Pace and Genghis, you grizzled old Ppruners, how boldly you confess your early misadventures!
I can quite cheerfully tell all, now that I have handed in the Medical, and fly only with an instructor - quite a lot of fun, terrifying instructors, but that's another thread another day.
Very very lucky, in 3,000 hours, only 3 mishaps. In power. None in gliders (ground loops in field landings don't count).
Number 1, in a Minerva, farm strip, tall trees at one end, wires at the other. 5 knots of breeze. Getting checked out by a co-owner. I flew a circuit. That was fine, he said, try one the other direction. This had a slight draft up the derrier; I miscalculated, and decided to go around. The Franklin Engine resented my urgent call for action. It gave a huff and quit cold. We landed in what remained of the turf, which was ten feet too short. Nosed over in a field of turnips. People appeared out of the bushes to help; they always do in your most embarassing moments. After the turnips had been washed out of the farings, we could find no damage, nor could the engineer.
Number 2, at Booker Gliding Club, High Wycombe, hoping to be a tug pilot. The 180 horsepower Supercub needs careful handling, noses over at the slightest excuse. I had been told to fly solo round the countryside for practice.
No poblem. So the tugmaster deigned to strap in the back and check me out.
Lets see a landing, he says. So I landed. Lets see a half flap landing, he says.
So I did a half flap landing. Now lets see a landing with no flap, he says. So I approached terra firma, and as the Cub touched gently down, there was a "CRACK!" and just like a glider, at the end of the landing roll, the Cub put a wing down. One leg of the undercarriage broken. "That wasn't your fault, Mary" the tugmaster said immediately.
Nor was it. When the remains were examined, the entire airframe proved to be riddled with rust, I had simply been the lucky one at the helm - lucky because the tugmaster had been there, that's for sure......
Club manager said later "Why couldn't you have crashed it properly, Mary, so we could have collected the insurance?"
3. Now this was an international incident. Kerry International Airport, Fermoyle, Ireland. Flew over with another tug pilot, taking turns, in my own dearest G-OFER. We had stopped off at Hus Bos, Sutton Bank, Carlyle, and points of interest around the coast of Ireland, north and south.
Noticing rather a lot of turbulence, behind the Slieve Mish Mountain, (camera and lapboard became airbourne in the cabin) I called Kerry several times, enquiring about the wind strength and direction. Ah to be sure to be sure, its only ten knots from the North. Which was dead cross for our approach on 090, but that should be OK for a PAl8. "And Supercub Echo Romeo, you are number one for the approach, and Aer Lingus 727 from Dublin, you are number two behind the Supercub."
Well, that sort of puts you on your mettle, doesn't it? We skedaddlded down the glideslope, touched down, rolled out to walking pace - and got slammed by a 25 knot gust from the side. GOFER decided she wanted to depart the tarmac and rolled onto the greensward; only it wasn't a lawn, it was a swamp.
Shades of Alcock and Brown! Aer Lingus went around. And around and around, while the Irish Fire Brigade, quivvering with excitement, were persuaded not to squirt us with foam, but helped us upright, pushed onto the apron, and inspected the runway. Eventually the Guarda turned up to make the report. Said the officer, "Anyone injured at all at all?" No. "Any damage?" No. (the mud had been quite soft - we measured the prop next day and flew it home the following week.) Well, said the officer, I don't need to make a report then!