Mate,
I am writing to you because I need your help to
get me bloody pilot's licence back. You keep telling me you got all
the right contacts. Well now's your chance to make something happen
for me because, mate, I'm bloody desperate But first, I'd better tell
you what happened during my last flight review with the CASA
Examiner.
On the phone, Ron (that's the CASA man), seemed a
reasonable sort of a bloke. He politely reminded me of the need to do
a flight review every two years. He even offered to drive out, have a
look over my property and let me operate from my own strip. Naturally
I agreed to that.
Anyway, Ron turned up last Wednesday. First
up, he said he was a bit surprised to see the plane on a small strip
outside my homestead, because the "ALA" (Authorized Landing Area), is
about a mile away. I
explained that because this strip was so close
to the homestead, it was more convenient than the "ALA," and despite
the power lines crossing about midway down the strip, it's really not
a problem to land and take-off, because at the halfway point down the
strip you're usually still on the ground.
For some reason Ron,
seemed nervous. So, although I had done the pre-flight inspection only
four days earlier, I decided to do it all over again. Because he was
watching me carefully, I walked around the plane three times instead
of my usual two..
My effort was rewarded because the colour
finally returned to Ron's cheeks. In fact, they went a bright red. In
view of Ron's obviously better mood, I told him I was going to combine
the test flight with some farm work, as I had to deliver three "poddy
calves" from the home paddock to the main herd. After a bit of a chase
I finally caught the calves and threw them into the back of the ol'
Cessna 172. We climbed aboard but Ron, started getting onto me about
weight and balance calculations and all that....... Of course I knew
that sort of thing was a waste of time because calves like to move
around a bit, particularly when they see themselves 500-odd feet off
the ground! So, it's pointless trying to secure them, as you know.
However, I did tell Ron that he shouldn't worry as I always keep the
trim wheel set on neutral to ensure we remain pretty stable at all
stages throughout the flight.
Anyway, I started the engine and
cleverly minimized the warm-up time by tramping hard on the brakes and
gunning her to 2,500 RPM. I then discovered that Ron has very acute
hearing, even though he was wearing a bloody headset. Through all that
noise he detected a metallic rattle and demanded I account for it.
Actually it began about a month ago and was caused by a screwdriver
that fell down a hole in the floor and lodged in the fuel selector
mechanism. The selector can't be moved now, but it doesn't matter
because it's jammed on "All tanks," so I suppose that's all
right.
However, as Ron was obviously a nit-picker, I blamed the
noise on vibration from a stainless steel thermos flask which I keep
between the windshield and the magnetic compass. My explanation seemed
to relax Ron, because he slumped back in the seat and kept looking up
at the cockpit roof I released the brakes to taxi out, but
unfortunately the plane gave a leap and spun to the right. "Hell" I
thought, "not the starboard wheel chock again."
The bump jolted
Ron back to full alertness. He looked around just in time to see a
stone thrown up by the prop-wash disappear completely through the
windscreen of his brand new Holden Commodore. "Now I'm really in
trouble," I thought...
While Ron was busy ranting about his
car, I ignored his requirement that we taxi to the "ALA," and instead
took off under the power lines. Ron didn't say a word, at least not
until the engine started coughing right at the lift-off point, and
then he bloody screamed his head off. "Oh God! Oh God! Oh
God!"
"Now take it easy Ron," I told him firmly. "That often
happens on take-off and there is a good reason for it." I explained
patiently that I usually run the plane on standard MOGAS, but one day
I accidentally put in a gallon or two of kerosene. To compensate for
the low octane of the kerosene, I siphoned in a few gallons of super
MOGAS and shook the wings up and down a few times to mix it up. Since
then, the engine has been coughing a bit but, in general, it works
just fine, if you know how to coax it properly.
Anyway, at this
stage Ron seemed to lose all interest in my test flight. He pulled out
some rosary beads, closed his eyes and became lost in prayer (I didn't
think anyone was a Catholic these days). I selected some nice music on
the HF radio to help him relax. Meanwhile, I climbed to my normal
cruising altitude of 10,500-feet. I don't normally put in a flight
plan or get the weather because, as you know getting FAX access out
here is a joke and the weather is always "8/8 blue" anyway. But since
I had that near miss with a Saab 340, I might have to change me
thinking on that.
