Fore! thought

I’m no stranger to rough paddock operations, having flown my own aeroplanes in and out of small fields and airstrips for the past quarter-century. But I had never experienced a real, true, proper, complete engine failure — until today.

I had been away from our Perth home for eight months, flying displays around Britain as wingman in the RedHawks Duo. Before leaving I carefully winterised my Australian aeroplane the Blue Angel by filling its Volkswagen engine full of oil and taping up the exhausts, air intake, breather, fuel cap vent, pitot and static ports.

On return, after allowing myself a week to get over the jet-lag, I charged the Fournier’s battery, stripped off all the blanking tapes, drained the excess engine oil and siphoned out the remaining ten litres or so of stale fuel, re-filling the tank with twenty litres of fresh Avgas.

Following my usual routine, I dropped and visually checked the fuel filter —it was spotless — and unscrewed the float bowl’s little drain plug and re-wired it. Then I started the engine to blow out the residual oil as blue smoke, and drove home.

Next day I went flying. The air was warm and the sky was cerulean, so I looked forward to treating myself to some refreshing open-cockpit aerobatics. Popping off the standard canopy, I replaced it with my open-cockpit cabrio conversion and as an afterthought quickly drilled a hole in its front to bolt my new GoPro video camera in place. Concerned that my vertical rolls were wobbling off-axis, I aimed it rearwards over my head.

Following my buddy Rick’s similarly open-cockpit Fly Baby into the warm easterly breeze and climbing overhead the airfield, I waved and smiled to him from a distance, enjoying surprisingly calm conditions considering the 30C temperature.

We couldn’t really communicate in any other way because Rick’s radio was plagued by wind noise. Today, he was experimenting with a polythene microphone cover and although it worked fine on the ground I could barely hear him in flight. He also had trouble hearing me, although we weren’t sure whether my transmission or his reception was the cause.

Cruise-climbing westwards to the coast I scanned around, observing the many changes since I was last here, noting the numerous new roads and housing developments and reflecting that I hadn’t flown open-cockpit for at least two years.

This immediacy, this direct contact with the earth below was so enjoyable that I could not understand why I hadn’t done it more often.

In loose company at 3,000 feet, Rick and I cruised ten miles southwards over the Indian Ocean to the resort town of Mandurah, admiring the squintingly bright beaches, the jigsaw of turquoise shallows immediately beneath us and the dark and forbidding depths further seawards before turning north again.

When we got to prominent Becher Point, due west of our Serpentine base, Rick set off back to the airfield. I told him I would stay for some aerobatics.

I habitually fly my first return sortie here, in case I’ve lost my touch and break the aeroplane or termites have invaded it in my absence.

Neither scenario is likely but it seems prudent to make my first manoeuvres out over the sea where falling debris can harm no one. First climbing a little then gently diving for speed, I throw a loop, a barrel roll both ways, a full cloverleaf, a stall turn and a ballistic roll in each direction. They go well so I fly the routine again, this time recording it with the GoPro.

Now for some more advanced stuff: again I’ll make sure I can complete the manoeuvres successfully before filming them. What’s my height? 3,500 feet — that’s fine. A quarter upward vertical roll first, that’s OK, so I humpty-bump over the top and throw a downward one too. No, I wasn’t wings-level in the humpty so I’ll repeat that. That’s better.

Now an avalanche. This is such a brilliant manoeuvre, especially with the open cockpit: the world rotating rapidly right there in my face in the flick-roll at the top. But I over-rotate a bit so I fly another. That’s better, now for a half-Cuban; what’s my top-out height? Just under 3,000 feet. I had better break off and climb after this.

As I loop inverted and momentarily check forward, the engine stops as it always does under negative G — it is only a Volkswagen, after all. The propeller usually keeps turning and we’re accelerating now, so when I roll erect it will burst into life again.

That’s odd! There’s plenty of airflow noise and buffeting around my head but I can’t feel any thrust. I’ll dive more steeply to get the propeller windmilling. That’s even more weird! It’s still turning, so fast it’s a blur.

Wait a minute! What’s going on here? Raise the nose, close the throttle, peg 55kt, re-trim, turn for home. What’s our height? A little over 2,000ft? This is not good.

