The Big Bang

Our tasks were many and varied. As daylight first appeared, our convoy of aircraft would convey bus-loads of tourists on scenic flights over Lake Argyle to the bee-hive shaped Bungle Bungle Ranges and back before the convective turbulence bubbled up in the increasing heat.

Charters and the occasional instructional flight filled the remainder of the day and it was not unusual to fly four or five flights in a variety of aircraft. At the end of the day, with aircraft cleaned and fuelled, the mob of like-minded young pilots made their way to the watering holes. It was GA heaven.

With less than 1000 hours I had been with the company about six weeks by May 1989 and already had flown about 100 hours in the company’s diverse operations. Over half of that time had been accumulated in the Cessna 210 and on this particular day I had already flown the morning scenic flight, a staff training hop to Lissadell Diamond Mine and a charter to Port Keats, 400km south of Darwin on the Northern Territory side of the border.

To finish the day, I had one more run to ‘Keats’, easy enough, about an hour each way.

The run was a regular charter to the Aboriginal township where we knew the locals by name. The trip up was without event and after offloading the freight, I waved goodbye and taxied out empty for the short sector to Kununurra. Rather than a straight line home, we always tracked south to Fossil Head, across to Quoin Island and then directly to Kununurra.

This allowed us to cross the Bonaparte Gulf while keeping land within gliding range at all times and avoiding the less than attractive option of ditching in the croc and shark filled waters.

At top of climb I leveled off in the cooler air and attended to the standard cycle of cockpit activity. With the engine leaned out and temperatures and pressures in the green, I sat up and enjoyed the beautiful scenery that extended in all directions.

The strutless high wing of the 210 afforded a tremendous view as the sun started to slip toward the western horizon and stretch the shadows beneath me. These were golden days.

Over Quoin Island I changed heading towards Kununurra before lowering my eyes to complete the Navigation Log. I was penciling in my times across the log when… Bang! The bang was accompanied by a physical thud and got my attention very quickly. My eyes sprung up and I scanned outside, with my first thought being a birdstrike. I looked around for evidence of blood and guts or bent metal, but there was none, rather a low vibration through the aeroplane. Still thinking I may have hit a piece of Kimberley wildlife I craned my head back over my shoulder and assessed the tailplane as best I could; nothing apparent.

Drawing my eyes back in and desperately trying to avoid tunnel vision, I scanned the instrument panel for any signs of abnormality. The manifold pressure gauge was quivering and seemed to be reading a little higher if anything. Mind you, the whole aeroplane was quivering a little. Exercising the throttleThis allowed us to cross the Bonaparte Gulf while keeping land within gliding range at all times and avoiding the less than attractive option of ditching in the croc and shark filled waters.

”Professional/experienced pilots of all stripes are invited to write about experiences you would like to pass on to others and retell yarns and anecdotes in our LOGBOOK TALES column.

Are you a pilot with a Logbook Tale to tell? If you’re an experienced pilot, whether in the airlines, military, or GA, with experiences you would like to retell or aviation lessons you’d like to share in this column, please contact the editor (email mail@ ausaviation. com. au, ph 02 6280 0111). seemed to worsen the vibration, so I smoothly returned it to its previous setting.

I now suspected an engine problem, but was unable to troubleshoot any obvious cause.

I decided to exercise the final stage of aviate-navigatecommunicate and contacted Flight Service. I advised them of my undiagnosed dilemma and revised my ETA for Kununurra as I seemed to have lost a little groundspeed.

All the while I scanned for potential landing fields below in case things went pearshaped quickly.

Hearing my call, a nearby company aircraft returning from Wyndham made his way to my position about 40nm (75km) from home. The other 210 closed to a safe distance ‘up sun’, but could see nothing wrong. He then formated to port, but admitted he could see very little as my aircraft was silhouetted against the rapidly setting sun. We flew in loose company to the MBZ boundary at which time my partner accelerated away and set about putting his aircraft on the ground.

For my part, I decided to maintain my present altitude until I reached the airfield.

Height equates to time and options in a single engine aircraft. Fortunately, the Kununurra environs were forced landing friendly if needed. I secured any loose items and completed my pre-landing checks as I approached overhead. I now received my first positive indication of the problem – the oil pressure was sitting lower.

I advised Flight Service of my intentions to join overhead before flying a descending left circuit onto Runway 12. It was right on dusk and there was no traffic in the area for me to conflict with as I turned back to join a close crosswind. The oil pressure was now even lower and the other instruments began to go out in sympathy. With the now-lit runway right below I selected gear down and began to configure the aircraft. The oil temperature began to rise, so with a landing assured I decided to shut down the engine, pulling the throttle and mixture without delay.

Putting the glide approach to real use rather than training, I aimed well into the field and lowered the final flaps as I rounded a close base leg. With no further need for electrical power, I switched off the Master Switch and lined up on the 1800m strip.

The landing was straightforward and I rolled to a halt on the centerline before confirming it was fully shutdown and climbing out.

As I closed the door, I felt my hand slip from the handle.

On turning around I was stunned; the entire port side of the aircraft was coated in oil. I could now pretty much rule out a birdstrike! Towed back to the hangar, the cowls were removed to show the cause of my drama. A cylinder head on the Continental IO-520 engine had separated. I was amazed “ This allowed us to cross the Bonaparte Gulf while keeping land within gliding range at all times and avoiding the less than attractive option of ditching in the croc and shark filled waters.

” at the degree of the damage, yet the aircraft had continued to perform. Until the last few minutes when the oil pressure had gone west, the symptoms had been mild with only an underlying vibration at cruise power settings.

To the credit of the company, they pulled in the fleet immediately and inspected all of the other similarly engined Cessnas for warning signs of an impending failure.

As a young inexperienced commercial pilot, the cylinder head separation had me scratching my head until the cowls were finally lifted in the hangar. I thought about what I might have done differently and had a good chat with the engineers. It seems like we are always training for engine failures, hydraulic failures, electrical failures and the like, but so often the incidents can be comprised of partial failures with insidious symptoms that subsequently develop into the major event.

For me, that night it was off to the watering hole before a very good night’s sleep.

After all, the next day I had an Instructor Rating renewal and charters to fly across some of the country’s most beautiful scenery. As I said, as a young commercial pilot in the Kimberleys life was pretty good, even when things didn’t go quite to plan.