The morning was still clear and cool when I pushed the Cheetah's throttle forward and lifted off from Runway one-four at Santa Rosa. At first it was a takeoff like any other I'd had with the plane, and I let out a sigh of relief at finally being off on our trip across the country. I turned crosswind and was climbing through about 1,200 feet when suddenly the engine made a unnatural, rumbling "BLAU-BLAU-BLUM" noise and a shudder ran through the airframe. For a single, heart-stopping moment, I thought I'd lost power completely. But, no, the engine seemed to have just stumbled and then regained its footing again.
I didn't care. Whatever had happened, it wasn't my imagination, and it wasn't right. I called the tower and in a surprisingly calm voice told the controller I'd had a change in plan, my engine had just made a funny noise and I wanted an immediate return to the airport. Two other pilots in the pattern, bless their souls, called and volunteered to clear out of the way to give me priority, and a couple of minutes later my wheels touched down on pavement again.
I taxied over to the hangar area, hoping to find a mechanic who could take a look at the plane. But as I shut down I remembered that all the mechanics I knew were out of town for the weekend at an airshow. I opened the cowling and looked for some kind of trouble, but whatever was wrong was not patently obvious. For several long minutes I just stood next to the plane, not willing to take off again but totally clueless as to what to do next.
In desperation, I finally called my friend and former Cessna 120 partner, Jim Dale, who also happens to be one of the best mechanics I know. He was at an airshow himself, but thanks to the cellular era in which we now live, I got hold of him and he was soon trying to troubleshoot my engine from 1,500 miles away. It was, shall we say, a somewhat frustrating experience for both of us.
"Have you checked the gascolator?" he asked.
"I don't think I have one, Jim."
"It would be near the bottom of the engine, connected to the fuel lines."
"Which ones are the fuel lines?"
I could hear his exasperated exhalation as airshow jet noise filled my ear.
"They're usually coated in red. But not always. Find the fuel pump."
"Where's the fuel pump?"
And so it went, for about 25 minutes. If I'd been a little less stressed or worried, I might even have been vaguely amused at the image of a woman standing on a deserted airport ramp, fuel system schematic in hand, cell phone wedged between her ear and shoulder, trying to learn and troubleshoot the parts of her engine from a mechanic half a continent away. At the time, however, my sense of humor was buried even deeper than the carburetor fuel control valves.
Jim finally concluded that water in the fuel was the most plausible explanation for my trouble, even though I hadn't found anything in the fuel I'd drained before or after the flight. "It might have already run through the engine," Jim said. "Take it up and just orbit the field for 10 or 15 minutes or so, and if it does OK, then come back, fuel up, get a bite to eat and launch."
