Help to get my pilot license back

[Admin]

[letter to friend]

 

I hope you and the family are well. I know it's been quite a while since you last heard from me, but Doreen and the rest of the family are all OK but I think they're getting a bit pissed off with station life, particularly when there's bugger all rain to speak of - and the cattle and sheep are dying all over the place!

 

I'm writing to you, mate, because I need your help to get me bloody pilots license back (you keep telling me you got all the right contacts, well now's your chance to make something happen for me because, mate, I'm bloody desperate). But first, I'd better tell you what

happened during my last flight review with the CASA Examiner.

 

On the phone, Ron (that's the CASA d!ckhead) seemed a reasonable sort of bloke. He politely reminded me of the need to do a flight review every two years. He even offered to drive out, have look over my property and let me operate from my own ALA. Naturally I agreed to that. Anyway, Ron turned up last Wednesday.

 

First up, he said he was a bit surprised to see the plane outside my homestead because the ALA is about a mile away. I explained that because the strip was so close to the homestead, it was more convenient than the ALA, despite the power lines crossing about midway

down the strip (it's really not a problem to land and take-off because at the half-way point down the strip you're usually still on the ground). For some reason Ron seemed nervous. So, although I had done the pre-flight inspection only four days earlier, Idecided to do it all over again. Because the pr!ck was watching me carefully, I walked around the plane three times instead of my usual two. My effort was rewarded because the colour finally returned to Ron's cheeks - in fact they went a bright red.

 

In view of Ron's obviously better mood, I told him I was going to combine the test flight with farm work as I had to deliver three poddy calves from the home paddock to the main herd. After a bit of a chase I finally caught the calves and threw them into the back of the ol' 172. We climbed aboard but Ron started getting' into me about weight and balance calculations

and all that bullsh!t. Of course I knew that sort of thing was a waste of time because, calves like to move around a bit, particularly when they see themselves 500 feet off the ground! So, it's bloody pointless trying to secure them as you know. However, I did tell Ron that he shouldn't worry as I always keep the trim wheel 'Araldited' to neutral to ensure we remain

pretty stable at all stages throughout the flight.

 

Anyway, I started the engine and cleverly minimised the warm-up time by tramping hard on the brakes and gunning her to 2,500rpm. I then discovered that Ron has very acute hearing, even though he was wearing a bloody headset. Through all that noise he detected a

metallic rattle and demanded I account for it. Actually it began about a month ago and was caused by a screwdriver that fell down a hole in the floor and lodged in the fuel selector mechanism. The selector can't be moved now, but it doesn't matter because it's jammed on 'All Tanks', so I suppose that's OK.

 

However, as Ron was obviously a real nit-picker, I blamed the noise on vibration from a stainless steel thermos flask, which I keep in a beaut little possie between the windshield and the magnetic compass. My explanation seemed to relax Ron because he slumped back in the seat and kept looking up at the cockpit roof. I released the brakes to taxi out but unfortunately the plane gave a leap and spun to the right, "Hell" I thought, "not the starboard wheel chock again". The bump jolted Ron back to full alertness. He looked wildly around just in time to see

a rock thrown by the prop wash disappear completely through the windscreen of his brand new Commodore. "Sh!t, now I'm really in trouble", I thought.

 

While Ron was busy ranting about his car, I ignored his requirement that we taxi to the ALA and instead took off under the power lines. Ron didn't say a word, at least not until the engine started coughing right at the lift off point, then he bloody screamed his head off, "Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!"

 

"Now take it easy, Ron" I told him firmly, "that often happens on take-off and there is a good reason for it." I explained patiently that I usually run the plane on standard MOGAS, but one day I accidentally put in a gallon or two of kerosene. To compensate forthe low octane of the kerosene, I siphoned in a few gallons off super MOGAS and shook the wings up and

down a few times to mix it up. Since then, the engine has been coughing a bit but in general it works just fine, if you know how to coax it properly.

