By Mort Crim, EAA 374925
“Door secured, seat belt fastened,” I announce into the headset while double checking my own belt.
Renee smiles and gives me a thumbs-up.
The Florida weather could not be more perfect as we roll down runway 22 at the Vero Beach airport and into a light, southerly wind that should give us an extra boost on the flight back home to Jacksonville.
Our aircraft, a Paradise P-l made in Brazil, is ideal for short hops. Sure, it lacks the comforts of larger, twin-engine planes that we’d flown in our business life. But for a 200-mile trip to visit kids and grandkids, this little LSA is just the ticket. Not only is it pure fun, it has extended my flying career by several years.
I level off at 4,500 feet, click on the autopilot, and run through the check list for cruising flight: Power set, trim tab adjusted, compass/heading checked. Short list for a simple airplane.
After a radio call to Miami Center to request radar tracking, I tune in to music on SiriusXM.
Nearly a mile beneath our wings, cars and trucks snake along I-95 looking like toys competing for space on a child’s race track. How fortunate to be doing what I enjoy most, seated next to the woman I love, watching the world slip by from the vaunted perspective of eagles and hawks.
Contentment personified.
Then suddenly, the serenity is shattered by a pop, a clanging sound, and a slow, gentle vibration.
Renee looks up from her magazine. Her face shows concern. I try to make certain mine doesn’t.
“It’s OK, honey,” I assure her.
I run the brief checklist for engine roughness. Maybe it’s a bad magneto. Turn each one off, one at a time. Check. Engine still rough. Switch on auxiliary fuel pump. Check. No change. Engine getting rougher. Switch fuel tanks. Check. If anything, the vibration is getting worse.
“Miami Center, this is Light Sport Five Three Eight Juliet Alpha. We’ve got a problem and we’re heading to Melbourne.”
We have just passed over the Melbourne airport about six miles back. No sweat. I’ll make a landing there and have the engine checked.
But before Miami can respond to my call, all hell breaks loose. The vibration becomes so intense, it’s like some giant hand has grabbed the plane and is shaking it, violently. Instruments on the panel, quiver so fiercely they are hard to read.
I glance at Renee.
“What’s happening?” she yells, as she grasps the top of the instrument panel.
I can’t tell her, because I don’t know.
“Miami, we’ve got a really rough engine,” I radio to Center. I can declare an emergency, but the urgency in my voice tells them I’m facing one.
Then, the engine stops cold. No more vibrations. Just an eerie quiet, accented by the gentle swoosh of air moving past the plane as we coast along, slowly losing airspeed. We are now a glider.
“Miami, we’ve lost our engine,” I report, holding the mike button down with my left hand while flipping off the magneto switches with the other. Then, I move the fuel selector to OFF.
Renee remains inexplicably stoic, later telling me that she didn’t want to say or do anything to distract me from handling the emergency.
I aim the airplane back toward Melbourne, set up a best rate of descent, and assure Renee we’ll be fine.
“I’ve spent sixty years training and practicing for dead-stick landings. We’ll make it back to Melbourne, and everything’s going to be okay,” I said.
The truth is that during more than 6,000 hours of flying, I’d never lost an engine on a single-engine aircraft, a testimony to the engineering and maintenance that goes into these marvelous machines.
I hand her the flight guide.
“Here, look up the Melbourne tower for me,” I say.
Miami Center already has given me the frequency, but I think that having a project will help keep Renee’s mind off the situation. We have descended to 4,000 feet, and the GPS shows Melbourne about four miles in front of us.
“Miami Center, three eight Juliet Alpha, airport in sight.”
“Roger, 8 Juliet Alpha. They’re expecting you. Runway your choice. Cleared to land. Let us know when you’re on the ground.”
I begin setting up for the longest runway, three four.
There will be no chance for a go-around. A missed approach is not an option. I want to hit this landing on the numbers: too low, and we’ll crash-land onto the highway. Too high, and we’ll overshoot onto a field, into a fence, or, God forbid, into somebody’s house.
Upon reaching the airport, I begin a slow, easy, circling approach. On the right side of the runway, two fire trucks set positioned, their red lights flashing. Behind them, a state trooper’s car and a couple of other vehicles I can’t identify.
“We’ve closed the airport to all traffic” the tower reports.
“We’re waiting for you,” is their final, reassuring transmission.
“Roger that,” I reply.
“Check your belt,” I remind Renee.
Entering a base leg for a left hand turn to final, we are now at 1,000 feet. I had planned for the excess altitude, knowing that with a dead engine I could always lose it, but never gain it.
I put on one notch of flaps. Turning final, we are still a bit high. Another notch of flaps. Now, a bit of “slip” should put us right on the mark.
As we near the runway, I bring in a final notch of flaps and watch the big white numbers 34 slip under my wings. My speed is down to 50 knots, the wheels bump gently onto the concrete, and Renee says it was the smoothest landing she’s ever seen me make. (It’s amazing what adrenaline can do to sharpen a person’s skills.)
A breakdown of the engine revealed that a valve had broken, causing the engine to literally chew itself up.
“Really sorry about this,” I apologize to Renee as we drive a rental car back to Jacksonville.
“Hey, you did a great job, honey,” she said. “Frankly, I was relieved when the engine quit. When it was making all that noise, I was afraid we might blow up. By the way, Mort, what would your plan B have been, if we hadn’t been so close to the Melbourne airport?
“The beach,” I reply.
In flying, as in life, you’ve ALWAYS got to have a plan B.
Mort Crim, EAA 374925, is a broadcast journalist and author who worked for more than 40 years in both local and national radio and television news. He holds ATP, multiengine and seaplane ratings and has logged more than 7,000 hours in airplanes he’s owned, from Aeronca Chiefs to his favorite, the Cessna 421 Golden Eagle.