Fr the Viking Owners chat:
Sent: Tuesday, July 05, 2005 4:08 PM
Subject: B: Cirrus in the Water: The Pilot's Narrative
Ilan Reich, the pilot of the recent Cirrus BRS deployment in New York,
attended my Savvy Owner Seminar last May in Indianapolis. Ilan just
emailed me this account of the accident, and I thought list members might
find it interesting. --Mike Busch
* * * * *
Cirrus in the Water: Here's What Happened
Ilan Reich
July 3, 2005
Thanks for the huge outpouring of support, good wishes and prayers from my
friends. I was deeply touched by everyone's sentiments, whether from
reading the COPA website, listening to voice mails or reading emails. I
will try to answer each person individually, but please understand if I
don't.
I am writing to answer the common questions on everyone's mind and to
attempt to organize my own thoughts and emotions after having gone through
a very traumatic ordeal.
Many lessons can be learned from my experience of surviving an airplane
crash, including:
Don't trust anything the news media publishes. Various inaccurate and
misleading reports had me: inexplicably parachuting out of a plane that
already had its own parachute; losing control in a dive; coming dangerously
close to a nuclear reactor; and activating the chute because of mechanical
problems. None of these is true.
Practice, practice and more practice. Maneuvers like recovery from unusual
attitudes, deploying the parachute, shutting down the plane after any
emergency, should be instinctive. Quite simply, when things go awry
there's no time to consult a checklist or the pilot's operating handbook
(POH). While in retrospect I didn't do everything right, I did get all of
the important stuff right.
Don't fly a single engine plane that isn't equipped with a
parachute. Although the chances of actually encountering an emergency
situation that is worthy of "pulling the chute" are probably small to
infinitesimal over the course of any given pilot's career, the penalty for
not having a parachute is almost certain death. Each pilot has to
establish and evaluate their own risk assessment criteria, but for me
something that has a greater than 50% risk of death, even if only 1% of the
time, is an unacceptable risk. That's why I bought a Cirrus in the first
place.
* * * * *
Before I describe in minute detail what happened, here's a brief
summary. On the afternoon of Thursday, June 30 I was incapacitated by a
short seizure while being vectored for an instrument approach. When I
became alert again, the plane was descending at 204 knots, which is faster
than redline speed. Following normal procedure I was able to recover from
this unusual attitude; an instant later I chose to activate the
parachute. On the descent, I steered the plane clear of a fuel tank farm,
and crash-landed into the water near Haverstraw, NY.
My injuries are more severe than the "cuts on the hand" described in the
press. First, my back was broken by the impact of crashing into the
water. Thankfully I retain full body function and have every reason to
expect a complete recovery after wearing a brace for the next
month. Second, I have a benign brain tumor, which has been growing
undetected in the middle of my brain for many years and was apparently the
cause of the brief seizure in-flight. Thankfully the tumor does not affect
my mental facilities in any way, and the risk of future seizures is now
being controlled by medication. In the coming weeks I will be discussing
treatment options with various specialists: these include surgery or doing
nothing. In either event, it is fairly certain that my flying days are
over.
* * * * *
Now for the details..
I departed Lincoln Park, NJ at approximately 4:20 pm. My plane was there
for two weeks for its regular 50 hour inspection and an assortment of
squawks, including new spark plugs after 400 hours, replacement of the
broken shear coupling on Alt 2, cosmetic work on the leading edges and
wheel pants, and a new fuel sender unit and gauge. The last item required
emptying the tanks and then refilling them so that the new fuel gauge could
be properly calibrated. This exercise introduces air into the fuel lines,
so we spent a lot of time running the engine on the ground to ensure that
all the air was gone.
The destination was my home base at Westchester County Airport, NY
(HPN): 35 miles and 12 minutes as the SR22 crow flies. Notwithstanding
the short distance, I filed an IFR flight plan because the weather was hazy
and the weather forecast for HPN was predicting temporary cloud buildups
starting at 2,000 feet. As I climbed through 800 feet I contacted NY air
traffic control and picked up my clearance: V39 BREZY intersection, Carmel
VOR, direct; 3,000 feet. In quick succession I was handed off to the next
controller, and coming up at BREZY intersection I was told to expect the
ILS 16 approach at HPN. After BREZY intersection I was handed off again,
and that controller started to give me vectors for the final approach
course: fly a heading of 080 degrees and maintain 3,000 feet. A few
moments later I was instructed to turn an additional 20 degrees to the left
and maintain 3,000 feet. Incidentally, the visibility in the air was only
2-5 miles, so the decision to file IFR was certainly prudent.
