TMW
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The Ditching of Cherokee N1775T
This was passed on to me and I found it interesting as I'm sure many of you will. I don't know anyone mentioned here but maybe some of you do.
TW
?MAYDAY, MAYDAY!?
?Ricky, we?re going in!?
The Ditching of Cherokee N1775T
Pilot Greg Finley was winging his beautiful Cherokee past a dramatic volcanic island bathed in warm afternoon sunlight along a remote coastline in
Baja. The air was smooth, the water was calm and he dipped a wing to see a large pod of porpoises churning the surface chasing after something
further down the food chain. Greg dipped his wings back and forth?this was flying nirvana. Suddenly, the steady drone of the 180HP Lycoming was
interrupted by a loud POP. What happened next tested Greg?s pilot training and experience to limits that only a select few will ever endure.
April 15th dawned clear and beautiful in northern Baja California, Mexico. A 1962 Cessna Skylark and a 1970 Piper Cherokee were winging their way
down the beautiful white sandy beaches south of San Felipe. The western coastline of the Sea of Cortez is a popouri of long stretches of white sand,
rough volcanic cliffs and magnificent emerald bays. It just invites a pilot to soar low as free as a bird unencumbered by man-made airspace
restrictions. expanses of open track that have beckoned planes and pilots since the wood and fabric days.
At the controls of the red and white Cessna was Rick Roessler and co-pilot, Ted Nestor. Rick was an experienced Baja flier and a long time member of
the Baja Bush Pilots. Ted was a tall congenial man always ready to laugh or make one laugh. Although he didn?t have a pilot?s license, he could
handle the plane well and understood the mechanics and thrill of flying.
Slightly above and in the seven o?clock position was the low-wing Cherokee, the ?Finley Flyer,? piloted by Greg Finley and his co-pilot, Bob Gabhart.
Greg and Bob were congenial self-reliant types. Bob held a black belt in karate and was an accomplished pilot. Greg had always wanted to fly and
when they met doing business, Bob talked Greg into taking flying lessons. Like most new pilots, he dove into it full bore and soon purchased the
beautiful red and white low-wing hot rod, the ?Finley Flyer?. It had been retrofitted with a powerful Lycoming 180-HP engine and the Flyer and Finley
had enjoyed many flights to Baja. Both Greg and Bob were experienced Baja pilots. And all four of these men were cut from the same aircraft metal;
they loved laughing, flying, Baja, and adventure.
They were on a sojourn to a small resort another 200 miles south called San Francisquito. It is a South Pacific like cove with five thatched cabanas
and a small kitchen and dining shack. The three pilots who had been there before could anticipate some great coastal flying and a cold,
thirst-quenching Pacifico beer to celebrate the end of a magnificent flight and the beginning of a kick-back weekend.
The air was smooth, the water was calm. It was a perfect day to fly. The two aircraft flew a loose formation with the beautiful red and white
Cherokee out in front. It was a slicker, faster plane and would creep ahead of the Cessna by two miles before Greg would rein it back and form up
again. Both aircraft couldn?t help but fly low on a smooth warm day. The Cessna trimmed out at 1,000 feet, while the precocious Cherokee descended
to within several hundred feet over the long sandy beaches. Bob, who was sitting in the co-pilot?s seat looked over at Greg and asked, ? If we lost
our engine, where would you put the plane down?? It was a question that alert pilots continually ask themselves. No one actually expects to have an
engine suddenly go south...but engines are mechanical and sometimes subject to unannounced ailments.
The planes slipped over whales sunning themselves on the surface, fleets of pelicans flying in formation and a large pod of dolphins skipping along
the smooth sea.
Both planes cut across the open water mouth of San Luis Gonzaga Bay. No chance of gliding to land if the engine died here. The next 50 miles was
over some of the roughest rugged coastline of Baja. One-hundred-foot volcanic cliffs form an almost continuous sea wall with the vast gulf washing
against its base.
The north end of the 50-mile-long island Isla Angel de la Guarda, appeared in the distance off the left wing, and suddenly the cliffs opened onto the
broad mouth of the most magnificent bay on the east coast of Baja, Bahia de los Angeles. It is a six-mile-wide bay with a small town and a paved
airstrip. It is frequented by American fishermen, and its scruffy desert shoreline is dotted with numerous fishing camps and small huts.
Both aircraft began the 7-mile journey across the open mouth of the vast bay. The fliers knew that in another 35 minutes, they would be landing at
their idyllic destination and that cold one would taste mighty good.
