"Nearly killed myself" was the comment I wrote in my logbook for September 9, 1976. It was the day on which my skills enabled me to survive in spite of my poor judgment.
I was 23 years old and the proud owner of an Ercoupe that I had purchased three months before. With 220 hours under my belt, I felt that I was ready to explore the world by airplane. Hobbs, New Mexico, was my home then. The weather there was usually great for flying, although it wasn't very scenic. I planned a flight to Corpus Christi, Texas. It would be great. I would land at the Mustang Beach Airport and camp out on the beach just a hundred yards from the airplane. I'd have to fight the girls away, I thought.
When I got to Mustang Beach there weren't any girls to fight off, just the biggest mosquitoes imaginable. There wasn't a breeze, just that dreadful buzzing you hear before you get eaten alive. I ended up spending the night in the airplane. Not only is an Ercoupe small inside, you can't even adjust the seat position. I put the windows up and spent the night swatting mosquitoes — not sleeping.
I was a basket case by sunrise. I fired up the Ercoupe's Continental and headed northwest for home. The skies were clear until I reached San Angelo, Texas, several hours later. An overcast layer thankfully shaded me from the sun, but I was concerned because that layer appeared to get lower and lower as I continued. I hadn't checked the weather because it's always beautiful in west Texas and New Mexico.
I continued chugging along; fat, real dumb, and happy. When I reached Midland, Texas, the ceiling was down to about 1,500 feet; but with 10 miles visibility, I wasn't worried. Hobbs was only 60 miles away. Without noticing, I got lower and lower. Before long, nothing looked familiar and I couldn't see far enough ahead to find my way. There weren't even any road signs to check, but I did happen upon a house.
I landed on a road and taxied up to the driveway. The German shepherd on the front porch was barking hysterically. You'd think he had never seen an airplane before. A lady came out.
"This is Frankel City, Texas," she said. "Andrews is that way, Seminole is that way, and Hobbs is over there," she said while pointing toward the respective towns.
I thanked her and took off. Being low on fuel, I headed to Andrews to gas up. I should have stayed there, but I took off anyway — after all, home was only 25 minutes away.
I left Andrews, planning to follow a highway north to Seminole, then west to Hobbs. The ceiling got lower and so did I. I circumnavigated Seminole and followed the wrong road west. Things didn't look right. Suddenly, a radio tower appeared in the windshield. It was gray and hard to see. "They don't have to paint the short ones," I thought.
I was scared. I had learned the four C's: Climb, Confess, Communicate, and Comply. So I did. I climbed into the clouds. No instrument rating, no clearance, I just climbed high enough to avoid hitting any towers.
I wanted to call the Hobbs control tower and tell them of my predicament, but my "coffee grinder" navcom wouldn't allow simultaneous navigation and communication. I chose to concentrate on navigation and staying upright rather than calling — besides, Hobbs usually had very little traffic.
My plan was to track toward the VOR, break away before getting too close, then descend slowly. If the ground wasn't visible at a "safe" altitude, I would head back toward Andrews.
I let down closer to the VOR than anticipated — breaking out of the clouds at about 300 feet over the center of Lea County (Hobbs), a controlled airport. I made a beeline for my home field, Hobbs Industrial, an uncontrolled field, and landed uneventfully.
As I was securing the airplane, a New Mexico state trooper drove up and asked if I had just overflown Lea County, the controlled airport. I confessed.
"They'd like for you to come over and talk to them," he said.
Still trembling as I walked into the terminal building, I tossed my certificate on the counter. "Here, I don't need this anymore," I said. I explained what I had done, that I was too tired to think clearly, and certainly too tired to fly. I had broken virtually every rule in the book. With the poor judgment I had displayed, I didn't deserve to have a pilot's certificate. To my surprise, they told me to keep my certificate and get some sleep...and don't ever do that again.
In the years that followed, I took numerous trips in that little Ercoupe. I waited on weather numerous times and yearned for the day that I would be instrument rated and equipped. Now I am. I still remember that day and I can't believe how foolish I had been. Fatigue, overconfidence, and "get-home-itis" had almost made me a statistic. No trip is that important. And I still wonder what that lady in Frankel City told her husband that night.
Steven C. Price, AOPA 546480, a salesman from Midland, Texas, is a 2,500- hour ATP and CFI with multiengine and glider ratings. He owns a Piper Aztec and a Navion.
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from others' experiences. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double-spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701.
