From the Left Seat (Continued)
They call him Big John. And with good reason: at 6 feet, 4 inches and 260 pounds, John Shearer casts an imposing shadow behind him. With a rich baritone voice, John's stature gives him a commanding presence -- wherever he his.
I first met him during an effort to fend off a hostile anti-airport group that was trying close Horace Williams Airport in Chapel Hill, N.C., a few years ago. Over time, I would bump into him at different airports around North Carolina and we developed a congenial relationship.
We were shooting the bull one day when I found out he owned a 1959 Cessna 310, Charlie model. I had reached the point where the idea of covering our southeastern territory faster was very appealing -- and before long we shook hands on a deal that would put me in the left seat of the twin Cessna.
I couldn't believe it. I was going to be Sky King.
###
I felt more than a bit awed whenever I was around John. Big guy, deep voice. Command authority. I mean, he's the captain, right? Twenty-four years with the airlines, 16,000-plus hours. It was like being with an aviation godhead. I was already placing John on high, way up on a pedestal. This guy knows it all.
And that's how it was when I went to fly with John the first time. I was going to check out in the 310 with him to satisfy the insurance policy's five-hour time-in-type requirement.
On our first flight, as we were preparing to turn onto the runway, I told John that I had been trained to leave the gear down until I could no longer land ahead.
"The way I do it in this airplane," he said, "is to get the gear up as soon as I can after I've got a positive rate of climb." I was nervous sitting there next to him, and I didn't do anything but say "okay." He's the boss, right? After all, it's his airplane. Whatever he says, goes.
Off we went that day, flying into DCA at breakfast time, in a thicket of air carriers crowding into National for the morning rush. I did pretty good, even though I was about 10 yards behind the airplane. By the time we got back home, I was relaxed and excited about this new flying experience.
We flew a couple more times, doing some air work and engine pulls at altitude. No sweat. I was really getting the hang of the bird, and beginning to feel good about it.
We scheduled one more round together before I would strike off on my own. We met at Raleigh-Durham International, where the airplane was hangared. As we sat in the cockpit we decided that John was pilot-in-command, and that if anything unplanned occurred, he would fly the airplane.
###
We were cleared to TDF: Person County Airport in Roxboro, N.C., about 30 miles to the northwest. John called Raleigh Approach and my next instruction was to enter an NDB hold north of Raleigh.
I somehow nailed the holding pattern on the first trip around, and he decided to stack the deck. Next time around, he covered the directional gyro, then the attitude indicator.
Under the hood, partial panel, NDB hold. Hmmm.
I was managing that okay when he reached over and pulled back the right throttle. I wrestled with the airplane for a moment, got it going the way I wanted and, at the same time, managed to continue the NDB hold.
Let's see now. Under the hood, single-engine, partial panel, NDB hold. Hmmm.
Small rivulets of sweat cascaded down my face as we asked for the VOR-A approach to TDF. I put on the hood and flew the approach down to decision height, still with just one propeller blowing in the simulated engine-out. Then I went around the pattern on one engine before making the landing.
I was worn out. Nothing in my experience had ever been as demanding as what I had just been through. We got out of the airplane to stretch and have a Pepsi.
###
"Let's just go on back to RDU VFR and land regular," I told John. "I'm tired."
"Not yet," he said. "We still have some work to do."
Back in the plane we went through the checklist airline-style, as we had each time we'd flown. As I advanced the throttles and the 310 started down the centerline, John reached across and pulled the right throttle. My intestines bolted up to my throat at this unexpected shock, and I quickly yanked the throttles back, rolling out harmlessly on the aborted take-off run. Good reaction, right decision. I'm getting good at this, I thought to myself.
We taxied back to the departure end, and I was already thinking about the next landing ... at RDU.
###
This is how I remember it.
As we rolled down the runway, I called out my airspeeds. At 90 I began to rotate, glancing at the VSI for a positive rate of climb. As the needle climbed upwards, I reached for the gear lever.
About the time I slid the gear lever into the up position, John reached over and pulled the left engine mixture control back to its idle cut-off position.
Then all hell broke loose. The engine quit and the airplane turned dead left. Trust me on this. Losing an engine and simulating an engine-out are two different animals. The violence of the yaw towards the bad engine is far more pronounced when it's the real thing.
The machine drifted left as I got onto the rudder, and as I straightened the bird I could feel the controls start to get mushy. Keep in mind, we're talking fractions of seconds here. No time for intellectual discourse, just action.
The left prop was windmilling and as John attempted to get the juice back to the dead engine, I remembered old Ralph Tidrick. I think I even saw his face. I looked ahead and saw runway, slammed both throttles backwards and the overwhelming torque to the left stopped.
I continued to fly the airplane, flaring as I prepared to touch down.
Now, there is no way to articulate the sinking feeling that develops in the pit of one's stomach when the props make those first few "tick-tick-tick" sounds as they bite into the pavement. The lower-than-normal perspective skews your sense of balance. Then the guttural grinding of sheet metal against the asphalt resounds in your ears.
I was stunned. I didn't know what had happened.
John's training kicked in, and he broke the silence. "Master off," he yelled, "Let's get the hell out of here." I remember looking below the yoke at a wisp of acrid smoke curling slowly towards me like a snake.
I got the hell out of there.
As I ran off the wing, I was surprised that I didn't have to step off the wing. The airplane is supposed to be sitting high off the ground.
"What have I done?" I thought.
###
Later, the reasons for the debacle became fairly evident.
As I talked with several friends who have a lot of multiengine instruction experience, I became satisfied that I had acted in an absolutely correct manner. Putting the airplane down on the runway brought about the best possible conclusion to such a dire predicament. I have often thought of the variety of other possible endings for this story. Maybe a tidy Vmc roll-over. Perhaps sheet-metal carnage as I hit the trees at the end of the runway. Or maybe I strike the runway wing-low and enjoy a fiery demise.
Whatever the possibilities, I feel sure that the airplane was not going to fly out of that situation -- and that chopping the power was the proper action. I made what was, under the circumstances, the best landing of my life. Just minor indignity to the belly's flat sheet metal, a few antennas scraped into oblivion and two do-it-yourself Q-Tip props. There was not so much as a scratch to the tip tanks or nacelles.
However, from my perspective, I shared in the blame of the incident for one important reason: I abdicated my responsibility to myself as an experienced pilot because I thought that John, with all his skills, was superior to me as a pilot. And he probably is. But if I had relied on the methods that I learned when I was trained, the wheels would have been sticking down from underneath the 310 when I pulled the power back.
Now I firmly believe that experienced pilots must take into account the realm of their own experiences when receiving instruction. Rely on one's own counsel.
And I'll tell you another thing. There is no longer any debate in my mind about how one should react to a sudden engine failure at low altitude and low airspeed. Just make sure the wheels are down.
After the incident, when the airplane had been put back together, I flew it down to Simcom in Orlando. The simulator-based training was the most intensive learning experience I've been through. At the end of three days, I was shooting an ILS when Darryl Weller, Simcom's director of training, cleared me to land. Just over the fence, his voice crackled over the intercom, "123 Papa, go around, the Baron in front of you is still on the runway, go around." The instant I put in full power and started to go around, Weller pulled the left engine. Low airspeed, low altitude. I landed in the silicon grass of the projected image.
Same decision -- and the right one, according to my instructor. The difference, of course, was that this time I was in the byte bucket, safely removed from harm's way.
###
The decision to tell our story -- in the hope that someone else may glean a morsel of knowledge from our experience -- has been cathartic to both of us. Our friendship has continued to prosper in the aftermath of the incident and subsequent insurance hassles. It was just one of those "happens" things.