nz_phoenix
20th Nov 2005, 03:42
Hi Mate,
I am writing to you, because I need your help to get me bloody pilot's
license back. You keep telling me you got all the right contacts. Well now's your
chance to make something happen for me because, mate, I'm bloody desperate.
But first, I'd better tell you what happened during my last flight review with
the CAA Examiner.
On the phone, Ron (that's the CAA ********) seemed a reasonable sort of
bloke. He politely reminded me of the need to do a flight review every two years.
He even offered to drive out, have a look over my property and let me operate
from my own strip. Naturally I agreed to that.
Anyway, Ron turned up last Wednesday. First up, he said he was a bit
surprised to see the plane on a small strip outside my homestead, because the ALA
(Authorized Landing Area) is about a mile away. I explained that because this
strip was so close to the homestead, it was more convenient than the ALA, and
despite the power lines crossing about midway down the strip it's really not a
problem to land and take-off, because at the half-way point down the strip
you're usually still on the ground.
For some reason Ron seemed nervous. So, although I had done the pre-flight inspection
only four days earlier, I decided to do it all over again.
Because he was watching me carefully, I walked around the
plane three times instead of my usual two.
My effort was rewarded because the color finally returned to Ron's cheeks.
In fact, they went a bright red. In view of Ron's obviously better mood, I told
him I was going to combine the test flight with some farm work, as I had to
deliver three poddy calves from the home paddock to the main herd. After a bit
of a chase I finally caught the calves and threw them into the back of the
ol' Cessna 172. We climbed aboard, but Ron started getting' onto me about
weight and balance calculations and all that crap. Of course I knew that sort of
thing was a waste of time because, calves like to move around a bit,
particularly when they see themselves 500 feet off the ground! So, its bloody pointless
trying to secure them as you know. However, I did tell Ron that he shouldn't
worry as I always keep the trim wheel set on neutral to ensure we remain
pretty stable at all stages throughout the flight.
Anyway, I started the engine and cleverly minimized the warm-up time by
tramping hard on the brakes and gunning her to 2,500rpm. I then discovered that
Ron has very acute hearing, even though he was wearing a bloody headset. Through
all that noise he detected a metallic rattle and demanded I account for it.
Actually it began about a month ago and was caused by a screwdriver that fell
down a hole in the floor and lodged in the fuel selector mechanism. The
selector can't be moved now, but it doesn't matter because it's jammed on 'All
tanks', so I suppose that's Okay.
However, as Ron was obviously a real nit-picker, I blamed the noise on
vibration from a stainless steel thermos flask, which I keep in a beaut little
possie between the windshield and the magnetic compass. My explanation seemed to
relax Ron, because he slumped back in the seat and kept looking up at the
cockpit roof. I released the brakes to taxi out, but unfortunately the plane gave
a leap and spun to the right. "Hell" I thought, "not the starboard wheel
chock again". The bump jolted Ron back to full alertness. He looked wildly around
just in time to see a rock thrown by the prop wash disappear completely
through the windscreen of his brand new Commodore. "Now I'm really in trouble", I
thought.
While Ron was busy ranting about his car, I ignored his requirement that we
taxi to the ALA, and instead took off under the power lines. Ron didn't say a
word, at least not until the engine started coughing right at the lift off
point, then he bloody screamed his head off. "Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!"
"Now take it easy, Ron" I told him firmly. "That often happens on take-off
and there is a good reason for it." I explained patiently that I usually run
the plane on standard MOGAS, but one day I accidentally put in a gallon or two
of kerosene. To compensate for the low octane of the kerosene, I siphoned in
a few gallons off super MOGAS and shook the wings up and down a few times to
mix it up. Since then, the engine has been coughing a bit but in general it
works just fine, if you know how to coax it properly.
Anyway, at this stage Ron seemed to lose all interest in my flight test. He
pulled out some rosary beads, closed his eyes and became lost in prayer. (I
didn't think anyone was a Catholic these days). I selected some nice music on
the HF radio to help him relax.
Meanwhile, I climbed to my normal cruising altitude of 10,500 feet. I don't
normally put in a flight plan or get the weather because, as you know getting
Fax access out here is a bloody joke, and the bloody weather is always 8/8
blue anyway. But since I had that near miss with a Saab 340, I might have to
change me thinking on that. Anyhow, on leveling out I noticed some wild camels
heading into my improved pasture. I hate bloody camels, and always carry a
loaded .303 clipped inside the door of the Cessna just in case I see any of the
bastards.
