‘Only fool in the sky’

Flight service pointed out a powerful squall line over Chicago that was also headed to Fort Wayne. My only passenger was my little Shih Tsu pup Starshine, with dozens of flight hours riding under my seat. He could handle it; we’d give it a try.

Climbout and cruise were smooth. Not even a headwind...yet. It would be just more than an hour flight. As I turned north, the squall line flight service warned me about was visible on the northwest horizon, spewing jagged lightning to the heavens. I pushed on the throttle to see if the little airplane could go any faster.

Twenty minutes later I was VFR at 6,500 feet in warm, smooth air. Dayton was off my right, you could see almost all the way to Lake Michigan, except for the awesome aerial light show of fire and lightning ahead. I looked down at Starshine, serene under my seat. “Don’t worry, we’ll beat it.”

Fifteen minutes later I was halfway there. Off my right wing I could see Columbus and even Cleveland in the night sky. Such a beautiful night for flying. Except, that monster ahead that was blocking my view of Chicago. It was getting closer. Larger, uglier. And yes, unsettling.

I asked Center for an update. “It’ll get to Fort Wayne just about the same time as you do,” the controller replied. “What are your intentions?”

“I’ll go as far as I can,” I replied.

“Good luck. All the airports south of Fort Wayne are good VFR.”

I flew on. It felt surreal, flying in still smooth air and watching the amazing airshow in the distance. Lightning bolts ripped the sky, revealing the huge black wall that touched heaven. I watched in awe what nature can do.

Forty miles to go. The behemoth ahead filled more and more of the sky. It was well past sundown but the lightning made it look like midday. I checked my chart for airports. Plenty. I relaxed and continued, my trusty wing leveler handing the smooth air with ease.

Twenty miles out, still calm, clear. Between the light show and FWA’s runway lights ahead I could easily see the field. It would be close!

Approach control: “Eight-Three-November, I show you 18 miles out. The squall line is 10 miles northwest of the airport. What are your intentions?” Eighteen miles. Less than 10 minutes. I keyed the mic. “How fast is it moving?”

“Twenty knots...toward you.”

“I have the field in sight. Is there any traffic in the neighborhood?”

A pause, then: “You’re the only fool in the sky.” Another pause, clearly waiting for me to turn around. I didn’t respond. Then, “OK, contact Tower One One Nine Point One. Good luck.”

Ten miles. Now the wall of lightning was too bright, but erratic; one moment they blinded me, the next it was black and all I could see were the runway lights ahead. It was one of those moments when pilots start to tell jokes. I called Tower: “Hey, can you guys turn down the lightning, please?”

The runway lights go off.

“No, not the runway lights, I need them! I was talking about the lightning!”

They come back on. I think about Starshine. He must be OK down there, but I don’t have time to check. We continue. Six miles, smooth as silk. No! Suddenly we are flipped almost upside down. The wing leveler and I fight to regain control. This is what they warn you about, the dreaded “first gust.”

I was taught about that. And forgot. But here it is. An intense quartering wind blast us from the left; I crab to stay close to the localizer centerline.

Five miles. The outer marker goes off. Erratic wind. Can I stay on course?

Four miles. Heavy rain hits. Sheets of water swamp us. Thanks to the lightning I can still see the runway, but the wind is so wild I can barely stay on course. What if I can’t, dare I try to turn around?

I feel something climbing up my solar plexus. Starshine is clawing his way up my chest! I hardly notice. Two miles. I’m low. Climb! Holding a 45-degree crab into the torrent just to stay lined up for the runway. Now descend. Fly the airplane! There is no turning around now. I can’t worry about Starshine, hanging onto me terrified.

No way to straighten out and hold course. A wing lowered enough to do so would hit the pavement. Hope for enough downpour to hydroplane, or brace for a ground loop. Either way, I am committed.

Seconds later the mains touch two inches of water. We waterski down the runway in a 45-degree crab angle. The airplane stalls, the nose touches and skis along with the mains. Hydroplaning at 45 knots, nose aimed into the wind, sliding sideways down the runway.

Finally, the tempest blows us onto a taxiway leading to the FBO. I maneuver to parking, shut down, lock the ailerons, set the brake, and jump out to tie down, before the airplane flies away on its own. Wet and cold. It is late, there is no one to come help.

I secured the airplane, unloaded my bag, and collected a shaking and soaked Starshine for the tortuous walk to the vacant FBO, hoping it wasn’t locked. It was open. We piled into a chair, Starshine shaking water everywhere. Drenched, I wished I could do that. I tried to dry us off a bit and call a taxi. “Sorry we’re so wet,” I told the driver, and tipped him extra for the trouble. In the hotel I dried off my little co-pilot, fed him, and settled into a long hot bath. We made it.

Ben Moses is a documentary filmmaker and pilot.