Inside the Cherokee, Bob noticed a faint burning odor. Suddenly there was a loud ?POP? and the aircraft began shaking violently. Both men uttered a
two- word pilot epithet as both fuel caps on the wings vibrated loose and banged incessantly on the end of safety chains against the wings. Fuel
sucked from the tanks vaporized into rooster tails pouring off both wings. The aircraft shook so violently they feared the engine mounts would break
and propel them in an uncontrollable plunge to the sea.
Greg quickly retarded the throttle and the engine seized immediately. The propeller froze in the horizontal position. It was in one piece, nothing
wrong with it. The Lycoming 180 HP engine with only 626 hours of service had detonated internally.
In the Cessna, Rick and Ted had no idea their friends were in trouble. Bob?s firm voice suddenly broke radio silence, ?Mayday, Mayday! Ricky, we?re
going in!? Ted and Rick glanced out their right window at the Finley Flyer. The Cherokee looked in good shape but it?s prop had stopped, and it
began a noticeable descent. Rick took the Cessna?s controls and moved close to the stricken aircraft.
They were several miles from the nearest shore. One thing was certain, they were going into the drink. Bob, a more experienced pilot, took the yoke.
Greg watched uneasily as the dark green surface approached. He glanced at Bob, ?Open the door!? Bob flipped the two latches and nudged the door
ajar. The Cherokee only has one door on the right side so both pilots would have to exit through that portal. Bob stared at the vast ocean before
him. Only seconds now. ?Tighten your seatbelt, Greg!?
Rick guided his Cessna lower while keeping the Cherokee perfectly framed in the right side window. One hundred feet above the surface, he leveled off
and watched as the Cherokee continued in its final 15 seconds of flight...its shadow, cast on the water?s surface, was rapidly catching up to it.
Greg saw the dark surface water flash past his side window. Bob pulled all the way back on the yoke.
Rick and Ted saw the Cherokee raise nose high just as the tail hit the water. Instantly the Cherokee pancaked onto the surface shooting a spray of
water all around it. When the nose wheel hit, the beautiful Cherokee flipped over on its top exposing its white underside.
In the cabin, Bob and Greg?s world instantly went dark. On impact, Greg pitched forward and hit something with his head. Green water burst through
the door with the furious force of a fire hose. The c-ckpit instantly filled with water. Bob was disoriented, unaware that they were upside down.
Bob sensed they had come to an abrupt stop and released his seat belt. He could see light; that must be up. Bob pulled back his legs and kicked at
the door. It didn?t budge. In a nanosecond, his thoughts turned to his family. ?My wife, Will she be OK without me? My son?I can?t let him grow up
without a dad.? At that moment, he calmed himself and thought, ?OK, this is just a door, I can figure this out.? Running his hand along the edge,
Bob found the side opposite the hinges and pushed, and it opened. His lungs ached as he scrambled to get out. He shot to the surface and gulped
fresh air.
Greg clawed at his seat belt buckle. It wouldn?t release. He hadn?t taken a deep breath before the deluge, and he could feel himself getting more
desperate as the seconds ticked by. Finally the buckle released. He was confused. He saw a small air pocket and peeked into it. He was quickly
able to orient himself. As he kicked across the c-ckpit toward the door, he could feel his lungs beginning to ache for oxygen. For an instant, Greg
had the horrible realization that his wife, AnnMarie, would have to tell his son...that his father was dead. That spurred him on toward the door.
Paddling on the surface, Bob was horrified watching the Cherokee slowly rotate on its nose. It was going down any second and taking his friend with
it. He grabbed a quick breath and went down to the door, reached in, and grabbed at Greg?s arm. Suddenly, Greg emerged and both lunged to the
surface.
The aircraft was positioned for its death plunge. Bob yelled, ?Get away from the plane!? Both back-stroked from the tail which was now vertical.
The cabin was submerged and the tail section was hissing as trapped air blew through the control holes.
Fifty feet above, Rick and Ted watched as the tail slipped quickly beneath the dark green surface. They could see their friends back-stroking away as
the last vestige of Cherokee N1775T slipped quickly to its watery grave.
Rick?s Cessna continued to turn tight circles only fifty feet above. Rick and Ted could see that their buddies had no safety gear...no flotation
equipment. Rick grabbed one of the life vests from the heap of baggage in the rear seat. ?Ted, when I swing around them, try to push the vest out
the door!? As Rick slowed the Cessna and put it in a steep bank, Ted muscled his door open against the resistance of the slip-stream. He pushed the
vest through the open slit. It yanked from his grasp. ?Damn, too far from them.? Ted positioned the second vest as the Cessna came around for
another go. This time Ted held the vest tightly until the right moment and then shoved it through the opening and out. ?That one landed near in
front of them.?
