Hans-Henrik
2006-12-05 16:16:10 UTC
Der sker sandelig ikke meget i denne gruppe - sidste indlæg for snart 2 uger
siden. Så jeg surfede lidt hos konkurrenten alt.games.microsoft.flight-sim
og fandt denne historie som er ret interessant:
Got this from a mail list:
Australian Flight Review
Hi Mate,
I am writing to you because I need your help to get me bloody pilot's
license back. You keep telling me you got all the right contacts. Well
now's your chance to make something happen for me because, mate, I'm
bloody desperate.
But first, I'd better tell you what happened during my last flight
review with the CAA Examiner
On the phone, Ron (that's the CAA dickhead) seemed a reasonable sort of
a bloke. He politely reminded me of the need to do a flight review every
two years. He even offered to drive out, have a look over my property
and let me operate from my own strip. Naturally I agreed to that.
Anyway, Ron turned up last Wednesday. First up, he said he was a bit
surprised to see the plane on a small strip outside my homestead,
because the ALA (Authorised Landing Area) is about a mile away. I
explained that because this strip was so close to the homestead, it was
more convenient than the ALA, and despite the power lines crossing about
midway down the strip, it's really not a problem to land and take-off,
because at the halfway point down the strip you're usually still on the
ground.
For some reason Ron seemed nervous. So, although I had done the
pre-flight inspection only four days earlier, I decided to do it all
over again. Because the prick was watching me carefully, I walked around
the plane three times instead of my usual two.
My effort was rewarded because the colour finally returned to Ron's
cheeks. In fact, they went a bright red. In view of Ron's obviously
better mood, I told him I was going to combine the test flight with some
farm work, as I had to deliver three poddy calves from the home paddock
to the main herd. After a bit of a chase I finally caught the calves and
threw them into the back of the ol' Cessna 172. We climbed aboard, but
Ron started getting onto me about weight and balance calculations and
all that crap. Of course I knew that sort of thing was a waste of time
because, calves like to move around a bit particularly when they see
themselves 500 feet off the ground! So, it's bloody pointless trying to
secure them as you know. However, I did tell Ron that he shouldn't worry
as I always keep the trim wheel set on neutral to ensure we remain
pretty stable at all stages throughout the flight.
Anyway, I started the engine and cleverly minimized the warm-up time by
tramping hard on the brakes and gunning her to 2,500 rpm. I then
discovered that Ron has very acute hearing, even though he was wearing a
bloody headset. Through all that noise he detected a metallic rattle and
demanded I account for it. Actually it began about a month ago and was
caused by a screwdriver that fell down a hole in the floor and lodged in
the fuel selector mechanism. The selector can't be moved now, but it
doesn't matter because it's jammed on 'All tanks', so I suppose that's
Okay.
However, as Ron was obviously a nit-picker, I blamed the noise on
vibration from a stainless steel thermos flask which I keep in a beaut
little possie between the windshield and the magnetic compass. My
explanation seemed to relax Ron, because he slumped back in the seat and
kept looking up at the cockpit roof. I released the brakes to taxi out,
but unfortunately the plane gave a leap and spun to the right. "Hell" I
thought, "not the starboard wheel chock again".
The bump jolted Ron back to full alertness. He looked around just in
time to see a rock thown by the prop-wash disappear completely through
the windscreen of his brand new Commodore. "Now I'm really in trouble",
I thought.
While Ron was busy ranting about his car, I ignored his requirement that
we taxi to the ALA, and instead took off under the power lines. Ron
didn't say a word, at least not until the engine started coughing right
at the lift off point, and then he bloody screamed his head off. "Oh
God! Oh God! Oh God!"
"Now take it easy, Ron" I told him firmly. "That often happens on
take-off and there is a good reason for it". I explained patiently that
I usually run the plane on standard MOGAS, but one day I accidentally
put in a gallon or two of kerosene. To compensate for the low octane of
the kerosene, I siphoned in a few gallons of super MOGAS and shook the
wings up and down a few times to mix it up. Since then, the engine has
been coughing a bit but in general it works just fine, if you know how
to coax it properly.
Anyway, at this stage Ron seemed to lose all interest in my test flight.
He pulled out some rosary beads, closed his eyes and became lost in
prayer. (I didn't think anyone was a Catholic these days). I selected
some nice music on the HF radio to help him relax.
