| Biographical Non-Fiction posted November 2, 2022 |
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In February of the year 2000 I was in an airplane accident
Some days are diamonds
by T B Botts
I was standing in the shower at the Bartlett Regional Hospital in Juneau, Alaska with all of my clothes on, shaking violently, attempting to get warm. Thirty minutes prior I had been on a spit of land with a pilot and another passenger watching a helicopter approach. We were all soaking wet, having crawled out of the cabin of a Cessna 207 and into the icy waters of Lynn Canal where the airplane we had been in made an emergency landing.
It was February 26, 2000. I had reluctantly flown in to Juneau several days before to attend classes that the government was putting on for prospective census workers. I don't like flying in the winter. The weather is usually cold and unpredictable. Though the flight from my home in Hoonah to Juneau only takes twenty minutes, it can seem like hours at times. Unexpected snow squalls can come from nowhere and blind the pilots. Wind shear and strong air currents can gust through the mountain passes and drop a small plane dozens of feet, while buffeting the craft with sideways blows causing the pilots to grip the steering wheel with knuckles that turn white, all the while working the foot pedals that control the side to side motion in a frenzied effort to maintain altitude and direction.
Alaska has more small airplanes per capita than any other state, in large part because so much of the state is inaccessable by road. With mountainous terrain, unlimited forests and tundra and unpredictable weather, it's no surprise that there are more plane accidents here than elsewhere. That fact was weighing on my mind as I thought of the class I needed to attend.
Unfortunately there was no ferry scheduled for Juneau on the day I needed to get in, and since the government was paying the fare on the plane, and since that was the only way to get to the class, I had no choice but to fly. I entered the Wings of Alaska airplane with three other customers and the pilot. After the usual safety warnings about where the life jackets were located, how to open the door, and the location of the emergency bucket and fire extinguisher, the pilot let us know it was a little bumpy out over the open water. Then he started the plane and taxied down the gravel runway. As he gunned the engine, I could hear rocks striking the bottom of the fuselage. The plane bounced over each uneven spot in the tarmac before finally lifting off, first one wing dipping then the other as the pilot struggled to keep us going forward to clear the tall spruce and hemlocks that grow past the runway.
It was sunny and bright and windy, as it tends to be on clear days in Southeast Alaska. In less than a minute we were high out over Icy Strait, looking down at the whitecaps as they raced towards the west, miles and miles with nothing to interfere with their march forward. I put my head on the window and watched as it fogged immediately. A wind gust shook the plane and my head bounced off the window where it had been resting. God I hated flying. I don't like being scared, and this was scaring me. There wasn't much else to do but pray.
"Lord," I prayed, "I don't want to die in a plane crash."
There was no audible answer to my prayer, but a thought entered my mind that was as clear as any voice. "You won't." He said.
A feeling of relief washed over me. Then, feeling emboldened, I thought, why not go for the gold?
"I don't want to drown or burn up either Lord."
Again, my prayer was answered. "You're not going to."
The rest of the trip we bounced and banged in the wind, working through Funter Pass and towards the Juneau airport. Lynn Canal stretched out as far as the eye could see to the north. Chatham Strait was to the south, both bodies of water bounded on each side by snow covered peaks and the endless forests and muskegs of the Tongass National Forest. There was no two ways about it, I was living in heaven on earth.
The class lasted two days and on the 26th, I made arrangements to catch the noon flight back to Hoonah. There was only me, the pilot and a lady named Ingrid who needed to get back to her young family. As an EMT she had accompanied someone to Juneau for medical treatment and wanted to get back as soon as she could.
The pilot, who I later found out was named Ben, told me to sit up front in the seat next to him to balance out the weight. That seat had a seat belt and shoulder strap, unlike the seats in the back. I strapped in and we took off. The weather was better today, calmer and overcast. We made it back across Funter Pass and were almost to Point Couverden where Lynn Canal, Chatham and Icy Straits intersect. We were mere minutes away from landing in Hoonah, when the plane suddenly made a noise like it was running out of gas. Ben reached down and switched fuel tanks, with no effect. He called the Juneau airport and banked the plane sharply, back towards where we had just come from. The engine sputtered and coughed for perhaps another thirty seconds, and then quit. The lack of engine noise was deafening. The only sound was that of the prop as it continued to spin with our forward motion.
