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?