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Dan's trip to Maine (Part 2) |
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Jon Ladd - Mar 08,2005
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Maine Bound, Round One
The weather forecaster was right. The weather prospects looked bright.
There being no other reason to delay, I launched on Wednesday at 0845.
The takeoff reminded me that I was not in my old familiar Searey. Ground
control was more difficult with all that power, and a new factor. This
airplane has the adjustable pedals with toe brakes. They just did not seem
as responsive to control inputs as the straight pedals. Fortunately the wide
grass field at home base was very forgiving.
The other differences were nice. The turbo charged engine was powerful,
smooth and quiet.
The early part of the flight took me over familiar territory. That offset
some of uncomfortable unfamiliarity of the airplane. The nagging doubts
about the strangeness of the airplane faded as I flew to the St. Johns River
and headed north to Jacksonville. It was flying fine under a high overcast,
even if it still tried to turn right at every opportunity.
I was fighting a bad head wind so I kept the power setting high. At 1500' I
set the engine to 5000 rpm and got a manifold pressure of 31.5'. With an
outside air temperature in the mid-80's, the airplane showed 93 mph. Ground
speed was a disappointing 65-mph.
Passing by Jacksonville the controller let me fly over Mayport Naval Air
Station. Sitting at the docks was a large carrier. Its deck was covered by
workmen, cranes, and an F-14 sitting at the catapult. There was absolutely
no room to land a Searey.
Once I got north of Jacksonville and out over the water I quit worrying about
the ground speed. Why would anyone be in a hurry to fly over this scenery?
I dropped down to 700' just offshore.
The overcast had broken up and sunlight streamed down through the patchwork
of scattered clouds. The shadows of the clouds raced against the Searey
across the lime green muddy waters of the shallows. The water was really
stirred up after the thunderstorms accompanying yesterday's frontal passage.
Off to the left passed the sea isles of Georgia. These islands number in the
thousands. Most are uninhabited.
Cumberland Island was one of the first. The Atlantic side was protected by a
sandy beach and high beach dunes. Just beyond the green line of sea oats
stood occasional palms trees. Apparently Florida does not have an exclusive
license from the gods for postcard beach settings.
On the inland side of the island I could see a ghostly mansion. The huge
building was sagging into rubble. Much of the roof had been lost. Nature
was taking back its dominion.
In places the sand from the beach seemed to wash out into the green. There
were eddies and swirls of sand fighting against the invading trees.
What a battle zone! The trees stand against the sand. The sand lies against
the waves. The wind rushes against them all. That old mansion doesn't stand
a chance.
In between the islands there were great flat areas of green marsh grasses.
At any sandy place that stood above the water I would often seen a solitary
palm tree, living on its own little island.
On the larger islands there are skeletons left littered across the
battlefield of the beach. Stark gray trunks of dead trees lie across the
sand of the beach. Some stand in mute testament to their fight to live.
They look like twisted ghosts as gray clouds covered them with dark shadows.
The mood of the beach changed where the sand was firmly established. The sun
broke through the clouds and glistened on the flat white sand.
There were miles and miles of repeated scenery. Only rarely did humans fit
into the show. The Searey moved only slowly past. The ground speed had
dropped to 55 mph. Not that I cared.
Saint Simons Island has an airport (KSSI) that was primely located for a
thirsty Searey. I entered the traffic pattern for a landing into the wild
north wind. The AWOS was reporting 18 knots, with gusts to 22. The light
airplane rocked and rolled through the gusts during the approach. I kept the
airspeed up (75 to 80 mph) with only 10 degrees of flap.
I worried about the flaps at the high approach speed. I hoped that this
airplane had the new heavier gauge flaps.
The wild ride continued into the landing. The wide, long pavement kept it
from being too scary. There was plenty of room to maneuver and I needed it
all with the sloppy rudder controls. Making matters worse were the toe
brakes that detracted from the ability to steer with the rudder. It made for
an unsatisfactory and long rollout.
I thought that I would try a different technique with the rudder controls and
brakes. Anything would be an improvement. It was too late to rip them out
and install the standard controls. I paid more attention to the rudder than
the brakes and successfully taxied to the FBO.
After 2.9 flight hours, the airplane took 13.7 gallons of 100LL. I took one
6' turkey sub and lemonade.
