After spending $20 on a Discovery flight, I knew without a doubt this is what I wanted to do with my life — fly! The only flight school in town paired me with George, the best flight instructor ever, in my opinion.
My first flight with George was July 6, 1978, and it was evident from the very beginning that he had a passion for teaching. Unlike many flight instructors who teach to build hours on their way to the airlines, George was a retired Air Force officer invested in his students’ success. He emphasized calm when handling the airplane on every lesson, regardless of what was going on during the flight — an important element, as I would realize soon. George was all about stick-and-rudder skills and commonsense flying, and his lessons always included concepts above and beyond the basics of flight training.
Early in my training, he coached me through several simulated engine failures, reinforcing my ability to maintain control. Only nine lessons into my training, we taxied to the ramp and George told me it was solo time. Grinning from ear to ear, he said, “Without me in here, this plane will climb like a homesick angel.”
He wasn’t kidding. A few more dual flights with George in my logbook, and it was time for me to leave the safety of the traffic pattern and venture out on an area solo flight. George’s training echoed in my head as I left the pattern. “Watch your airspeed … step on the ball … fly the airplane first.” I had no idea how important his words were.
On Friday, October 13, 1978, my morning was wide-open, so of course I headed to the airport. I took off to the north toward the practice area, enjoying the absolutely gorgeous day. Since I was least comfortable with stalls, I started my routine with them. While recovering from the first stall, I pushed the throttle in to start regaining airspeed. Without warning, the engine started shuddering, only producing around 1,100 rpm. I instinctively turned back toward the airport, and then started looking for the problem. Carb heat and mag checks only increased both my blood pressure and the engine’s roughness. George’s voice echoed in my mind: “Stay calm … fly the airplane.”
Before I knew it, I was down to 2,000 feet agl, still slowly descending. I saw the airport to the south, so I picked up the mic and said, “Patrick Henry Tower, N66542 is about 6 miles to the north, 2,000 feet, with an engine failure,” as if talking to them would give some assurance that I would be OK. Tower immediately cleared me to land and asked if I would like to have emergency equipment standing by.
Runway 20 was beckoning me to continue straight ahead. I had the sinking realization that I wasn’t going to make it; the runway was far too high on the windscreen. I told the tower, “I can’t make it to the airport. I am going to have to set it down out here somewhere.” Then I threw the mic on the floor. The controller responded with something, but I didn’t hear it. Having grown up in the area, I thought of places I was familiar with where I might land but realized quickly that I was running out of options. “Fly the airplane, Don, fly the airplane!”
Things started moving in slow motion. “Airspeed … too fast. Slow down … step on the ball … watch your pitch,” I heard myself saying out loud. This is not supposed to be happening. I’ve only been flying a few months.
I was really getting low. Suddenly, an opening appeared beyond some trees … a field. Of course, it was the old county fairgrounds. Tall pines loomed ahead above my flight path. Airspeed check: 79 mph, way above best glide. I pointed toward the field and, making use of that extra airspeed, pulled the nose up over the trees, dumped full flaps to 40 degrees (thank you, Cessna) and floated down to the field. I buried the yoke in my stomach like my life depended on it.
The airplane bounced on the rough terrain of brush and tall weeds that zipped by the windows. At one point, the airplane hopped over a freshly dug utility trench, using the excavated dirt on my side of the ditch as a ramp. I came to a stop, dust and dirt swirling around the airplane. I sat there for a second, time no longer passing in slow motion, my knees shaking a little.
The engine stopped as if glad to be relieved from its unnatural operation. I climbed out, flipping off the battery and mags. I heard a firetruck screaming down the highway next to the field, but the siren faded away in the distance; it never did make it to the scene.
A telephone lineman came running up to me. “Are you alright?” He told me he had been high on a pole directly in my flight path and had watched the airplane fly over the road, trees and his pole, thinking he was going to meet me there instead of in this field. Tower must have called everyone under the sun because, before I knew it, law enforcement, the FAA, my flight instructor, the school’s mechanic and several friends showed up. It turned out the No. 3 cylinder on the engine “sucked a valve.” The FAA asked me some questions and left. The mechanic fixed the engine there in the field. They chopped down two trees, pushed the airplane back to the far end of the field, started it up and flew it back to the airport.
If you noticed earlier in the story, it was Friday the 13th. Not being superstitious, I did fly the next day — just to be sure — with George’s advice, “fly the airplane,” still reverberating in my mind.