We were too high to hit them, but as a matter of principle, I decided to have
a go through the open window. Mate, when I pulled the bloody rifle out, the
effect on Ron was absolutely electric. As I fired the first shot his neck
lengthened by about six inches and his eyes bulged like a rabbit with myxo. He
really looked as if he had been jabbed with an electric cattle prod on full
power. In fact, Ron's reaction was so distracting that I lost concentration for a
second and the next shot went straight through the port tyre. Ron was a bit
upset about the shooting (probably one of those animal lovers I guess) so
I decided not to tell him about our little problem with the tyre.
Shortly afterwards I located the main herd and decided to do my fighter pilot
trick.
Ron had gone back to praying when, in one smooth sequence, I pulled on full
flaps, cut the power and started a sideslip from 10,500 feet down to 500 feet
at 130 knots indicated (the last time I looked anyway) and the little needle
rushing up to the red area on me ASI. What a buzz, mate! About half way
through the descent I looked back in the cabin to see the calves gracefully
suspended in mid air and mooing like crazy. I was going to comment on this unusual
sight, but Ron looked a bit green and had rolled himself into the fetal
position and was screaming his head off. Mate, talk about being in a bloody
zoo. You should've been there, it was so bloody funny!
At about 500 feet I leveled out, but for some reason we continued sinking.
When we reached 50 feet I applied full power but nothin' happened; no noise no
nothin'. Then, luckily, I heard me instructor's voice in me head saying
"carby heat, carby heat". So I pulled carby heat on and that helped quite a lot,
with the engine finally regaining full power. Whew, that was really close, let
me tell you!
Then mate, you'll never guess what happened next! As luck would have it, at
that height we flew into a massive dust cloud caused by the cattle and
suddenly went I.F. bloody R, mate. BJ, you would've been bloody proud of me as I
didn't panic once, not once, but I did make a mental note to consider an
instrument rating as soon as me gyro is repaired (Something I've been meaning to do
for a while now).
Suddenly Ron's elongated neck and bulging eyes reappeared. His mouth opened
wide, very wide, but no sound emerged. "Take it easy," I told him. "we'll be
out of this in a minute." Sure enough, about a minute later we emerge; still
straight and level and still at 50 feet.
Admittedly I was surprised to notice that we were upside down, and I kept
thinking to myself, "I hope Ron didn't notice that I had forgotten to set the QNH
when we were taxing". This minor tribulation forced me to fly to a nearby
valley in which I had to do a half roll to get upright again.
By now the main herd had divided into two groups leaving a narrow strip
between them. "Ah!," I thought, "there's an omen. We'll land right there."
Knowing that the tyre problem demanded a slow approach, I flew a couple of steep
turns with full flap. Soon the stall warning horn was blaring so loud in me ear
that I cut its circuit breaker to shut it up, but by then I knew we were slow
enough anyway. I turned steeply onto a 75 foot final and put her down with a
real thud. Strangely enough, I had always thought you could only ground loop
in a tail dragger but, as usual, I was proved wrong again!
Halfway through our third loop, Ron at last recovered his sense of humor.
Talk about laugh. I've never seen the likes of it. He couldn't stop. We
finally rolled to a halt and I released the calves, who bolted out of the aircraft
like there was no tomorrow.
I then began picking clumps of dry grass. Between gut wrenching fits of
laughter, Ron asked what I was doing. I explained that we had to stuff the port
tyre with grass so we could fly back to the homestead. It was then that Ron
really lost the plot and started running away from the aircraft. Can you
believe it? The last time I saw him he was off into the distance, arms flailing in
the air and still shrieking with laughter. I later heard that he had been
confined to a psychiatric institution - poor bugger!
Anyhow, mate, that's enough about Ron. The problem is I just got a letter
from CASA withdrawing, as they put it, my privileges to fly; until I have
undergone a complete pilot training course again and undertaken another flight
proficiency test. Now I admit that I made a mistake in taxiing over the wheel
chock and not setting the QNH using strip elevation, but I can't see what else I
did that was so bloody bad that they have to withdraw me flamin' license. Can
you?