The fuel usage looked surprisingly good. The Rotax manual indicated that
fuel consumption should be over 6 gallons per hour at 5000 rpm. Kerry had
told me this just wasn't true. It is more like 5 gallons per hour. I
suspect the Rotax people confused U.S. with Imperial gallons. It makes a
difference.
I had landed with just a little over 4 gallons of fuel left in the tank. It
was showing about 1/4 full. That was cutting it too close. With an unusable
quantity of 3 gallons in approach configuration I decided that I had better
be looking for fuel when the gauge showed 1/2, and on the ground at 1/4.
The sea islands multiplied north of St. Simons Island. There were 80 miles
of deserted paradise to span before getting to Hilton Head Island and
'civilization.'
There were a remarkable number of dead trees lining the beaches. It caused
me to rethink my emergency landing strategy. On the small islands I planned
to glide over to the marshlands. On the large islands I would just have to
take my chances in the surf.
These thoughts almost precipitated an emergency. The nose of the airplane
rose in an uncommanded upward direction. I had inadvertently actuated the
trim mechanism on the throttle.
After things settled down into level flight I looked angrily at the trim.
The electric flaps are also located on the throttle. Both switches are very
easily actuated. I had to remind myself to be careful of this on landing
approaches. The thought of an inadvertent flap retraction was too scary to
contemplate.
Brighter thoughts returned after redirecting my attention outside. There
were millions of premium Searey landing spots waiting to be explored. Only
the thought of Jeff's disappointment should I break his new airplane kept me
in the air. I consoled myself with the thought that the two of us would have
an opportunity to explore coastal Maine after my arrival.
Down behind the dunes below there were backwater marshes: patches of green
against the tan sand. The green was accented by the bodies of brilliantly
white sea birds stalking in the grasses.
Back inside the airplane everything was settling into a more comfortable
routine. With the engine at 5000-rpm giving me 32' of manifold pressure, the
airspeed indicator bounced between 95 and 100 mph. The oil and cylinder
temperature was a cool 185 degrees F. Oil pressure was rock steady at 45
psig.
The GPS showed a direct path to my next planned stopping point straight
across open water. I ignored it. There was too much to see along the coast
and a much better chance of saving the airplane in an emergency.
Around Savannah, Georgia small fishing villages were sighted. There were
more signs of people, including an old fort seen guarding Savannah harbor
against some forgotten foe.
The quaint and historic scenes soon fade into the blemishes of big houses and
hotels. Golf courses dominated the scenery at Hilton Head Island. The
beaches were thick with brown and red people.
'The engine exploded into quietness. I aimed the airplane downward towards
the beach and into the wind. I saw the beach throngs look up in horror. The
smoking airplane dived towards the helpless mass of humanity. Screams
erupted as the crowd started with terror. Some moved like lemmings to the
sea; others raced over the trampled sunbathers toward the land. All was
futile. The avenging bird slid down the beach with blood to grease its
landing.'
That wouldn't make for a very heroic ending to the tale. I decided just to
take my chances in the Atlantic waves should I become a glider.
It was not long before I entered a Military Operations Area. I was low over
the beach. The only operation I saw was a formation of brown pelicans,
echelon right, cruising Paris Island.
I crossed a thin strand of sand blocking the waves. The backside water was
calm and the waterway was directly into the wind. The image of palm trees
shadowed on the creamy sand was just too much to resist. There was
absolutely no choice: I had to land.
Unlike the landings on pavement, the Searey took to the water like a long
lost friend. There was no bouncing, just the satisfying slide onto the
gently rippled water.
I flipped the switch and lowered the gear while still moving slowly towards
the beach. The hydraulics whirled as the gear moved effortlessly into the
water. Thinking of the antics required to get the manual gear down almost
prompted a new addition to 220WT. Almost. The thought of the additional
weight kept me with the simpler way.
It was a cinch to taxi up on the gently sloping backside of the beach. I
stopped near the water in case the sand proved to be too soft for the big
wheels.
Cutting the engine brought a quick silence. Then slowly the sounds started
filtering into the cockpit. Wind was blowing the sea oats and whistling
inside the airplane. The shrill cries of the sea gulls added a tropical
accent. The sun through the open canopy provided the rest of the atmosphere,
and persuasion to explore the beach.
'So much for an expedited delivery,' I thought with some guilt. 'Too bad.
If Jeff wanted a professional, he should have gotten one.'
