Trading places
A new pilot takes on a new role
When I noticed that the instrument lights were flickering, my initial reaction was to look to my father, who was sitting to my right, as though he would have a clue as to what was happening or what to do next. It was a habit to look right during any in-flight abnormalities, to where my flight instructor was seated for the majority of my flying experience—which was all but a handful of flights.
My pal Brad Bruno was in the backseat of the rented Cessna 172. The three of us had taken off from Long Beach, California, on a Friday night, and we were headed to Las Vegas. Brad and I had just turned 21, and my dad was riding shotgun, coming along to show us the ropes at the casinos.
We weren’t even halfway to Las Vegas, counting taillights on the 91 Freeway east of Corona. The 172’s instrument panel lights began dimming at first—much like your car dashboard lights might auto-adjust to a darkening evening—then they made subtle flickers and pulses. The radios began to fade and sound garbled; the voice of the air traffic controller became more distant, the volume deteriorating along with the flickering instrument lights.
When I looked over to my father for assistance, he appeared more nervous than I was. He wasn’t a pilot. Neither was Brad. Neither of them had been in a small airplane before tonight. In fact, it was my first cross-country flight since getting my private pilot certificate the week before. The scene from the movie Airplane popped into my head, where Leslie Nielsen enters the cockpit and says, “I just wanted to say good luck, we’re all counting on you.” The memory made me smile, which must have seemed a little eerie.
Brad began to move around nervously in the Cessna’s backseat and he poked his head up front, looking to hear some reassuring news. I peered down at the bottom left side of the Cessna’s yoke to see that the alternator had failed. I’ve seen this before in training, I thought. I cycled the left-hand side of the master switch in an attempt to reboot the alternator. It didn’t work. Out of ideas. Dad? Oh, yeah. I’m on my own here.
I could feel sweat forming on my temples and below my eyes. I took a few moments to tell Brad and my father our status as I felt my ears starting to burn. I’m sure that the engine will continue to run as long as we have gas, I said. It was a strange way to put it, but it seemed to get the point across.
A forced smile on my dad’s face. He had no control, nothing substantial to offer to the situation. It made him uneasy, which made me a little anxious. As the airplane became completely dark, the engine continued to run as I knew (prayed) it would. We put our collective faith in the Cessna. We agreed: We would fly back to Long Beach instead of landing on the nearest little strip of pavement and having to stay in a motel or take a cab back to Long Beach. I changed our transponder code to indicate to ATC that we’d had a radio failure and began a gradual descent toward the west. I also turned off all of the electronics that I could think of, including both VHF communication and VOR radios, leaving only the beacon and navigation lights and transponder on. The airplane’s emergency checklist backed up my actions.
I realized for the first time in my life that my father had given me the power that evening—he had to trust me with his life, As I had trusted him for so long.
Flying in the dark sky with the bright stars and the engine running smoothly, an outside viewer just tuning in to this channel would never guess there was anything wrong. We had become silent. Me—flying, feeling surprisingly optimistic considering the unfortunate circumstances and the fact that getting the three of us on the ground safely was in my hands. I felt my dad’s irritation. He was frustrated. Impatient. I knew what he was thinking: How did he talk me into renting this piece of junk and flying at night over mountains when he’s fresh out of flight school? He never said it out loud. Brad didn’t say it either, but I sure felt it.
My senses were heightened. I heard every cycle of the four-stroke engine, every slap of the propeller against the wind. Brad’s head was in the front seat between mine and my dad’s. The three of us willing our tiny airplane safely home. On a normal flight, pilots are scrutinized by their passengers on how smooth their landings are. In an emergency, nobody cares how you get on the ground as long as you can walk away from it.
Long Beach Tower knew that we were coming. ATC had informed them after seeing our transponder code and our direction of flight. On the horizon I saw a solid-green light in the direction of the airport tower, bright enough to view from our position 20 miles away. Long Beach was telling me that the runway was clear for us to land. I turned on the landing light and the radio. No juice. The battery had drained completely. So be it. The runway was brightly lit as I lined up the airplane on final approach.
Long Beach Tower sent one last green light assuring our landing clearance. My father and Brad sat perfectly still: an advertisement for calm airline passengers on the in-flight safety movie; their hearts silently pounding away. I pulled the yoke, brought the throttle to idle, and put the airplane into a gentle flare for a no-flaps landing.
Upon touchdown my father said, “Is that it? We’re on the ground?” and out came a windy sigh of relief. In the light of the white runway centerline lights I saw the deep wrinkles in the center of his forehead thin and shallow—a calm immediately after our return to the Earth.
I remember that moment specifically. I realized for the first time in my life that my father had given me the power that evening—he had to trust me with his life, as I had trusted him with my well-being for so long. It seemed inappropriate for some reason but gave me a sense of strength and self-confidence.
My dad bought us something to eat at the diner down the road from the airport after I made a quick phone call to Long Beach Tower thanking them for their help. They were just glad that everything turned out OK. Then we hopped into my father’s truck, and we drove all night to Las Vegas. I was certain that he was tired, but he insisted on driving the whole way.
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