Air Safety- Subtle Incapacitation

Inevitably however, such concessions to the inexperienced and unskilled denied thousands of pilots the challenge – and the satisfaction – of mastering what, in that much less politically sensitive era, could have been called “a man’s aeroplane”. By the time this particular Pacer came my way, it had already endured a more adventurous career than most light aeroplanes. Beginning its working life in the latter part of 1954 fitted with Edo floats, it was operated by the Missionary Aviation Fellowship from Sentani, the airport for Hollandia, (today Jaya Pura), capital of the then Dutch New Guinea that is now Irian Jaya. Carrying the registration JZ-PTB, it made many pioneering flights into the wild and undeveloped interior, including the Baliem valley, the remote mountain encircled “Shangri-La” in the heart of the Dutch New Guinea highlands only discovered during World War II when a USAF Dakota crash landed there.

Retired from New Guinea in the late 1950s, the Pacer was flown to Australia, refurbished at Moorabbin Airport in Melbourne, supplied with a tailwheel undercarriage as an alternative to the Edo floats, registered as VH-AMA, and in 1959 sold to the Greenseas Cannery at Eden, NSW, for use as a fish spotter, based at the newly constructed airport at nearby Merimbula. The plan was to use it as a landplane for most of each year while spotting for schools of salmon along the coast, but to put it back on floats for deep sea tuna spotting out beyond the continental shelf during the “tuna season” between September and January. At this early stage in the development of fish spotting as an “industry within an industry” it was acquired to replace a very tired J5 Auster and an appallingly under powered, float equipped J3 Piper Cub, originally carried aboard one of the bigger tuna vessels.

At the time, based at Merimbula myself, I was struggling to establish a charter and aerial work operation with a twin engined former Flying Doctor DH.84 Dragon, a useful machine in many ways, but by then nearly as tired as the much scorned Auster. So at the peaceful little country airport which really came to life only for the arrival and departure of the twice weekly DC-3 from Sydney, it was probably inevitable that the destinies of the Pacer and myself should intersect. Indeed, probably regarding the modest investment as good insurance, the Greenseas Cannery management suggested quite soon that I should be checked out in the Pacer in order to be able to “fill in” for them, should they find themselves short of a pilot. A very pleasant flying instructor, holidaying at Merimbula, was deputised to perform the task, and we began one balmy January morning.

What exactly happened next, I have never been able to work out, but it was as though Iblinked momentarily – and suddenly the reefwas filling the windscreen. The Pacer was diving directly towards it at a steep angle!

Compared to the interior of the immaculate RAC of NSW Tripacer on which I had gained my very first nosewheel type experience only a few months before, the Pacer’s cabin was spartan – more a commentary on the hardworking life it led in Dutch New Guinea than any reflection on its manufacturer. The cabin was devoid of creature comforts, save the two front seats. Instead of any rear seat, there was a largish area of empty cabin where cargo could be stored, the cabin heating system had long since been removed, and the only radio equipment was an ancient tunable H/F transceiver mounted in the left hand side of the instrument panel. But there were additions too – a hand operated reel for the trailing aerial on the cabin ceiling above the pilot’s head, and below the instrument panel, the emergency alternative fuel system which MAF still fits to all its single engined aircraft as an insurance policy against engine failure over mountains or jungle.

For all that, the similarities with the Tripacer were obvious. Visibility over the nose in the three point position, though of course not nearly as good as the Tripacer’s, was still excellent for a single engined tailwheeler, and it was nice to find the flying controls free of the artificial “heaviness” imposed by the Tripacer’s interconnected system. I knew little of the Pacer’s ground handling reputation, but even if I had, it would have bothered me not at all. I had held a commercial licence for several years, had considerably more flying time on tailwheel twins than singles, and had in the past mastered such averred ground-looping potentialities as the Percival Proctor. With this sort of background, plus a couple of hours recently in the Tripacer, the checkout in the Pacer would, I told myself, be no more than a formality required to placate the pedantries of the Department of Civil Aviation.

Taxiing out, with the Pacer’s steerable tailwheel and smoothly functioning hydraulic toe brakes, was perfectly normal for such a type, and we lined up for takeoff into the light nor-easter on Merimbula’s Runway 03. But as I opened the throttle, all my complacency was rudely shattered. Never had I encountered such a wolf in sheep’s clothing! Previous aircraft with marked tendencies to swing on takeoff had at least been honest about it. The Lockheed 12A, with its 900hp (670kW) from twin Pratt & Whitney R985 radials could be expected to demand a firm bootful of right rudder as the throttle levers were advanced for takeoff. Likewise the Percival Proctor, albeit much lighter, but with a hefty Gipsy Queen II engine up front and a free castoring tailwheel. But this glorified tube and fabric puddle jumper! Who would have suspected such treachery?

As the power came on, the stripped down, lightly laden Pacer accelerated fiercely, acquiring a will of its own as the tail lifted, and literally skating sideways across the runway. Holding it in check within the confines of the cleared strip only by the most vigorous of footwork, I heard my mentor laughing aloud as I gasped with surprise. I lifted the machine into the air quickly to minimise embarrassment, and it climbed away eagerly, a tribute to its low all-up weight and the efficiency of its 150hp (110kW) Lycoming engine. In the air it proved an absolute joy, its light controls producing an immediate and positive response. Particularly the ailerons which, in combination with the stubby, strut-braced high wing, gave a satisfyingly fast rate of roll, enabling the aircraft to be flung into a graceful steep turn with a proverbial flick of the wrist.

