Cold Morning, Flat Battery

Having told Kim a number of times how nice it is flying over to Rottnest, I thought it would be nice to finally take her. Also, after our record dry start to Winter, there's finally some rain coming, so this was going to be the last perfect flying day for a while. And it was time to take Squibby's engine for a run.

Sunday morning was the time to go, and we decided to get up first thing. So we were up while it was still dark and freezing, and on the road just as the sun was coming up, not long after 7am.

Kim like flying, but it's definitely my thing, so I thought it was very good of her to be up at this hour on her rare day off (and being 30 weeks pregnant).

She walked laps around Squibby while I did the preflight, firstly to stop from freezing, and secondly because she's been getting puffy with fluid, and needs to keep up her physical activity.

Then, it was time to saddle up.

The first crank of the prop was unusually slow. I did every trick I knew, but I just couldn't get the engine to catch.

I waited a while, had another go.

Then another.

Now I knew that the battery was getting close to flat, and I didn't have much more of a chance.

Cranked again, fiddled with the mixture, the throttle, the engine sounded like it would catch, then it didn't, then the cranking slowed down, and completely stopped.

I waited a few more times, and had a few more attempts, but with no luck. I had killed the battery.

I was just about sobbing in frustration. Kim was very good about it, but I was very frustrated. There are no mechanics or anyone around on a Sunday morning, so there was nothing for it but to tie Squibby up and call it a day.

We ended up going somewhere nice for coffee. But all day, I kept looking up at the perfectly clear, crisp blue sky, and shaking my head.

Thankfully, Kim says this hasn't put her off coming flying with me at all. So once we're back in action, we'll have another go. But it was very frustrating. Imagine this happened when we were at some remote airstrip. Definitely, I need to improve my starting technique. But a battery can still die unexpectedly. What should I do? Carry a spare battery? Do people carry spare batteries, or is weight an issue? I don't know.

Recharging the battery

OK, I'm no mechanic.

I don't mind learning about engines, aircraft systems, and so on - in fact I find it interesting. But removing the Musketeer's battery should not have given me this much trouble.

First, I opened up the left cowling. No sign of battery. Open right cowling. No sign of battery. Head-scratching. Open left cowling again. Still no battery.

Quick walk across to the Aero Club, find a spare mechanic, and ask him if he knows where the Musketeer hides the battery. He's not sure about the Musketeer, but helpfully suggests to look for a plastic tube coming out the bottom - if I find that, I've found the battery.

Back to Squibby, look underneath, and find a tube coming out the bottom, half-way down the fuselage, behind the rear seat. I've never even taken out the rear seat before, so this will be interesting.

In hindsight, I removed way to much uphostery. I removed the seat-back, the seat-bottom, the rear-flooring (exposing the aluminium frame, with all the normal holes in it, for weight reduction. Later, I would drop a number of screws and washers through these holes, to roll around on the bottom of the fuselage. Finally, I removed a metal/vinyl flap behind the seat-back, exposing the battery.

Despite Glen's careful instructions about how to remove the battery without causing a big spark, which can cause damage to the airframe, I still managed to do it wrong, and made a big spark. As far as I can tell, it didn't cause any damage.

I left all the uphostery loose in the rear of the aircraft, while the Aero club charged the battery for me.

Next day, I went and picked up the battery, and put it back in. Now I regretted how much upholstery I'd removed, since I had to put it all back. But at least I know how to remove the rear seat in future, if I ever want to take the Musketeer back to 2-seat plus baggage area.

I could do it all much quicker next time, but it's still a pretty major job getting to the battery - nothing like a car. I wouldn't want to have to do this too often.

A quick test of radios showed I'd hooked the battery up properly. Then the big test, starting the engine. Fortunately, it started very well, and I ran for 5 or 6 minutes on the ground, until the Ammeter went back close to zero.

Now Squibby is back in action.

Milk Run

Kim and I decided to have another attempt at flying to Rottnest. It's been frustrating that she hasn't been there yet - and I was very frustrated that we were foiled by battery problems last week.

The weather wasn't ideal - scattered showers, patches of low cloud, but a high enough cloud base apart from that. My parents happened to be on holiday at Rottnest this weekend, so there was an extra reason to go over there.

We got out to Jandakot, and found things pretty quiet. Guess the clouds put people off, or maybe it was the fact there was a footy match on. I'm getting quite efficient at preflighting Squibby, so we were strapped in within around 15 minutes of arriving.