As I came out of the turn to 060 degrees, I noted that my altitude had
slipped to 2,840 feet while I was busy changing frequencies, turning and
loading the approach procedure into the Garmin. Apparently the plane was
not trimmed properly, and I concentrated on climbing back up to 3,000 feet,
while continuing my scan and noting that everything was running just
fine. Indicated airspeed was 160 knots, which is normal for the cruise
power setting then in use. Then I blacked out for a period that I now
estimate as being 5-10 seconds.
When I became alert again, I scanned the instruments and was stunned to see
the airspeed indicator showing 204 knots indicated; the attitude indicator
showing the nose below the horizon; and the altimeter scrolling down
quickly toward 1,900 feet. I also realized that my right leg was weak, and
that the controller was calling, asking what happened to my altitude. For
non-pilots, the redline threshold is also known as the "never exceed"
speed, because the airframe was not designed to retain structural integrity
above that number. In other words, the wings can break off at any moment.
Adrenaline shot through my body as I quickly and methodically executed the
procedure for recovering from this unusual attitude: level the wings,
decrease power, and carefully lift the nose to avoid any further stresses
on the airframe. While accomplishing this I concentrated almost entirely
on the attitude indicator, and after a few seconds I was satisfied that the
loss of altitude had been reversed at roughly 1,700 feet above the
ground. I did not see the airspeed, although I knew instinctively that it
was out of the red zone. After a fraction of a second of thought, I then
activated the parachute. The factors that led me to this decision
included: no desire to proceed any further into marginal weather; concern
over the loss of altitude; concern that the plane's structural integrity
was compromised by the high speed descent and recovery; and concern that
the weakness in my right leg might hinder my ability to control the plane
down to the runway.
My parachute experience was quite different from what fellow COPA member
Bill Graham described last month at M3. I heard the rocket launch and
briefly smelled its fumes. A few seconds later I heard a loud, ripping
sound as the parachute reached full deployment. I then felt a tremendous
jolt*worse than any turbulence that I've experienced*as the parachute
billowed open and caused the plane to decelerate. The POH advises 130
knots indicated as the highest deployment speed for the parachute; but I
have no idea what the airspeed was in my situation. I suspect it was
somewhere above 130 knots based on the very different experiences that Bill
and I had.
This jolt tilted the airplane downward as the parachute established a level
position; it also threw my headphone and glasses in various directions, and
caused my head to hit the ceiling near the visor. I have a very small bump
to show for it; but that was the only injury from the parachute
deployment. In my opinion the seatbelt retraction system and the parachute
worked exceptionally well under the circumstances.
After finding the headphone and realizing that the plane was now level at
roughly 900 feet above the ground and descending straight down under the
canopy, the first thing I did was call the controller on the existing
frequency: I had no time to switch to 121.5; and saw no point in doing so
since the controller was already urgently asking what was going on. I said
"Mayday, mayday, 52 Lima here, pulled the parachute near the Hudson
River." I believe that the second thing I did was punch in 7700 on the
transponder, although I later learned that my plane was already below radar
coverage. Inexplicably, I did not pull the mixture back to idle, as
advised by the POH, and left the power lever just below the detent (roughly
19 inches MP). In the next minute this would prove to be an invaluable
deviation from what the POH requires.
I looked out the window and saw that the plane was descending directly over
a fuel tank farm for the nearby conventional power station (incidentally,
Indian Point, which is a nuclear reactor, is located on the other side of
the river, 5.-8 miles upstream, and away from the vectors for the ILS 16
approach course). This was now the scariest part of the flight: worse
than emerging from a seizure to find the plane in a high-speed descent,
because I already knew from training how to handle that situation. But
there is no advice in the POH on how to control the plane once the
parachute has been deployed.
Now everything happened at warp speed. I called the controller again and
said "Mayday, 52 Lima is descending directly over the fuel tanks". No
response; and besides, there was nothing the controller could do to help
me. I then used "all available resources" to change that outcome: I
applied right aileron and rudder, and rocked the power lever to make sure
that the engine still had power. These actions caused the plane to gently
veer away from the tank farm and over the water: Bowline Creek, a very
wide, calm tributary to the Hudson River near the town of Haverstraw, NY, a
few miles north of Nyack and the Tappan Zee Bridge.
