Never Again: Close call

In August 2015, Steve Hill (no relation to author), who had been Jon Sharp’s crew chief, and I went to the Mojave, California, airport to help restore the Nemesis NXT to flying condition. Sharp’s Reno racer had been stored in a hangar that was damaged, holding it captive until the hangar doors were repaired. I was to relocate the NXT to Moriarty, New Mexico, so that Sharp could set some world speed records before retiring the aircraft to the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum.

Sharp and his wife, Patricia, designed and built the NXT around his six-foot-four frame, and the rudder pedals were not adjustable. Even with cushions and bolsters, I was barely able to reach the rudder pedals. I was unable to perform a magneto check as the NXT slowly crept forward during the runup. This, of course, was unacceptable, so I taxied back and informed Sharp and the crew of my predicament. Hill and I returned to Moriarty to contemplate plan B. The NXT was subsequently flown to Moriarty, where rudder pedal extensions were designed and installed.

On April 27, 2017, I finally had a chance to fly the NXT. Since the winds were forecast to increase, Hill and I met at Hill’s hangar early to get a leg up on the day and give me a chance to see how Sharp’s racer flew. The NXT has no forward visibility when being taxied, so a lipstick camera was located on the right main landing gear in conjunction with a small video screen in the cockpit so the pilot could see ahead. Hill followed me out to Runway 26 to both assist and observe my flight.

As soon as I applied power, I was able to raise the tail and directional control was never an issue. I remained on the ground perhaps a bit longer than needed, which may have been a function of the elevator trim position. On liftoff, the NXT seemed very well behaved. I climbed out to the southwest in order to get a better feel for how it behaved before returning to land. Although the aircraft was not unruly, the air certainly was, and so I decided to cut the flight short and return to terra firma.

An aircraft incident or accident is almost never just one thing. It is a series of connected dots that, when added up, can lead to an untenable situation—or worse. The first dot manifested itself unbeknownst to me as I entered the downwind leg.

It had been only a few days before that I had flown the glider club’s Piper Pawnee towplane. When doing so, I would fly a close, tight traffic pattern. In hindsight, I should have flown a pattern commensurate with the speeds I would be flying the Reno racer; that is, 150 mph on final and somewhat faster on downwind and base.

Gear down, two in the green, and I started working to slow the NXT. Because I was far too close to the final approach, I banked steeper as I watched myself fly through final—dot number two. I must have added a touch of bottom rudder (dot number three). At that point mortality hovered at my shoulder, a watchful bird of prey, and the next thing I knew, the NXT departed in a snap roll.

I would like to claim it was superior airmanship, skill, and reflexes that kept me from dying that day, but I know better. My guardian angel was watching over me and only by the grace of God did I make the control inputs that allowed me to recover at about 200 or so feet. Steve Hill was privy to all the above, and this is what he observed:

The aircraft disappeared from my view and hearing to the west. After a few minutes I heard the aircraft approaching from the west and heard Bill’s radio call of left downwind for Runway 26 with gear. The aircraft appeared to me to be at a normal altitude but maybe a little close to the runway. By this time the winds on the ground had picked up and were gusting a little bit. The winds were mostly aligned with the runway but may have had a southern component. My perception was such that I almost called Bill on the radio to remind him to maintain 150 mph pattern speed but I did not.

I watched the aircraft perform a left turn from downwind to base and the bank angle seemed a little steep to me. The aircraft continued on a northerly heading with left wing down at less than 500 feet agl. Suddenly it appeared to snap roll all the way around and recover upright. I was looking into the morning sun and did not have an ideal view but I believe that the aircraft continued in a roll to the left. The maneuver happened extremely quickly—literally in the blink of an eye.

It had happened so quickly that I was, at that point, not sure what to make of it all, only that I was in a descending attitude on a northbound heading and that if I did not initiate a pull-up, I would make ground contact. With ample speed in hand, about 170, I started a climbing westbound turn for an upwind leg while I contemplated my course of action.

I reentered the downwind with substantially more distance from the runway. This time the pattern reflected the speed at which I was flying the NXT and the turn from base to final was made at a comfortable bank angle and speed. Once properly stabilized, the NXT flew like it was on rails. There was a bit of a south wind, so I touched down left wing low as I wheeled the little racer onto the ground.

Shortly after securing the aircraft, we were in contact with Sharp, who was gracious enough to forgive me my transgressions and the fact that I had almost destroyed his wonderful creation. Sharp went on to offer a five-page explanation absolving me of blame, but I knew better. The fault was entirely mine.

The takeaways from this incident are many, but mostly the recognition of how easily one can allow the deck to be stacked against oneself. It’s important to reflect on the various types of risks: identifiable; acceptable; unacceptable; and, most important, unidentified. Remembering that uncertainty is always there hovering over the horizon, awaiting the arrival of the unsuspecting pilot who has allowed his or her situational awareness to go by the wayside and for unidentified risk to enter the equation.

I have found the episode humbling—a stark reminder of what a lack of attention to detail can lead to. Reality had returned with soul-searing clarity. I had violated a number of tenets, those irrefutable physics of flight and aerodynamics that cannot be violated, and yet I had lived to tell the tale.

W.G. Hill is a glider instructor at New Mexico’s Moriarty Airport.