From Andrey Bitkin; FujiFilmFinePix S5 Pro
Monday, December 21, 2009
A long trip home
Cessna 210
Toward the end of the trip to Miami Beach with my buddies, I called my dad. He told me that a friend of his was flying a private plane to Chicago from Ft. Lauderdale, and that I could hitch a ride. I asked if I could bring a friend along, and he said it would be fine. I told my crane-climbing pal Jim that he was welcome to fly back with me in a private plane. He jumped at the opportunity. It would be his first time up in a small aircraft.
We met the pilot, Roger, on the airport tarmac and soon buckled in, with me in the copilot seat and Jim in back. Roger taxied the Cessna 210 to the end of the runway, applied full throttle and in seconds we rose steeply into clear skies.
The plane leveled off at 7000 feet. The dark green everglades glistened below in the bright sunlight. Jim seemed content as he looked out the back window. 20 minutes later, Roger tilted the plane and pointed to the left to get a better look at lake Okeechobee. "Fresh water alligators," he said above the loud din of the engine. I nodded, happy to be high above the spiny reptiles.
From a mile and a half above the ground, the country is mostly made up of green and brown rectangular plots of land. Occasionally, large cities and small towns pop up, then more rectangular plots for many miles.
An hour north of Lake Okeechobee, I noticed Roger checking control panel instruments. "I think we have a slight skip in the engine," he calmly said, adding "I just felt in the seat of my pants." Sure enough, a minute or two later I felt a slight vibration under me.
"Don't worry, I could land this plane in the middle of the mountains and we'd all walk away from it," Roger said. I looked back at Jim. He remained silent but looked like he had just seen a ghost.
My leather seat vibrated again, a little stronger than the last time. The propeller seemed to be functioning fine and there was no telltale skipping sound. The brief vibration repeated about every ten to twenty minutes. Roger told us we'd be landing in Macon Georgia to evaluate the situation. A half our later, we descended through light clouds and softly touched down. I was happy to be on the ground and Jim seemed very relieved.
Roger called my dad and they concurred that the engine problem didn't seem too serious. We would proceed to Chicago. I was a bit surprised, but went along with the plan. After all, how else were Jim and I going to get home that evening?
We ambled back into the plane and took off for the three-hour trip to Chicago. For the first hour the vibration seemed to have disappeared. A half hour later it was back, this time with a bit more intensity. Roger did not seem overly concerned. I was worried, but thanks to Roger's attitude, not scared out of my pants. We were now over central Indiana, and the sun had just set over the horizon.
Then it happened--so fast there was no time to soil my pants. The engine took a major skip, almost losing power. Roger reacted immediately, nosing the plane down to avoid stalling and adjusting the throttle. The engine kicked back in and we leveled off.
"That's it," Roger declared. "We'll land in Terra Haute. I'm not going to fly this thing at night." He guided it down for another perfect landing. We were all relieved to be on terra firma in Terra Haute, the dirt-track racing capital of the world. We boarded a commercial turboprop for the final two hundred miles to Chicago; a nice large plane--with two engines.
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