by Heinz Kohler
“One Two Juliet, contact Norfolk Approach on One One Eight Point Niner,” Washington Center said.
“One Two Juliet,” I replied and on another radio: “Norfolk Approach, November Eight Eight One Two Juliet, maintaining Eight Thousand, requesting visual approach.”
“One Two Juliet, Norfolk Approach,” came the reply, “cleared visual approach Runway Two Three, descend to maintain Two Thousand.”
“One Two Juliet out of Eight for Two,” I said, but for insurance and practice I still tuned in the Runway 23 localizer and glideslope (frequency 109.1 and code IJZQ).
By the time I reached 2,000 feet, my DME read 11.3 miles and I had the runway in sight.
“One Two Juliet, Norfolk Tower now on One Two Zero Point Eight,” Approach Control said.
“Norfolk Tower, November Eight Eight One Two Juliet, Eleven mile final Runway Two Three, maintaining Two Thousand,” I said.
“One Two Juliet, cleared to land Runway Two Three; altimeter setting Three Zero Point Two Zero; wind Two Hundred Forty degrees at six.”
“One Two Juliet, out of Two Thousand,” I said, reducing my speed to 80, flipping on carburetor heat, the fuel pump, and letting down the flaps, all at the same time.
Soon the blue outer marker light was blinking, 4.9 miles to go, then the yellow middle marker sounded, I was practically there, perfect alignment with the runway centerline, perfect altitude at 200 feet, perfect touchdown.
“One Two Juliet, contact Ground on One Two One Point Niner,” someone said.
“One Two Juliet clear of active,” I replied while leaving the runway.
“One Two Juliet cleared to Piedmont Hawthorne Aviation,” the ground controller said and before I knew it, I had parked the plane and pulled out the mixture control, starving the engine of gas. The propeller stopped.
A perfect flight? Not quite. While my hand reached out to turn off the Master Switch, I noticed something else. Strange. I had never even turned on the landing lights during my approach. Besides being a real help to binocular-wielding controllers on the ground, of course, those lights are supposed to scare away the birds and there are plenty of them at any airport near the shore.
47. The Crash
[May 1991]
At Norfolk, I gassed up the plane for the remainder of my trip, had lunch, got a new weather briefing, and then called Clearance Delivery on frequency 118.5.
“November Eight Eight One Two Juliet is cleared to the Key West International Airport via Victor One Craig, Victor Two Six Seven Miami, Victor One Five Seven; climb to maintain Eight Thousand, squawk Zero Seven Two Five; maintain runway heading on take-off, contact Departure on One Two Five Point Two.”
I started the plane and contacted Ground Control.
“Norfolk Ground, November Eight Eight One Two Juliet, at Piedmont, with clearance,
I-F-R to Key West, ready to taxi.”
“November Eight Eight One Two Juliet, cleared to Runway Two Three via taxiways Charlie and Delta, follow the Piper Seneca passing in front of you.”
“One Two Juliet,” I said and, speaking those numbers, I thought of the days when my name had been Five.
By the time I got near the runway, I was Number 6 in line. I saw the Seneca in front of me, then a Beech Baron, a Comanche, an Aero Commander, and a Gates Learjet. A Mitsubishi MU-2B was touching down just then and a Grumman American was on short final. I did my run-up, set the altimeter to Norfolk’s elevation of 26 feet, and contacted the Tower on 118.9.
“Norfolk Tower, November Eight Eight One Two Juliet ready for take-off in sequence.”
By the time the Seneca was rolling down the runway, a Boeing 747 was on final approach. I knew what was coming next and carefully noted the Boeing’s touchdown point, an unusual 1,000 feet from the threshold.
“One Two Juliet, position and hold,” the Tower said after the Boeing had passed my nose.
I taxied onto the runway threshold, right on top of the big numbers, reading 23.
“One Two Juliet, position and hold,” I said, watching the Boeing vacate the runway at the far end.
“One Two Juliet, cleared for immediate take-off,” the Tower said, “wind 240 degrees at 15; caution wake turbulence.”