I am writing to you, because I need your help to get me bloody pilot's
license back. You keep telling me you got all the right contacts. Well now's your
chance to make something happen for me because, mate, I'm bloody desperate.
But first, I'd better tell you what happened during my last flight review with
the CAA Examiner.
On the phone, Ron (that's the CAA ********) seemed a reasonable sort of
bloke. He politely reminded me of the need to do a flight review every two years.
He even offered to drive out, have a look over my property and let me operate
from my own strip. Naturally I agreed to that.
Anyway, Ron turned up last Wednesday. First up, he said he was a bit
surprised to see the plane on a small strip outside my homestead, because the ALA
(Authorized Landing Area) is about a mile away. I explained that because this
strip was so close to the homestead, it was more convenient than the ALA, and
despite the power lines crossing about midway down the strip it's really not a
problem to land and take-off, because at the half-way point down the strip
you're usually still on the ground.
For some reason Ron seemed nervous. So, although I had done the pre-flight inspection
only four days earlier, I decided to do it all over again.
Because he was watching me carefully, I walked around the
plane three times instead of my usual two.
My effort was rewarded because the color finally returned to Ron's cheeks.
In fact, they went a bright red. In view of Ron's obviously better mood, I told
him I was going to combine the test flight with some farm work, as I had to
deliver three poddy calves from the home paddock to the main herd. After a bit
of a chase I finally caught the calves and threw them into the back of the
ol' Cessna 172. We climbed aboard, but Ron started getting' onto me about
weight and balance calculations and all that crap. Of course I knew that sort of
thing was a waste of time because, calves like to move around a bit,
particularly when they see themselves 500 feet off the ground! So, its bloody pointless
trying to secure them as you know. However, I did tell Ron that he shouldn't
worry as I always keep the trim wheel set on neutral to ensure we remain
pretty stable at all stages throughout the flight.
Anyway, I started the engine and cleverly minimized the warm-up time by
tramping hard on the brakes and gunning her to 2,500rpm. I then discovered that
Ron has very acute hearing, even though he was wearing a bloody headset. Through
all that noise he detected a metallic rattle and demanded I account for it.
Actually it began about a month ago and was caused by a screwdriver that fell
down a hole in the floor and lodged in the fuel selector mechanism. The
selector can't be moved now, but it doesn't matter because it's jammed on 'All
tanks', so I suppose that's Okay.
However, as Ron was obviously a real nit-picker, I blamed the noise on
vibration from a stainless steel thermos flask, which I keep in a beaut little
possie between the windshield and the magnetic compass. My explanation seemed to
relax Ron, because he slumped back in the seat and kept looking up at the
cockpit roof. I released the brakes to taxi out, but unfortunately the plane gave
a leap and spun to the right. "Hell" I thought, "not the starboard wheel
chock again". The bump jolted Ron back to full alertness. He looked wildly around
just in time to see a rock thrown by the prop wash disappear completely
through the windscreen of his brand new Commodore. "Now I'm really in trouble", I
thought.
While Ron was busy ranting about his car, I ignored his requirement that we
taxi to the ALA, and instead took off under the power lines. Ron didn't say a
word, at least not until the engine started coughing right at the lift off
point, then he bloody screamed his head off. "Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!"
"Now take it easy, Ron" I told him firmly. "That often happens on take-off
and there is a good reason for it." I explained patiently that I usually run
the plane on standard MOGAS, but one day I accidentally put in a gallon or two
of kerosene. To compensate for the low octane of the kerosene, I siphoned in
a few gallons off super MOGAS and shook the wings up and down a few times to
mix it up. Since then, the engine has been coughing a bit but in general it
works just fine, if you know how to coax it properly.
Anyway, at this stage Ron seemed to lose all interest in my flight test. He
pulled out some rosary beads, closed his eyes and became lost in prayer. (I
didn't think anyone was a Catholic these days). I selected some nice music on
the HF radio to help him relax.
Meanwhile, I climbed to my normal cruising altitude of 10,500 feet. I don't
normally put in a flight plan or get the weather because, as you know getting
Fax access out here is a bloody joke, and the bloody weather is always 8/8
blue anyway. But since I had that near miss with a Saab 340, I might have to
change me thinking on that. Anyhow, on leveling out I noticed some wild camels
heading into my improved pasture. I hate bloody camels, and always carry a
loaded .303 clipped inside the door of the Cessna just in case I see any of the
bastards.
