Never Again: Floatplane pain

In 1981, I was a 24-year-old pilot and A&P mechanic with more than 1,000 hours logged, including 600 dusting crops. We owned a Beech Musketeer but wanted something more versatile. A friend told us about a Cessna 185 on straight floats that was up for auction in New Iberia, Louisiana, the heart of Cajun country and a world away from our home in Washington. It was taxiing across the water when a crosswind tipped the wing and left it floating upside down. There was no structural damage so the airplane was flushed with fresh water. A new starter, magnetos, and spark plugs were installed and the engine “pickled” with fresh oil, but the insurance company wanted it sold. We bid $15,000 sight unseen and won. Clearly, we paid too much.

Two young pilot friends and I took a commercial jet to Louisiana in March and drove to Pelican Aviation’s ramp, where the airplane was sitting. It was structurally sound, but a pathetic-looking derelict with swampy orange and white paint. The cowl flaps and controls were frozen. The sagging headliner was full of mud. The instruments were all half full of water. And it needed a manifold gauge, fuel flow gauge, airspeed indicator, tachometer, and altimeter.

Medical research says the brain is fully developed by age 25, but emotional maturity is different. A 2013 British study reported women don’t reach full emotional maturity until age 32. Men take an additional 11 years. Perhaps that—and our meager budget—helps explain some of our decisions.

To prepare the airplane to fly more than 2,500 miles over four days, we visited the local auto parts store and purchased a Stuart Warner oil pressure gauge, connected it to the engine, and hung it outside the airplane’s glove compartment. We borrowed and installed an old tachometer and manifold pressure gauge from a Cessna 206. But we didn’t replace the broken compass, and the radio was intermittent. Topping off this aeronautical stack of Jenga blocks, we replaced the alternator with one from a car. That component lasted about five minutes into our first flight, meaning we had to remove the heavy battery every afternoon, then find someone with a charger for an overnight boost.

Only one of the three of us—Ben Olsen—had any floatplane time, a mere seven hours in a Piper J–3 Cub. That was seven hours more than he had spent in a Cessna 185.

A storm was rolling in the day we were ready to depart, so we were in a rush to take off despite the 20-knot crosswind ripping across our aquatic runway. One of the veteran charter pilots who landed as we were heading out passed us with a dazed look and said, “My God! I hope I never have to do that again.”

We looked at each other and seemed to share the same thought: We’re just taking off, not landing.

Shortly after liftoff, Ben asked for a heading to Houston. I said it should be on the map. The problem was, all our charts were back in Pelican’s office. We had a robust debate, but decided to land. The guy in the office said, “I can’t believe you came back.”

After our legs quit shaking, we took off again and headed west with our maps, which we soon discovered were expired and featured some floatplane facilities that were out of business. We might have been more concerned except it felt like the tail was coming off because the airplane was vibrating intermittently. Looking out a side window, I saw a shadow on one of the floats that showed a brace violently moving up and down. Also, the stall warning continually sounded like a distant whistle. When we reached Houston without a functional radio, we circled at the far end of David Wayne Hooks Memorial Airport, anticipating a light signal from the tower to land on the waterway. Since our 60-gallon tanks only provided three and a half hours of flying time and were running low, we finally decided to land. Naturally, the tower phoned down when we landed and asked why we never contacted them. I explained what happened and got off easy, but I suspect many people we met felt the sooner we were out of their airspace, the better.

That first evening we landed on a lake north of Dallas. Heading north the next morning, we landed in drainage canals, ponds, and rivers, figuring out how to get avgas as we went. Sometimes fuel trucks would drive to where we were, other times we ferried fuel in a half-dozen five-gallon containers we carried in the airplane.

Our day’s final destination was Yankton, South Dakota, which has an Army Corps of Engineers facility on Lake Yankton. We tied the airplane to a dock sitting by itself inside a compound surrounded by hurricane fence. After scaling that fence like Spider-Man, we walked to town and got a hotel room so I could plan the final 1,500 miles of our journey.

I called my cousin 300 miles north in Mobridge, South Dakota, and said we would see him around lunch time. “Great!” he said, before asking how we would land a floatplane on the Missouri River when it was iced over. Granted, weather information was harder to get in 1981. But I should have made a few calls before leaving Washington earlier in the week and checked en route conditions.

We decided to return home by airline and come back when the ice was gone. Before leaving Yankton, we jumped the fence again near some “No Trespassing” signs, and a half dozen Corps of Engineers trucks soon arrived. After explaining our predicament, they let us leave the airplane tied to the dock with our promise to be back soon.

Three weeks later Ben and I returned with my dad in his Musketeer. We cruised 200 miles to Fort Pierre when the Cessna’s fuel pump quit working. That required us to pull the pump, walk to a farmer’s home in the dark, then visit a local crop duster to rebuild the pump in his shop. When we finished, it was held together with baling wire and duct tape but worked well enough to get us safely home. The 185 eventually was refurbished. It is now flying in Alaska.

Despite having lots of diverse experience as pilots and mechanics, we were ill prepared for this adventure. If someone has concerns, it’s a good idea to speak up while slowing down the pace. It’s also a lot safer and less stressful solving problems on the ground than in the air.

Pat Heseltine owns and operates Avian Flight Center, a full-service FBO, flight school, and maintenance center in Bremerton, Washington.