Landing was something else again. “You can’t wheel it on,” my mentor warned me as we rejoined Merimbula’s picturesque circuit, mindful of the landings he’d seen me doing in the Dragon. “It’s got to be a threepointer – or you’ll kangaroo the length of the strip.” He was right – at least at that stage of my acquaintance with the Pacer. Provided the threepointer was reasonably judged, the touchdown and landing roll remained free of high adventure, though the aircraft tended to skip more easily with full flap than half flap. But “letting the wheels beat you” – allowing the main wheels to contact with the ground before the tail wheel – would result in a hard bounce. Attempts to recover from the bounce with forward stick seemed only to make matters worse and it would go on bouncing, all the while trying to wrest directional control from the pilot. Later on after much practice, I did teach myself to wheel it on, but even then the Pacer retained its unpredictable character.

But I am jumping ahead. As it turned out, Greenseas made little call on my time for many months. But then, for a good reason that I cannot now remember, the young pilot who normally flew the Pacer was going away, and I had a telephone call from the Greenseas operations manager in Eden. Would I, the Greenseas ops manager wanted to know, take over the flying of the Pacer temporarily to help them out? It was not a difficult decision: there were no charters in immediate prospect, and the promise of some extra cash was certainly not to be missed. I assented, trying hard not to seem to be overly enthusiastic.

The salmon spotting runs – usually of about two hours duration or less – were most effectively conducted at first light in the morning and at dusk, when the fish tended to school up close in to the beaches in search of food. This left the middle of the day free for any tourist flying, the main source of my charter revenue, so it was a happy arrangement all round. The only drawbacks were the frequent early morning departures in the half light of dawn – and in winter the low temperatures, with no cabin heater in the Pacer to assuage the biting cold. Grumbling about this to the other Greenseas pilot one day, I was offered an apparently simple solution. The Pacer, because it was a floatplane from time to time, had greatly enlarged louvres in the sides of its nose cowling, their purpose to enhance engine cooling at the higher power settings but lower airspeeds inherent in floatplane operations. Pointing out the standard cabin air scoops on either side of the lower forward fuselage, my colleague assured me that if I opened one of these in flight, it would entrap some of the warm air emerging from the cowl louvres – and so provide the cabin with the desired warmth.

I wasn’t keen; hot oily fumes from the engine were about the last thing I needed during an early morning flight on a near empty stomach. But a day soon came when frigidity of the pre-dawn darkness overcame even this reluctance, and before starting the engine I took care to open the scoop on the port side. The result was better than I expected. In flight there was something of an engine smell, but it wasn’t too objectionable – and the cabin was certainly a lot warmer. In the half light of the coming day I flew south at 500 feet, following the meandering coastline of rugged cliffs and headlands, alert as always for the purple-brown patch of colour in the waves that would betray the presence of a substantial school of salmon.

Half an hour after takeoff, with the trailing aerial run out ready to contact the nearest fishing vessel, I was rounding the lighthouse on Green Cape and sweeping into Disaster Bay, the Pacer performing as energetically as ever. Not so myself – why was I feeling so lethargic this morning? It wasn’t as though I’d had a late night. The wind was offshore and the sea calm, with only a light surf breaking, but the beaches here were devoid of anything interesting. Mallacoota Inlet now lay only 9nm (15km) along the beach. Flying above the breakers, the Pacer covered it easily in a few minutes. But again there were no salmon to be seen – it looked as though this morning’s run would be abortive. This time I wasn’t sorry – the sooner I got home now the better. Feeling the way I did, I obviously needed a good hearty breakfast to buck me up.

Only the reefs off Mallacoota Point now remained to be checked and then I could turn for home. With familiarity borne of practice, I rolled the Pacer into a tight turn over the reef, looking down through my side window at the expanse of the marine growth. What exactly happened next, I have never been able to work out, but it was as though I blinked momentarily – and suddenly the reef was filling the windscreen. The Pacer was diving directly towards it at a steep angle! Almost as a reflex action, I recovered control and level flight, shaking my head in a vain attempt to clear the fuzzy drowsiness that seemed to have settled on me. Fortunately I still had enough sense to realise what was happening – I was suffering from the insidious effects of carbon monoxide poisoning. That cabin air scoop was somehow sucking in fumes from the engine exhaust!

I made an attempt to bend down beneath the control wheel and close the scoop, but it was no use: somehow I just didn’t have the energy to make the effort. No, as I was virtually in the circuit of Mallacoota aerodrome, a landing there immediately was the obvious answer. I turned south, putting me on to a short right base leg for an approach over the sea. I began winding in the trailing aerial, but the effort required seemed immense. The drowsiness was by now becoming overwhelming and I had to keep shaking my head every few seconds to keep my eyes open. Eventually, just before the Pacer crossed the coastal cliffs, the aerial was fully in. The runway threshold flashed beneath the nose, and I held the aircraft off. Somehow the landing was a reasonable one, and I quickly taxied off the strip, shut down the engine, stepped out, took some lungfuls of fresh air and sat down on the ground.

When I was feeling better, I got on my feet again and walked around, indulging in more deep breathing. Mallacoota aerodrome was utterly deserted at this hour of the morning, so there was no question of seeking assistance. Later in the morning, when I was sure I had recovered properly, I flew the Pacer back to Merimbula, first taking the precaution of course of closing the offending air scoop. Later inspection of the engine showed that the source of the trouble was no more than a slightly blown exhaust manifold gasket which was releasing exhaust gases into the air flowing through the engine cowling.

I moved on from Merimbula and the Pacer not long after this episode, my one regret being that I had never flown it on floats as had been its operator’s intention. As for the Pacer itself, it was retired a year or so later, and after many years in a dismantled condition at Bankstown Airport, it found its way into the hands of a Western District enthusiast who has since given it a new lease of life as a prized classic. The message still holds good for any single engined aeroplane equipped with a cabin heater – make sure the exhaust system and heater shroud are in sound condition at all times – the consequences of their being otherwise could be dire!