He didn’t have to remind me of that; I had been thinking of nothing else. I knew: The effects of vortices were strongest when larger aircraft took off at maximum gross weight; a smaller and lighter aircraft like mine that penetrated those little tornadoes could easily incur structural failure or flip over and be slammed into the ground. But a Boeing that was landing could wreak havoc on me as well, even long after it had left the runway! Except for one thing: The invisible vortices traveled between the plane’s flight path and the ground; they stopped the moment the aircraft touched the ground. Thus, if I took off from somewhere beyond its touchdown point, I would be just fine. In fact, even in flight, regardless of any take-off or landing situation, a smaller craft would incur no harm as long as it stayed above the flight path of any offending plane; vortices were always settling towards the ground.
“One Two Juliet,” I said and rapidly taxied 1,000 feet down the runway to the Boeing’s touchdown point; only then did I push the throttle to FULL. About four and a half hours and 863 nautical miles to Key West; I should get there by sunset.
“Norfolk Departure, November Eight Eight One Two Juliet, out of Five Hundred, climbing to maintain Eight Thousand.”
“One Two Juliet, Norfolk Departure, radar contact, proceed on course, contact Washington Center on One Two Three Point Eight Five.”
“Washington Center, November Eight Eight One Two Juliet, level at Eight Thousand.”
By then I was established on Victor Airway 1, steering 233 degrees towards the Cofield VOR (frequency 114.6 and code CVI). On my left, the Atlantic coastline was receding, but way in the distance I could see the spot where Kitty Hawk must be and the Wright Monument stood, next to the airport called First Flight. Way ahead and above, I spotted cirrocumulus, thin sheets of cloud with lots of small white puffs like patches of cotton balls, and to the right, altocumulus, white layers of solid clouds that gave the appearance of a wavy tin roof.
All was well; I decided to review my instruments, one at a time. My two best friends, both driven by a vacuum pump, were right in front of my eyes. I loved the Attitude Indicator with its horizon bar and miniature airplane, always providing an immediate indication of the aircraft’s pitch and bank attitude in relation to the natural horizon. It was working perfectly: The wings sat on the horizon bar, as did the plane’s nose; I was in straight and level flight. And the instrument was working because the suction gauge read between 3.75 and 5.1 inches of mercury, as it should.
I was equally enamored with the Directional Gyro, showing the number 25 just then under the hairline and confirming my magnetic course of 233 degrees, adjusted for the winds aloft. Unlike the magnetic compass, this one, when it was working, never lied.
Before long, I was steering 218 degrees towards the Kinston VOR (frequency 109.6 and code ISO). I watched the Chowan River pass under my left wing and then Phelps Lake and Lake Mattamuskeet and the Pamlico River, but Cape Hatteras was hidden from view under dense, well defined domes of afternoon cumulus clouds. I could see their cauliflower heads developing below me and mentally pictured supercooled large drops fall from their bases, creating virga, those lovely trails of evaporating rain that never reach the ground.
“One Two Juliet, contact Washington Center now on One Three Five Point Three,” someone said and I did.
“Washington Center, November Eight Eight One Two Juliet, maintaining Eight Thousand.”
I turned to my pitot-static system instruments; there were three. The Vertical Velocity Indicator was the simplest one. It showed neither climb nor descent and, thus, a vertical speed of zero. The Airspeed Indicator was more complex; I reviewed its markings. The white arc was the flap operating range; something to remember during a landing approach. Its lower limit was the power-off stalling speed with flaps down; extending t
he flaps at higher airspeed would cause severe structural damage and was not advisable. The green arc was the normal operating range, that’s were I was now. Its lower limit was the power-off stalling speed with flaps retracted. And the yellow arc was the caution range, containing a menu of speeds one would only use in the smoothest of air. The red line, of course, was the never-exceed speed; going there meant structural break-up and certain death.
The Altimeter was another friend; I had the three pointer sensitive type. I should set it, I remembered, to a current altimeter setting of some airport along my route. Otherwise, the instrument might lie: When flying into colder air or lower pressure, the altimeter readout would be higher than the truth! A simple test was in order. I tuned to the Wilmington ATIS; the altimeter setting was 30.00 inches of mercury, lower than Norfolk’s 30.20. I entered the new setting into the altimeter; instantly the indicated altitude dropped from 8,000 to 7,800 feet! I climbed 200 feet and reviewed another lesson of long ago.