An instant later the plane crashed straight down into the water, which both
then and now I consider to be the lesser of two evils. It was like a
massive belly flop. This was now the second, scary part of the flight, as
water splashed up almost to the top of the windows. Because I landed in
water rather than solid ground, the gear did not absorb much of the
impact. Instead, the wings and seat did all the work. It was at this
point that the fourth lumbar vertebrae in my back cracked and compressed
from the impact of the crash.
Then came the very worst part: I could not open the door. The wings were
now sitting right at water level, which leads me to theorize that the
doorframe or pins were deformed by the impact of the crash. And upon
impact, water immediately came into the cabin; in the three seconds it took
me to realize that the door wasn't going to open, the water level was up to
my ankles. More adrenaline shot through my body. I reached for the hammer
in the armrest compartment, and with two hands swung at the pilot's
window. Two whacks with all my strength and there was an eight inch
hole. Steam was now coming out of the engine as the nosecone dipped
underwater and the cabin tilted forward, so I now remembered to shut down
all the switches and turn the fuel selector to off. I ripped the lap board
off my leg, reached behind my seat and grabbed one of the two life jackets
that's always there. I then clawed apart most of the rest of the window
glass (which gave me some cuts and splinters) until the hole was big
enough, and climbed out of the cabin. The wings were now slightly under
water; I sat down to put on and inflate the lifejacket.
I sat on the wing for a minute to survey the situation and collect my
thoughts. The closest point to shore was roughly 300 feet away, near the
power plant. Several people were already assembled there at a boat launch,
and I spotted a police car already driving in that direction. The
parachute was flat on the water, mostly on the other side of the plane. I
slipped into the water and began swimming to shore. My leg got caught on
something: no doubt a line from the parachute. I kicked it free and swam
faster and farther away from the plane. Within four minutes of impact, the
plane was nose down in the water and sank in 30 feet of water. No fuel
leaked out of the plane. In the next ten minutes I kept swimming slowly,
but stopped after roughly 150 feet. There was pain in my back and some
blood on my left hand. I was getting cold. A Haverstraw Fire Department
launch appeared about half a mile away, where the tributary joins the
Hudson River. They came up beside me and sloppily pulled me onboard. The
pain in my back was now considerable, so I lay down flat across the
deck. A moment later the boat docked near the power plant, where an
ambulance was waiting to take me to Nyack Hospital.
Enroute to the hospital, a police detective sat next to me and took sparse
notes of my story. The EMT folks stuck me full of needles for IV and blood
tests; my body temperature was 90 degrees, so they wrapped me in more
blankets. I felt a hot spot on my rear end; it turned out to be the
battery from my cell phone that was overheating from being underwater. We
arrived at the hospital and I was wheeled into the trauma part of the
emergency room. They immediately cut off all my clothes (losing my keys in
the process), poked more needles into me and did a quick check of my limbs
and abdomen. I was then sent for a CT scan of my neck and brain; and later
for X-rays of the rest of my body.
When all the test results were in, the ER doctor came in and told me that
my back was broken, and that the orthopedist would be there shortly to
explain further. He then left the room, but came back a moment later and
casually said: "By the way, did you know that you have a brain tumor? The
neurologist will be here soon to explain it some more".
* * * * *
I walked out of the hospital on Friday afternoon. My back still hurts,
mostly from the pressure of the brace that I have to wear for the next four
weeks whenever I'm vertical. I'm taking anti-seizure and pain medications
and next week will consult with neurosurgeons on what (if anything) to do
about the brain tumor.
Last night was the first time I was able to sleep through the night without
waking up several times, sometimes in a sweat; other times just to cry for
ten minutes because I couldn't deal with the emotions of how and why I
nearly died, yet somehow managed to survive.
* * * * *
Unlike other people's descriptions throughout history of near-death
experiences, I did not see my life flash before my eyes; a warm glowing
light; or any symbols of divine presence. What I saw were stark realities
that needed to be dealt with: airspeed, jolts, altitude, fuel farm tanks,
water, pain.
When the plane crashed and the cabin was underwater, and I couldn't open
the door, I sadly thought: "So this is how it ends". But I immediately
determined to reject that outcome, grabbed the hammer and clawed my way out.
