Here's short vignette about a freight pup's flight in a Beech 18:
It couldn’t last, of course. The balmy days booming along over the ocean at 2,000’ with the side window open; with not a care in the world and with those big radial engines reeling in the horizon at 140 kts.; the clear nights and smooth rides spent scanning the eastern horizon for shooting stars upon which to wish in the pre-dawn darkness; soaring through cloud castles in the tropical moonlight. Dues must be paid. For everything gained, something must be lost. Yin and yang.
Winter arrives in the form of a powerful low-pressure system that’s drawing up a strong southerly flow of moist air, along with the usual gusty winds, rain and thunderstorms. Though I’m certain we won’t be flying this morning, I’m on the schedule so I show up at 3:00 a.m., as usual. It’s too cold to sit still, so the boss and I load up the Beech in the driving rain then retreat to the office to check out the radar pics. They don’t look good. The Hawaiian Islands are enveloped in cloud, a flash flood warning has been issued and there are advisories for strong winds. “Tis the season to be jolly,” grumbles the boss. An allusion, no doubt, to the blues, oranges, reds and greens of the radar echoes covering our entire area.
My pilot (I’ll call him Keana) arrives and we all traipse outside to see what it looks like and are astonished to find that the fully loaded Beech has jumped its chocks and, like a sailboat at anchor, has weather-vaned 90° into the wind. We run out, chock all the wheels and race back to the shelter of the office. With time on our hands we call up the ATIS at MKK and are surprised to discover that the viz. is more than ten and the ceiling is 1,500’. A look at the satellite pics confirms this, as the rain and clouds are concentrated over the island of Oahu, the Ka’iwi channel and points west.
“I think we can get in,” says Keana. “It looks clear over Moloka’i.”
“Are you crazy?!” I want to yell. “There’s a fricken’ hurricane raging out there!” But being the new guy I keep my mouth shut and hope the boss has sense enough to put the kybosh on any such nonsense. No such luck. A few minutes later we’re pulling the props through and getting ready to head out. There’s still time for me to back out of this insanity, I think, but of course I don’t.
So, I clamber up on the rain-slick wing, wiggle in through the side window and settle down into a puddle of water on the right seat. Seems the small side window has been open all night and the cockpit, instrument panel and seats are soaked. We fire up the engines, do our run-up then taxi out into the darkness and the driving rain. It’s pitch black. The plane rocks in the sudden gusts. We’ve asked for the shoreline runway, as it will give us a better slant into the strong crosswind blowing in off the ocean. Halfway there one of our radios starts acting up. “I don’t like to fly with just one radio,” says Keana but keeps on taxiing. Waiting for clearance at the end of the runway, the only things visible are the runway lights and the sheets of driving rain reflecting in our landing lights.
“Twin-Beech cleared for takeoff on 8 Right,” comes the call and off we go. As soon as we break ground the plane slews hard to the right and into the crosswind. At 500’, as we’re pulling back the power to 31” for cruise climb, the tower announces that the field is now IFR. How considerate of them to wait for us to get off the ground.
Reassuringly, the lights of Waikiki are still visible at our departure altitude of 1,500’. But as soon as we head out over the Ka’iwi Channel we are enveloped in total darkness. Are we flying through clouds? Or is it simply too dark to see anything? A moot point, as the windscreen has a virtual river flowing over it. About halfway there the curtain lifts and the distant lights of Moloka’i’s west coast become visible. The ceiling lowers as we creep along the south shore in the dark. A few clicks on the mike turns on the runway lights and Keana manages to squeak us in there with one of his typical hairy landings.
However, by the time we’ve unloaded the weather has deteriorated further and we opt to wait it out. I lie down for a snooze in the now empty Beech and Keana goes off to talk story with our loaders.
After about an hour Keana deems the situation to have improved enough for us to head back. At least now it’s light enough to see. “We’ll pick up an IFR clearance if we need it.” Since it’s my leg back, I fire up the engines and start to taxi out, at which point the tower notifies us that Honolulu is still IFR. Great. Why don’t we just hang out until the weather gets better? What’s the rush? But, no. Keana says nothing. So I line us up on the centerline, bring the engines up to 20” on the brakes, make sure all the gauges are happy, then let ‘er rip. A few moments later we blast out over the whitecaps, crank in a big right turn (God, I love this job!) and run scud up the coast at 1,000’. Unfortunately, we soon run out of scud under which to run. About ten miles out over the ocean it starts going zero-zero, so while I fly in circles under a rapidly lowering ceiling Keana calls Honolulu for an IFR clearance.
“Turn left to 265° and maintain 3,000’ feet,” says a soft feminine voice. She sounds so relaxed! As if we’ve just interrupted her from a friendly chat with a co-worker. She probably has a hot cup of coffee in one hand, her shoes off under the desk. She wouldn’t be relaxed if she were up here with us. That’s for sure! 3,000’ puts us right in the clag. There are strong updrafts and downdrafts in here. I don’t dare take my eyes off the instruments. About halfway back I overhear the captain of a United heavy ask to have the runway lights turned up brighter. Not good. As we start lining up on the localizer Keana takes the controls (You can have it!) and I try to distract myself by checking the instruments. The first thing I notice is that both fuel flow needles are on zero. Still, the engines are running fine and we’ve got plenty of gas on board, so it’s probably just the gauge. Probably.
At 300’ there is no sign of the runway, or of anything else. We drop lower. The tower comes on and says, “You’re too high to make the field.” Keana spots the runway through a hole in the clouds and says he’s going down. I key the mike and, masking my terror, casually say, “Ah, we’ll be okay.” Keana STUFFS us down whatever hole he saw and we pop out over the field at about 200’, halfway down the runway and waaay over to the left (the strong crosswind is still blowing). Somehow Keana skids us over the runway, but now we’re only about ten feet off the ground and still at a 45° angle to the centerline. I no longer fear the worst, but I’m still gripping the bottom of my seat with both hands (hence the expression ‘white knuckled’). As the mechanic in me starts to total up the cost of a couple of props, two engine strips and some sheet metal work, Keana jams in a leg-full of left rudder, straightens us out and plops us down on the centerline. I don’t believe it. The controllers must be going nuts. If this were a movie you’d say, only in Hollywood, but we’re not in Hollywood. We’re in the middle of rainstorm in a fifty-year-old airplane at six in the morning and our only audience is a few guys in the tower and some sea birds.
When we get back to the hangar we’re greeted like returning heroes. But I don’t feel the least bit heroic. What I really am is badly scared. With the passage of time this may make a good story, but right now all I want to do is to find a quiet place where I can sit and digest the experience. In truth, I feel the way a young soldier must feel after his first experience with the realities of combat. The words of Howard Fast come to mind: “And you’ve lost your youth and come to manhood, all in a few hours…. Oh, that’s painful. That is indeed.”
I’m scheduled to fly with the boss in his personal Beech on our next run. By this time the weather has improved somewhat, but the ceilings are still very low. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” says Keana after we get the ship loaded. (He hasn’t been too chipper either since we got back.) Not a chance.
We run scud out and back, and for the first time the boss lets me fly his ship through the clouds on instruments. Prior to this he had always taken the controls when we filed IFR. Under normal circumstances a flight like this would leave me stressed, but after this morning’s adventure it’s cake. When we shut down the engines back at base I wince in anticipation of the usual harsh debrief. But aside from a few comments about a botched radio call, the boss says nothing.
Things are looking up.
..........