It was the story of atmospheric pressure, the force exerted by the weight of the atmosphere on a given area. Take an open dish of mercury and place into it the open end of an evacuated tube. At sea level and average temperature, the atmosphere’s pressure causes the mercury to rise into the vacuum tube till it reaches a height of 29.92 inches. Thus the air at sea level weighs the same as a 29.92 inch-high column of mercury! At higher altitudes, however, the air balanced against the mercury column would weigh less. As a result, its pressure would create a shorter mercury column. Indeed, as experience has shown, the column of mercury tends to decrease by 1 inch per 1,000 feet of altitude. I knew: This little fact made it possible to create my Altimeter, a neat little scale to weigh the atmosphere, but a scale that happened to be calibrated to indicate altitude instead of the pressure created by the weight of the air.
I was so pleased with myself. How lucky I was that I could entertain myself with such lofty thoughts! Indeed, I recalled another thing my flying teacher had claimed: If one used water instead of mercury in the aforementioned experiment, one would create a column of water that was 32 feet high! That would hardly be useful for creating an instrument of manageable size. Somehow, thinking about water took me somewhere else. “It is a matter we cannot bury and ignore,” Mr. Barzel had said. “You may well come into contact with phosphorus one of these nights and the only thing that will save you from terrible burns is having a sponge ready and a pail full of water nearby. Or you might drape your heads in wet towels as you sit in your shelters. Always remember: Phosphorus Hates Water.”
“One Two Juliet, Washington Center, traffic twelve o’clock, opposite direction 500 feet below you,” someone said.
I couldn’t possibly see any traffic; a gray uniform layer of stratus clouds had formed just below me, reaching in all directions as far as I could see.
“One Two Juliet, no joy,” I said.
By then I was flying 219 degrees towards the Grand Strand VOR (frequency 117.6 and code CRE), located just north of Myrtle Beach, which soon emerged from the clouds, sitting there in the bright sun. “Those bombs sprayed some people with phosphorus and they couldn't get it off: Gerda says they jumped into the canal or rolled in the sand to kill the flames, but the moment they stopped, the fire came back.”
“One Two Juliet, contact Jacksonville Center now on One Two Eight Point Seven,” someone said and I did.
I turned to 234 degrees towards the Charleston VOR (frequency 113.5 and code CHS) and all the clouds disappeared. I watched the coastline on my left, passed Lake Moultrie on my right and, as newly instructed, switched to Jacksonville Center on frequency 127.95. There was ample time to talk to myself. As Charleston passed under me, I was in the midst of reviewing my Turn-and-Bank Indicator, commonly known as the Needle and Ball. This lovely instrument, I said to myself, shows an aircraft’s rate of turn about its vertical axis. The turn needle always deflects in the direction of the plane’s bank; right then, I noted, there was no deflection at all, confirming the fact that I was in straight flight. I also reviewed the turn indices, looking like little doghouses and so referred to by pilots. If the needle were to be pegged to a doghouse, right or left, the plane would be in a 3-degrees-per-second turn. One could hit the stopwatch and wait 1 minute to make a 180 degree turn and, thus, reverse course. And then there was the ball, sitting in its glass cage underneath the needle. When centered during a bank, the plane was in a well coordinated turn; passengers wouldn’t feel as if they were being pushed to the right or left by some scary invisible hand. But they would feel just that if a pilot used too little rudder or excessive rudder in the direction of a turn. The former case, known as a “slipping turn,” would move the ball in the direction of the turn; the latter case, known as a “skidding turn,” would move the ball in the opposite direction from the turn. Either indication could be cured by pressing on the rudder pedal on the side of the non-centered ball. “Step on the ball!” flight instructors would yell. And then passengers would stop feeling as if they were being pushed out of the plane!
“Don’t step on the glass,” my mother had said. Mrs. Nussbaum’s grocery store had been smashed to bits! The door was dangling from broken hinges. The giant store window lay in a thousand pieces on the sidewalk. Mrs. Nussbaum was sweeping up her window. She was sobbing. We stepped over huge slivers of glass, each one like a sword…
“Stop it!” I said to myself. I was flying over the ocean by then, steering 219 degrees towards TYBEE intersection and then 203 degrees to the Craig VOR (frequency 114.5 and code CRG). Savannah passed under my right wing and Jacksonville appeared straight ahead.