Where am I? Not far out to sea but much too distant from base to glide home. Aim for the beach. That’s always been my plan. Pump the throttle. The engine splutters for a moment but immediately goes silent again.

Bugger, bugger, bugger! I don’t have time for this! Dismantling a Fournier takes days, and Christmas is coming.

Get a grip! That beach was always my intended bolt-hole. It’s been in the back of my mind for years, despite being rather curved and actually at right-angles to today’s south-easterly wind.

But what’s this? A new jetty has been built right in the middle of the best bit since I was last here, admittedly a year ago. And the tide’s in, leaving only a very narrow strip of firm wet sand between that nasty, rough sea and the fine, soft, dry sand that will flip me inverted.

Becher Point itself is a big area of wilderness but it’s all covered in dense, 10-ft bush. I could survive a forced-landing in that but this irreplaceable aeroplane would not. Those wide, level salt lakes are too far away, with crowded housing between me and there.

Aha, I remember! There’s a long, straight south-easterly road that’s almost into-wind. But those lamp-posts have sprung up since last time I was here. And those look like new concrete chicanes along the median strip. Boy the local shire has been busy in my absence!

What about that horse-racing oval a couple of miles inland? Oh no, today it’s dotted with white things. Jumps? I don’t know, they are too far away to be sure. Whatever they are, it doesn’t look inviting, and I would have to glide all the way over there to confirm for sure that I can’t use it, leaving me very short of choices.

But wait. What are those big blobs of bright green close by in this otherwise grey and khaki landscape? A golf course. That’s better, I’ll have 18 chances of a good landing area there. Right, that’s decided.

Luckily, Fourniers glide pretty well and I have determinedly stayed in practice at glide approaches over the years. Later, counting back through my logbook, I discover I’ve flown no fewer than 179 gliding approaches and landings in my Fourniers and Champ during the past 12 months alone, mostly into our short, sloping, obstruction-surrounded British airstrip and often with a tailwind. So the actual flying and touchdown judgement are merely instinctive. It’s the procedural stuff I’m very rusty on.

Quick — blurt out a Mayday before you’re too low to be heard. You can always cancel it later. What’s Perth radar’s frequency? Ah yes, it’s here on Allen’s sticker, 135.25. I press 3525 on the Icom’s keypad and nothing happens. Blast! I press Alt 7 to disable the keylock but see the key-shaped icon appear.

Bugger, but it’s dark under this cabrio top compared with the bright light all around and I find it hard to see what I’m doing with these sunglasses. But I can’t take them off or I’ll be blinded looking outside. Still, those buttons definitely don’t work so I punch Alt 7 again.

How do I tune this bloody thing? It’s different from my British Fournier’s Becker and my Champ’s earlier model Icom, and I’ve forgotten how to tune it. Try turning the knob on top — anticlockwise will be quickest from 119.1. Oh no, it’s going through the 117s for VORs and ILSs. I don’t have time for this either. Back to 119.1.

“Mayday, mayday mayday, Rick will you call Perth Radar and tell them I’ve had an engine failure and I’m landing on the golf course.” After a startled pause I hear a muffled reply. That’s good — Rick’s a professional and I know the message will get through.

By now I’m well under 1,000 fee, and as I get lower and begin to examine the golf course in more detail, my heart sinks. Every single fairway is dog-legged, seriously undulating and deliberately obstructed by scooped-out sand bunkers and big patches of ‘rough’. Bugger again! This really is not my day.

In the foreground, I spot the GoPro camera immediately ahead of me. Quick, turn it on. At least there will be a record of what happens. Then I realise the propeller is slowing down and promptly lower the nose for enough airspeed to keep it windmilling.

Surely this bloody engine will go. It may be old but it has always been thoroughly reliable. I switch the magneto off and on, pull off the fuel cock and push it back on forcefully. What else can I do? I open the throttle again, there’s a two-second surge of power and it splutters away. Well, that proves it’s a fuel problem, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

Like a dullard, I don’t think to turn upside-down again, nor even to shake the aeroplane around to dislodge any fuel system obstruction. They don’t teach you this sort of thing, I haven’t practised a full engine failure drill for years and now I’m far too busy now looking for a safe landing place to nut out original ideas.