Bob spotted something orange floating nearby. He stroked over and was ecstatic to find a life vest. He unbuckled it and put it on. It?s outer
fabric on the right side was badly torn so he slipped the belt off his pants and tightened it around the vest.
In the Cessna, Rick and Ted were coming to grips with their emotions. Rick silently uttered a prayer for God?s help, to calm him and to help him make
rational decisions. They knew they would have to leave their friends and fly for help. Rick put out a Mayday call on his radio. Only one response
came through, and it was from a plane hundreds of miles south. Rick told him he was too far away to be of assistance. The pilots in the Cessna were
on their own.
As they circled back on their original southeast course, Rick and Ted made mental images of the area. Then came the most difficult moment: Rick and
Ted had to leave their friends floating helplessly on the surface. They had not seen Bob retrieve the life vest, and time was now of the essence.
How long could their friends stay afloat? Could they possibly swim to shore a mile and a half away? Would the current sweep them out into the Gulf?
Rick knew that the town?s airstrip was on the north coast of the bay, about 7 miles from the accident. He turned the Cessna and gave it full throttle
toward the distant shore.
In the water, Bob and Greg were finding buoyancy easy in the salty sea. Both were so focused on their own dilemma that neither realized the Cessna
had jettisoned two vests. Greg draped his arms around Bob?s neck and both floated as one to form a human life raft. With their heads just above the
water, the nearest land looked low on the horizon and many miles away. Bob pivoted toward the distant shore. ?I?ll paddle, you kick!? And so the
two began an attempt to reach terra firma.
Five agonizing minutes later, the Cessna dipped low over the scruffy desert town of Bahia de los Angeles. Rick knew this village and buzzed low over
the coastal palapas to attract attention. The airstrip was almost two miles from the town, and he hoped to entice a taxi or hotel vehicle to pick
them up. As they approached the airfield, Ted and Rick spotted a fishing camp along the shoreline. The Cessna sped over the top and made a quick
steep turn to final approach. A minute later, they hopped out expecting to find the ubiquitous military contingent of several armed soldiers but no
one was around.
They knew the town would be a long trek by foot. They remembered they had flown over a fishing camp that was less than a mile down the hill. The
camp was the obvious destination for help. Hopefully the fishermen would not be out in the bay or off in town. Ted and Rick began to run down the
narrow cross runway toward the camp. The air temperature was at least 80 degrees at about 2pm and the going was tough, but downhill.
Bob and Greg were still kicking and paddling toward the all-too-distant shore. It was obvious to both that they were not closing the gap. Greg
coughed, ? It feels like we?re swimming against the current.? Bob didn?t answer. He was beginning to shiver. As the adrenalin had worn off, the
cold was beginning to take over. Even their exertion wasn?t going to offset the onslaught of their frigid environment. Exertion actually dissipates
body heat in cold water. Although the air temperature was a warm 80 degrees, the water flowed up from the deep dark cold recesses almost 400 feet
beneath them. Somewhere in the black muck of the sea bottom, the pretty little Cherokee was laying in its final state.
As Rick and Ted struggled on toward the camp, two people approached on four-wheel All Terrain Vehicles. A retired couple from Canada couldn?t believe
two ?old guys? would be running so fast in the heat of the afternoon. Rick quickly related the emergency situation. They told him to hop onto the
back of the ATV and off they continued toward the fishing camp.
Once at the camp, the Canadian lady, Jan, spoke to a young Mexican fisherman emerging from his hut. To the frazzled pilots, he seemed to be moving in
slow motion as he methodically collected a red 5-gallon tank and began transferring gas from a large boat resting on a trailer. It became evident
that he was going to take the smaller 25-foot panga next to it. Jan, Ted and Rick went into a huddle. It made sense that Ted, an experienced sailor,
would go in the panga. Rick would scout from the Cessna. They knew the downed airmen would need warm dry clothes. The Cessna contained a sleeping
bag and personal clothing. They also needed communication between the boat and the airplane. Rick kept a handheld aviation radio in his Cessna.
That would keep them in constant touch. Jan?s husband, John, drove Rick back to his plane while Ted turned his attention toward launching the panga.
It was now an hour since the Cherokee hit the water. The panga was loaded and ready. Ted pointed to the distant shore, and the panga with Ted and
the Mexican fisherman began racing across the calm waters of the bay.