"Put on your life jackets," Ben said.
Without thinking, I reached under the seat and grabbed the life jacket and put it on, tying it in front. I hadn't bothered to unbuckle the seat belt or shoulder strap, just put the jacket right over both. I remember thinking that Ben was going to get the engine started any second now. We were going to be fine.
"Mayday! Mayday! This is Wings flight 24. We've lost power in the engine and are losing altitude."
He gave our location and I suppose the airspeed so the rescue copter would be able to locate us. Then he told us to hold on. We were descending rapidly, but at a controlled angle. I saw a small gravel bar in front of us a short distance away. Ben turned the plane on its side and I assumed he had lost control, but at the last instant he straitened it up and we hit the gravel bar before sliding into the water.
Frigid water came streaming into the cabin as soon as we hit. It was so cold that it took my breath. I tried the door but it wouldn't open. Ben got his door open and climbed out, hanging on to the door outside.
"You've got to get out!" He yelled. "You've got to get out now!"
I unbuckled the shoulder harness and seat belt, but couldn't move. The life jacket that was supposed to save me was holding me in because it was tied over the harness. I tried to explain that I couldn't move, but I had no air to speak. He grabbed my arm and pulled, but he only succeeded in wedging me against the windshield. I was struggling to untie the straps of the life jacket, but my hands were getting numb and the knots were hard to undo. Water was rising in the cabin. I heard Ben tell Ingrid to go out his door and swim to the tail of the plane where she could touch bottom. The water started to approach my chin when I remembered the promise I'd gotten several days before. I wanted to collect on it.
"You said I wasn't going to drown." I prayed silently. I reached into my left pocket and pulled out an Old Timer pocket knife that I'd gotten for Christmas. It was still razor sharp. Painfully aware that if I dropped it, I wouldn't be able to reach down for it, I slowly brought it out, hanging on with my left hand and opening the blade with my right. The straps of the lifejacket were taut, and I just touched them with the knife and immediately was released from what would have been my watery grave. I went out the door and swam to the rear of the plane where the ground came up to meet me.
I joined the other two on the beach and waited for rescue. A cold wind was blowing, and the three of us huddled together checking that each one wasn't injured. Twenty minutes later, we boarded an ERA helicopter and were on the way to Juneau. Later that afternoon, after an examination by a doctor, and a change into dry clothes, Ingrid and I caught another Wings of Alaska flight home. This time we made it without incident.
John Denver had sung a song about some days being diamonds and some days being stones. I guess that day was a little of both.
True Story Contest contest entry
I was standing in the shower at the Bartlett Regional Hospital in Juneau, Alaska with all of my clothes on, shaking violently, attempting to get warm. Thirty minutes prior I had been on a spit of land with a pilot and another passenger watching a helicopter approach. We were all soaking wet, having crawled out of the cabin of a Cessna 207 and into the icy waters of Lynn Canal where the airplane we had been in made an emergency landing.
It was February 26, 2000. I had reluctantly flown in to Juneau several days before to attend classes that the government was putting on for prospective census workers. I don't like flying in the winter. The weather is usually cold and unpredictable. Though the flight from my home in Hoonah to Juneau only takes twenty minutes, it can seem like hours at times. Unexpected snow squalls can come from nowhere and blind the pilots. Wind shear and strong air currents can gust through the mountain passes and drop a small plane dozens of feet, while buffeting the craft with sideways blows causing the pilots to grip the steering wheel with knuckles that turn white, all the while working the foot pedals that control the side to side motion in a frenzied effort to maintain altitude and direction.
Alaska has more small airplanes per capita than any other state, in large part because so much of the state is inaccessable by road. With mountainous terrain, unlimited forests and tundra and unpredictable weather, it's no surprise that there are more plane accidents here than elsewhere. That fact was weighing on my mind as I thought of the class I needed to attend.