It's getting harder to fit the life jacket strap around Kim's pregnant tummy. And the seatbelt. And pull back on the yoke, as we're landing.

Moment of truth, and Squibby started just fine. I was worried that the battery might now be dodgy, but it seems OK. I really don't want to be stuck miles away one day with an engine which won't start. But this restored my confidence in starting the engine.

Although the forecast was for 3000 ft base, when we looked around after starting the engine, there was lots of low patchy dark grey cloud - I was a bit worried whether we'd be able to get to 1500. Jandakot was quiet enough that we had no queue of aircraft, and were able to take off straight after our runups. The wind was northerly, but not too strong so 06L was the runway. As soon as we got a few hundred feet up, we could see that we'd be able to get up to 1500 no problems. We could also see that there were no showers between us and the island.

I haven't flown too much in wintery weather yet. But one of the interesting things about flying near showers is that you can see the entire shower. There was a shower sitting a couple of miles to the south of Rottnest, apparently stationary, and it looks like a circular column of solid mass. All the showers we could see were quite small, only a couple of miles diameter, and easily avoidable. Also, I knew from the forecast, and the look of the clouds, that there was no thunderstorm activity, just showers. But they were quite intense - you couldn't see through them, and if one had been sitting over Rottnest, we probably couldn't have gotten in for a landing.

When we're on the ground, rain seems to come and go, showers seem to start and stop, but you don't normally get this perspective of these slow-moving columns.

Rottnest has a 09-27 runway, and the wind was directly from the north, so we had a crosswind. The sock was sticking straight out, so I'm guessing it was around 10-15 kts. It's the first proper crosswind landing I've had to do since purchasing Squibby. Thankfully, it went pretty well - I managed to keep close to the centreline, touch the into-the-wind wheel down first, and got no observable bounce. I'm really starting to enjoy this aircraft.

Kim is quite heavily pregnant now, so half an hour in the aircraft is as much as she can take at the moment.

We strolled over to the cafe, trying to call my parents on the way, but receiving no answer. Maybe they headed back today on the ferry, we thought.

After coffee and a bite to eat, we decided to head straight home - lots of other things we wanted to get done today. Walking along a bike path, we saw a lady taking photos of a peacock, and it turned out to be Mum. Turns out she, Bob, two aunties and two uncles were all having fish and chips in the lunch bar next door to us. After a quick chat, we declined another coffee with them, electing to head back. The sky had been darkening, and I didn't want to get caught on the ground here.

There was another aircraft - a retractable Piper - at the strip preparing to return to Jandakot. I decided to wait and follow them, since they were definitely going to be much faster than us. I was doing run-up checks when they took off. There was a big shower blowing in - we could see that the lighthouse, a mile beyond the runway, was already difficult to see, and it was approaching the far end of the runway. So we didn't mess around - any longer and we'd be stuck on the ground for half-an-hour. We would be taking off to the west, right into the shower, but I could see that it was completely clear behind us, back to Jandakot.

As soon as we got airborne, it was drizzling. By the time we crossed the far end of the runway, it was raining hard, and getting thicker every second. Normally I don't start my crosswind turn until 500' AGL. I could see I had a choice of turning at about 250' AGL and staying in VMC, or keep climbing to 500' but temporarily lose VMC conditions. Although I don't have a night rating, I have done all the training up to where I was ready to sit the flight test, so I'm confident (if not legal) on staying oriented without an external horizon. So I elected to fly a normal circuit, continuing on the runway heading up to 500' AGL. By the time we reached 500', we couldn't see much out the windows. We were definitely no longer in VMC, but I knew it would be only for a matter of seconds.So we gently turned crosswind, then downwind, and after about 5 seconds on downwind, we came back out into completely clear sky. Looking back, we could see a thick shower obscuring half of the island.

Trekking back to Jandakot via the Powerhouse was initially uneventful, until we dialled up the ATIS. We heard that they had switched to runway 30. That northerly must have picked up strength. They say that Jandakot is the busiest airport in Australia, in terms of the number of takeoffs and landings. It's always a bit more stressful when Jandakot is operating off the single runway, rather than the dual runways on 06-24. Everyone is trying to fit into a single circuit, on the single frequency, and it makes things just about twice as busy.

Our excitement started when the Piper in front of us started experiencing radio problems, after they passed the Powerhouse. Several times, the controller spent a lot of time working with them, trying to convey instructions. During this time, no-one else could transmit, so when he finished, a lot of people were keen to jump on the radio. I couldn't get my powerhouse-inbound call in for about three minutes, until I was just about at Adventure World.