Forget it. The Fournier’s floating inexorably downwards and I have to land somewhere. Switch off everything and concentrate. Magneto, radio, master switch. That’s it. I forget the headset’s ANR box but far more importantly, I completely omit to turn off the fuel cock. I could now lie and say I didn’t need to because I knew it was a fuel problem but no, I just forgot the very most important thing! Tighten my straps. No, they’re already bar-tight, as we were flying aeros.

Oh how I wish I didn’t have this cabrio top. I haven’t used it for twenty months. It makes the outside picture look different, and it puts the instruments in deep shadow. And this horizontal hoop in front of my face will take out my teeth if I get things wrong. I always meant to replace that 4130 steel tube with a softer, more malleable aluminium one. Well, it’s too late now.

Looking back up out of the cockpit I spot an apparently clear, roughly rectangular area right in the middle of the golf course. I’ve no idea what it is, but it’s maybe 250m long and 50m wide — almost as long as our British airstrip and much wider. I don’t have much time or height left, so that will have to do.

I can’t see any wind indicators and bonfires are illegal here, so I’ll have to assume the wind’s still easterly. Now I realise I’m a bit high so I lower the wheel, pull out the spoilers and start S-turning to wash off some altitude without losing sight of my intended touchdown spot, one-third of the way into my ‘field’.

There’s a clubhouse in the foreground with some pines reaching upwards between me and it. Are there wires? Power and phone lines are low-level killers. Now my eyes widen in shock. There don’t seem to be any wires but I’ve just realised that my intended landing ground is peppered with tall, stout posts, maybe 10ft high. Oh no, with 40-ft wings I really do not need this! I ease a bit southwards to align with what seems to be a fairly clear corridor in the initial touchdown area. I’ll just have to deal with the roll-out later.

I’m close above those tall trees and whistling in towards the clubhouse. Damn, I’m fast. I must have a tailwind after all. Okay, reduce the airspeed and bring the touchdown point a bit closer with sideslip. Then I go cold. With no engine, my little aeroplane is silent. Nobody will know I’m coming. My mind newsflashes that item of an iPod-wearing American beach jogger being hit and killed by a forced-landing Lancair. How to prevent somebody walking in front of me?

But I have the open cockpit, and for the first time I’m pleased about that. I shout: “Look out!” Wait, what’s the golfing term? At the top of my voice I yell: “Fore!” I see white faces upturning towards me. Good, they know I’m coming.

As I flash across the car park, I’m frantically reducing the airspeed and the propeller slows to a dead stop before me but I don’t notice, I’m concentrating so hard. Now to get this bloody thing on the ground in one piece. By golly, everything’s going past quickly. I carry sideslip into the flare and plant it firmly on the grass, left wing low, then jam my left thigh against the spoiler lever and grab for the handbrake.

“Look out!” Wait, what’s the golfing term? At the top of my voice I yell: “Fore!”

I feel the wheels jump and judder across the grass as they scrabble for friction. Black and white posts flash past close on my left but now there are more ahead and off to my right — and there’s a bloody pond or something dead ahead!

I hit full left rudder, dig in that outrigger with aileron and will my little monowheeled bobsleigh into turning, to avoid knocking off a wing — or two. I seem to have invented a new sport: the Fournier golf-course slalom.

A couple of substantial bushes flash past the left wing tip as we bounce off a hummock left wing-low, skidding ballistically though the air at below stall speed and smack down against the far hump. My back jars and my teeth clack together.

We’re slowing now, with about 150ft to go but that last thump knocked most of the energy out of our careering progress and we slither to a halt 20ft short of the dense scrub.

A golf buggy drives up as I undo my belts: “Are you OK?”

“Fine thanks, sorry for spoiling your game.” And it’s all over bar the publicity. I transmit that I’m safely on the ground and cancel my Mayday.

The whole event took little more than five minutes. How did I do and think all those things in that brief time? I have no idea, especially since it takes me a fortnight to riposte a simple quip. But I did.

