The Mooney

I was working in Little Rock, Arkansas in the early 1990’s.  Life was speeding by at a break-neck speed. With three young kids, and no network of childcare or baby-sitters, Rita had her hands full.  Working in a newly chartered bank had its challenges, including getting good loan prospects.

At some point I was introduced to a local dentist, Sam Beavers. Sam was one of our good prospects. He had a successful dental practice in North Little Rock, and had an unrelated business opportunity in Fort Smith, Arkansas that he wanted to discuss with the bank. I liked Sam, and his enthusiasm was infectious. I said I would like to see his Fort Smith operation. Sam said no problem, and we planned a visit on Thursday. Fort Smith was a 2 ½ hour drive west on Interstate 40 from Little Rock. I said I would be glad to drive, but Sam just grinned and said, “No, let’s fly.”

Sam and a business partner owned a single engine plane known as a Mooney M20. He said the weather was going to be fantastic on Thursday, and we could zip up to Fort Smith and be back in just a few hours. He also said that he had been so busy lately that his plane really needed to be flown.

I didn’t know a Mooney from a Piper from a Cessna, but later learned that the Mooney’s track record had been less than stellar, primarily due to pilot error. It was a very fast plane, and handled very tightly.  All this made any mistakes hard to correct. Also, the plane tended to attract medical and legal professionals that flew as a hobby, vs professional pilots. All this information came from my friend David Crowe, and he would know.

Thursday was indeed a beautiful day for flying. We headed basically west from the airfield in North Little Rock, and slightly north. Most of the flight was without incident, and we chatted like old friends over the headsets, with me in the second seat. This plane had all the bells and whistles, and had been recently overhauled, including upgrading the electronics, the navigation system and the works.  Sam proudly demonstrated and explained all of the new features.

When we got close to Ft. Smith, Sam was in contact with their tower and we started our approach. Sam, talking to me, said “I should probably test the landing gear before we begin our final descent.” He calmly reached for a shiny toggle switch located in the middle of the airplane’s dashboard. A few seconds later, a yellow flashing light began to flutter.

“Hmmm” said Sam calmly, “That is something that has never happened before. That light should be green. Let’s try that again.” Sam tried again and got the same result. He looked my way and smiled. Note to self: Don’t play poker with Sam Beavers. He radioed the tower that we were going to delay our landing for just a while to get our landing gear issue resolved. Sam looked at me, and said that everything was fine, and that if worst came to worst we could crank the landing gear down by hand.

Then Sam looked to his left, then his right and said this: “Randy, if you don’t mind, take the yoke. We are on a good heading right now. That will give me a chance to get the manual out and see how the hand crank works.” Really, Sam? I think I did OK, although I could tell we were slightly flying on an upward plane and bending slightly to the right as I white knuckled it, piloting the Mooney. I did not try to test any “play” in the yoke, obviously.

For the next few (long) minutes Sam riffled through a paperback manual and fiddled with a handle in the floor between the seats. He occasionally looked up to see how I was doing flying the plane. His calm demeanor continued and I did not feel all that worried until I noticed a fine bead of sweat on the dentist’s upper lip. After a while, he apparently gave up on the hand crank idea, because he looked at me and said that even if the landing gear would not work, we could “set the plane down in some marshy wet ground he knew of to the south of the airport.” Hmm, I thought, that might shake a few fillings loose, Sam.

Then he said, “I’m going to try this one more time.” He reached up and flipped the toggle switch on, and we both noticed a flash of green. In his excitement, though, he flipped it back off. “Was that green?”

“Yes, I think so” I replied. The next time he tried, it seemed to work, showing a steady green light.

When your pilot looks relieved, that is a good thing. Sam called the tower and they suggested that we do a fly-by and they would put the binoculars on our plane to see if the landing gear was down. We did, and they said it appeared to be down, although they could not determine if the wheel was locked in place.

Sam looked at me and said “At some point, you just have to trust your equipment.”

We landed safely, while the airport got the firetrucks ready just in case. After we got out and stretched, Sam went to find an airplane tech so they could check out the plane while we took a rental car to look at the properties.

When we got back to the airport, the technician determined that the shaft on which the wheel mechanism slid down had become slightly dry and a little rusty and needed lubrication. The electric motor that worked the landing gear would struggle against the rust, and the motor would shut off each time (as a failsafe against burning the motor out). Eventually, enough lubrication worked onto the shaft to allow the little electric motor to do its job. The result was our safe and smooth landing.

We flew back to Little Rock in a still, starry, calm twilight. The return flight was thankfully uneventful. This adventure came to a peaceful end. Sam was impressive, keeping his cool, even when faced with the prospect of landing his nice plane in a swamp. I would have flown with him again, any time, if given the opportunity. I never got that opportunity. I lost track of Sam after we moved away from Little Rock.  A recent Google search revealed Sam’s obituary, showing he died much too young in 2011 at age 66.  Rest in peace, old friend.