A lovely couple had booked a trial lesson to celebrate a special anniversary. They wanted to look at the beautiful Cornish coast, and Jane had always wanted to fly a plane, but things didn’t quite go as planned! Here’s what happened.
Derek and Jane arrived at the airfield in good time. The weather forecast was good and the sun was shining, so the proposed route to Land’s End, Penzance, Falmouth and back looked fine. I checked the short-term forecasts [known as terminal aerodrome forecasts or TAFs] from both Newquay and Culdrose: it all looked good. There was a 30% chance of showers in the forecast, but otherwise nothing noteworthy.
Derek and Jane were excited by their first flight in a small plane and really enjoyed the take-off. It’s spectacular at Perranporth: the runway ends on the cliff-top, and the sudden transition from land to sea never fails to thrill. The cliffs at the runway-end are 350 feet high.
The first leg [along the coast to Land’s End] was uneventful. Derek and Jane were enjoying themselves. Jane flew the aircraft while Derek took photographs from the back seat. I managed the radio, switching between RNAS Culdrose and Land’s End airport. Apart from the usual SkyBus traffic to and from the Scillies we had the air to ourselves. We circled the Land’s End visitor centre, Penzance, and St. Michael’s Mount, before crossing Mount’s Bay to the Lizard. Everything was quiet: nobody talked to us on the radio, and the aircraft droned serenely along. We passed the Lizard and headed north towards Falmouth. As we left Culdrose behind I re-tuned the radio to Newquay, and this was when I got the first hint of what lay ahead. There was a slight note of anxiety in the voice from Newquay as he asked us to confirm our destination. When I said “Perranporth”, there was a pause before the reply came “suggest you contact Perranporth, the weather may have changed since your departure”.
I called Perranporth as suggested but got no reply. This was unhelpful but not unusual, the airfield radio is manned by volunteers and doesn’t operate all the time. At this point we were passing Falmouth and the weather still looked OK, although there was a strange whiteness about the horizon ahead. I told Newquay we’d carry on as planned for now but would stay on their frequency. I explained what was happening to my passengers, who seemed interested but not alarmed.
After Truro it’s a straight run of about 12 miles to Perranporth, and I could see what the white line ahead was: sea-fog rolling in from the Atlantic. That wasn’t in the forecast! Still, there was a chance it hadn’t completely covered the airfield, sometimes the fog only forms over the sea.
We abruptly plunged into the gloom as the coast approached. I was flying at two thousand feet above sea level and knew the highest thing in front of us was St. Agnes Beacon: a hill-top around 650 feet high, three miles west of the airfield. I also knew that the airfield was on cliffs 350 feet high, so as long as I stayed above say 1500 feet I couldn’t hit anything. By this point we were enclosed in grey murk, with no horizon, sky or ground visible.
First I re-checked my altimeter setting with Newquay: I needed to be very confident I knew how high above the ground I was. Then I flew out to sea. When we were out over the Atlantic and well away from any land , I started to let down gently through the fog. Fifteen hundred feet: no change. One thousand feet: no change. I checked the GPS: definitely over the sea. I decided to risk descending further, and at 500 feet caught sight of the grey waves below. At this point it started to rain… the door-seal on the aircraft leaked, and my right leg began to get wet. Derek and Jane had gone quiet. I managed a re-assuring smile and a quick “well this is fun!”
Five hundred feet above the sea, and a 350 foot cliff ahead: not safe. We weren’t going to get back to Perranporth. That meant Newquay, or perhaps Exeter, and taxis back: what a nuisance.
I climbed back to a sensible height and asked Newquay what their weather looked like. The answer was not encouraging: “Fog approaching from the west. Drizzle.” Mentally cursing the weather forecasters I set off up the coast, staying over the sea for safety. My lovely GPS screen reassuringly confirmed we were a few miles offshore. At 1000 feet I caught occasional glimpses of the waves below through gaps in the cloud. My leg got wetter. The fog thickened. I descended to 500 feet. Newquay asked if I could see the surface. “Just” I replied. They asked if I’d like to make an instrument approach. I accepted gratefully.
An instrument approach is a procedure in which you fly down a narrow, pencil-like radio beam carefully aligned to bring you to the end of the runway. Thank goodness I’d invested in the extra training required to use it! I climbed out to sea again to intercept the ILS beam a few miles offshore. The feeling of relief when the crossed needles of the ILS instrument came alive was huge, and I quickly explained what was happening to my passengers. Although they had been listening to the radio conversation it was clear they hadn’t really followed what was going on.
An instrument approach needs a lot of concentration. You have to control the aircraft in a gentle descent, keeping a vertical needle centred to make sure you are lined up with the runway, and a horizontal needle on the same instrument centred to control the rate of descent. At the same time another dial shows how far you have to go, and the artificial horizon and airspeed both need careful watching. Plus, the pre-landing checks need to be completed. There’s no time for conversation and the cockpit was quiet as we descended. 3000 feet. Nothing but fog outside. 2000 feet. Still no sign of Newquay’s high-intensity runway lights. 1500 feet. Very conscious of the three hundred foot cliffs ahead! One thousand feet. Still nothing, but the GPS says we are over the sea. Still nothing. The coast must be close. I moved my hand onto the throttle lever, ready to open up the engine and climb away. I hadn’t worked out what to do if I couldn’t land at Newquay – try Exeter? At least I had plenty of fuel. Six hundred feet – what’s that? A line of bright lights! Thank God, it’s the Newquay runway. We landed in steady rain which drummed on the canopy, and trundled along the taxiway to the parking area before switching off. Down safely. Everyone was very quiet as we walked damply into the airport to phone a taxi. At least I’d made their anniversary memorable!