I always wanted to drive a convertible - safe landing after canopy shatter

Approach, May, 2003 by Timothy Humphreys

It was my first true cross-country, and I never had been to the West Coast before, let alone San Diego. So, when I was offered the opportunity to fly to Miramar for my airways navigation cross-country, I jumped at the chance. It was a glorious weekend: sun, surf, sand, and friends I had not seen in who knows how long. I doubt any cross-country could have been scripted any better. Despite it being Friday the 13th, we arrived safely and on time, and everything went well until we decided to come home.

After a weekend of relaxation, my IP and I arrived at MCAS Miramar base ops at 0900, with a plan to hit the road by 1100. However, things were not going to work out as planned. Bad weather was developing in several locations along our route between San Diego and NAS Meridian. We knew flexibility would be the theme of the day. Sure enough, after our first leg, our plans changed. Storms over Houston forced us to switch our next destination to Dallas-Ft. Worth.

Once we were on deck in Dallas, a quick visit with weather confirmed our other concerns: Weather was deteriorating around Meridian, and several sigmets were in effect along our planned route. We decided to delay our decision until after a nutritious detour to the local Taco Bell. When we returned an hour later to the weather office, the weather was not good--it was decision time. We decided to let prudence rule. Instead of filing for Meridian, we filed for New Orleans, where the forecasts and observations were favorable. This plan also would allow us to turn en route toward Meridian if the weather in Mississippi improved. After flying nearly 20 minutes toward New Orleans, the weather did improve, and we changed our destination to Meridian.

The events seemed to be going our way--we would not have to spend the night in New Orleans. We would arrive home within recovery hours, and we wouldn't have poor weather in our way.

The sun began to set after 30 minutes of flying. As the instruments darkened, I raised my tinted visor and turned up the rheostats. We had smooth sailing. There wasn't much traffic in the air, nor on the radio. We recalculated our fuel and continually updated our weather.

We descended from our cruising altitude to a recovery altitude over Jackson, Miss. Having penetrated a thin cloud layer and broken out around FL230, we clearly could make out the lights of the city. I got that warm feeling you get when you turn onto the road leading to your childhood home. Everything was familiar, and everything led to our backyard. While passing FL200, however, we heard the sound of rapid decompression--a noise I cannot describe accurately but one I never will forget. It was not the noise, though, that first keyed me into the situation we were entering. Instead, it was all the debris flying around the cockpit and collecting in the rear of the aircraft, where I was strapped in. Approach plates, charts, notes, anything you can imagine, bounced around my canopy like a lottery machine. I tried to lower my visor, only to discover it was in several pieces.

Elapsed time: five seconds. I realized the sound of the air stream and the engines had increased dramatically. A few seconds later, we had lost our canopy. With a death grip, I squeezed the controls and pulled back the throttles, to slow our airspeed and to shallow our descent. We were about 280 knots. I could feel the nose needed extra nose-up trim.

Elapsed time: 10 seconds. I looked at my canopy and saw splattered blood. My first instinct was that my instructor was injured. I keyed the ICS, "Sir, sir ... are you still there? Sir?" As I feared, there was no immediate answer. I contemplated reaching for the ejection-select handle to gain control in the rear.

Two seconds later, however, I heard in my headset, "Tim, Tim ... are you still with me?"

I hurried to tell my instructor I was there, but my microphone didn't work. My mask was jammed into my face, with the microphone between my teeth, and the cord dangled in the breeze. I briskly pumped the controls three times. Immediately, my instructor confirmed he was taking the controls.

Elapsed time: 20 seconds. "Center, Bobcat 49, declaring an emergency ... I have lost my canopy!" I was satisfied my instructor was in good shape, and the situation was, for the moment, under control. I tightened my lap belts like I never had tightened them before. I fixed my mask so I could talk with my instructor. Once I took off my mask, I realized our situation was more serious. Blood dripped profusely from my nose and mouth. I quickly wiped my face clean and reconnected my mask. Finally, I was able to tell the instructor I still was there.

Elapsed time: 45 seconds. I began to feel the pain throughout my face, nose, mouth, jaw, and eyes. I discovered a hefty cut above my right eye that had caused it to swell. The air in the cockpit also made the blood quickly dry, and soon my right eye swelled shut. I finally dug up the courage to tell my instructor I was injured. His reaction was rather predictable, "Oh *#$%!"