 

Anyway Andy, at this stage Ron seemed to lose all interest in my flight test. He pulled out some rosary beads, closed his eyes and became lost in prayer (Ididn't think anyone was a Catholic these days). I selected some nice music on the HF radio to help him relax. Meanwhile I climbed to my normal cruising altitude of 10,500 feet (I don't normally put in a

flight plan or get the weather because as you know getting NAIPS access out here is a f#*% joke and the bloody weather is always 8/8 blue anyway. But since Ihad that near miss with the Saab340, I might have to change me thinking). Anyhow, on leveling out I noticed some wild camels heading into my improved pasture. I hate camels and always carry a loaded .303 clipped inside the door of the Cessna just in case I see any of the bastards. We were too high to hit them, but as a matter of principle, I decided to have a go through the open window. Mate, when I pulled the bloody rifle out, the effect on Ron was friggin' electric. As I fired the first shot his neck lengthened by about six inches and his eyes bulged like a rabbit with myxo. He really looked as if he had been jabbed with an electric cattle prod on full power.

 

In fact, Ron's reaction was so distracting that I lost concentration for a second and the next shot went straight through the port tyre. Ron was a bit upset about the shooting (probably one of those pinko animal lovers I guess) so I decided not to tell him about our little problem with the tyre. Shortly afterwards I located the main herd and decided to do my fighter pilot trick. Ron had gone back to praying when, in one smooth sequence, I pulled on full flap, cut the power and started a sideslip from 10,500 feet down to 500 feet at 130 knots indicated (the last time I looked anyway) and the little needle rushing up to the red area on me ASI. Sh!t, what a buzz, mate!

 

About half way through the descent I looked back in the cabin to see the calves gracefully suspended in mid air and mooing like crazy. I was going to comment on this unusual sight but Ron looked a bit green and had rolled himself into the foetal position and was screamin' his f*&%# head off. Mate, talk about being in a bloody zoo. You should've been there, it was so

bloody funny!

 

At about 500 feet I leveled out, but for some reason we continued sinking. When we reached 50 feet I applied full power but nothin' happened; no noise no

nothin'. Then, luckily, I heard me instructor's voice in me head saying "carby heat, carby heat", so I pulled carby heat on and that helped quite a lot, with the engine finally regaining full power. Whew, that was really close, let me tell you!

 

Then mate, you'll never guess what happened next! As luck would have it, at that height we flew into a massive dust cloud caused by the cattle and suddenly

went I.F. bloody R, mate. Andy, you would've been bloody proud of me as I didn't panic once, not once, but I did make a mental note to consider an instrument rating as soon as me gyro is repaired (something I've been meaning to do for a while now).

 

Suddenly Ron's elongated neck and bulging eyes reappeared. His mouth opened wide, very wide, but no sound emerged. "Take it easy," I told him. "We'll be out of this in a minute." Sure enough, about a minute later we emerge; still straight and level and still at 50 feet. Admittedly I was surprised to notice that we were upside down, and I kept thinking to myself "Sh!t I hope Ron didn't notice that I had forgotten to set the QNH when we were taxying". This minor tribulation forced me to fly to a nearby valley in which I had to

do a half roll to get upright again.

 

By now the main herd had divided into two groups leaving a narrow strip between them. "Ah!" I thought, "There's an omen. We'll land right there."

 

Knowing that the tyre problem demanded a slow approach, I flew a couple of steep turns with full flap. Soon the stall warning horn was blaring so loud in me ear that I cut its circuit breaker to shut it up, but by then I knew we were slow enough anyway. I turned steeply onto a 75 foot final and put her down with a real thud. Strangely enough, I had always thought you could only ground loop in a tail dragger but, as usual, I was proved wrong again!

 

Halfway through our third loop Ron at last recovered his sense of humour. Talk about laugh. I've never seen the likes of it; he couldn't stop. We finally rolled to a halt and I released the calves, who bolted out of the aircraft like there was no tomorrow.

 

I then began picking clumps of dry grass. Between gut wrenching fits of laughter Ron asked what I was doing. I explained that we had to stuff the port tyre with grass so we could fly back to the homestead. It was then that Ron really lost the plot and started running away from the aircraft. Can you believe it?

