A plea for help from a grounded Australian to his friend, BJ....

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 
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 
(Authorized 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 half-way 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 he was watching me carefully, I walked around the
plane three times instead of my usual two. 

My effort was rewarded because the color 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, its 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 2,500rpm.  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 real 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 wildly around 
just in time to see a rock thrown 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, 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 off 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 flight test.  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 bloody joke, and the bloody 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 
bastards. 

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 absolutely 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 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 
rushing 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 screaming his 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 continued sinking.  
When we reached 50 feet I applied full power but nothin' happened; no noise no 
nothin'.  Then, luckily, I heard me instructor's voice in 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've been bloody 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 emerge; 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 taxing".  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 its 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 humor.  
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 just got a 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 so bloody bad that they have to withdraw me flamin' license.  Can 
you?