Anyhow, on levelling out, I noticed some wild
camels heading into my improved pasture. I hate bloody camels, and
always carry a loaded 303, clipped inside the door of the Cessna just
in case I see any of the bastards.
We were too high to hit
them, but as a matter of principle, I decided to have a go through the
open window. Mate, when I pulled the bloody rifle out, the effect on
Ron, was electric. As I fired the first shot his neck lengthened by
about six inches and his eyes bulged like a rabbit with myxo. He
really looked as if he had
been jabbed with an electric cattle prod
on full power. In fact, Ron's reaction was so distracting that I lost
concentration for a second and the next shot went straight through the
port tyre. Ron was a bit upset about the shooting (probably one of
those animal lovers I guess) so I decided not to tell him about our
little
problem with the tyre.
Shortly afterwards I located
the main herd and decided to do my fighter pilot trick. Ron had gone
back to praying when, in one smooth sequence, I pulled on full flaps,
cut the power and started a sideslip from 10,500-feet down to 500-feet
at 130 knots indicated (the last time I looked anyway) and the little
needle rushed up to the red area on me ASI. What a buzz, mate! About
half way through the descent I looked back in the cabin to see the
calves gracefully suspended in mid air and mooing like crazy. I was
going to comment to Ron on this unusual sight, but he looked a bit
green and had rolled himself into the foetal position and was
screamin' his freakin' head off. Mate, talk about being in a bloody
zoo. You should've been there, it was so bloody funny!
At about
500 feet I levelled out, but for some reason we kept sinking. When we
reached 50-feet, I applied full power but nothin' happened. No noise,
no nothin'. Then, luckily, I heard me instructor's voice in me head
saying "carb heat, carb heat." So I pulled carb heat on and that
helped quite a lot, with the engine
finally regaining full power.
Whew, that was really close, let me tell you!
Then mate, you'll
never guess what happened next! As luck would have it, at that height
we flew into a massive dust cloud caused by the cattle and suddenly
went I.F. bloody R, mate. BJ, you would have been really proud of me
as I didn't panic once, not once, but I did make a mental note to
consider an instrument rating as soon as me gyro is repaired
(something I've been meaning to do for a while (now). Suddenly Ron's
elongated neck and bulging eyes reappeared. His Mouth opened wide,
very wide, but no sound emerged. "Take it easy," I told him, "we'll be
out of this in a minute." Sure enough, about a minute later we
emerged, still straight and level and still at
50-feet.
Admittedly I was surprised to notice that we were
upside down, and I kept thinking to myself, "I hope Ron didn't notice
that I had forgotten to set the QNH when we were taxiing." This minor
tribulation forced me to fly to a nearby valley in which I had to do a
half roll to get upright again.
By now the main herd had
divided into two groups leaving a narrow strip between them. "Ah!" I
thought, "there's an omen. We'll land right there." Knowing that the
tyre problem demanded a slow approach, I flew a couple of steep turns
with full flap. Soon the stall warning horn was blaring so loud in me
ear that I cut its
circuit breaker to shut it up, but by then I
knew we were slow enough anyway. I turned steeply onto a 75-foot final
and put her down with a real thud. Strangely enough, I had always
thought you could only ground loop in a tail dragger but, as usual, I
was proved wrong again!
Halfway through our third loop, Ron at
last recovered his sense of humour. Talk about laugh. I've never seen
the likes of it. He couldn't stop. We finally rolled to a halt and I
released the calves who bolted out of the aircraft like there was no
tomorrow.
I then began picking clumps of dry grass. Between
gut-wrenching fits of laughter, Ron asked what I was doing. I
explained that we had to stuff the port tyre with grass so we could
fly back to the homestead. It was then that Ron, really lost the plot
and started running away from the aircraft. Can you believe it? The
last time I saw him he was off into the distance, arms flailing in the
air and still shrieking with laughter. I later heard that he had been
confined to a psychiatric institution - poor bugger!
Anyhow
mate, that's enough about Ron. The problem is I got this letter from
CASA 'withdrawing', as they put it, my privileges to fly; until I have
undergone a complete pilot training course again and undertaken
another flight proficiency test.
Now I admit that I made a
mistake in taxiing over the wheel chock and not setting the QNH using
strip elevation, but I can't see what else I did that was a so bloody
bad that they have to withdraw me
flamin' license. Can
you?