Today was supposed to be an 11 AM-to-3 PM lesson, as I need a few more hours of checkride preparation to meet the legal minimum. However, the wind was so calm and the sky so clear that Stephen asked me if I wanted to just do a cross-country solo to Santa Rosa and back.
"Hell yes."
So, he told me to get a weather briefing (to be extra sure) and then preflight the plane. I'd be flying N854AC for the first time in weeks, since she had finally had her new pistons broken in and could be used for normal flight.
The weather briefing was my first, so I kept accidentally interrupting the briefer because I didn't know the flow of it yet. He explained that the weather would be basically wonderful, with a few clouds hanging over the Bay and some moderate winds in Oakland by the time I returned. The winds were 2 knots greater than the maximum allowed by Stephen but he said he'd write a waiver; "you can handle it."
So, I preflighted the plane and had Stephen do the requisite paperwork. I didn't actually get a chance to plan this cross-country solo (and in retrospect perhaps Stephen had expected me to have a flight plan to Santa Rosa and back on hand), so after he waved goodbye and took off, I sat in the cockpit of 4AC, thumbing through the sectional charts and writing down radio frequencies. 4AC doesn't have a GPS so I'd have to navigate VOR to VOR, and I'd have to use the maps or my best guesses to stay out of class-B airspace.
I started up the plane, got my clearance, and took off from runway 33 in what was the first solo I'd done in a little while now. (This fact came sharply to mind as I departed.) Departure went smoothly, and although I was too busy to enjoy the sights out the window, I was able to keep myself from any airspace incursions through use of maps and memory. A line of low clouds obscured El Cerrito, and Stephen had told me to divert if I needed to, to avoid flying over clouds, something a student pilot isn't allowed to do, so I stayed clear of them.
Once out over San Pablo Bay, Departure handed me over to Center. I decided to stay with them for traffic advisories, rather than terminate services for a quieter cockpit, because lately I've been reading in magazines about how easy it is to miss traffic that's pretty close to you. I began my climb to my cruising altitude of 4,500 feet and tuned in the Scaag's Island VOR. (I forgot to identify ["tune-identify-twist"], but I would remember that for later VOR's.)
Over Scaag's I then proceeded to the Santa Rosa VOR, which is collocated with the airport. 4AC may not have a GPS, but it does have DME, so I figured out how to work that thing and got a distance to the VOR that I could watch whittle away as I got closer.
I passed over the Santa Rosa Valley, in between mountain ranges, and finally trundled over the city of Santa Rosa. I saw the airport in the distance, a wide swath of brown in an otherwise unbroken city, so I told Center I was beginning my descent. They terminated services and I tuned to Santa Rosa Tower.
OK, I had to know the lay of the land now. My Pilot's Guide was in the copilot's seat, and I thumbed through it to the Santa Rosa page, and read the relevant notes. First off, the tower has no radar, so they rely on you to be studious about reporting where you are, in order to sequence traffic. So, looking at the map and out the window, I deduced that I was just passing over a prominent racetrack, a VFR reporting point called the Fairgrounds.
"Santa Rosa Tower, Skyhawk 854AC is over the Fairgrounds, landing, with Juliet."
"Skyhawk 854AC, Santa Rosa Tower, make left traffic for runway 14, report midfield, be advised there's a flock of pelicans zipping around the runway near the 14 numbers."
I was still 7 miles out and it wasn't easy to tell which runway was 14 (much less see any pelicans), and therefore how to enter the left downwind for it. Judging by the map, I followed the highway under me I'd be making a more-or-less acceptable base leg for runway 14. Tower vectored a departing helicopter along the same freeway, so after a short exchange over the radio we agreed that he would stay on the east side of it and I'd come in on the west side.
I entered the pattern and reported I was midfield. The control tower was emphatically tracking those pelicans, issuing "All Aircraft Be Advised" alerts. They must be one wily flock of pelicans ... That or the tower operator for a sleepy airport like STS has nothing better to do.
So a few more traffic reports -- some other planes on their way to runway 14 -- and I was set up to land. I was coming in a little fast but I put in flaps in an attempt to control it. Tower let me know that those pelicans were right on the approach vector to 14 but that they were high, so I kept my approach low and close to the ground. I still didn't see them, however.
Then, as I was passing over the threshold lights, not 20 feet above the ground and 100 feet from the runway, all of a sudden -- BAM! -- there they were. A giant flock of black birds in below and in front of me. I panicked and pulled the stick back, and the airplane pitched up and sunk. I brought the nose forward and the airplane landed, nosewheel first, on the runway a good 10 or 15 knots faster than it should have. My face cringed as the gaunt nosewheel struck the runway. (The tiny thing cannot support the weight of the plane by itself.)
The airplane recoiled from the bounce and flew back into the air, then came back down again for another bounce. With each shuddering, teeth-clenching ricochet, I struggled to maintain control, but it was already too late: The aircraft was set to bounce five or six more times before it finally stayed put on the ground. I brought the plane to a hasty stop with only a few hundred feet of runway left to go.
I have no excuse for this lapse in judgement. The moment I saw those birds I should have pushed in the power and gone around for another landing attempt. It's all part of the learning process, but mistakes like these are dangerous. If something -- anything -- isn't right during the landing, don't even think: Just push the power in and go around.
