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The Checkride

PA12driver

Registered User
Battle Ground, WA
Check Ride

A plea for help from a grounded Australian to his friend, BJ....

Hi Mate, I am writing to you, because I need your help to get me
bloody pilot's license back. You keep telling me you got all the right
contacts. Well now's your chance to make something happen for me
because, mate, I'm bloody desperate. But first, I'd better tell you
what happened during my last flight review with the CAA Examiner.

On the phone, Ron (that's the CAA dickhead) seemed a reasonable sort of
bloke. He politely reminded me of the need to do a flight review every
two years. He even offered to drive out, have a look over my property
and let me operate from my own strip. Naturally I agreed to that.

Anyway, Ron turned up last Wednesday. First up, he said he was a bit
surprised to see the plane on a small strip outside my homestead,
because the ALA (Authorized Landing Area) is about a mile away. I
explained that because this strip was so close to the homestead, it was
more convenient than the ALA, and despite the power lines crossing
about midway down the strip it's really not a problem to land and
take-off, because at the half-way point down the strip you're usually
still on the ground.

For some reason Ron seemed nervous. So, although I had done the
pre-flight inspection only four days earlier, I decided to do it all
over again. Because the prick was watching me carefully, I walked
around the plane three times instead of my usual two.

My effort was rewarded because the color finally returned to Ron's
cheeks. In fact, they went a bright red. In view of Ron's obviously
better mood, I told him I was going to combine the test flight with
some farm work, as I had to deliver three poddy calves from the home
paddock to the main herd. After a bit of a chase I finally caught the
calves and threw them into the back of the ol' Cessna 172.

We climbed aboard, but Ron started getting' onto me about weight and
balance calculations and all that crap. Of course I knew that sort of
thing was a waste of time because, calves like to move around a bit
particularly when they see themselves 500 feet off the ground! So, its
bloody pointless trying to secure them as you know. However, I did
tell Ron that he shouldn't worry as I always keep the trim wheel set on
neutral to ensure we remain pretty stable at all stages throughout the
flight.

Anyway, I started the engine and cleverly minimized the warm-up time by
tramping hard on the brakes and gunning her to 2,500rpm. I then
discovered that Ron has very acute hearing, even though he was wearing
a bloody headset. Through all that noise he detected a metallic rattle
and demanded I account for it. Actually it began about a month ago and
was caused by a screwdriver that fell down a hole in the floor and
lodged in the fuel selector mechanism. The selector can't be moved
now, but it doesn't matter because it's jammed on 'All tanks', so I
suppose that's Okay.

However, as Ron was obviously a real nit-picker, I blamed the noise on
vibration from a stainless steel thermos flask, which I keep in a beaut
little possie between the windshield and the magnetic compass. My
explanation seemed to relax Ron, because he slumped back in the seat
and kept looking up at the cockpit roof.

I released the brakes to taxi out, but unfortunately the plane gave a
leap and spun to the right. "Hell" I thought, "not the starboard wheel
chock again". The bump jolted Ron back to full alertness. He looked
wildly around just in time to see a rock thrown by the propwash
disappear completely through the windscreen of his brand new
Commodore. "Now I'm really in trouble", I thought.

While Ron was busy ranting about his car, I ignored his requirement
that we taxi to the ALA, and instead took off under the power lines.
Ron didn't say a word, at least not until the engine started coughing
right at the lift off point, then he bloody screamed his head off. "Oh
God! Oh God! Oh God!"

"Now take it easy, Ron" I told him firmly. "That often happens on
take-off and there is a good reason for it." I explained patiently
that I usually run the plane on standard MOGAS, but one day I
accidentally put in a gallon or two of kerosene. To compensate for the
low octane of the kerosene, I siphoned in a few gallons off super MOGAS
and shook the wings up and down a few times to mix it up. Since then,
the engine has been coughing a bit but in general it works just fine,
if you know how to coax it properly. Anyway, at this stage Ron seemed
to lose all interest in my flight test. He pulled out some rosary
beads, closed his eyes and became lost in prayer. (I didn't think
anyone was a Catholic these days). I selected some nice music on the
HF radio to help him relax.

