(Roger that is a phrase used by the military and pilots to confirm communications, in this case, it’s between me and my fans.).
I picked up my new Helio Courier airplane from the Seattle company that installed the floats. With six hours experience in the plane and only ten hours of flying on floats, a friend and I headed for Alaska. We flew north, planning to reach Alaskan air space at the end of a long day. Three things were working in our favor: clear skies, a stiff wind from the south and the long summer daylight of the North.
“We’re missing some of the nicest people and best beer in the world by not stopping in Canada,” offered my buddy.
“I get it,” I said, “but I really need to get home.”
“Your loss,” he replied just as a huge red light lit up on the instrument panel that said, ‘engine oil pressure just went completely to hell.’
From ten thousand feet, the community of Prince Rupert, British Columbia, only 90 miles from our destination of Ketchikan, looked as small as a football field. Still, it was better than the white caps we could see in the channel that separates B.C. from Alaska. The oil pressure gauge confirmed the warning light; we were heading towards a total engine failure.
I pointed to the small harbor that looked more like a postage stamp. My friend nodded as I pulled the power to idle and pointed the nose down. It took five minutes to descend almost two miles, the plane pounding, the wind increasing with each drop in altitude. The obvious channel to land in was long but narrow, with a severe crosswind. My buddy pointed to the small boat basin, tiny but wind from the right direction. A minute later, we splashed into the water, thanking the designers of the Helio for its short landing characteristics. I applied a little power and headed towards the boat launch, shutting down the engine when the oil pressure gage went to zero.
The plane slid to a stop and we both exited just as a police car pulled up. “Nice landing,” offered the officer, and a minute later he handed me a ticket for landing in a part of the harbor closed to air operations.
“Nice people my ass,” I muttered, a little shocked. Still, I was thankful that we were down and safe. Three hours later we found ourselves in the bar of a small hotel.
After a great dinner and finding a mechanic to work on the plane the next morning, we were comfortable ordering a third beer. “You were right about the beer,” I said to my friend, but I don’t know about the people. I had just put a hundred US in an envelope and mailed it, unsure of the exchange rate for the $75 ticket fine.
But I changed my mind as the waitress handed me the check, marked paid. Noticing my surprise, she looked over to a table where three men, including the cop who had issued the ticket smiled and called, “nice landing.”