Unfortunately there was no ferry scheduled for Juneau on the day I needed to get in, and since the government was paying the fare on the plane, and since that was the only way to get to the class, I had no choice but to fly. I entered the Wings of Alaska airplane with three other customers and the pilot. After the usual safety warnings about where the life jackets were located, how to open the door, and the location of the emergency bucket and fire extinguisher, the pilot let us know it was a little bumpy out over the open water. Then he started the plane and taxied down the gravel runway. As he gunned the engine, I could hear rocks striking the bottom of the fuselage. The plane bounced over each uneven spot in the tarmac before finally lifting off, first one wing dipping then the other as the pilot struggled to keep us going forward to clear the tall spruce and hemlocks that grow past the runway.
It was sunny and bright and windy, as it tends to be on clear days in Southeast Alaska. In less than a minute we were high out over Icy Strait, looking down at the whitecaps as they raced towards the west, miles and miles with nothing to interfere with their march forward. I put my head on the window and watched as it fogged immediately. A wind gust shook the plane and my head bounced off the window where it had been resting. God I hated flying. I don't like being scared, and this was scaring me. There wasn't much else to do but pray.
"Lord," I prayed, "I don't want to die in a plane crash."
It was February 26, 2000. I had reluctantly flown in to Juneau several days before to attend classes that the government was putting on for prospective census workers. I don't like flying in the winter. The weather is usually cold and unpredictable. Though the flight from my home in Hoonah to Juneau only takes twenty minutes, it can seem like hours at times. Unexpected snow squalls can come from nowhere and blind the pilots. Wind shear and strong air currents can gust through the mountain passes and drop a small plane dozens of feet, while buffeting the craft with sideways blows causing the pilots to grip the steering wheel with knuckles that turn white, all the while working the foot pedals that control the side to side motion in a frenzied effort to maintain altitude and direction.
Alaska has more small airplanes per capita than any other state, in large part because so much of the state is inaccessable by road. With mountainous terrain, unlimited forests and tundra and unpredictable weather, it's no surprise that there are more plane accidents here than elsewhere. That fact was weighing on my mind as I thought of the class I needed to attend.
Unfortunately there was no ferry scheduled for Juneau on the day I needed to get in, and since the government was paying the fare on the plane, and since that was the only way to get to the class, I had no choice but to fly. I entered the Wings of Alaska airplane with three other customers and the pilot. After the usual safety warnings about where the life jackets were located, how to open the door, and the location of the emergency bucket and fire extinguisher, the pilot let us know it was a little bumpy out over the open water. Then he started the plane and taxied down the gravel runway. As he gunned the engine, I could hear rocks striking the bottom of the fuselage. The plane bounced over each uneven spot in the tarmac before finally lifting off, first one wing dipping then the other as the pilot struggled to keep us going forward to clear the tall spruce and hemlocks that grow past the runway.
It was sunny and bright and windy, as it tends to be on clear days in Southeast Alaska. In less than a minute we were high out over Icy Strait, looking down at the whitecaps as they raced towards the west, miles and miles with nothing to interfere with their march forward. I put my head on the window and watched as it fogged immediately. A wind gust shook the plane and my head bounced off the window where it had been resting. God I hated flying. I don't like being scared, and this was scaring me. There wasn't much else to do but pray.
"Lord," I prayed, "I don't want to die in a plane crash."
There was no audible answer to my prayer, but a thought entered my mind that was as clear as any voice. "You won't." He said.
A feeling of relief washed over me. Then, feeling emboldened, I thought, why not go for the gold?
"I don't want to drown or burn up either Lord."
Again, my prayer was answered. "You're not going to."
The rest of the trip we bounced and banged in the wind, working through Funter Pass and towards the Juneau airport. Lynn Canal stretched out as far as the eye could see to the north. Chatham Strait was to the south, both bodies of water bounded on each side by snow covered peaks and the endless forests and muskegs of the Tongass National Forest. There was no two ways about it, I was living in heaven on earth.
The class lasted two days and on the 26th, I made arrangements to catch the noon flight back to Hoonah. There was only me, the pilot and a lady named Ingrid who needed to get back to her young family. As an EMT she had accompanied someone to Juneau for medical treatment and wanted to get back as soon as she could.
