AOPA Turbine Pilot Magazine - February 2015 - 18

PROFICIENT PILOT

Splash!

BY BARRY SCHIFF

Engine failure in single-engine aircraft
A TOPIC OCCASIONALLY visited in this column involves
engine failure in single-engine airplanes. An email from
a reader suggested that I might be too preoccupied with
the subject. That caused me to do a little introspective
thinking to see if that were true. I concluded-correctly
or not-that those who have never had an engine failure are not as likely to consider the possibility as often
as those who have had the experience.
That, I think, might explain my so-called preoccupation with engine failures in singles. I have had three.
Because one of them was of my own making, I should
claim only two, both of which were remarkably similar.
The first occurred in 1956, the result of a broken
piston rod in a Stinson Voyager. The engine came to a
clunky halt at 300 to 400 feet above and slightly beyond
the departure end of Runway 21 at Santa Monica
Municipal Airport. Landing straight ahead was not
a viable option. I instead turned around and landed

The sound of power was suddenly replaced by a
sickening, gut-wrenching silence. It was as though
a cosmic hand had reached into the cockpit and
nonchalantly pulled back the throttle.

BARRY SCHIFF

is a former TWA
captain with more
than 28,000 flight
hours.

18 | AOPA PILOT February 2015

on the runway in the opposite direction. It was this
event-and the criticism I received for turning around
following an engine failure after takeoff-that triggered
a decades-long study of the subject.
The second event occurred in 1972 and was far more
traumatic. My first wife and I were about to depart the
Lake Hood Seaport in Anchorage, Alaska, in a borrowed Piper PA-18 Super Cub on floats. Our intent was
to make a sightseeing flight toward 120-nm-distant
Mt. McKinley. It was one of those rare days when the
20,300-foot-tall peak had been visible from downtown
Anchorage, an irresistible invitation to fly.
Throttle advanced, the Cub plowed through the
water, rose onto the step, and soon began a shallow
climb. A Super Cub on floats does not perform nearly
as well as it does on wheels, especially when loaded.
After crossing the shoreline, the sound of power
was suddenly replaced by a sickening, gut-wrenching
silence. It was as though a cosmic hand had reached
into the cockpit and nonchalantly pulled back the throttle. As was the case following my engine failure at Santa

Monica, obstacles made landing ahead an unacceptable
choice. I began the 180-degree return to the water.
A Super Cub normally glides reasonably well, but
not when burdened with the drag created by floats.
The airplane descended more steeply than I had anticipated. As we were about to re-cross the shoreline, I saw
that I would have to leapfrog over a Cessna 180 parked
at a dock ahead of us. A problem, however, was that I
didn't have enough airspeed to balloon over the Cessna.
The stick had already begun to become soft in my hand,
and I had little-if any-airspeed to spare. I nudged the
stick ever so slightly aft, but this did not improve our
glide angle. I dared not pull the stick any farther aft.
I tried to avoid the Cessna but could not and soon felt
and heard my left float making an indelible impression
on the Cessna's right wing. (I learned later that I had
broken its spar.)
The Cub struck the water in enough of a nose-low
attitude so as to cause the airplane to flip onto its back.
The airplane submerged and immediately filled with
dark, cold water. I had no sense of up or down. There
was only a desperate need to get out.
I cannot explain why, but the first thing I did was to
try pounding out the windshield with a fist. I quickly
discovered that punching through water is ineffective.
While my lungs were aching for air, I suddenly realized
that all I had to do was open the door on the right and
swim to the surface. I didn't have to swim far, though.
We were close to shore in only four feet of water. Some
of those who had witnessed the accident were already
there and pulling my wife from the aircraft.
Fate can play an interesting role in aircraft accidents. When I later inspected the wreckage, I noted
that the left wing was bent seriously downward and
would have prevented escape from that side of the aircraft had the door been on that side. The right wing was
bent up and out of the way. Getting out was easy. Had
the wings been bent in reverse, however, it is likely that
we would not have survived.
This explains why it might seem to some that I am
preoccupied with the notion of an engine failure when
flying singles. Rather than being preoccupied, however,
I consider myself a realist. I recognize and attempt to
prepare for the possibility of an engine failure irrespective of how unlikely it might be.
AOPA
WEB

www.barryschiff.com

http://www.barryschiff.com

AOPA Turbine Pilot Magazine - February 2015

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