 

The last time I saw him he was off into the distance, arms flailing in the air and still shrieking with laughter. I later heard that he had been confined to a psychiatric institution - poor bastard!

 

Anyhow, mate, that's enough about Ron. The problem is I just got a letter from CASA withdrawing, as they put it, 'my privileges to fly'; until I have undergone a complete pilot training course again and undertaken another flight proficiency test. Now I admit that I

made a mistake in taxying over the wheel chock and not setting the QNH using strip elevation, but I can't see what else I did that was so bloody bad that they have to withdraw me flamin' licence. Can you?

 

Anyhow mate, the reason for writing to you is to ask if you know any flight instructors who would be willing to come out the station for about 2 months to help get me back up to speed. I'll pay them good money while they're here and they won't have to worry about paying for food or accommodation.

 

Looking forward to your response. Until then, take care, mate.

 

 

[Bruce Tuncks]

Alas, this sort of story really happens in real life, but we don't often hear of it. For example, there was a Jabiru back at Bundaberg to get repaired after the owner put (1) a second fuel tank BEHIND the first, and

 

(2) repaired a ripped-out nose-leg by sandwiching what was left of the original firewall with plywood.

 

Maybe the second job accidentally made the c of g ok again after the first put it too far back...

 

I only got to hear of this because a club-member was there to collect a new plane. I wonder why this stuff is not published more.

 

 

[onetrack]

The following NTSB crash investigation report, on a Zodiac 601XL in Tennessee, makes one realise there are numbers of pilots out there that should not be flying, full stop.

 

The ATSB was involved in this report, because the engine of the Zodiac was a Jabiru 3300A.

 

The pilot was in extremely poor physical (and likely mental) shape, with a record that involved impulsive behaviour and poor decision-making, uncompleted training, a previous crash that led to him handing in his PPL, and adverse reports from instructors.

 

https://app.ntsb.gov/pdfgenerator/ReportGeneratorFile.ashx?EventID=20171221X55208&AKey=1&RType=Final&IType=FA

 

 

[turboplanner]

Alas, this sort of story really happens in real life, but we don't often hear of it. For example, there was a Jabiru back at Bundaberg to get repaired after the owner put (1) a second fuel tank BEHIND the first, and

 

(2) repaired a ripped-out nose-leg by sandwiching what was left of the original firewall with plywood.

 

Maybe the second job accidentally made the c of g ok again after the first put it too far back...

 

I only got to hear of this because a club-member was there to collect a new plane. I wonder why this stuff is not published more.

 

Because the person/and/or his mates keep it quiet and don't report it.

 

I'd still be fascinated to hear more about the Drifter that came down upsode down the night before one Natfly and spend the weekend in a shed hidden by a tarp.

 

 

[Litespeed]

Whilst there are some real dropkicks out flying, and are waiting for the Darwin award.

 

They, like any two year old knows when to hide or keep quiet when they really stuff up.

 

If they lack the integrity to follow rules and keep things safe including for others, they sure ain't going to admit it.

 

Bit like expecting Scomo to admit to anything.

 

 

[boleropilot]

they're out there all right - I'll make this short because I may have already mentioned it on this forum - when I was at Oakey back in the '70s we had a problem with an old fella who didn't like the idea of the 'new fangled controlled airspace' right in the middle of one of his favourite tracks, from his place to his mates place...

 

every now and then he'd turn up, he started to fly low (I mean fence height) in the hope we wouldn't spot him. I was in the tower one day when he was spotted, the controller said "Johnny, is that you out to the north of the 'field? - you know you're supposed to get clearance to fly through here" - and (believe it or not) a voice came over the radio 'nah it's not me mate, I'm not anywhere near Oakey today'....

 

they decided they would go out to his farm and have a man to man with him - in the process they stumbled across an 'old' Cessna, 180 I think, cobbled together with fencing wire and looking like something out of a junkyard - apparently he was very proud of his 'old girl'. They noted the rego and later found out it hadn't been registered for over 10 years....

 

BP