The pilot, who I later found out was named Ben, told me to sit up front in the seat next to him to balance out the weight. That seat had a seat belt and shoulder strap, unlike the seats in the back. I strapped in and we took off. The weather was better today, calmer and overcast. We made it back across Funter Pass and were almost to Point Couverden where Lynn Canal, Chatham and Icy Straits intersect. We were mere minutes away from landing in Hoonah, when the plane suddenly made a noise like it was running out of gas. Ben reached down and switched fuel tanks, with no effect. He called the Juneau airport and banked the plane sharply, back towards where we had just come from. The engine sputtered and coughed for perhaps another thirty seconds, and then quit. The lack of engine noise was deafening. The only sound was that of the prop as it continued to spin with our forward motion.
"Put on your life jackets," Ben said.
Without thinking, I reached under the seat and grabbed the life jacket and put it on, tying it in front. I hadn't bothered to unbuckle the seat belt or shoulder strap, just put the jacket right over both. I remember thinking that Ben was going to get the engine started any second now. We were going to be fine.
"Mayday! Mayday! This is Wings flight 24. We've lost power in the engine and are losing altitude."
He gave our location and I suppose the airspeed so the rescue copter would be able to locate us. Then he told us to hold on. We were descending rapidly, but at a controlled angle. I saw a small gravel bar in front of us a short distance away. Ben turned the plane on its side and I assumed he had lost control, but at the last instant he straitened it up and we hit the gravel bar before sliding into the water.
Frigid water came streaming into the cabin as soon as we hit. It was so cold that it took my breath. I tried the door but it wouldn't open. Ben got his door open and climbed out, hanging on to the door outside.
"You've got to get out!" He yelled. "You've got to get out now!"
I unbuckled the shoulder harness and seat belt, but couldn't move. The life jacket that was supposed to save me was holding me in because it was tied over the harness. I tried to explain that I couldn't move, but I had no air to speak. He grabbed my arm and pulled, but he only succeeded in wedging me against the windshield. I was struggling to untie the straps of the life jacket, but my hands were getting numb and the knots were hard to undo. Water was rising in the cabin. I heard Ben tell Ingrid to go out his door and swim to the tail of the plane where she could touch bottom. The water started to approach my chin when I remembered the promise I'd gotten several days before. I wanted to collect on it.
"You said I wasn't going to drown." I prayed silently. I reached into my left pocket and pulled out an Old Timer pocket knife that I'd gotten for Christmas. It was still razor sharp. Painfully aware that if I dropped it, I wouldn't be able to reach down for it, I slowly brought it out, hanging on with my left hand and opening the blade with my right. The straps of the lifejacket were taut, and I just touched them with the knife and immediately was released from what would have been my watery grave. I went out the door and swam to the rear of the plane where the ground came up to meet me.
I joined the other two on the beach and waited for rescue. A cold wind was blowing, and the three of us huddled together checking that each one wasn't injured. Twenty minutes later, we boarded an ERA helicopter and were on the way to Juneau. Later that afternoon, after an examination by a doctor, and a change into dry clothes, Ingrid and I caught another Wings of Alaska flight home. This time we made it without incident.
John Denver had sung a song about some days being diamonds and some days being stones. I guess that day was a little of both.
John Denver had sung a song about some days being diamonds and some days being stones. I guess that day was a little of both.
 Recognized |
The airplane we had boarded suffered a broken crankshaft, though it had undergone a routine check up at the scheduled time. Like anything mechanical, it can break down. Being in the air isn't the ideal time for it to happen though. Lynn Canal, where we landed, is one of the deepest bodies of water in the United States. Depths of 400 fathoms have been recorded. There are six feet in a fathom. We were fortunate to have hit the gravel bar before striking the water. We were close to the beach when the plane settled at one of the few places that is shallow. Most of the canal has water in excess of twenty fathoms right up to the shoreline. Of course I had no choice but to fly home after the accident. I figured that I was on one of the safest flights ever. What were the odds that it could happen twice? Nonetheless, I'm still not a big fan of flying in small planes.
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