There were real skeletons littering this beach. The shells of horseshoe
crabs were scattered across the sand. The large and bulbous insect-like
creatures predate the dinosaurs by millions of years and yet still crawl upon
the beaches in their enduring cycle of life and death. Looking at their
upturned shells reminded me of the rusted hulks of small shipwrecks.
Flies were working on the bodies of the dead. The hard exoskeleton provided
only a meager ration.
Not all were dead. Some were in the rites of mating, together bulldozing
their way through the sand.
Just when I could imagine that I was on some prehistoric shore I saw the
little footprints. They were about 1/4 the size of mine. I followed them to
a circular pit next to the fading remains of a sandcastle. I was not the
first one to play on this beach.
Too soon I was persuaded to get back underway. It was a short trip to the
Charleston, South Carolina Executive Airport (JZI).
The approach and landing was getting to be a familiar roller coaster ride.
The sloppy controls, or ineffective pilot, produced the same result:
adrenaline filled moments of extreme nervousness. Fortunately there was no
permanent damage to the pilot or the airplane.
This portion of the flight only covered 2.4 hours but used 13.7 gallons (5.7
gallons per hour). I attributed the higher refueling quantity to an overly
optimistic fuel pump.
I was met on the ramp by a silver-haired gentleman. At first I was worried
he was going to comment on the landing. Apparently he had not seen it and
chose to question me about the airplane. He explained that he was a
connoisseur of unusual airplanes. Apparently the Searey met his definition.
Bob told me that he had flown in a Curtis Condor. 'Now that was a seaplane,'
he added. From his description I imagined that it was indeed.
Before he left, he invited me in the hangar with the promise of showing me
his unusual airplane. It was an offer impossible to refuse, so after fueling
I wandered into the large hanger.
In the corner I saw him working on a two-place biplane. 'It's a Bucker,' he
said. 'It was used for military training in Germany and made under license
in many countries. This one was made in 1955 and imported from Spain.'
Bob explained that the Bucker was the German equivalent of the Stearman. It
evolved into a single place Jungmiester (spelling?) that went on to fame in
aerobatics competition.
'The Bucker flies much better than either the Stearman or Waco. I know
because I flew both while training students before World War II. The
Stearman flies like a truck. The Bucker flies like a sports car.'
Once Bob got started he was on a roll. I wasn't going to stop him. 'I
retired from Pan Am in 1981 flying the 747. That was where I had the honor
of meeting Charles Lindbergh.'
'A stewardess told us that a passenger wondered if it would be OK to visit
the cockpit. She handed us a business card that identified him as General
Charles Lindbergh.'
'I told her it would be our honor. I informed the crew that they would
address our guest as 'General,' I don't care what President Roosevelt felt
about him.'
'The General was a perfect gentleman. He treated us like we were his peers.
We listened to him for an hour before he said he would go back and sleep.'
'I asked him, 'General, before you go, tell me something. You've flown every
type of airplane there is. What was your favorite?' He replied without
hesitation. 'The most fun flying is done in an open cockpit biplane.'
I was a bit impertinent and replied that it was unfortunate that the General
never got to fly a Searey.
Bob laughed, but he agreed with the General. He purchased his Bucker and has
flown it cross-country. He told me he makes quite an impression showing up
in his flying leathers at little country airports in the airplane. He has no
radios, GPS, or any 'fancy equipment.' He just follows the compass and the
map. He has made the trek three times.
After a half-hour he was starting to run out of steam. 'Don't let me hold
you up any more,' he said. 'I'll give you one last piece of advice. Fly low
and slow, and keep your nose in the air. That is how to have fun flying.'
I couldn't agree more.
After launching from the airport I was quickly over the Charleston harbor.
Charleston is famous for many things, including Fort Sumnter and the
birthplace of Col. Norman Frank Gracy. I think he was the one who fired the
first shot into the fort. Once he gets irritated, watch out.
The fort withstood his assault and sits proudly in the harbor. Progressive
Aerodyne can take heart from that. Not far from the fort was a German tall
ship sitting at anchor. It was a thrill to fly around them and imagine what
it might have looked like in the 1860's.
By the time I turned back on course I was reminded that a cold front had
passed through. It was cold enough to close the Searey's canopy. It was
not, however, cold enough to turn on the airplane's heater.
