Don't Touch the Money

Approach, June, 2001 by John Hellman

We had been doing everything right, but we still ended up all wrong. The way ahead was covered in fog. We had no communications with ATC, and both our helos had minimum fuel. How did we get in this predicament?

Our mission had been to ferry a pair of H-46s from Whidbey Island to San Diego. Our aircrews included four experienced aircraft commanders and two experienced crew chiefs. Bringing our aircraft back safe and sound was our only concern.

Those who have been to Whidbey Island in December need no description of the weather. A day without freezing temperatures and low ceilings is the exception to the rule. Being from sunny San Diego, we were all extra sensitive to weather hazards. We knew that glorious San Diego days were not going to come our way.

Freezing temperatures and low ceilings kept us from leaving on day one. Our wingman's radar altimeter was working intermittently, so we couldn't fly IFR. The weather cleared on day two, but, after another minor maintenance problem, our wingman wasn't ready to leave beautiful Oak Harbor, Wash. A FEDEX delivery, a maintenance all-nighter, and an FCF later, we were ready to go on day four after a full night's rest.

Day four brought back the poor weather, which was to worsen over the next two weeks. It was special VFR down through Puget Sound as far as Tacoma, but we decided a little bit of progress was better than none. When we reached Tacoma, we planned to traverse the valley along Interstate 5. Fog in low hills squelched this plan, and our fallback route (west to the coast) was cut off by a wall of clouds through the mountains. As briefed, we diverted to McChord AFB and waited.

National weather forecasts indicated that if we did not get south within the next two days, we likely would spend Christmas in the great Northwest. The weather inland through the valley still was doubtful, but the weather along the Oregon coast was reported CAVU as far as our destination at Coos Bay, only two hours away. As the weather in the Sound lifted a bit, we decided to head for the coast, even though there was only sporadic UNICOM radio coverage for 150 miles along the leg.

Shortly after takeoff, our wingman reported an intermittent leak in the transmission. We cautiously decided to return to troubleshoot. The leak ceased, and we decided to move out. We already had burned 20 minutes of our three hours of gas, but we opted not to top off since we were only two hours from our destination.

We pushed through the mountains by going above the clouds, assured by the weather folks that the weather was clear on the coast. Sure enough, we were greeted by beautiful sunny skies as we neared the Pacific Ocean. Who said we could not get San Diego weather in the Northwest? A feeling of elation swept through both cockpits. As we marveled at the beauty of the coast, speculation about the weather was replaced by talk of going home and jokes about stopping to ride the perfect, rolling waves, like the Army air cav did in "Apocalypse Now." We had gambled and hit the jackpot. But then we touched the money too soon.

With a GPS to back us up, we were able to make instant fuel calculations. A 40-knot headwind meant we had just enough gas to make our destination, but it was going to be tight. Should we stop in Astoria with two hours of gas remaining or press on? Encouraged by the flawless weather, we pressed on.

Cruising along at 500 feet, about 10 miles off the coast, we found that our good weather was not going to last even an hour. Right after our go-no-go point to return to Astoria, we encountered a few wisps of clouds. Before we knew it, our route forward and our path of retreat were blocked by fog. In a matter of 10 minutes, we had gone from CAVU to less than a mile in fog.

This was not good. We pulled out the charts. A small field with a TACAN station was 20 miles away in Newport, but it had no approach. Our destination had an approach, but we would not have fuel for a divert or a second approach if the weather there also was deteriorating. We had no comms with anyone. Could it get worse?

You bet. Our wingman called "lost sight" and reported that his radar altimeter, which had been intermittent, had decided to fail entirely. They were flying off of the barometric altimeter, but I could hear that they were not comfortable. None of us were.

A harried call to Newport UNICOM yielded a friendly voice of a Coast Guard pilot who was flying along the coast in his H-65. Relieved to be in contact with someone, we got his weather report: visibility 1.5 miles and ceiling 500 feet. To two H-46 crews, flying at 150 feet to maintain visual reference with the water, his weather report was a description of Shangri-La. Our separated flight of two made a beeline for Newport's TACAN station, reporting radial and DME positions to each other so we could maintain horizontal separation.

As promised by our Coast Guard compatriot, we started to make out the coastal landmarks just before going feet dry. Using our charts, we were able to orient ourselves and pick up on the airfield. We touched down, followed shortly by our wingman.