BY GREG RICHARDSON
My best friend and partner in a new Cessna
Skylane and I were off on our first long cross-country excursion to test our
newly minted instrument ratings. Our mission was to depart from Nashville,
Tennessee, and explore the northern Bahamas. We planned the flight meticulously
and had with us every instrument approach plate and chart for the Northern
Hemisphere. Our route was to Albany, Georgia, then to Fort Pierce, Florida,
before crossing the stretch of open water to Walker's Cay. We would switch
pilot duties at each stop, and each pilot would flight-plan their own flight
leg.
We had about 400 hours between us. We felt
pretty good about our skills and fancied ourselves seasoned pilots. We were
armed with a new Goodrich Stormscope WX-500, which would help us stay away from
the worst of weather evils. As fairly conservative pilots we would not
knowingly put ourselves in harm's way. However, we were to find out that it's
what you don't know that can hurt you. Several hard lessons were learned that
day, and we are lucky to be able to share them.
September is notorious for tropical weather
in the Caribbean as it falls in the heart of hurricane season, and this
September was no exception. There had been several notable storms earlier in
the season, and Tropical Storm Eileen now was churning in the Gulf. She wasn't
likely to become a hurricane, but promised to ravage central Florida
nonetheless.
I flew the first leg, which was relatively
uneventful except for some moderate showers in northern Georgia. We checked the
radar at our first stop in Albany. Eileen was quickly making her way across
Florida — already bearing down on Cross City. Our best plan: to have a cup of
coffee and let the storm move on east. But then, my friend mentioned the FSS
specialist's suggestion to fly east toward Jacksonville, then down the coast to
Daytona, and on to Fort Pierce. I made a passing remark about the possibility
of getting trapped east of the storm, but my friend told me that the briefer
had assured him that all flights had been routed that way. I realized we could
always land again and wait out the storm, so we went on our way.
As we approached Jacksonville, dusk was upon
us, and our trusty Stormscope painted lightning strikes to the west. We called
Jacksonville Center to discuss our options: to land or continue flying south.
The controller felt confident that we could make Daytona and stay ahead of any
dangerous weather. We should have heeded that little voice questioning our
decision, and landed. We could have had a nice dinner in Jacksonville. Instead
we pushed on.
The controller gave us vectors to the east of
the shoreline to keep us dry. As we turned south the sky grew black, and the
Stormscope looked like a war zone with abundant strikes lighting up the screen.
There was nowhere to go as the rain began hitting the windshield. I wondered if
the engine might fail as buckets of rain splashed down. Flying east would take
us out over the ocean, the north had closed in behind us, to the west was the
heart of the line of storms, and south wasn't looking safe.
After about 10 minutes of heart-stopping
rain, lightning strikes, and turbulence, a small hole opened, revealing the
beacon of St. Augustine airport in the distance. I told my friend, "Tell
the controller we're going right there," as I pointed to it. We quickly
amended our flight plan and set up for the St. Augustine VOR approach to Runway
13.
My friend expertly flew the approach,
breaking out of the clouds in light rain with plenty of room to spare. I felt
the tension leave my body, and I breathed a long sigh of relief. The controller
asked if we wanted to cancel IFR, and I confidently confirmed — a big mistake.
Whatever it was — the excitement, rain, dark
night, or relief to be landing — it caused my friend to approach the runway too
high and too fast. He announced our go-around over the common traffic advisory,
and off we went. As we plowed into the dark cumulus ahead we found ourselves
back in the clag, even though we already had canceled IFR.
As we turned downwind, we heard another
aircraft also calling a downwind entry, and I immediately spotted a light that
appeared to be moving toward us! It seemed our nightmare flight had quickly
gone from bad to worse. Luckily, the other aircraft turned out to be no factor
for us, and the light was from a ship in the distance. We were soon clear of
clouds and landed. This time my friend put our Cessna down on the numbers.
As we de-boarded, we tucked our tails, hung
our heads, and quietly slithered to the FBO. We checked the radar to find that
we had flown through an advancing thin line of storms. A larger line was
marching quickly behind it. If we had continued, we would have been caught off
the coast with no exit strategy and a slim chance of survival.
We recounted our shortcomings that night over
dinner. We learned that we have the ultimate responsibility for our flight; as
much as air traffic controllers may help us, they don't know our skill or
experience levels, or our airplane's performance. We learned to always have a
way out should trouble arise. And we learned never to cancel an IFR flight plan
if there is any chance of a missed approach back into instrument meteorological
conditions.
The rest of the trip was fantastic. Since
then, we have been back to the Bahamas on several occasions with our families.
My partner and I have well over 1,000 flight hours combined. Although we may
never be seasoned pilots, we learned much on that memorable September day, and
we now are better pilots for it