Meanwhile, I climbed to my normal cruising altitude of 10,500 feet. I
don't normally put in a flight plan or get the weather because, as you
know getting Fax access out here is a friggin' joke and the bloody
weather is always 8/8 blue anyway. But since I had that near miss with
a Saab 340, I might have to change me thinking on that. Anyhow, on
leveling out I noticed some wild camels heading into my improved
pasture. I hate bloody camels, and always carry a loaded .303 clipped
inside the door of the Cessna just in case I see any of the bastards.

We were too high to hit them, but as a matter of principle, I decided
to have a go through the open window. Mate, when I pulled the bloody
rifle out, the effect on Ron was friggin' electric. As I fired the
first shot his neck lengthened by about six inches and his eyes bulged
like a rabbit with myxo. He really looked as if he had been jabbed
with an electric cattle prod on full power. In fact, Ron's reaction
was so distracting that I lost concentration for a second and the next
shot went straight through the port tyre. Ron was a bit upset about
the shooting (probably one of those pinko animal lovers I guess) so I
decided not to tell him about our little problem with the tyre. Shortly
afterwards I located the main herd and decided to do my fighter pilot
trick.

Ron had gone back to praying when, in one smooth sequence, I pulled on
full flaps, cut the power and started a sideslip from 10,500 feet down
to 500 feet at 130 knots indicated (the last time I looked anyway) and
the little needle rushing up to the red area on me ASI. What a buzz,
mate! About half way through the descent I looked back in the cabin
to see the calves gracefully suspended in mid air and mooing like
crazy. I was going to comment on this unusual sight, but Ron looked a
bit green and had rolled himself into the fetal position and was
screamin' his freakin' head off. Mate, talk about being in a bloody
zoo. You should've been there, it was so bloody funny!

At about 500 feet I leveled out, but for some reason we continued
sinking. When we reached 50 feet I applied full power but nothin'
happened; no noise no nothin'. Then, luckily, I heard me instructor's
voice in me head saying "carby heat, carby heat". So I pulled carby
heat on and that helped quite a lot, with the engine finally regaining
full power. Whew, that was really close, let me tell you!

Then mate, you'll never guess what happened next! As luck would have
it, at that height we flew into a massive dust cloud caused by the
cattle and suddenly went I.F. bloody R, mate. BJ, you would've been
bloody proud of me as I didn't panic once, not once, but I did make a
mental note to consider an instrument rating as soon as me gyro is
repaired (Something I've been meaning to do for a while now).

Suddenly Ron's elongated neck and bulging eyes reappeared. His mouth
opened wide, very wide, but no sound emerged. "Take it easy," I told
him. "we'll be out of this in a minute." Sure enough, about a minute
later we emerge; still straight and level and still at 50 feet.
Admittedly I was surprised to notice that we were upside down, and I
kept thinking to myself, "I hope Ron didn't notice that I had forgotten
to set the QNH when we were taxying". This minor tribulation forced me
to fly to a nearby valley in which I had to do a half roll to get
upright again.

By now the main herd had divided into two groups leaving a narrow strip
between them. "Ah!," I thought, "there's an omen. We'll land right
there." Knowing that the tyre problem demanded a slow approach, I flew
a couple of steep turns with full flap. Soon the stall warning horn
was blaring so loud in me ear that I cut its circuit breaker to shut it
up, but by then I knew we were slow enough anyway. I turned steeply
onto a 75 foot final and put her down with a real thud. Strangely
enough, I had always thought you could only ground loop in a tail
dragger but, as usual, I was proved wrong again!

Halfway through our third loop, Ron at last recovered his sense of
humour. Talk about laugh. I've never seen the likes of it. He
couldn't stop. We finally rolled to a halt and I released the calves,
who bolted out of the aircraft like there was no tomorrow.

I then began picking clumps of dry grass. Between gut wrenching fits
of laughter, Ron asked what I was doing. I explained that we had to
stuff the port tyre with grass so we could fly back to the homestead.
It was then that Ron really lost the plot and started running away from
the aircraft. Can you believe it? The last time I saw him he was off
into the distance, arms flailing in the air and still shrieking with
laughter. I later heard that he had been confined to a psychiatric
institution - poor bugger!

Anyhow, mate, that's enough about Ron. The problem is I just got a
letter from CASA withdrawing, as they put it, my privileges to fly;
until I have undergone a complete pilot training course again and
undertaken another flight proficiency test. Now I admit that I made a
mistake in taxiing over the wheel chock and not setting the QNH using
strip elevation, but I can't see what else I did that was so bloody bad
that they have to withdraw me flamin' license. Can you?
 
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