My circuit entry instructions from 1500' were to join downwind behind a Diamond. I saw an aircraft a little ahead, at 1000', and thought - no problems, I can squeeze in behind that. Then I saw the aircraft the controller was actually referring to, practically right underneath me! So I quickly powered back, put on two stages of flap, and tried to do the slowest descent I could possibly do, in order to squeeze in behind it. By the time I reached 1000', I had a bit of space, probably about half of what I needed. I got Kim to keep watching that Diamond like a hawk - I didn't want to lose sight of it while I attended to anything in the cockpit. By now I was flying really slowly, maybe 70 kts, and the gap was opening up nicely.

Because the circuit was so tight, everyone was extending downwind legs to get the spacing they needed. The Diamond had to do similar, and my downwind must have been one of the longest in history, putting me closer to Forrestdale Lake than to Jandakot. I ended up on a really long final, with three other aircraft on final in front of me. By now the controller was calling me a Bonanza, which was flattering, though inaccurate. The first aircraft landed, which left three of us on final approach, nicely spaced. Because there was such a queue for landing, no-one could take off, and I counted a queue of 6 aircraft waiting on the ground (by the time I parked it was 9).

As the next aircraft started to land, leaving the Diamond and us on final, I heard the controller talking to the radio-troubled Piper, which I had lost awareness of. He was saying "{piper-callsign} can you see that Bonanza on number 2 for landing?" The Piper pilot replied in the affirmative. Then I suddenly saw the Piper flying a nice tight base leg, turn onto final between us and the preceeding Diamond! We ended up gliding down finals right behind it. Clearly they hadn't seen us - I'm guessing they saw the Diamond, and thought it was the aircraft they were looking out for. I was too surprised to feel any other emotion! The controller quickly sorted it out: "{piper-callsign} Go Around. Sierra Quebec Bravo continue approach."

Sometimes when I'm distracted or preoccupied on final approach, I trash the landing, but this one was fine. I was pretty pleased as we taxiied back for parking. When we shut down the engine, Kim looked at me and started laughing, I was literally dripping in sweat. I guess I did have to work pretty hard getting us in.

We had tied up and were walking back to the car before the Piper eventually got in. I felt sorry for the pilot - Jandakot is a bad place to have radio trouble. When she was having trouble, another pilot in the circuit, presumably familiar with that Piper, started to give advice, saying that one of the radios in that aircraft was unservicable, so you needed to use the other one. Presumably, then, this was a hired aircraft. It reminded me of what a luxury it is to own an aircraft. Each time you fly, it's in the same aircraft, and you're getting more and more comfortable and familiar with it. When you hire an aircraft, each model is usually slightly different, and you never know exactly what condition it will be in from day-to-day. In a hired aircraft, I always found that you don't get the chance to get fully familiar with it, which means you're in a much tighter spot when something goes wrong.

The other thing I took from today's flight, is that there rarely seems to be a routine flight. I'm really very familiar with the short hop to Rottnest and back - you'd think I could do it with my eyes closed. But even so, there were a lot of things today that made it anything but routine

• wintery weather, which I'm not used to
• flying into a non-VMC shower
• radio failed aircraft in the circuit
• single-runway 30 and resulting increased traffic

I can see why, when you go to get your Commercial Licence, one of the requirements is that you just go away and build up your hours. The more hours you spend in the cockpit, the more situations you'll see, the more decisions you'll be forced to make, and the more you'll learn. There's really no substitute for hours in the sky.

I Take Off When I Shouldn't

A few months ago, I took my friend Rob for a flight. Now while his Mum was in town, I agreed to take her up for a joyride (I was surprised that she was so keen to come up, since she hardly knew me). I decided we'd go to Rottnest first, for a quick coffee, then back via Observation City with a brief run down the beaches on the way back to Jandakot.

Preflight was normal. I added some fuel, the engine started just fine, and we were good to go. On account of the cloudy weather, it was relatively quiet, and I received my takeoff clearance as soon as I contacted the tower. More often, I'm instructed to line up. Then, while I'm lined up and waiting clearance, I switch my transponder from Standby to Alt. This time, because I did not have to line up, I could just gently turn onto the runway and do a rolling start. As soon as I was rolling, I fiddled with the transponder, to switch it on. Looking out the windscreen to keep us on the centreline, I glanced in from time to time to check that my RPM was up where it should be.

