Splash and Dash Searey Seaplane Delights
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Previous ThreadPrevious Item - Dan's trip to Maine (Part 4)

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Jon Ladd - Mar 08,2005   Viewers  | Reply
    Maine Bound - Round Two

There was added incentive to head north today. I had gotten word of Col.
Gracy's discontent. My Searey colleagues urged me to investigate as soon as
possible.

I was up early in search of premium automobile fuel. I figured after
yesterday the poor engine had had enough 100LL avfuel to make it sick. The
airplane was fueled and ready to depart by 0730.

That was about the time the airport manager showed up. I felt it necessary
to explain the overnight disappearance of his courtesy van. He didn't care.
He worked for Brunswick County and it was their car. I happily paid him the
$5 parking fee and left.

The Wilmington Class C airspace is immediately north of Southport. This
would give me another opportunity to get in trouble with the radio.

I did have a plan. I had switched headsets. Perhaps the old headset was
malfunctioning.

This was soon revealed to be a false hope. Despite numerous calls I couldn't
raise Wilmington Approach. They sounded fuzzy and almost unreadable. I
switched back to the noise-canceling headset. It was much quieter.

I consoled myself by watching the barrier islands slide by under the
airplane. The sun glistened off the water in silvery patterns. The air was
cool and refreshing. It was so cool, in fact, that I closed the canopy.

In the closed canopy, the smell of gasoline built to overwhelming
proportions. I had filled the tank into the clear filler line. Apparently
there was a leak around the tank connection. That convinced me not to use
the electric bilge pump anytime soon. It also convinced me to live with the
cool air streaming through the now open canopy.

At Topsail Beach I had to turn the airplane inland. There were military
restricted areas looming ahead. With no hope of talking to the controllers,
I would have to go around them.

The track took me out over Holly Shelter Swamp. Holly may have a shelter
here, but there was no safe shelter for a distressed Searey. The only choice
would be to jettison the dead weight, slow the airplane down and mush it into
the trees. In theory that should work. It worked for Oscar in his
Buccaneer. To get more time to think about it I climbed to 2700'.

Visibility was excellent at the higher altitude. The airplane liked it too.
At 5000 rpm and 31', I was getting 95 mph IAS. Of course the ground speed
was still slow: 80 mph. At least it was better than yesterday.

Flying over the inhospitable terrain gave me time to contemplate the two
electric fuel pumps required by Rotax 914. Kerry had advised me to switch
them periodically in flight.

I had a different theory. I would use the number one pump as the primary.
The number two pump would only be used in critical flight situations like
takeoff or landing. My hypothesis was that I wouldn't wear out both equally
and increase the remote chances of a dual failure. Wear out one and have the
other as a real backup. Maybe the manual has some definitive advice.

I looked out on the wing with some delight at the new 3' mirrors. I had
installed smaller mirrors at first because they looked better. Unfortunately
I couldn't see much. With the new mirrors I was really looking good.

I aimed the airplane towards the rivers that extend inland from the coast. I
had to miss Jacksonville, NC because of the military airport serving Camp
LeJeune. I did get to cross the broad waters of the Neuse and Pamlico Rivers.

The sun was bright on the cloudless day. Sleepy looking fishing villages
dotted some of the upper reaches of the waterways. 'How fortunate can you
get,' I thought, 'to be a tourist above the crowds.' The Searey was my
private viewing room.

My posterior was starting to remind me that there is a price to be paid for
such luxury. Finding just the right position in the seat is an art. I was
thrown off by the adjustable pedals. They put my feet higher and made for a
more awkward angle. I used my seat cushion and back roll to try and maintain
a mostly upright position. Because of the seat design it was a constant
battle to keep from sliding down and under.

Finally I just gave up. I pulled my feet back off the pedals, extended my
legs and let them rest across the pedal support. 'Ahh, some relief of
posterior pressure.'

It couldn't last. The wind was shifting and there was some turbulence. Soon
I had to get back on the pedals to keep the airplane in a mostly upright
position. At least the wind change gained me another 10-mph ground speed.

