tow, it makes a good impression. The ground crew has no idea she’s just my boss. I do all the talking there, as Abbey simply avoids dealing with common workers as much as she can. She has no idea how much of life she is missing by not sharing experiences with people from all walks of life.
Our in-flight meal today is a shared package of red Twizzlers. Our in-flight entertainment is, well for me anyway, looking at her every now and then and then looking out the window. For safety reasons, I have chosen to fly at a higher than normal altitude. Today I will approach the Bahamas taking the slightly longer route passing over the first island of Bimini rather simply flying over water the entire time. Because I choose this route, there’s only a five minute segment of the flight when I can’t glide to land in the event of an engine malfunction. The Cessna will glide fairly well without power, but it can’t go on forever without the spinning propeller pulling us behind it.
Just as I’m about to come out of that five minute segment where my glide ratio won’t make land, the engine sputters. My mind runs the routine I’ve practiced for just such an instance. In rapid succession I check my throttle, fuel gauge, fuel mixture, tank selector and the ground below. It is to no avail, because seconds later, the engine ceases to provide thrust to that ever loving propeller up front. It is left to free-spin only by the rush of wind rushing toward us as our nose dips down. It now acts as an air brake as we gently descend in altitude. Abbey looks on in horror, as it is obvious she thinks we are going to fall out of the sky like a ceramic statue off the fireplace mantle when the maid has been a little too careless with her feather duster.
Abbey squeals like a spoiled school girl, “Jake, we’re gonna die! Oh, my ever loving Lord, we’re not gonna live to see -”
“- We’re gonna be OK, Abbey. I have it under control.”
“How can we be OK? The engine stopped. Start it up again!”
I reach for the radio to call in a mayday, but Abbey keeps yelling that we’re going to die. As I attempt to dial in the unicom emergency frequency, I realize we have no electrical power. The mayday call isn’t going to happen. I say it anyway to make Abbey think help will follow. But we are truly on our own. With Abbey destroying my concentration, I attempt to trim the airplane’s flight controls to get as close to that first small island as we can. I beg her to calm down. I do my best to reassure her we’ll survive.
“Look Abbey. We’ve been flying under full control for a minute now since the engine quit. We’re gonna make it. Please, I beg you, let me concentrate on flying and be quiet for once in your life.”
“My God, how dare you speak to me that way,” she says with a tone of authority.
“I’m pilot in command. It’s my ship. Right here and now, I’m the boss. So sit down and be quiet so I can fly.”
“You obviously have no idea what’s is store for you when I -”
“- Abbey, shut the hell up already!”
With that, Abbey is stunned long enough by my failing to acknowledge her as my authority figure for the first time in the seven years we have known each other. Now I can finally concentrate on the best approach angle so we can make the beach. She stares silently at me, maybe out of shock or maybe out of fear. I don’t really care why, but it’s a good thing.
I realize we’re barely going to make the north end of Bimini Island, the closet island to the Florida coast. The south side of the island is populated and has a landing strip, but there’s no hope of gliding that far. The beach on the north end is too slim to land the plane, and so I make the decision to pitch it into the water just about twenty feet off the beach. It will be a soft water landing, so there won’t be any possibility of fire. The worst we’ll have to do is swim a little. I calculate my approach and hold off using
Our in-flight meal today is a shared package of red Twizzlers. Our in-flight entertainment is, well for me anyway, looking at her every now and then and then looking out the window. For safety reasons, I have chosen to fly at a higher than normal altitude. Today I will approach the Bahamas taking the slightly longer route passing over the first island of Bimini rather simply flying over water the entire time. Because I choose this route, there’s only a five minute segment of the flight when I can’t glide to land in the event of an engine malfunction. The Cessna will glide fairly well without power, but it can’t go on forever without the spinning propeller pulling us behind it.
Just as I’m about to come out of that five minute segment where my glide ratio won’t make land, the engine sputters. My mind runs the routine I’ve practiced for just such an instance. In rapid succession I check my throttle, fuel gauge, fuel mixture, tank selector and the ground below. It is to no avail, because seconds later, the engine ceases to provide thrust to that ever loving propeller up front. It is left to free-spin only by the rush of wind rushing toward us as our nose dips down. It now acts as an air brake as we gently descend in altitude. Abbey looks on in horror, as it is obvious she thinks we are going to fall out of the sky like a ceramic statue off the fireplace mantle when the maid has been a little too careless with her feather duster.
Abbey squeals like a spoiled school girl, “Jake, we’re gonna die! Oh, my ever loving Lord, we’re not gonna live to see -”
“- We’re gonna be OK, Abbey. I have it under control.”
“How can we be OK? The engine stopped. Start it up again!”
I reach for the radio to call in a mayday, but Abbey keeps yelling that we’re going to die. As I attempt to dial in the unicom emergency frequency, I realize we have no electrical power. The mayday call isn’t going to happen. I say it anyway to make Abbey think help will follow. But we are truly on our own. With Abbey destroying my concentration, I attempt to trim the airplane’s flight controls to get as close to that first small island as we can. I beg her to calm down. I do my best to reassure her we’ll survive.
“Look Abbey. We’ve been flying under full control for a minute now since the engine quit. We’re gonna make it. Please, I beg you, let me concentrate on flying and be quiet for once in your life.”
“My God, how dare you speak to me that way,” she says with a tone of authority.
“I’m pilot in command. It’s my ship. Right here and now, I’m the boss. So sit down and be quiet so I can fly.”
“You obviously have no idea what’s is store for you when I -”
“- Abbey, shut the hell up already!”
With that, Abbey is stunned long enough by my failing to acknowledge her as my authority figure for the first time in the seven years we have known each other. Now I can finally concentrate on the best approach angle so we can make the beach. She stares silently at me, maybe out of shock or maybe out of fear. I don’t really care why, but it’s a good thing.
I realize we’re barely going to make the north end of Bimini Island, the closet island to the Florida coast. The south side of the island is populated and has a landing strip, but there’s no hope of gliding that far. The beach on the north end is too slim to land the plane, and so I make the decision to pitch it into the water just about twenty feet off the beach. It will be a soft water landing, so there won’t be any possibility of fire. The worst we’ll have to do is swim a little. I calculate my approach and hold off using
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