Meanwhile, I climbed to my normal cruising altitude of 10,500 feet. I
don't normally put in a flight plan or get the weather because, as you
know getting FAX access out here is a friggin' joke and the weather is
always 8/8 blue anyway. But since I had that near miss with a Saab 340,
I might have to change me thinking on that.
Anyhow, on leveling out, I noticed some wild camels heading into my
improved pasture. I hate bloody camels, and always carry a loaded .303
clipped inside the door of the Cessna just in case I see any of the
barstards.
We were too high to hit them, but as a matter of principle, I decided to
have a go through the open window. Mate, when I pulled the bloody rifle
out, the effect on Ron was friggin' electric. As I fired the first shot
his neck lengthened by about six inches and his eyes bulged like a
rabbit with myxo. He really looked as if he had been jabbed with an
electric cattle prod on full power. In fact, Ron's reaction was so
distracting that I lost concentration for a second and the next shot
went straight through the port tyre. Ron was a bit upset about the
shooting (probably one of those pinko animal lovers I guess) so I
decided not to tell him about our little problem with the tyre.
Shortly afterwards I located the main herd and decided to do my fighter
pilot trick. Ron had gone back to praying when, in one smooth sequence,
I pulled on full flaps, cut the power and started a sideslip from 10,500
feet down to 500 feet at 130 knots indicated (the last time I looked
anyway) and the little needle rushed up to the red area on me ASI. What
a buzz, mate! About half way through the descent I looked back in the
cabin to see the calves gracefully suspended in mid air and mooing like
crazy. I was going to comment on this unusual sight, but Ron looked a
bit green and had rolled himself into the fetal position and was
screamin' his freakin' head off. Mate, talk about being in a bloody zoo.
You should've been there, it was so bloody funny!
At about 500 feet I leveled out, but for some reason we kept sinking.
When we reached 50 feet I applied full power but nothin' happened; no
noise no nothin'. Then, luckily, I heard me instructor's voicein me head
saying "carby heat, carby heat". So I pulled carby heat on and that
helped quite a lot, with the engine finally regaining full power. Whew,
that was really close, let me tell you!
Then mate, you'll never guess what happened next! As luck would have it,
at that height we flew into a massive dust cloud caused by the cattle
and suddenly went I.F. bloody R, mate. BJ, you would have been really
proud of me as I didn't panic once, not once, but I did make a mental
note to consider an instrument rating as soon as me gyro is repaired
(something I've been meaning to do for a while now). Suddenly Ron's
elongated neck and bulging eyes reappeared. His mouth opened wide, very
wide, but no sound emerged. "Take it easy," I told him, "we'll be out of
this in a minute". Sure enough, about a minute later we emerged, still
straight and level and still at 50 feet.
Admittedly I was surprised to notice that we were upside down, and I
kept thinking to myself, "I hope Ron didn't notice that I had forgotten
to set the QNH when we were taxiing". This minor tribulation forced me
to fly to a nearby valley in which I had to do a half roll to get
upright again.
By now the main herd had divided into two groups leaving a narrow strip
between them. "Ah!" I thought, "there's an omen. We'll land right
there." Knowing that the tyre problem demanded a slow approach, I flew a
couple of steep turns with full flap. Soon the stall warning horn was
blaring so loud in me ear that I cut it's circuit breaker to shut it up,
but by then I knew we were slow enough anyway. I turned steeply onto a
75 foot final and put her down with a real thud. Strangely enough, I had
always thought you could only ground loop in a tail dragger but, as
usual, I was proved wrong again!
Halfway through our third loop, Ron at last recovered his sense of
humour. Talk about laugh. I've never seen the likes of it. He couldn't
stop. We finally rolled to a halt and I released the calves, who bolted
out of the aircraft like there was no tomorrow.
I then began picking clumps of dry grass. Between gut wrenching fits of
laughter, Ron asked what I was doing. I explained that we had to stuff
the port tyre with grass so we could fly back to the homestead. It was
then that Ron really lost the plot and started running away from the
aircraft. Can you believe it? The last time I saw him he was off into
the distance, arms flailing in the air and still shrieking with
laughter. I later heard that he had been confined to a psychiatric
institution - poor bugger!
Anyhow mate, that's enough about Ron. The problem is I got this letter
from CASA withdrawing, as they put it, my privileges to fly; until I
have undergone a complete pilot training course again and undertaken
another flight proficiency test.
Now I admit that I made a mistake in taxiing over the wheel chock and
not setting the QNH using strip elevation, but I can't see what else I
did that was a so bloody bad that they have to withdraw me flamin'
license. Can you?