Restlessness finally took its toll. As soon as I saw the deserted lake with
an inviting beach, my internal autopilot took over and made us land.

This water was the color of dark brown paint. Reaching into the water I
determined the visibility to be at least 0.01'. It would be impossible to
see any submerged obstruction.

My theory was soon verified as the airplane's hull encountered the sandy
bottom well before the shore. I confirmed this by stepping outside into 6'
of water.

I drug the airplane further into the shallow area to 'beach it.' We were
still a good 100 yards away from the exposed beach area. The airplane seemed
secure enough and there wasn't anything to tie it to anyway. I set out to
see the beach.

The sand was hard and if there were potholes on the way to shore, I missed
them. I could have easily dropped the landing gear and taxied ashore.

After sitting on the beach for a few minutes I noticed the airplane pivoting
in the breeze. 'No problem,' I told myself, 'it's still not going anywhere.'

That rationale was good for another few minutes of listening to the birds and
frogs and wind. Finally the mind kicked in. It sure looked like the
airplane was getting further away. 'Enough rest, time to get back into the
air.'

As I waded towards the plane I didn't seem to be making much progress. The
water was much deeper than I remembered it. It was now getting up to my
knees. I looked back at the shore. It too was much further away than I
remembered it.

It took more than a moment's reflection to realize that the airplane was now
free and sailing away. I increased my effort, mindful that I couldn't see a
thing in the water.

Fortunately I grabbed the airplane before the water got critically deep.
This was not the first time I had to chase down an free sailing airplane.
You would think that after a few times of getting wet I would learn to secure
it before walking away.

Back in the air things had gotten really trashy. The light plane rocked and
rolled in the turbulence. I throttled back to 4700 rpm to keep the airspeed
in the green arc. It was just too darn easy for this airplane to slide into
the caution arc.

Suddenly the left wing was thrown skyward. I immediately reacted by applying
opposite aileron. It didn't stop the gut wrenching, uncontrolled roll. I
jabbed full left rudder and the airplane still continued to turn up on its
side.

I gave brief thought to just continuing the roll if it got too extreme. It
seemed forever before the airplane slowly dropped back into a level position.
It had achieved at least a sixty-degree bank angle before it could be
righted. During the upset the airspeed had started upwards too.

I was now fully alerted, sitting uptight and righteous in the seat. The wind
had just reminded me that it has tricks a light airplane just can't handle.
Down low the results would have been disastrous. At 1500' there was room to
recover. The mental recovery took a few minutes longer than the actual
maneuver.

The suddenness of the tumble was surprising. Despite my increased level of
preparation, there were only one or two more minor jolts. I concluded that
it was just another test of experience. As Col. Gracy is fond of saying,
'Experience is a tough teacher. You get the test before the lesson.'

Having been tested enough for the morning I decided to land at the Chesapeake
Regional Airport (CPK), just south of Norfolk, Virginia. It had a large,
open field and a 5,500' runway. It was still a test to get the airplane on
the ground in the stiff wind, but I managed a one squealer before getting to
the pumps.

I'm glad I didn't meet the maintenance manager. As soon as I parked the
mechanics surged out of their workplace to surround the Searey. In between
figuring out the fueling system and keeping one eye on the airplane, I had to
field about a thousand questions. These guys wouldn't leave the hangar for a
new Citation Jet, but the Searey fascinated them.

After politely pulling away from the admiring crowd I did my calculations:
3.1 flight hours from Southport to Chesapeake. In the past 5.5 hours of
operation I used 26.3 gallons of auto and avfuel. Most of that operation was
at 4700 or 4800 rpm. The result was a modest 4.8 gallons per hour. Three
hours seems to be the magic number for maximum safe leg time.

Prior to departure I studied the maps to steel myself for the Norfolk
gauntlet. The map showed no hope of circumnavigating the city along the
coast. It is blocked by restricted areas and the Naval Air Station at
Oceana. To the north was Langley Air Force Base. And right in the middle is
the Norfolk Class C airspace.