At the Cessna, Rick asked John to ride as an observer. He quickly obliged and jumped into the right seat. They spotted the panga?s wake heading out
from the shore and fired up the 180-HP horse Lycoming, the same type engine that was in the ill-fated Cherokee. Within minutes, Rick and John were in
the air and heading toward the panga.
There were large birds everywhere resting on the smooth surface of the sea. They flapped their long wings nervously as they bobbed around ready to
take flight at a moment?s notice. The two human castaways were too cold to ?flap their wings?. They were almost too cold to think. It was then they
heard the friendly rumble of an airplane engine. But it was too far to the south. Both thought, ?What?s wrong with those guys, don?t they remember
where we are? Can?t they see us from the air??
Rick spotted the area fairly easily but couldn?t see the downed pilots. The panga had sped by the original spot and had gone further out into the
channel.
On board the panga, Ted found orienting himself from the water?s surface was much tougher than from the air. Those landmarks that he had photographed
in his mind looked entirely different now.
Rick flew toward the coastline only a mile and a half from the spot he reckoned the airplane had sunk. He and John scanned every square foot. Too
many times they spotted something moving on the surface and descended only to see birds flapping their wings.
Ted was having his own troubles. The Mexican fisherman was complaining that he didn?t have enough gas to be racing around the area. They stopped the
boat and searched the surface with a pair of binoculars. Nothing but birds.
Rick turned from the shoreline back toward the original flight path. He was about 800 feet above the surface. A mile offshore he spotted something
unusual out the left side window. Something on the surface just looked different than the birds and flotsam generated by villages along the coast.
John looked down at it, ?Looks like a raft.? Rick descended, keeping an eye on the target. ?Looks like someone is using a kayak paddle.? Rick
radioed the boat. ?Looks like a kayak or something. We?re going down to check it out.? Rick knew this notorious area had swallowed boats and lives
before, so it would take a foolish kayaker to be paddling out here alone.
As he dropped within several hundred feet, the object gradually morphed into Bob in a life jacket splashing water with both hands. Rick shouted into
the microphone, ?I?ve got ?em. But I only have one head.? Had Greg become separated from Bob? Had he disappeared beneath the surface? The Cessna
flew low and swung around the lone figure. As the Cessna came around the backside, Rick spotted Greg?s head up against Bob?s. Greg was holding onto
Bob?s neck, his head tucked in tight to Bob?s. ?I?ve got both of them!? Rick shouted into the mic. ?I?ll circle while you come get ?em.?
The hypothermic pilots realized the plane had spotted them as it sped around them again and again. Greg uttered, ? My God, maybe we?re going to make
it.? Bob?s voice shook from his constant violent shivering, ? We need a boat, not a plane.? Then, in the distance they could see a bow wake plowing
toward them. It was a wonderful sight even if it did seem to take forever.
As the panga drew near, the two survivors could see Ted?s tall lone figure standing in the bow with his arms outstretched. The boat drew alongside as
the Cessna continued to buzz in circles overhead.
In the Cessna, Rick and John were ecstatic and celebrated with a high five. Rick whipped the plane around toward town and in a few minutes they
culminated their flight with a low victory pass over the village.
When the boat landed at the fish camp, the two were helped to a nearby motel. Bob was tucked into a bed piled with a heavy layer of blankets, while
Greg rotated unsteadily under a warm shower of water. Several hours later, their internal furnaces restored, they were ready for a stiff margarita.
Several months have passed since that incident. The story has been digested and regurgitated by countless pilots over scores of hot coffee mugs and
by powerplant mechanics taking an educated guess about what may have happened inside that engine. What if they?d been high enough to glide to shore?
What if they?d had life preservers at the ready? What if they hadn?t been flying with another airplane?
As much as we love, enjoy and appreciate our well-maintained aircraft, it is a mechanical being and as conscientious pilots, we must be prepared to
cope with its quirks when we least expect it.
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Al G
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 2647
Registered: 12-19-2004
Location: Todos Santos/Full time for now...
Member Is Offline
Mood: Wondering what is next???
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The Ditching of Cherokee N1775T
Thanks TW,
Chilling, but I see another side of Baja.
I'm not a flyer, but can sure feel the draw and the danger.
Al G
Albert G
Remember, if you haven\'t got a smile on your face and laughter in your heart, then you are just a sour old fart!....
The most precious thing we have is life, yet it has absolutely no trade-in value.