With the closed canopy the indicated airspeed was pretty close to 100 mph at
31.3' and 5000 rpm. The other temperatures and pressures remained unchanged.
East of Georgetown I found the last vestiges of wilderness before the
gaudiness of Myrtle Beach. Here the tidal marshes spread out for miles and
miles, making intricate sinuous green patterns in the brown mud.
Approaching Grand Strand I tried contacting Approach Control. I monitored it
for a while and was puzzled by the muffled, funny sounding voices. Finally I
got close enough to call.
I got no response, even after repeated attempts. I now faced a problem: the
airport is right on the coast. I would have to deviate westward over the
coastal forests, or eastward five miles out into the Atlantic.
I checked the waves. With the wind out of the west, they did not appear
tsunami like (They probably would in an emergency landing). I theorized that
I would rather risk the waves than the trees. Besides, there were fishing
boats plying the offshore area. I went around over the water.
I decided I would try the radio one more time. 'Strand Tower, experimental
seaplane November 50 Juliet Bravo with a request.'
'Experimental 50JB, say your position.'
This sounded encouraging. 'I'm five miles southeast over the water.'
'Say again. What's your position?'
'Five miles southeast. I think I'm having radio problems.'
'Understand you're over the water and having a problem. Cleared to land any
runway.'
Wait. I don't want to land. 'Negative, Strand. I'm having a radio problem.'
'Experimental 50JB, if you copy Strand, key your radio twice.'
I did.
'Experimental 50JB. Cleared to land any runway. I'll keep other traffic
clear.'
I was almost yelling now. 'Negative Strand. I don't want to land. I have a
radio problem. Say again, a radio problem.'
'OK, Juliet Bravo I understand you have a radio problem. You don't want to
land?'
Definitely not. 'No, just a radio check.'
'Radio is intermittent.' No kidding.
That exercise pretty much wore me out. I decided to land at the Southport,
North Carolina airport (SUT) for the evening. The AOPA guide promised a
courtesy car and easy access to hotels and restaurants.
When I landed, there was no one around. The FBO was closed. There were two
vans parked on the airport that had stick-on signs identifying them as
courtesy cars. Too bad the place was closed.
I walked back out towards the airplane past one of the vans. On a whim I
opened the unlocked door. The chime of the warning bell indicated the key
was in the ignition. 'Oh, yeah!'
There was a final task to perform before putting the airplane away. It had
been in the salt water and needed a bath. The considerate FBO had a hose
sitting nearby. I squirted and scrubbed, and applied some lubricant as an
extra measure.
I hate washing and drying. The fun way to dry, if you have to wash, is
simply to take the airplane back up and blow dry it. That's what I did.
I parked the airplane showing 2.4 hours on the Hobbs meter from Charleston.
That's a total of 7.7 hours for the day. Not a bad day of flying.
The sun was setting as I pulled up to the Oak Ridge Inn in the courtesy van.
The dilapidated building looked like something out of the 1950's.
At the desk I asked the elderly lady the most important question. I inquired
about a telephone outlet for the computer. I was told in no uncertain terms
that web surfers were not welcome. The motel only had three lines and they
need one to get credit card authorizations. I didn't even bother to take the
computer out of the car.
After determining that I wasn't a computer hacker, the owner directed me to
the 'Hungry Whale' for dinner. I finished the day sitting on the dark open
patio there consuming an excellent fish sandwich.
Looking out on the surf I concluded that I could improve on Bob's advice:
'It's a wild, wet world. See it by Searey.'
Copyright 2000 Dan Nickens
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Jim Matyas - Jan 17,2006
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what a great documentary dan.....thanks for it....jim matyas
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John Long - Jul 10,2006
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Dan,<br /> I do not know when I have enjoyed a flight adventure commentary more than yours. Thanks for the creative genius.<br />John Long
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Dan Nickens - Jul 13,2006
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Aw, shucks, Jim and John, thank you. I'd forgotten Jon rummaged through the attick and found this old stuff. For us old folks, it good to remember the good old days.
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Frank A. Carr - Nov 29,2006
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Dan,<br />Just came across this on the site and, as always, thoroughly enjoyed your documentary (and tales). While your flying low and slow with the nose pointed up, I'm amazed that you see and remember what you see. Flying back from SC to FL this week at 7000' I saw nothing to report. Thanks for your taking the time to share your adventures.
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