The map did show a narrow corridor between Langley and the Norfolk Naval
Station. By staying under 1200' I could sneak through and out into the Bay.

The plan worked. I got to fly along a river into the town of Norfolk and
then north to Newport News, and finally an east turn out into the bay.

In the air I tuned in the Norfolk approach frequency. I could hear them
fine. They just couldn't hear me. I decided I would just have to fly the
no-radio plan.

The route took me right over the shipyards. There was a World War II era
battleship sitting at one of the docks, just across from an old aircraft
carrier. I imagined Chet making an approach to the carrier in his Searey.
'Go, Chet, go!'

As I broke out over the open water and into the bay I spied a large
battleship gray helicopter lifting off from the Naval Station. I watched as
it climbed to my altitude. It appeared to be stationary in the air.

Of course it wasn't. It was on a collision course with the Searey. Before I
could react to end the game of chicken, the Navy pilot pushed the
helicopter's nose downward and accelerated out into the bay. 'Whew! The
Searey won that one by default.'

After my recent encounter with natural turbulence I was particularly attuned
to the down wash turbulence from a large helicopter. Test reports I've read
said the down wash reaches tornadic proportions. I gave the helicopter's
path a wide berth.

I was free of the airspace squeeze out over the bay. It was wide open. I
dropped down to 400' to get a better view of the many large ships.

Down lower the white caps on the water were easier to see. The wind was
blowing and the water was rough. Still, the waves were not Atlantic size.
It looked like a survivable landing if one had to be made.

Down low I kept the throttle at 4800 rpm and made 32' of pressure. This
resulted in an Indicated Air Speed of 88 mph. It was very comfortable
listening to the turbine like sound the engine made with everything in the
green (185 degrees oil temperature, 190 degrees F cylinder temperature, and
40-psig-oil pressure). The oil temperature really needed to be warmer to
boil off engine acids. I determined to add some tape to block off part of
the oil cooler at the next opportunity.

It wasn't long before the sandy spit of lower Maryland came into view.
Between the shore and my position I spotted two very strange boats. They
were maybe 100' long and moving fast. Faster than any boat that size should.
I diverted to investigate.

On closer inspection they were slate gray Navy ships. Each had twin hulls.
There were twin streams of water spray coming out of the back of each one.
Then I saw the large ducted fans blasting out the jet stream generating that
spray. I had found two hovercraft at play.

I knew that if Col. Gracy was here he would make a strafing attack. These
were not like his usual prey, however. The military gray boats looked
capable and sinister. 'I don't have time for such diversions,' I
rationalized. I slunk out of the area for to look for easier targets.

Getting back over the western shore of Maryland brought back a mellow mood.
What a great countryside! The inland is covered in quaint farms and fields.
The shoreline has dunes and sandy, forested cliffs. Near shore the water is
crystal clear against the tan sand.

The water was inviting so I slid down even closer. I spotted an occasional
large, moving brown form in the water. Then there were three. I circled
back. There were three large searays flying formation through the languid
waters. Their big brother in the sky briefly considered joining the fun.
'Not today, my friends. I'm on a mission.' I broke off and continued north.

The mission mentality did not prevail. Just offshore there was an airport
shown on the map as Tangier Island. 'What the heck, it's lunch time anyway.'

I had to sneak into the edge of the restricted area to get to the island. I
dropped down to wave top level and did my best imitation of a boat. 'What's
the difference when you're lower than mast height anyway.'

Tangier Island was just a little spit of sand sitting in the middle of
Chesapeake Bay. It had the classic look of any small fishing village. The
harbor was chock full of boats, traps, buoys, and circling gulls. 'Oh, yeah!
There's seafood on the grill.'

The Locals must have seen me coming. When I taxied up to tie down I was met
by several on golf carts. 'That's curious,' I thought. I hadn't seen any
golf courses from the air.

