I had recently obtained my private pilot certificate and my first airplane, a Piper Cherokee. One spring afternoon, I decided to take a friend from my home base in southern Maryland to Ocean City, Maryland, for dinner on the boardwalk. By car, this was a 3- to 4-hour trip, but by airplane it took less than 45 minutes.
I had checked the weather and no changes were expected until very late in the evening. There was a waning full moon, which promised good visibility for the return trip.
After a fine flight to Ocean City, we took a cab to the boardwalk and found a nice restaurant for a leisurely dinner. My friend was suitably impressed by my piloting skill and humble admission that there was still much to learn.
I was concerned about some haze forming along the bay just inland from Ocean City and suggested that we return to the airport earlier than planned, in order to check the weather. I noticed that the airport beacon was illuminating a light mist. It was not as thick as what was over the bay and didn't cause much concern. I couldn't see the moon but was able to make out a scattered to broken cloud layer over the airport and to see a few stars. The clouds looked as though they were at least 4,000 to 5,000 feet agl.
A call to flight service confirmed this ceiling and revealed that no fog was forecast and none had been observed at Salisbury (20 miles inland) during the last hour. The 2-degree temperature/dew point spread should have set off a loud alarm, but I blindly trusted the forecast and my optimistic observation of the sky at the airport.
I was surprised to find moisture on the top of the Cherokee's wing but did not consider the significance of this finding. In the back of my mind I felt some pressure to return that evening and was anxious to get going.
We departed to the south, towards Chincoteague Bay. Passing through maybe 300 or 400 feet, we entered a thick fog bank. My heart rate immediately increased, my mind became clouded by fear, and my hands felt wet on the yoke. I could not see the ground and began to feel queasy, disoriented, and confused. I could not think as quickly or clearly as usual.
"Climb and confess," immediately came to mind. This sounded far easier than attempting to turn and descend. "Trust the gauges" also rang in my head as I continued my ascent. I was hoping that it was just an isolated area of fog and tried to turn to a westerly course. Then I noticed that my instruments were not working correctly. The attitude indicator showed a left turn and my turn coordinator a right turn. I could not believe my bad luck. I was a new pilot who had unwittingly wandered into a cloud at night, and my instruments seemed to have failed.
I started to fixate on the attitude indicator and had the vague sense that I was misinterpreting the instrument, but I did not know how. I was pretty sure that I was turning — both the attitude indicator and the turn coordinator showed that — but I was not sure which way. My panic and fear grew as the sound of the engine became stronger and I noticed the altimeter beginning to slowly unwind.
I became angry at myself for losing control of the situation and resolved to live through this experience. I would not allow myself to enter a spin and become a VFR-into-IMC accident statistic.
I pulled back lightly on the yoke and consulted the directional gyro for assistance. In my fear and confusion I could see that the compass rose was turning, but I was unsure how to interpret this movement. It was turning to the left. Did that mean that I should turn right? I knew that I was confused, disoriented, and not thinking clearly. I knew that we were no longer turning but could not tell by looking at the directional gyro. It was still turning.
In my state of informed panic I decided that the compass was the one instrument that I could trust for turn information. My passenger, who had been silent and calm throughout the ordeal, asked whether anything was wrong. My monotone response, "I can't talk now," probably confirmed his worst suspicions.
I hoped that by keeping the wings straight and the airplane climbing, we would eventually find clear sky. Then I could call Patuxent Approach for help.
We emerged into a clear sky at about 1,700 feet. I could see that Maryland's entire Eastern Shore was buried beneath a sheet of gray fog. I thought that heading home might not work, as my home base might also have fog.
I saw the ocean to my left and turned in that direction to see the view to the north. The only patch of ground I could see was the airport from which we had just departed. I quickly descended and entered a nonstandard pattern for the departure runway, avoiding most of the scud in the airport vicinity.
Once on the ground, I tried to explain to my friend what had happened. He tried to comfort me by stating that he thought that we were doing fine and by assuring me that he would have helped me because he could "sense" what the airplane was doing. After several long discussions, my friend understood physiological illusions and disorientation, and the difference between VFR and IFR pilots.
It took a few months of fair-weather flying to become comfortable in the airplane again. And I rarely fly at night. Several hours of attitude flying lessons showed me my mistakes. There was no problem with the instruments — only in my interpretation of them.
Should I ever find myself in instrument conditions again — which is unlikely as I fly only in good VFR weather — I have resolved to utilize the autopilot to maintain directional control. I have even greater respect for what I don't know and for learning about all the variables that control a flight before departure. I have learned much more about weather and about paying attention to things that seem unusual. My appreciation for the confusion and terror of emergency situations has led me to continually practice emergency procedures and flight maneuvers. Finally, I learned to accept long car rides and weather delays as a necessary and sometimes even comforting part of pleasure flying.
Miles Diller, Ph.D., AOPA 1214032, a psychologist from Santa Fe, New Mexico, has been flying for 4 years and is now working on his instrument rating. He owns a Piper Cherokee 180.
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from the experiences of others. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double-spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701.
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