Ralph H Bell
Mud Creek Plantation
siden. Så jeg surfede lidt hos konkurrenten alt.games.microsoft.flight-sim
og fandt denne historie som er ret interessant:
Got this from a mail list:
Australian Flight Review
Hi Mate,
I am writing to you because I need your help to get me bloody pilot's
license back. You keep telling me you got all the right contacts. Well
now's your chance to make something happen for me because, mate, I'm
bloody desperate.
But first, I'd better tell you what happened during my last flight
review with the CAA Examiner
On the phone, Ron (that's the CAA dickhead) seemed a reasonable sort of
a bloke. He politely reminded me of the need to do a flight review every
two years. He even offered to drive out, have a look over my property
and let me operate from my own strip. Naturally I agreed to that.
Anyway, Ron turned up last Wednesday. First up, he said he was a bit
surprised to see the plane on a small strip outside my homestead,
because the ALA (Authorised Landing Area) is about a mile away. I
explained that because this strip was so close to the homestead, it was
more convenient than the ALA, and despite the power lines crossing about
midway down the strip, it's really not a problem to land and take-off,
because at the halfway point down the strip you're usually still on the
ground.
For some reason Ron seemed nervous. So, although I had done the
pre-flight inspection only four days earlier, I decided to do it all
over again. Because the prick was watching me carefully, I walked around
the plane three times instead of my usual two.
My effort was rewarded because the colour finally returned to Ron's
cheeks. In fact, they went a bright red. In view of Ron's obviously
better mood, I told him I was going to combine the test flight with some
farm work, as I had to deliver three poddy calves from the home paddock
to the main herd. After a bit of a chase I finally caught the calves and
threw them into the back of the ol' Cessna 172. We climbed aboard, but
Ron started getting onto me about weight and balance calculations and
all that crap. Of course I knew that sort of thing was a waste of time
because, calves like to move around a bit particularly when they see
themselves 500 feet off the ground! So, it's bloody pointless trying to
secure them as you know. However, I did tell Ron that he shouldn't worry
as I always keep the trim wheel set on neutral to ensure we remain
pretty stable at all stages throughout the flight.
Anyway, I started the engine and cleverly minimized the warm-up time by
tramping hard on the brakes and gunning her to 2,500 rpm. I then
discovered that Ron has very acute hearing, even though he was wearing a
bloody headset. Through all that noise he detected a metallic rattle and
demanded I account for it. Actually it began about a month ago and was
caused by a screwdriver that fell down a hole in the floor and lodged in
the fuel selector mechanism. The selector can't be moved now, but it
doesn't matter because it's jammed on 'All tanks', so I suppose that's
Okay.
However, as Ron was obviously a nit-picker, I blamed the noise on
vibration from a stainless steel thermos flask which I keep in a beaut
little possie between the windshield and the magnetic compass. My
explanation seemed to relax Ron, because he slumped back in the seat and
kept looking up at the cockpit roof. I released the brakes to taxi out,
but unfortunately the plane gave a leap and spun to the right. "Hell" I
thought, "not the starboard wheel chock again".
The bump jolted Ron back to full alertness. He looked around just in
time to see a rock thown by the prop-wash disappear completely through
the windscreen of his brand new Commodore. "Now I'm really in trouble",
I thought.
While Ron was busy ranting about his car, I ignored his requirement that
we taxi to the ALA, and instead took off under the power lines. Ron
didn't say a word, at least not until the engine started coughing right
at the lift off point, and then he bloody screamed his head off. "Oh
God! Oh God! Oh God!"
"Now take it easy, Ron" I told him firmly. "That often happens on
take-off and there is a good reason for it". I explained patiently that
I usually run the plane on standard MOGAS, but one day I accidentally
put in a gallon or two of kerosene. To compensate for the low octane of
the kerosene, I siphoned in a few gallons of super MOGAS and shook the
wings up and down a few times to mix it up. Since then, the engine has
been coughing a bit but in general it works just fine, if you know how
to coax it properly.
Anyway, at this stage Ron seemed to lose all interest in my test flight.
He pulled out some rosary beads, closed his eyes and became lost in
prayer. (I didn't think anyone was a Catholic these days). I selected
some nice music on the HF radio to help him relax.
Meanwhile, I climbed to my normal cruising altitude of 10,500 feet. I
don't normally put in a flight plan or get the weather because, as you
know getting FAX access out here is a friggin' joke and the weather is
always 8/8 blue anyway. But since I had that near miss with a Saab 340,
I might have to change me thinking on that.