Just when I started thinking that I must be at the right speed to take off, I glanced at my airspeed indicator, and was very surprised to see it reading zero. According to the ASI, I had no airspeed.

I knew what the problem was immediately. Back in June I fitted Squibby with a pitot cover. I would have preferred the kind that you remove before flight, but I hadn't found any that would fit the narrow tube, and ended up with one that remains fixed on the pitot tube. As you get airspeed, the design of the cover is such that it opens up, allowing air to enter the pitot tube. For some reason, the mechanism was not working. The pitot tube remained covered. I had a non-operational ASI.

Using my pen as the Musketeer pitot tube: on the ground, the pitot cover sits closed, covering the pitot tube.

As we build up airspeed, the airflow is supposed to open up the cover.

The first thing that went through my mind was the question 'how did this happen?'

Two things occurred to me:

• I definitely checked the cover for free movement during pre-flight, and found it to be working fine
• I couldn't believe that I was only discovering this problem at takeoff speed. I assumed that I checked my airspeed regularly during the takeoff roll, but this proves that I didn't. It would have been better to catch it earlier in the takeoff roll.

Now, being a long Jandakot runway, I was less than half-way down the strip. I had plenty of room to cut the throttle, brake moderately, pull into a run-up bay, uninstall the pitot cover, then go back to take off again - it would have taken me about 5 minutes.

But as the thought went through my head "I should not take off with no ASI", other thoughts went through my head such as "I'm sure it will unstick during flight," and "I don't want to alarm my passenger," and even "it will be alright - I'll manage." These were just quick flashes through my head, as I was accelerating beyond my usual take-off speed. I didn't have time for a proper internal debate, and before I knew it, I had gently pulled back the yoke, and was now airborne. As I lifted away from the ground, my internal debate was resolved, and I knew I had made the wrong decision. I should not have taken off. Now I was climbing into the air, with a trusting passenger, with no way to determine my airspeed.

So I decided to fly on attitude and vertical speed while I weighed up my options. I set what I guessed was the correct climb attitude, then monitored my climb rate and RPM, to give me what I guessed would be a 75 knot climb. The main thing to avoid was climbing too steeply, letting my airspeed drop off, causing a stall. So I purposely adopted a lower climb rate than normal, about 400 fpm - this would keep my airspeed relatively high.

I wondered whether I should immediately return for landing, but decided there was no point. I had four hours of fuel, so there was no particular rush to try to land with no ASI. I had plenty of time to try and unstick the pitot cover. I began to think about how I would land if the ASI didn't come good. Despite feeling absolutely naked without a working ASI, I felt reasonably confident about landing based on attitute, RPM, and Vertical Speed and engine pitch. I decided I would keep a faster, steeper descent than normal, ensuring I'd remain well above a stall. The only real consequence would be that I'd get quite a float as I landed, but I had access to a very long runway, so there was no problem with that. Overall, I still felt safe, but I was kicking myself for having taken off.

By the time I reached 1000ft, Jandakot circuit height, I had decided that I would continue to Rottnest, not necessarily to land, but at least to give me a chance to unstick the pitot cover. My passenger had not apparently detected any problem, and was happily looking out the windows, remarking on how beautiful the city was from up here. I agreed, but could not appreciate the view myself at this stage.

Fortunately, as we levelled out, and accelerated to cruise speed, the additional airflow forced the pitot cover to open, and when I glanced down at my ASI, I was very relieved to see it reading not zero but 90kts. I enjoyed the rest of the flight to Rottnest immensely - relief is an amazing thing.

When we landed at Rottnest, I got out and investigated the pitot cover. The whole device is a fairly flimsy aluminium, and the hinge has a lot of wobble. If you wobble it in certain directions, it does seem to stick slightly against the end of the tube. This must be what happened today. Rather than try to fix the device, or hope that it won't happen again, I've completely removed the cover. I don't think I'll use this cover again - I don't know how to 100% guarantee that it won't happen again.

So, overall, a very cheap lesson. Everything turned out OK, there was no unfortunate consequence, but I got to scare myself briefly, and learnt a few things. Things I learnt are:

• it's important to include the ASI in my scan during the takeoff roll, and have a plan for if it reads zero.
• if I have the thought "don't take off", then I should immediately abort the takeoff unless it would be too dangerous to do so.
• my training in using secondary indicators when you lose a primary instrument was very useful.