“November Eight Eight One Two Juliet, contact Jacksonville Center now on One Two Zero Point Eight Five, descend to maintain Four Thousand,” someone said as I passed Craig.
I didn’t like the altitude change; I had counted on the stronger tailwinds up high to push me along and save me from another refueling stop. And I certainly didn’t like the prospect of later flying over the Gulf of Mexico at such a low altitude.
“Jacksonville Center, One Two Juliet requesting Eight Thousand for over-water flight,” I said.
“One Two Juliet, Jacksonville Center, roger… maintain Eight Thousand, contact Jacksonville Center on One Two Six Point Seven Five.”
“Jacksonville Center, One Two Juliet, thank you, maintaining Eight Thousand.”
Proceeding along Victor 267 on a course of 178 degrees towards the Orlando VOR (frequency 112.2 and code ORL), I passed in rapid succession St. Augustine on the left, St. John’s River and then Lake George on the right and Daytona Beach on the left. Farther to the south, the NASA Shuttle landing facility was hidden under lower clouds. Turning to 162 degrees, I passed over Orlando International and listened to the Southern Florida weather report. I didn’t like it at all.
“This is the Miami Flight Service Station. This recording prepared at 20:55 Zulu; a briefing summary for Miami and the Keys. Weather advisory: An Airmet has been issued for IFR conditions, occasional ceilings less than 1,000, visibility less than 6 miles in precipitation and mist, occasional moderate turbulence below 10,000.
Current conditions at Key West: Marginal VFR, 1,300 overcast, surface winds 300 degrees at 8 knots, gusting to 12, temperature 60 degrees, altimeter setting 29.92. Forecast valid until 24:00 Zulu: 1,000 overcast, visibility greater than 3, surface winds 300 degrees at 15, gusting to 22.
After 24:00 Zulu: Ceilings and visibility lowering, with warm front passage after midnight local. Current position of front in the Gulf of Mexico, 90 miles to the west northwest, containing heavy rain showers and thundershowers, severe turbulence, and continuous lightning. The Coast Guard reports overcast cumulonimbus clouds with bases at 300-400 feet and excellent visibility underneath; a pilot report indicates cloud tops at flight level 450. Additional pilot weather reports are requested and appreciated.
Notices to Airmen: Restricted Area 2916 is active; unlighted balloon with ground cable at 14,000 feet 17 miles northeast of Key West International. Military training activit
y: Intensive jet fighter traffic at Naval Air Station Key West 3 miles east.”
There was a lot to digest. The Airmet was not a problem. It indicated danger to inexperienced pilots and ill-equipped aircraft; neither one applied to me. I could forgo the VFR [visual flight rules] approach and land on instruments; that was the whole point of my IFR [instrument flight rules] flight plan. Clearly, the air pressure had continued to fall; I reset my altimeter to 29.92 and climbed another 80 feet to regain 8,000.
I glanced at my Outside Air Temperature gauge; it read 32 degrees Fahrenheit, which made perfect sense. As one gains altitude, the air temperature usually becomes lower. In the troposphere, which extends from the ground to somewhere between 25,000 and 65,000 feet (lower over the poles, higher over the equator), the temperature lapse rate averages 3.5 degrees Fahrenheit per 1,000 feet. Given 60 degrees on the ground, it should be freezing at 8,000 feet.
And yes, I remembered, on occasion, the usual decrease of temperature with altitude is inverted. Such inversions are most common near the ground on clear, still nights; then terrestrial radiation occurs and the ground loses heat rapidly, cooling the lowest layer of air and, simultaneously creating restrictions to vision, such as fog, haze, and low clouds. And then there are frontal inversions as well, as when cooler air moves under warm air, which thought brought me back to the big story, the warm front in the Gulf.
Wow! Cumulonimbus clouds reaching to 45,000 feet! While flying, I had often seen those heavy, dense clouds from afar, shaped like mountains or massive towers, with tops in the shape of anvils and with bases of dark, ragged clouds, producing torrential rain and severe turbulence, along with lightning and thunder, as well as hail, ice, sleet, and snow aloft and possibly tornados or waterspouts on the ground. Pilots knew all too well that these cbs–pronounced sea bees–constituted a great danger to all types of aircraft. Thus, I could foresee the Sigmet being issued a few hours later, scaring everyone to death, as these “significant meteorological development reports” were meant to do.