Well, I didn't go around, so here I am, sitting on the runway, knowing full well everyone at the airport saw that atrocious landing.
"Skyhawk 854AC, go to Ground, 121.9." Odd that Santa Rosa and Oakland have the same Ground frequency.
"854AC, going to Ground, and we'll reattach our landing gear." I made a feeble, pathetic joke to try in some poor way make light of the shitty landing.
"Santa Rosa Ground, Skyhawk 854AC is off runway 14, request progressive taxi to refueling." Ground gave me turn-by-turn instructions to get to the fuel pump, which was positioned very awkwardly and required some hairpin parking on my part.
I switched off the plane and got everything ready for fueling. Despite the fact that a giant sign read "DO NOT REMOVE NOZZLE UNTIL YOU HAVE PAID," the first thing I did was remove the fuel nozzle. I felt like a complete dumbass, and sure enough, the fuel pump didn't work. After about 15 minutes of trying to figure out how to work that damn labyrinthian pump, I put the nozzle back in its holster, canceled the transaction, and tried again.
Fuel was flowing now. I couldn't find any stepladder so I simply climbed up on the plane with the footholds, and began refueling. Shortly thereafter is when I fell right back down again, fuel nozzle flying out of my hand. I came down hard on my ankle, which was promptly sprained.
The pain was harsh, and I was immediately worried it was broken. It was obvious I couldn't walk very far, so I called Stephen and asked him his suggestion. He told me, well, I suppose, he'd have to come get a pilot and fly up and get me.
"You don't sound very happy," I said nervously.
"Well ... I'm not. I had other plans." We left it at that. I called Liz, thought the situation over a bit, then decided that even if I couldn't walk, my ankle was still good enough to fly. I called Stephen again and told him that I'd fly back myself. He seemed relieved. Liz, however, was mortified. She was convinced this was a bad decision, through and through.
"This is my decision as pilot-in-command," I told her. I had considered the risks of flying back myself versus the inconvenience of having Stephen come up and get me, and I had made my calculated decision. It was already better thought-out than the last decision I had made (regarding certain pelicans).
So, in spite of the sprained ankle, I clambered on to the airplane again and refueled the plane, spilling a lot of fuel in the process. I got both wings refueled when another aircraft had parked and shut down, the pilot waiting for his turn. Not wanting to be in the way (and unable to figure out how roll up the fuel hose), I pulled out the towbar, and in another painful experience, hauled the plane by hand out of the way.
"Fuel hose won't roll up?" the jovial pilot asked. His plane was also a Cessna 172. "When that happens, you gotta talk to the guys in there." He pointed to a shed crawling with bugs. I entered tentatively, and continued through to the adjacent hangar, where I saw some airplanes and helicopters with their engines exposed, undergoing repair. But no people.
The pilot told me not to worry about it, he'd handle it, so I decided to just get going. I made sure the blast from my propeller wouldn't trouble him, then struggled back into the plane and got her ready for departure.
I got my taxi clearance and took the airplane back to 14, this time finding my own way. Once I had takeoff clearance I pushed the propeller in and I was off. Shortly after liftoff, I was overcome with a sudden sense of dread. So many unusual things had just happened, that I worried that with all the distractions I had forgotten something. Did I put the tow bar back? Did I lock the baggage compartment? Did I leave something there? I climbed to 3,500 with an unshakeable anxiety that didn't disappear for five minutes or so. Thirty-five hundred feet is well above Santa Rosa's airspace -- when I remembered that Santa Rosa Tower had no radar, I let them know that I had left their airspace, and they let me go.
Not wanting to add any additional risk to the equation, I contacted Oakland Center and asked for a flight following. They helped me avoid local traffic. At 3,500 feet, with the lower air pressure, the swelling in my right ankle increased significantly. Fortunately, the distractions of flying kept my mind off the pain.
"N854AC, how are you getting to Oakland?"
"854AC is going to Scaag's then direct to Santa Rosa."
Since Center was concerned about my route I figured I'd better stick to it. I double-checked my heading indicator and flew to Scaag's as accurately as I could. As I passed over it, the needle began to dip to the left, and when I looked out the left window, I could see it, the lonesome little VOR in the middle of the marshlands north of San Pablo. Center passed me on to NorCal Approach, who guided me along a typical approach to Oakland.
My workload decreased, and I enjoyed the view as the plane slipped along through light turbulence to the Mormon Temple. A right turn and I entered the traffic for 27R. Tower gave me some traffic advisories, which I picked out. I brought the plane down for a much, much better landing on 27R, then got clearance to taxi back to the Old T's.
Hopping out of the plane, the pain immediately returned, and I hobbled around securing the aircraft, then limped back to the Old T's. I gave my parents a call and they agreed to pick me up. I let Liz know I made it back alive, but she was still not at all pleased.
I had a solo (or lesson) scheduled for tomorrow but with these newest developments I fear I will be on my back all weekend.
Cost so far: $7,416.88
Time so far: 126 days
Hours so far: 42 hours
Projected certification date: August 21, 2007
Projected total cost: $8,800
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