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bajalou
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 4459
Registered: 3-11-2004
Location: South of the broder
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Quite a story - thanks TW
No Bad Days
\"Never argue with an idiot. People watching may not be able to tell the difference\"
\"The trouble with doing nothing is - how do I know when I\'m done?\"
Nomad Baja Interactive map
And in the San Felipe area - check out Valle Chico area |
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David K
Honored Nomad
Posts: 64520
Registered: 8-30-2002
Location: San Diego County
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Mood: Have Baja Fever
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Wow Tom, quite a 'chilling' story!
Great that it had a happy ending! 
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Keri
Super Nomad
Posts: 1393
Registered: 10-31-2002
Location: La Mision, Baja Norte
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Mood: muy contento
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Thanks for sharing a great Baja story
so glad everything turned out all right,k
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capt. mike
Elite Nomad
Posts: 8085
Registered: 11-26-2002
Location: Bat Cave
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Mood: Sling time!
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Rick Roessler puts out several humerous videos
on flying and driving the peninsula that are quite fun. You can get them via contacting him thru the BBP and he might have his own website. i had them
all on VHS versions but they might me DVDs by now. Many pilot shops have carried them, may still.
They were quite lucky. my plane seems to go into "auto rough" each time i make the crossing from mainland Sonora to Mulege. Bet those guys will carry
a little more gear next time they fly the rocky coast!
formerly Ordained in Rev. Ewing\'s Church by Mail - busted on tax fraud.......
Now joined L. Ron Hoover\'s church of Appliantology
\"Remember there is a big difference between kneeling down and bending over....\"
www.facebook.com/michael.l.goering |
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Skeet/Loreto
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 4709
Registered: 9-2-2003
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TW
Thank you for an excellent story of Courage.!
Skeet/Loreto
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Pescador
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3587
Registered: 10-17-2002
Location: Baja California Sur
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Having flown that exact same stretch numerous times, I was spellbound for the entire post. Anyone who has been a pilot knows that the golden rule is
that altitude is "money in the savings account" but the first time I flew that stretch, I was down on the deck the whole way in an old Citabria that I
had rebuilt. Having been an ultralight pilot for a long time where we always fly low and slow, I did not think much about it until we got to
Tembabiche, which is south of Loreto, and the door to one of the villagers houses is from a 172 Cessna. Seems as though they lost power on takeoff
and there is a 172 just off of the runway at Tembabiche. Needless to say, I returned up the coast at a much higher altitude and when I made the
crossing from San Fransicquito to Kino bay, I was really high. Probably not high enough to coast clear across the Sea of Cortez, but definately
higher. I was gripping the seat so tight that I thought about replacing the seat when I got back to Colorado.
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capt. mike
Elite Nomad
Posts: 8085
Registered: 11-26-2002
Location: Bat Cave
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Mood: Sling time!
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yeah, but Jim......were you wearing that underwear head gear??!!??
formerly Ordained in Rev. Ewing\'s Church by Mail - busted on tax fraud.......
Now joined L. Ron Hoover\'s church of Appliantology
\"Remember there is a big difference between kneeling down and bending over....\"
www.facebook.com/michael.l.goering |
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Sharksbaja
Elite Nomad
Posts: 5814
Registered: 9-7-2004
Location: Newport, Mulege B.C.S.
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What a skilled pilot with a good ending. Non-fiction at it's best.
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Pescador
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3587
Registered: 10-17-2002
Location: Baja California Sur
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OK Mike, that is just between you and me and none of the aviation community would understand a pilot wearing underwear to keep their head warm and
socks on their hands.
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capt. mike
Elite Nomad
Posts: 8085
Registered: 11-26-2002
Location: Bat Cave
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Mood: Sling time!
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hahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!!!11
seriously......you ought to repost that tale for all. one of the funniest i ever read.
what a hoot....
in fact i'd like to see it on the BBP travel stories section. cracking them up big time.
formerly Ordained in Rev. Ewing\'s Church by Mail - busted on tax fraud.......
Now joined L. Ron Hoover\'s church of Appliantology
\"Remember there is a big difference between kneeling down and bending over....\"
www.facebook.com/michael.l.goering |
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ArvadaGeorge
Nomad
Posts: 358
Registered: 9-2-2003
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Thanks for the post I don't fly but i do understand danger
This happend 4 15 What year?
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capt. mike
Elite Nomad
Posts: 8085
Registered: 11-26-2002
Location: Bat Cave
Member Is Offline
Mood: Sling time!
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this happened 2005.
formerly Ordained in Rev. Ewing\'s Church by Mail - busted on tax fraud.......
Now joined L. Ron Hoover\'s church of Appliantology
\"Remember there is a big difference between kneeling down and bending over....\"
www.facebook.com/michael.l.goering |
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