• 
  

  Print

  ---

  

  Digital

  ---

  

  Subscriber Services

  Inquire
  Change Address
  Renew

  ---

  

  Gift Subscriptions

I’ve experienced a moment of deafening silence accompanied by an almost catatonic state of relaxation five times in my flying career: the engine is suddenly quiet as the rotor system takes its last useless swipes at the air. The “Wow, I didn’t see that coming” moment vanishes in a millisecond as your muscles relax during the process of the shutdown checklist, the inventory of passenger and personal health, and the evacuation of the now-defunct machine.

In the days that follow, the helicopter is recovered, the paperwork completed, and anyone willing to listen is regaled countless times about how I saved another one. Alone in the quiet afterglow of success, when I’ve thought back to that joyous moment of survival, I’ve realized I actually did see the failure coming — or at least I was prepared for it — or else I’d be dead.

Aug. 24, 2010, was a normal day of charter operations for our company. As operations manager, I had assigned myself a photography flight in one of our Eurocopter EC120s (I worry about photographers coercing our younger pilots). My flying associates, Fate and Luck, were already on the ramp, arguing about where they were going to sit. My three passengers arrived and were greeted, weighed, manifested and briefed.

The flight plan had us departing Fort McMurray Airport at gross weight for a 25-minute photo session of the downtown area and local golf courses; flying 100 miles north to the Richardson River Dunes Wildland Park for more photographs; topping up at a remote fuel cache; then finally heading home. As we approached the EC120 I was planning on taking, the ground crew advised me they had cleaned and readied its sister ship instead. Fate now intervened as I announced I wanted the ship with air conditioning, so a few bugs on the windshield wouldn’t matter.

Five minutes after takeoff, we were slowing down to open the left sliding door and begin the photo shoot. For the next six minutes, we flew between 400 and 700 feet above ground level (AGL), at six to 20 knots, over the banks of the Clearwater and Athabasca rivers. Over the objections of the photographer, I announced we needed more height over town in case the engine quit and proceeded to climb another thousand feet. In a hover now at 1,500 feet AGL and looking over my left shoulder, I heard it. Was that a gong? Whipping my head forward, I was greeted by a red ENG P (engine oil pressure) light.

Ah $#!%... Stuffing the collective and nose down, I barked at the photographer to get in, close the door and buckle up. With the nose aimed down 22.7 degrees, we fell at 2,491 feet a minute. My autorotation profile was achieved within 15 seconds, a target landing zone was picked and now it was a race between the failing engine and the approaching ground. 

A long 51 seconds after the gong, we were finally, safely on the ground. I called the base to let them know what had happened and was relieved to hear a machine was already winding up to come get us (they had been alerted by the Outerlink tracking system when I activated the “mayday” mode).

During the landing flare, the front compressor bearing had failed with a loud bang, 72 seconds after it had lost lubrication. Could I have saved the engine by shutting it down? Perhaps, but my personal philosophy has always been: safety comes first. A running engine contributes to an autorotation profile and I needed every bit of rotating energy to ensure survival in this instance.

To me, fate isn’t fixed, it can be modified or changed by luck… and being called “lucky” is a convenient way of describing the successful results of training, experience and effective decision-making. Fate may have put us in that aircraft and stolen the oil pressure, but luck saved the day. Hand-eye co-ordination is my genetic luck, but the rest was manufactured by: the instructors who gave me superb initial and recurrent training, a modern aircraft with audio warning that interrupted my distraction and alerted me to check the panel, and my experience, which puts safety margins ahead of customer desires.

Reading my account you may think I also have a digital memory. I don’t — but the aircraft I fly do. Our helicopters are equipped with the Appareo ALERTS system, plus cockpit voice and video recorders. This amazing data monitoring equipment has allowed us to use a three-dimensional playback of my event to train our pilots and customers in decision-making and emergency procedures. It has given me a few lessons, as well, so the next time fate fails my engine, luck will allow me to be prepared enough to fly a perfect autorotation.

Visit HFDM.org for more details on helicopter flight data monitoring, and see p.104, Vertical, Feb-Mar 2011.