After a few more minutes I hear the familiar blatter of a Continental O-200 and look up to see the instantly recognisable roundels of Rick’s Fly Baby orbiting overhead. I run back to the cockpit, turn on the switches, grab my helmet and transmit: “Please cancel my Mayday. All’s well and no damage.”

There will be no further communication with anybody except face-to-face because I fly open-cockpit with completely empty pockets. How odd these days to be in an unusual situation with no mobile phone.

Manager Peter Whittle arrives with his sidekick Atilla. It transpires that I am on Port Kennedy Links Golf Course, variously described as Australia’s sixth, fourth and second-best course. Together, we drag The Blue Angel off to the edge of the driving range — for that’s where I had landed — to get it out of the way of nasty hard flying golf balls.

I use the one item I do have with me, my trusty multi-tool in its pouch on my belt, to remove the cowlings. I want to check the fuel immediately but I have no container to drain it into, so I set off on foot towards the clubhouse for a jar or bottle.

On my way, I get the chance to inspect those unyielding six-inch diameter wooden posts supporting distance marker boards. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, I inhale the heady aroma of freshly-watered, short-cropped grass, smile at the scuttling crested doves, admire the iridescent blue wrens flitting through the bushes and suddenly notice the silence and solitude. Ah, the serenity! Perhaps that’s golf’s attraction?

I collect a clear-glass beer bottle and a discarded plastic milk container from a helpful girl behind the bar. On my exit I bump into two cheery policemen who have just driven up in their ute to investigate. On seeing the beer bottle in my hand they raise an eyebrow and I smile. We three are all aware it’s a silly formality but I have to be breathalysed — my second new experience of the day.

Out over my Fournier, I spot the Channel 10 Jet Ranger hovering, presumably taking photos or footage. I would like to rush across and wave it away from my ultra-light 290-k airframe but it lands alongside while the Fournier rocks dementedly in its downwash.

Next thing I know, and within less than ten minutes of touchdown, I’m approached in the car park by Bay News reporter Heather and a pair of work experience girls who have just driven up. They are met by their school chum Dan Whittle, the course manager’s son, who is likewise on work experience at the golf course. Much banter ensues.

Heather is keen to get her story but I am eager to return to my aeroplane, so we jump into two electric buggies and hum across the range, to be met and interviewed by Channel Ten’s affable Mark Way.

Before that is finished, other reporters are queuing up, including Channel Seven’s Jessica Vanderende, photographer Neil Mulligan, and a 6IX Radio reporter whose name I’ve forgotten. Flushed with relief and adrenalin, I’m informative, even garrulous in my replies but make sure not to mention our club or airfield. We don’t need any adverse publicity.

After the first couple of interviews, it occurs to me to give Port Kennedy Links Golf Course a plug as being friendly, helpful folk and “The sixth-best course on the continent”.

At an early stage I realise the same precepts apply as did when I used to address my Jumbo’s passengers. I should answer all questions honestly and openly, try to keep things light and matter-of-fact. And ensure I get across the message that engine failure does not have to end like a Hollywood movie but is just a rather irritating non-event, for which we practice continually.

I force myself to be patient with that repeated silly question: “Weren’t you scared or frightened?” These people just don’t realise there’s no time for those emotions — only for annoyance, determination and concentration.

Much later, we discovered the cause of this sudden, unexpected engine stoppage — the remains of a small insect completely blocking the carburettor’s minuscule 1.3mm main jet.

But how had it got there? There was nothing in the tank or the gascolator earlier and I had just replaced the small amount of old fuel with fresh, new avgas and even opened the float bowl’s little drain plug to let out some fuel. All had checked clean and clear.

After closer examination, I realised the main jet lives in a separate chamber under the float bowl — the carb’s lowest point and below its drain plug — and the dead insect parts had settled into there. There was no other debris in the tank or the gascloator and the filters would have caught it anyway, so it can only have got into the carb by crawling in through the float-bowl vent.

Just my luck! Why an insect should want to creep into that nasty, stinky environment, only that mad bug knows.

Luckily the outcome, which could have been catastrophic, was little more than an annoying inconvenience and its only lasting effects were a nasty touch of sunburn, which soon passed, but a surprising newly acquired distrust of aeroplane engines, which might take a while to go!