Aug. 11, 1984, was a day I’ll never forget. I destroyed my antique Stearman biplane in a wreck.
When the plane was finished crashing in an open field, it was 800,000 toothpicks. The engine and its attach mount were sitting about 70 feet away.
The fuel tank had ruptured and was dumping 46 gallons of gas on the ground.
After the plane stopped gyrating on the ground, I realized I was alive and not particularly injured. I got a nick in my forehead, gash on my lower leg and a whiplash.
I had broken the flight control stick in half with me still clutching the upper half. I climbed out of the plane to survey the damage.
The first guy on the scene was smoking a cigarette; I got him out of the area quickly.
Just after lifting off the short mountain top runway in North Georgia, the Pratt and Whitney 450 hp engine went to idle power all by itself. (I later found a broken throttle control link.) I couldn’t turn around, so down the hillside I glided.
All the way down that hillside, my brain was in slow motion; it was mush! Years before, Dad had told me in the event of an engine failure, make sure you have moved every switch and lever in the cockpit before you hit the ground.
I accomplished that reminder in what seemed like an eternity.
I clipped a tree, which turned me away from a possible road landing below. Mentally, I never accepted that the plane was going to crash until it hit.
An ambulance arrived and I was taken to a local hospital where my scratches were addressed. I was fitted with a neck collar and released. Later the same afternoon, I gathered up a few friends and a truck and proceeded to load up the wreck and carry it back to my hangar.
It started to rain while we loaded the pieces of the entire plane on the rollback. The perfect ending to an unpleasant day!
What did I learn? I reinforced that God is in control; that as His servant I had been spared to serve Him on another day.
Steve McDonald, McAlpin,
Eastern Airlines Captain (retired)
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