Mayday Mayday Mayday
The Voice from Above
It was November 17, 1988. I was cruising at 6,500 feet, leaving Falcon Field behind and heading home. The air was smooth and the gauges were in the green—until the world disintegrated. The Continental engine didn't just quit; it began shaking the entire airframe like a paint mixer. The vibration was so violent it felt like the motor was going to pull itself from the mounts, and then, with a final, jarring shudder, it seized solid.
In an instant, the chaos was replaced by a terrifying, hollow quiet. I was now a 3,400-pound glider. I looked through the windscreen and saw the propeller had stopped dead, standing tall like a vertical wall of drag. I remembered the training: I reached for the ignition key and bumped the starter, just enough to nudge those frozen blades until they were level with the wings to find the least resistance.
Atlanta Center was in my ear almost immediately. They asked if I could try to restart the engine. I told them I’d give it a try, but as soon as it fired, the nightmare returned. It was shaking like a paint shaker again, just as violent as before. I keyed the mic and told them, "I'm going to have to shut it down if it continues like this—the vibration is too violent."
But before I could even reach for the mixture, the engine made the decision for me. It sounded like someone had thrown a massive crowbar into the machinery. There was a sudden, metallic Clank, and everything stopped dead. The engine was completely frozen; I couldn't even bump the propeller anymore. The mechanical debate was over.
The controller told me to turn to a heading of 140, saying the nearest airport was fourteen miles out. I looked at my altimeter, then out at the horizon. I didn't need a calculator; I had the math running in my head. I knew my aircraft. The probability for survival was much higher staying with the road than trying to stretch the glide those extra fourteen miles—I knew I couldn't make it.
As I was processing the physics, I heard the controller contact an airline captain who was cruising at altitude directly above me. The controller asked him for a second opinion—whether I should try for the airport or stick with the road I’d found. I waited, my hand on the yoke, for the verdict from the "heavy" above. The captain didn’t hesitate. "Don't worry," his voice came through the static, steady and sure. "Stay with the road."
That was all I needed to hear. I focused everything on that tiny, sun-bleached "pencil" of a road needling through the pines of Uriah, Alabama. The flight became a silent, rhythmic struggle. I pitched the nose down to maintain Best Glide speed. Because the engine had seized, I had zero hydraulic pressure. I reached for the emergency handle and began to pump. Each stroke was a trade-off of physical energy and mental focus—I was manually forcing hydraulic fluid through the lines, feeling the heavy resistance of the gear legs as they fought against the slipstream.
Finally, one by one, the three green lights flickered to life. The gear was down and locked. The stall horn began its low, haunting moan as I neared the canopy, but I kept the nose pinned. I wasn't just falling; I was going to fly this aircraft to a safe landing. The timber rushed up, the wings clipped the pines, and the world flipped.
When the dust settled and I was hanging upside down in the silence of the woods, I realized the math—and my arms—had held. I climbed out and made my way through the thicket to the edge of the road. I stood there, still vibrating from the adrenaline, and watched the first car drive right past me. He saw me standing there, but he couldn't see the airplane—the pines had swallowed it whole. He just kept going.
Then a second car came along. He passed me too, but then I saw his brake lights hit. An old man backed up slowly, staring at me as I stood there in the quiet Alabama morning. He rolled down the window and looked at the thick wall of woods behind me. To anyone else, it looked like a solid green line, but the airplane was right there, deep and disguised among the trees. He looked back at me with total confusion. "Did you just get out of that airplane?" he asked.
He took me to the nearest farmhouse, where we used the phone to contact the sheriff. The emergency services were already being dispatched; they had been keeping track of exactly where I was as I dropped off the radar.
A few hours later, I stood at that same spot with my flight instructor. He looked at the narrow strip of road, then back at the silver belly of the 210 resting on its back. "How did you get it in there?" he finally asked. He saw the state I was in and offered to fly the trip home. I sat in the right seat as a passenger, watching his steady hands on the yoke as we continued the journey on to Slidell, Louisiana. As we touched down in Slidell, he turned to me. "I'm going to give you a few days," he said firmly. "And then we're going to get back up in the air. Okay