We were too high to hit them, but as a matter of principle, I decided to have
a go through the open window. Mate, when I pulled the bloody rifle out, the
effect on Ron was absolutely electric. As I fired the first shot his neck
lengthened by about six inches and his eyes bulged like a rabbit with myxo. He
really looked as if he had been jabbed with an electric cattle prod on full
power. In fact, Ron's reaction was so distracting that I lost concentration for a
second and the next shot went straight through the port tyre. Ron was a bit
upset about the shooting (probably one of those animal lovers I guess) so
I decided not to tell him about our little problem with the tyre.
Shortly afterwards I located the main herd and decided to do my fighter pilot
trick.
Ron had gone back to praying when, in one smooth sequence, I pulled on full
flaps, cut the power and started a sideslip from 10,500 feet down to 500 feet
at 130 knots indicated (the last time I looked anyway) and the little needle
rushing up to the red area on me ASI. What a buzz, mate! About half way
through the descent I looked back in the cabin to see the calves gracefully
suspended in mid air and mooing like crazy. I was going to comment on this unusual
sight, but Ron looked a bit green and had rolled himself into the fetal
position and was screaming his head off. Mate, talk about being in a bloody
zoo. You should've been there, it was so bloody funny!
At about 500 feet I leveled out, but for some reason we continued sinking.
When we reached 50 feet I applied full power but nothin' happened; no noise no
nothin'. Then, luckily, I heard me instructor's voice in me head saying
"carby heat, carby heat". So I pulled carby heat on and that helped quite a lot,
with the engine finally regaining full power. Whew, that was really close, let
me tell you!
Then mate, you'll never guess what happened next! As luck would have it, at
that height we flew into a massive dust cloud caused by the cattle and
suddenly went I.F. bloody R, mate. BJ, you would've been bloody proud of me as I
didn't panic once, not once, but I did make a mental note to consider an
instrument rating as soon as me gyro is repaired (Something I've been meaning to do
for a while now).
Suddenly Ron's elongated neck and bulging eyes reappeared. His mouth opened
wide, very wide, but no sound emerged. "Take it easy," I told him. "we'll be
out of this in a minute." Sure enough, about a minute later we emerge; still
straight and level and still at 50 feet.
Admittedly I was surprised to notice that we were upside down, and I kept
thinking to myself, "I hope Ron didn't notice that I had forgotten to set the QNH
when we were taxing". This minor tribulation forced me to fly to a nearby
valley in which I had to do a half roll to get upright again.
By now the main herd had divided into two groups leaving a narrow strip
between them. "Ah!," I thought, "there's an omen. We'll land right there."
Knowing that the tyre problem demanded a slow approach, I flew a couple of steep
turns with full flap. Soon the stall warning horn was blaring so loud in me ear
that I cut its circuit breaker to shut it up, but by then I knew we were slow
enough anyway. I turned steeply onto a 75 foot final and put her down with a
real thud. Strangely enough, I had always thought you could only ground loop
in a tail dragger but, as usual, I was proved wrong again!
Halfway through our third loop, Ron at last recovered his sense of humor.
Talk about laugh. I've never seen the likes of it. He couldn't stop. We
finally rolled to a halt and I released the calves, who bolted out of the aircraft
like there was no tomorrow.
I then began picking clumps of dry grass. Between gut wrenching fits of
laughter, Ron asked what I was doing. I explained that we had to stuff the port
tyre with grass so we could fly back to the homestead. It was then that Ron
really lost the plot and started running away from the aircraft. Can you
believe it? The last time I saw him he was off into the distance, arms flailing in
the air and still shrieking with laughter. I later heard that he had been
confined to a psychiatric institution - poor bugger!
Anyhow, mate, that's enough about Ron. The problem is I just got a letter
from CASA withdrawing, as they put it, my privileges to fly; until I have
undergone a complete pilot training course again and undertaken another flight
proficiency test. Now I admit that I made a mistake in taxiing over the wheel
chock and not setting the QNH using strip elevation, but I can't see what else I
did that was so bloody bad that they have to withdraw me flamin' license. Can
you?