I fielded all their questions with smoothness and aplomb. Then I had one of
my own. 'Where do I go to get fresh crab?'

It was a short walk down the narrow, single-lane paved 'road' and across a
wooden bridge into the main settlement. The sweet, cool breeze was perfumed
with the salt air and the faint but pleasant smell of a fishing village.

Crossing the old bridge I had to give way to a mutant golf cart. This thing
looked like three carts decided to get together and mate. It had eight bench
seats and a sign that said 'Island Tours.'

The monster cart must be for disabled tourists. You could walk across the
whole island in ten minutes.

I found 'Fisherman's Corner' open for business and as good as advertised.
The opening course consisted of seafood chowder, washed down with fresh
lemonade. The main course was a fried crab cake with a malt vinegar dip. I
thanked the crabs that only hours earlier had crawled free in the Bay for
their sacrifice.

The crab's funeral was accompanied by the soulful sounds of a country song:
'...I...fall...to pieces.' Yes they did. In the most delightful way.

There was a little time to wander through the narrow ways between the old
tongue and groove houses. The scene was as familiar as a movie cliche.

The only vehicle I saw other than bikes and carts was a rusty blue Nissan
pickup truck. It had 'Police' stenciled on the faded door. 'It's good to
know there is law and order here,' I thought, remembering Barney Fife.

Seeing the police reminded me that it was a good time to get out of town.
You never know when you'll be discovered for a wayward vagabond. I made good
on my escape and set sail back over the bay to the east.

Approaching Salisbury, I had to cut across the Maryland peninsula. The way
due north was blocked by another military restricted area with the ominous
warning that live firing was conducted there. It was a short hop over the
land to the backwaters of the Chincoteague Bay.

This bay was bounded on the east by the Assateague Island National Seashore.
Just over the brown waters of the bay was a narrow band of white sand and
green grasses, washed by the deep blue of the Atlantic. The colors were
resplendent in the afternoon sun.

Over on the ocean side, the beaches were broad. I saw four horses standing
unattended on a deserted stretch. Then another. Wild horses in Maryland? I
decide it was such a pretty picture that it must be so.

Ocean City marked the end of paradise. The narrow island was filled to
overflowing with buildings and people. An uncountable number of boats plied
the inland water. The jet skies provided completely random vectors for the
mariner's course. It would be quite an obstacle course for a Searey landing.

To increase my discomfort, the wind reminded me that it was still strong and
turbulent. I nervously checked the airspeed. It was too high for
maneuvering speed. I throttled the engine back to 4500 rpm. That produced
an indicated airspeed of 90 mph.

I reached the tip of the shoreline at Cape Henlopen. I could barely see Cape
May on the Jersey shore across the Delaware River. It was time to make my
run north. It was a leap of faith to cross the open water. N50JB proved
that it was equal to that faith.

The fuel gauge showed that it was time to find some fuel. The Ocean City
airport (26N) presented itself as a convenient option.

To my surprise, as I was approaching the airport I was able to raise the
operator on unicom. The radio seemed to work fine at close range. 'Winds
are 180 at 15, gusting to 20, favoring runway 24,' he said. I groaned at the
prospect of another tough cross wind landing on pavement. I really longed
for the friendliness of a country grass runway. The fuel gauge told me it
was time to land and this was the place.

It was bad. It was a three squealer. 'I hate these sloppy rudder controls,'
I rationalized, blaming the airplane instead of the pilot.

I was definitely irritated with myself. As I pulled up to the FBO, the
operator called. 'Don't park there. That is a monthly rental.'

'I'll be leaving immediately. I just need fuel for a quick turnaround.'

'You can't park there.'

'Where do you want me to park?' I asked.

'Anywhere but there,' was his curt answer.

The building irritation reached a crescendo with that tart reply. I smartly
pulled out of the prohibited parking space right into the middle of the
taxiway and shut down the engine.

