voor uw allen (CP van een ander forum)
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A few hours ago....

"Well Duke...(that's not my real name)the news is not good," said the doc. "The cancer...it's back.Your CEA count is up and...." I only half listened."Mass on your liver...something in your abdomen..blah blah blah"
A chill, like a rapier, shot up my spine... a big chill..the information he gave was only the clarity of dreams.My wife and I never even looked at each other. She had been through it once with me already.The chemo, the pukeing, diahrea ,needles, hair all over the house, nausea and fear. Like some creature devoid of form, the big "C" was stalking me.
Fear you say....from an old Aviator?

Thursday, November the 28th.
The call came as usual on this date every year...from a young co-pilot.

"Happy Lobster Day!" and then we laughed and recalled that fatefull day five years ago out over the Atlantic.

The plan sounded simple...we were to base the C117(Super DC3) in Yarmouth Nova Scotia in order to fly live lobsters to New York prior to shipment to Japan. I had already done a couple of trips but now with B Check Authority I was to line indoctrinate a new Captain and co-pilot. A flawless day, although cold, made flight planning easy except for the forty knot headwind. We had plenty of fuel and nine thousand pounds onboard.We climbed to ten thousand or so on this bright blue day and I settled into the nav chair to think up some relevant questions for the Captain, a steely eyed ex Voodoo pilot named Les. He was all excited about his new GPS with the VNAV function. In the right seat was Slaz, a strong and jovial young chap bursting with keen-ness.
The Captain toyed with his GPS and, as we approached what I had figured out to be the PNR )Point of No Return) , I asked him, "Where would you go now in the event of an engine failure?"
He correctly stated he would return to Yarmouth due to the headwind, based upon his GPS info . "Aha!" says I. "You cannot give me an ETA UNTIL you turn around and use your new groundspeed read-out." He knew I was right and promised to learn the PNR formula.

Then....BANG!... a backfire.
"Which engine?" I blurted out. We hadn't caught it. Then...BANG! again...I saw the guage flicker...the left engine.I scrambled over the load of squeeking live cargo and, in horror, saw oil trailing from the cowling. I ran forward only to have Les inform me that we had a chip light.

A chill crept up my spine......
Down below the spindrift streaked off the waves...I found out later from the Coast Guard that the seas were thirty feet.
"Do you mind if I assume command of the flight?"I respectfully asked Les...after all I had three engine failures in this airplane before.
Without an answer he moved to the right seat and Slaz stood between us. Les immediately called a Mayday to Boston in order to clear the airspace below as we were going down as we completed the shutdown procedure....except the engine wouldn't feather. With all trims maxed out and full aileron it was difficult to control the airplane and indeed we couldn't hold altitude.
The feather button was in and lit and yet the prop turned...it took a while to figure out..prop turning..feather pump running...Gadzooks! we must have broken the crankshaft...Yes! that's it..the RPM read zero...Won't feather...never..all the oil is gone....windmilling...the drag is tremendous....down to 100 knots..
Slaz taps me on the shoulder and points to the feather button...still running..no oil...fire danger.

Yep! The co-pilot had saved our lives for sure so I pulled the button out manually. (So he DID pay attention in ground school)
Les in steely eyed fashion informs me we won't make it to any shore according to VNAV.
"Upgrade the Mayday "says I...whatever the hell that meant.
Down to eight thousand...next we see a DC10 circling us...Boston had diverted him from his trip to Germany to at least get a visual on us...EASY...we were at the leading edge of the oil slick.
Imagine what those pax thought with their noses pressed up against the glass.

A Coast Guard Falcon 20 appeared and scorched around us and the DC10 went on his way...we never did talk to him, but we were given a discreet frequency to talk to the Falcon.
I was busy flying the plane when Slaz asked if he should start throwing cargo out and this permission was quickly granted but he had to use the emergency exit window as we could not open the huge cargo door in flight. The cockpit was a busy place. Les monitoring the good engine, updating me on where we would ditch...but he was oh so cool. "Is your airplane falling apart?" the Falcon asked as they saw stuff hitting the tail...it was boxes of lobsters slamming into the stabilizor.
"What can you do for me?" I asked. "We will drop you a life raft" was the answer.I struggled with the controls...200fpm down was the best I could do. I looked at the mountainous seas..."It will blow away in this wind and besides, we have a problem with ditching" says I. "I need a helicopter"
I looked down into the icy cauldron ... I couldn't show the fear that welled inside me.
They dispatched one from an Air Force Base near Cape Cod. That is why I decided to continue straight ahead in order to close the distance as soon as possible even though Boston was closer . Four thousand....Slaz worked feveriously in back and we could hear the boxes hitting the tail..the airplane shuddered with every hit. I chilled ... I thought the thumps were the good engine letting go.
We had METO power on the good engine and as we descended , Les was pulling back on the power to maintain METO...we were still descending..."Want more power? " he asked.
It was the hardest decision in my aviation career. "No" say I, "I want to save that engine till ground effect, maybe get to shore
that way"
The seas were huge.(The Coast Guard told us next day the seas were thirty feet.) Two thousand...
"Go back and get Slaz" says I "I want to brief on the ditching. Slaz arrives..."Half the cargo gone " he says breathlessly, eyes as big as dogs balls. I come up with a plan to get out the top hatch and tie ourselves together with the hamburger door escape rope. That way we are all in the same spot for pickup ... we would only last minutes in the cold Atlantic.
While I was briefing, Les yells, "We are levelling, Weeeeha! ..we're gonna make it." At the same time Slaz points ahead ... to the beach on Cape Cod. "Tell Boston we'll put her on the beach." says I. I knew at this point we were'nt licked. But when we get to the beach , a vote was taken. That's right ... a vote. We were confident we could make the now visible airport at Provincetown.
I stayed high on final purpose ... Les ran throught the checklist... but he looked up as he said "High. Aren't we a little high?"

I knew it was VERY easy to lose height, especially with a windmilling prop, and even waited longer for the landing gear call. A high rate of descent had to be arrested as we approached the threshold , upon which I greased her on ... right on the button of the short runway (For a loaded C117 , that is).
On rollout my legs were like jelly as I tried to keep it straight.

We could not taxi the wounded beast so we shut down on the runway as about four Hummer rescue vehicles wobbled up to us on half inflated tires. This puzzled us but soon learned that the rescue people were advised by Boston that we would be landing on the beach so they deflated their tites somewhat to make travel over the sand dunes more effective... so we litterally threw handfulls of lobsters at them while we laughed with forced jocularity.

Les was the official Captain so he was burdened with the paperwork , of which there was plenty , especially since we had landed at an airport other than the one named on the IFR flight plan. Immigration too ... and the company so that they may get a charter aircraft for the remaining four thousand pounds... and Transport Canada ... and the FAA.

After Slaz and I had taken pictures with our heads in the gaping hole in the tailplane and the massive oil slick , we walked amongst the dunes ... and reflected.

Would we have done it any differently?
Nope.