I lost my license!!

[Bubbleboy]

I am writing to you, because I need your help to get me bloody

 

pilot's 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 examiner) 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 a look over my property and

 

let me operate from my own strip. Naturally I agreed to that.

 

Anyway, Ron turned up last Wednesday. First up, he said he was a bit

 

surprised to see the plane on a small strip outside my homestead,

 

because the ALA (Authorized Landing Area) is about a mile away. I

 

explained that because this strip was so close to the homestead, it was

 

more convenient than the ALA, and 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, I decided to do it all

 

over again. Because the prick was watching me carefully, I walked around

 

the plane three times instead of my usual two.

 

My effort was rewarded because the color 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 some

 

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' Cessna 172. We climbed aboard, but

 

Ron started getting' onto me about weight and balance calculations and

 

all that crap.. 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, its 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 set on neutral to ensure we remain

 

pretty stable at all stages throughout the flight.

 

Anyway, I started the engine and cleverly minimized 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

 

Okay. 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 propwash disappear completely through the

 

windscreen of his brand new Commodore. "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 for the 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, 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. (I didn'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 Fax access out here is a friggin' joke and the bloody

 

weather is always 8/8 blue anyway. But since I had that near miss with a

 

Saab 340, I might have to change me thinking on that. Anyhow, on

 

leveling out I noticed some wild camels heading into my improved

 

pasture. I hate bloody 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 flaps, 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. 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 fetal position and was screamin' his

 

freakin' 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. 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, "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 bugger!

 

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 taxiing 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' license. Can you?

 

Best regards Scotty :ah_oh:

 

 

[Guest roadk99]

thats a good one Scotty.I wasnt going to read it being so long but once i started i couldnt stop. Peter;.

 

 

[MrH]

True country humour - excellent

 

 

[BigPete]

I've seen it at least a hundred times and I still have to read it - bloody brilliant. One of the funniest things ever.

 

regards

 

:big_grin:

 

 

[Flyer]

That's bloody hilarious...

 

 

[Bubbleboy]

Hi Guys...yes an oldie but a goodie. I cant claim responsibility but kill myself laughing each time I read it!

 

Scotty

 

 

[Bob1957]

top stuff this lol:clap:

 

 

[Guest pecram air]

HA HA HA HA

 

I love this one every time it appears.

 

 

[Bigglesworth]

My BFR is fast approaching (when the instructor gets time, he's taking his own sweet time about it too)

 

So I might be the author in a time warp.......

 

Wouldn't surprise anyone...

 

 

[Simonflyer]

That is an Absolute Classic!

 

 

[Gibbo]

The worst thing is that I could put a couple of names into that story.. Blasted station pilots. :)

 

Gibbo

 

 

[Guest mike_perth]

thats very good

 

I love the line - and suddenly went I.F. bloody R, mate. You would've been bloody

 

proud of me as I didn't panic once

 

hehe

 

 

[Flyingphot]

I think I know Ron - ex airline pilot - no idea of real country flying:laugh:

 

 

[K-man]

I reckon you did all right .. except for Carby Heat! You need to remember the possibility of icing when you're coming down on idle! You'll run the risk of an accident if you're not more careful!!! :thumb_up:

 

 

[Guest Brett Campany]

That's just gold!!!