This got prompt attention from the attendant. 'I guess I should have been
more specific,' he allowed. I controlled myself and didn't say anything. I
got my fuel, my weather briefing, and got back into the air.

I did manage to call Col. Gracy and warn him of my impending arrival. He had
the misfortune to answer the phone and he couldn't come up with any quick
excuses. He agreed to meet me at my arrival in Massachusetts.

I didn't even wait on the ground to calculate the specifics of the last leg
of flight. Later it was found to be 2.9 hours in duration, consuming 12.7
gallons of fuel. The rate of 4.4 gallons per hour was a reflection of the
lower power settings.

It was difficult to taxi in the strong cross wind. I religiously keep the
ailerons and rudder in the proper position, but the squirrly pedals made it
quite a workout.

I decided to experiment with a different takeoff technique. I determined to
gradually apply throttle instead of smoothly bringing the power in. My
theory was that I would have an easier time controlling the punch when the
turbo kicked in. The thought of that power surge combined with poor elevator
and rudder controls in a crosswind made for the desperate test.

Here are the results: I got into the air with a fright. Don't do it. Use
all the power available and get off the runway. At least the airplane and
pilot were still intact to report the poor results.

The winds turned to my favor in the air. Setting the power at 4600 rpm, with
30.5' manifold pressure, the airspeed indicator showed 85 mph. The GPS
showed a ground speed of 107 mph. 'Look out Colonel, the Rebs are a-coming
on fast.'

I knew I didn't like New Jersey from ground level. It wasn't much better by
air. There was development everywhere I looked. There was the abomination
of Atlantic City. There were shorelines polluted with high rises and
carnivals. Some of the buildings extended right out into the ocean. It was
an armored coast where sand had been replaced by ugly gray riprap.

It wasn't all bad, I'm sure. It was mostly that I was still irritated with
the gruff attendant and the unprofessional pilot performance.

At Asbury Park there were mansions which would make for a large hotel. The
money here at least gave them some space.

'Could it be?' I thought. Straining to look through the haze I concluded,
'It is! The City's skyline. New York City.' The old heart started pumping
at the prospect of navigating that airspace without two-way communication. I
smiled at the thought of driving through without talking to anyone.

First I had to pass across the wide-open waters off Sandy Hook, New Jersey.
The water was wide, but it was filled with boats and ships.

The GPS was flashing warnings every few seconds: 'Approaching Controlled Air
Space.' 'Damn right I am. Stupid computer.' I was aimed towards the narrow
VFR corridor that is right down the Hudson River at low altitude. I planned
to run the gauntlet at 1000' right over the river.

I approached the first large bridge spanning from Manhattan to Jersey with
some trepidation. From my low altitude it looked huge. I thought I would
barely clear the towers. I pointed towards the center of the wide span
cables.

That was when I spotted my first helicopter. It was a jet copter and quickly
passed me by headed down the river.

I was over the first bridge. Tall buildings lined each shore. The river
looked awfully narrow for a little Searey, even treading lightly. Close
overhead I could see the big jets heading into J.F.K. Off to the left were
more big boys going into Newark.

The Searey seemed to be moving at warp speed. The buildings and sights were
coming at an impossible rate. The Statute of Liberty. Ellis Island. The
World Trade Center. It was tough to concentrate on staying in my low, narrow
corridor.

That was about the time I saw the one other little buddy coming my way. Some
other fool in a C172 was cruising the corridor in my direction. I'm sure I
saw the same bewildered smile on his face that must have been on mine.

I was in a concrete canyon. I started to think of all the mountain flying
techniques. Do they apply to cities too? They might here. Just as a
reminder, there were some turbulent rotors coming from the buildings to shake
things up a bit.

I almost crashed at the sight: an aircraft carrier parked in the river. On
it's deck was an eclectic assortment of airplanes, including the rocket like
black shape of an SR71. The Blackbird. Awesome.

I was well below the level of the Chrysler Building. Looking at the Empire
State Building I imagined the B-25 crashing into its upper levels. I was
much lower than he was. I was so low that I could qualify for a speeding
ticket from the New York cops.

