Fox,” I acknowledged while simultaneously disengaging the autopilot and banking left for the new course. A quick glance at the Horizontal Situation Indicator confirmed a gentle coordinated turn.

The busy tasks were piling one behind the other now. Still in the turn I eased the throttles back, and thumbed the yolk mounted switch to trim the Seneca for one hundred knots – one hundred fifteen miles per hour. I dialed in the ILS frequency on the primary VOR, and a cross reference frequency and radial on the secondary. I twisted the dials on the GPS to display the approach segments on the moving map screen. I toggled the approach frequency to active on the VHF and dialed in the Islip MacArthur Tower frequency on standby. The tasks completed in time to roll out of the turn and settle on the new heading.

Time to put my right seat passenger to work, which would also distract her thoughts from their silent apprehension. The increasing turbulence as we penetrated deeper into the cloud layer only contributed to her unease. Nothing severe, merely light bumpy chop akin to driving along an uneven, rut filled country dirt road. But sufficient for her to shoot me a worried stare whenever a patch of rough air jolted the aircraft.

“You read out the checklists,” I said, handing her the printed approach and landing checklists. I leveled at twenty five hundred feet as instructed, trimmed the nose up for a ninety knot approach speed, lowered flaps to fifteen degrees, and lowered the landing gear. I settled the aircraft before thumbing the transmit button on the yolk.

“New York approach One Two Zero Papa Fox level at two thousand five inbound for Islip.”

“One Two Zero Papa Fox radar contact seven miles north east turn to heading two niner zero to intercept the localizer descend and maintain one thousand six hundred feet. Cleared for the ILS Six approach. Contact Islip Tower one one niner point three.”

“Copy New York, cleared for ILS Six turning to two niner zero and leaving two five for one thousand six hundred. Tower on one niner point three. Thanks guys and good day, Zero Papa Fox.”

I rolled into the turn, left hand firm on the yolk to steady the rocking aircraft. In the rough air the Seneca handled like a heavy truck. My right hand worked switches and dials on the panel.

“Islip Tower One Two Zero Papa Fox level one thousand six hundred inbound for ILS Six with information echo.”

“Roger One Two Zero Papa Fox. Cleared to land. Wind zero five five at twelve, altimeter two niner niner eight. Report runway in sight.”

“Cleared to land, Zero Papa Fox,” I acknowledged as I dialed in the altimeter setting and calculated the wind direction. Almost on the nose. Happy I didn’t have to contend with a cross wind component on top of everything else.

I called for the approach checklist which my ex read out aloud, quick and nervous at first, until I beseeched her to slow down, to wait for my acknowledgement of each item. Most of the items already performed. The checklist to ensure nothing had been overlooked, my glance returning to the ILS needles on the HSI following visual verification of each item.

Level at one thousand six hundred feet, the initial step down altitude depicted on the approach chart until crossing the airport outer marker, and heading two hundred and ninety degrees as instructed, I acknowledged the final checklist item as the localizer needle, until then pinned to the right outside edge of the instrument, stirred as though awakening from sleep, beginning a slow slide toward the center of the HSI. I banked into a gentle right turn, following the needle, rolling out and centering the yolk as the needle centered. Now all I needed to do was keep the needle centered, my horizontal guidance through the opaque gloom to the unseen runway centerline below.

Next I requested the landing checklist. Some items already performed, some awaiting action in their proper sequence. As she read out “landing gear down and locked,” my glance fell to three small lights surrounding the gear lever. All green. Checking the small mirrors affixed to each engine nacelle to visually verify the main gear was indeed down and locked a useless exercise in the gloom. But the reflected glow ahead confirmed the nose gear was down, the Seneca’s landing light located on the nose gear strut.

A small blue LED at the top center of the panel suddenly winked on and off, attracting my ex’s anxious attention. The pulsing LED and accompanying tone in my ear indicated our passage over the Airport’s outer marker, located four and a half nautical miles from the runway threshold. In that same moment a second needle lying horizontally at the bottom of the HSI shook off its slumber and rose toward the center. Glide slope alive, providing vertical guidance to the runway. The outer marker also the point at which I needed to begin my final descent, the last segment of the approach. I started the countdown timer before pushing both propeller levers to full pitch, and easing back the throttles to peg both needles at eighteen inches on the manifold pressure gauge. I extended the flaps to twenty five degrees, felt the heavy nose up response and pitched down, trimming for a gradual though bumpy descent slope while maintaining an approach airspeed of ninety knots and keeping both localizer and glide slope needles centered where they formed a square cross.

I called for the approach and landing checklists again, a little faster this time I advised. Almost all the items had already been performed, this repetition a final check. I completed the landing checklist by hand checking the fuel selector between the seats was positioned on the fullest tank, pushing the fuel mixture controls to full rich, and reaching to the side panel to activate both fuel boost pump switches. Finally I asked my ex to check behind to ensure all aboard were properly belted into their seats. I maintained the descent profile through the bumpy ride, my feet alternately pushing on the rudder pedals to jockey the nose and keep the localizer centered, my hand goosing the throttles to keep the glide slope centered.

The altimeter needles wound down, heading toward five hundred feet as an amber LED next to the extinguished blue one winked on. The middle marker, one point two nautical miles from the runway. The runway still invisible. The ground below invisible. The 118 mile long by 23 mile wide island and the suburban sprawl surrounding the airport all invisible in the murk. While the instruments informed me the invisible terrain was rushing up to meet me, or I was rushing down to meet it. And the cloud ceiling lower than the reported six hundred feet. I’d been mentally rehearsing two scenarios during the descent. An engine quitting at this critical juncture, and a missed approach if the timer ran out and the minimum descent altitude arrived before I had a visual on the runway. I recited the engine out and missed approach procedures in my head, and checked the settings on the secondary VOR for the point I’d have to fly to and hold before making a second attempt. Provided I still had two functioning engines.

“Keep a lookout for any piece of the airport or runway,” I responded to my ex’s nervous stare. At four hundred feet still nothing, and a mere hundred feet and thirty seconds before having to go missed. This is the point where some pilots fall into a fatal trap. What’s another few feet below the MDA? I’ll either have to go missed or the runway will be there and I’ll be on the ground. Only being on the ground might be the result of what is known in aviation colloquialism as controlled flight into terrain.

At three hundred twenty feet a faint glow appeared in the milky mist ahead. Almost an apparition. Then stronger, a series of soft pulses reflected in the cloud. And then it appeared. Sudden and fully visible as if by magic as the Seneca fell through the bottom of the overcast; a string of lights flashing in tandem toward the runway. And the runway edge lights, marking the threshold and sides of the runway, a bright strip running down its center.

I reported the runway in sight to the tower, deployed full flaps, bent forward to open the cooling cowl flaps beneath each engine, and rode the Seneca to a smooth landing on the runway. My moment of relief upon breaking out of the clouds superseded by a profound pride in my airmanship, by a sense of accomplishment and skill, and the appreciative applause of my passengers. Until that moment I’d thought it only occurred on commercial airlines, and I’d never quite understood why.

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More Logbook Tales – true stories from the author’s flying and sailing logbooks.

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