Anyhow, on leveling out, I noticed some wild camels heading into my
improved pasture. I hate bloody camels, and always carry a loaded .303
clipped inside the door of the Cessna just in case I see any of the
barstards.
We were too high to hit them, but as a matter of principle, I decided to
have a go through the open window. Mate, when I pulled the bloody rifle
out, the effect on Ron was friggin' electric. As I fired the first shot
his neck lengthened by about six inches and his eyes bulged like a
rabbit with myxo. He really looked as if he had been jabbed with an
electric cattle prod on full power. In fact, Ron's reaction was so
distracting that I lost concentration for a second and the next shot
went straight through the port tyre. Ron was a bit upset about the
shooting (probably one of those pinko animal lovers I guess) so I
decided not to tell him about our little problem with the tyre.
Shortly afterwards I located the main herd and decided to do my fighter
pilot trick. Ron had gone back to praying when, in one smooth sequence,
I pulled on full flaps, cut the power and started a sideslip from 10,500
feet down to 500 feet at 130 knots indicated (the last time I looked
anyway) and the little needle rushed up to the red area on me ASI. What
a buzz, mate! About half way through the descent I looked back in the
cabin to see the calves gracefully suspended in mid air and mooing like
crazy. I was going to comment on this unusual sight, but Ron looked a
bit green and had rolled himself into the fetal position and was
screamin' his freakin' head off. Mate, talk about being in a bloody zoo.
You should've been there, it was so bloody funny!
At about 500 feet I leveled out, but for some reason we kept sinking.
When we reached 50 feet I applied full power but nothin' happened; no
noise no nothin'. Then, luckily, I heard me instructor's voicein me head
saying "carby heat, carby heat". So I pulled carby heat on and that
helped quite a lot, with the engine finally regaining full power. Whew,
that was really close, let me tell you!
Then mate, you'll never guess what happened next! As luck would have it,
at that height we flew into a massive dust cloud caused by the cattle
and suddenly went I.F. bloody R, mate. BJ, you would have been really
proud of me as I didn't panic once, not once, but I did make a mental
note to consider an instrument rating as soon as me gyro is repaired
(something I've been meaning to do for a while now). Suddenly Ron's
elongated neck and bulging eyes reappeared. His mouth opened wide, very
wide, but no sound emerged. "Take it easy," I told him, "we'll be out of
this in a minute". Sure enough, about a minute later we emerged, still
straight and level and still at 50 feet.
Admittedly I was surprised to notice that we were upside down, and I
kept thinking to myself, "I hope Ron didn't notice that I had forgotten
to set the QNH when we were taxiing". This minor tribulation forced me
to fly to a nearby valley in which I had to do a half roll to get
upright again.
By now the main herd had divided into two groups leaving a narrow strip
between them. "Ah!" I thought, "there's an omen. We'll land right
there." Knowing that the tyre problem demanded a slow approach, I flew a
couple of steep turns with full flap. Soon the stall warning horn was
blaring so loud in me ear that I cut it's circuit breaker to shut it up,
but by then I knew we were slow enough anyway. I turned steeply onto a
75 foot final and put her down with a real thud. Strangely enough, I had
always thought you could only ground loop in a tail dragger but, as
usual, I was proved wrong again!
Halfway through our third loop, Ron at last recovered his sense of
humour. Talk about laugh. I've never seen the likes of it. He couldn't
stop. We finally rolled to a halt and I released the calves, who bolted
out of the aircraft like there was no tomorrow.
I then began picking clumps of dry grass. Between gut wrenching fits of
laughter, Ron asked what I was doing. I explained that we had to stuff
the port tyre with grass so we could fly back to the homestead. It was
then that Ron really lost the plot and started running away from the
aircraft. Can you believe it? The last time I saw him he was off into
the distance, arms flailing in the air and still shrieking with
laughter. I later heard that he had been confined to a psychiatric
institution - poor bugger!
Anyhow mate, that's enough about Ron. The problem is I got this letter
from CASA withdrawing, as they put it, my privileges to fly; until I
have undergone a complete pilot training course again and undertaken
another flight proficiency test.
Now I admit that I made a mistake in taxiing over the wheel chock and
not setting the QNH using strip elevation, but I can't see what else I
did that was a so bloody bad that they have to withdraw me flamin'
license. Can you?
Ralph H Bell
Mud Creek Plantation