About that time I saw a black flash pass by my right window. It was another
of those jet-powered helicopters. He swooped ahead, then seemed to stop at
my altitude. 'Another game of chicken?' I thought. 'I certainly hope not.
I give up now.'

Instead the black helicopter dropped its nose and dived for the river. He
swooped down low and passed well underneath me heading back in the opposite
direction. 'Must be one of the traffic reporters,' I concluded.

I was so enthralled and pumped up that I hadn't given a thought to landing
possibilities. That changed as I moved north out of the intense visual
stimulation. Looking down at the river I saw a marina on the Jersey side.
Right next to it was a long, clean sand beach. It could be done by Searey. I
ignored the urge and pressed on.

Just north of LaGuardia's airspace, I cut across to the water around
Greenwich, Connecticut. Once I was out over the water again I felt the
adrenaline rush slowly start to subside. I had to fight the urge to turn
around and do it again.

I also had to fight the urge to just land on the protected waters behind Long
Island. There were so many small islands and beaches. So much opportunity
and so little time.

After calculating my fuel reserves I decided I couldn't afford to wander
along the coastline. It was getting close to my estimated time of arrival
and my minimum fuel allowance. I had to climb and make a straight shot for
Col. Gracy's hotel and restaurant.

The climb took me between the airports at Bridgeport and New Haven. That
allowed me to see the famous Sikorsky plant. There were no helicopters
visible on its wide pads today.

I settled in at 2800' and pushed the throttle up to 4800 rpm. With the
canopies closed against the cold air, I got 92 mph indicated and 120 mph over
the ground.

There were lots of woods and hills underneath. The potential landing spots
were few and far between.

There were, however, some good water landing spots. Col. Gracy had warned me
that most of the lakes are reservoirs and seaplanes are prohibited. But
there are rivers like the Connecticut. In fact there was a seaplane base
(Goodspeed, 42B) that I had to pass over.

The hills and ridges were getting more pronounced. They rose above the deep
green forests and seemed to nestle lakes against their steep sides.
Prohibition or not, there were emergency landing areas to be found if one
watched for them.

My fine tail wind turned to enemy as I arrived over the Hopedale Industrial
Airport (1B6). The airport was carved into a canyon of tall trees. It was a
hypothetical 3200' in length. With the surrounding tall trees, it was going
to be much shorter.

By now I was really dreading the prospect of landing. I imagined the rotors
being produced by those strong cross winds flowing over those trees. What a
fine mess it would be to break the airplane in plain sight of the Colonel!

It was every bit as bad as I imagine except that I didn't break the airplane.
I'm sure that I wore two months of rubber off the tires, however.

As I taxied in to a parking space I passed the wreckage of two airplanes. I
started feeling pretty good about my landing after all.

Shutting down the engine I noticed someone heading my way. Sure enough the
local airport mechanic had to inspect the 'ultralight' that had floated in on
the wind.

I contrasted the tale of the Searey against his tale of the Adventurer.
Someone at the airport had bought the Adventurer kit, full of the marketing
pitch offering a four-place seaplane capable of phenomenal performance. The
kit arrived without all of the parts. It wasn't just that they weren't
available, they hadn't all been designed yet. There were gaps in the manual
'to be added' as the design was finalized.

The huge V-8 engine that was to power the seamonster plane was expensive. So
was the six bladed prop.

The long sad story concluded that the airplane couldn't be built. The
structural failures of those that were built, combined with the complete
failure of the kit company, ended the dream of the would-be Adventurer pilot.

I think he should have been forewarned. Who would buy an airplane from a
salesman named 'Happy Miles?'

A quick call to Colonel Gracy confirmed that his offer of food and shelter
was still valid. He was only minutes away. That brief time allowed me to
finish the day's tally: 2.8 hours from Ocean City to Hopedale, and a total
flight time for the day of 8.8. Not a bad day's work.

Copyright 2000 Dan Nickens








    

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