I received this story from a friend. The author I suppose wrote these
thoughts down to share them, so I imagine he will not be upset to see
them on the internet.I would be interested in your reactions.


.................................................. ..

Cirrus in the Water: Here's What Happened

Ilan Reich
July 3, 2005

Thanks for the huge outpouring of support, good wishes and prayers from
my friends. I was deeply touched by everyone's sentiments, whether
from reading the COPA website, listening to voice mails or reading
emails. I will try to answer each person individually, but please
understand if I don't.

I am writing to answer the common questions on everyone's mind and to
attempt to organize my own thoughts and emotions after having gone
through a very traumatic ordeal.

Many lessons can be learned from my experience of surviving an airplane
crash, including:

Don't trust anything the news media publishes. Various inaccurate
and misleading reports had me: inexplicably parachuting out of a plane
that already had its own parachute; losing control in a dive; coming
dangerously close to a nuclear reactor; and activating the chute
because of mechanical problems. None of these is true.

Practice, practice and more practice. Maneuvers like recovery from
unusual attitudes, deploying the parachute, shutting down the plane
after any emergency, should be instinctive. Quite simply, when things
go awry there's no time to consult a checklist or the pilot's
operating handbook (POH). While in retrospect I didn't do everything
right, I did get all of the important stuff right.

Don't fly a single engine plane that isn't equipped with a
parachute. Although the chances of actually encountering an emergency
situation that is worthy of "pulling the chute" are probably small
to infinitesimal over the course of any given pilot's career, the
penalty for not having a parachute is almost certain death. Each pilot
has to establish and evaluate their own risk assessment criteria, but
for me something that has a greater than 50% risk of death, even if
only 1% of the time, is an unacceptable risk. That's why I bought a
Cirrus in the first place.

* * * * *

Before I describe in minute detail what happened, here's a brief
summary. On the afternoon of Thursday, June 30 I was incapacitated by
a short seizure while being vectored for an instrument approach. When
I became alert again, the plane was descending at 204 knots, which is
faster than redline speed. Following normal procedure I was able to
recover from this unusual attitude; an instant later I chose to
activate the parachute. On the descent, I steered the plane clear of
a fuel tank farm, and crash-landed into the water near Haverstraw, NY.


My injuries are more severe than the "cuts on the hand" described
in the press. First, my back was broken by the impact of crashing into
the water. Thankfully I retain full body function and have every
reason to expect a complete recovery after wearing a brace for the next
month. Second, I have a benign brain tumor, which has been growing
undetected in the middle of my brain for many years and was apparently
the cause of the brief seizure in-flight. Thankfully the tumor does
not affect my mental facilities in any way, and the risk of future
seizures is now being controlled by medication. In the coming weeks I
will be discussing treatment options with various specialists: these
include surgery or doing nothing. In either event, it is fairly
certain that my flying days are over.

* * * * *

Now for the details..

I departed Lincoln Park, NJ at approximately 4:20 pm. My plane was
there for two weeks for its regular 50 hour inspection and an
assortment of squawks, including new spark plugs after 400 hours,
replacement of the broken shear coupling on Alt 2, cosmetic work on the
leading edges and wheel pants, and a new fuel sender unit and gauge.
The last item required emptying the tanks and then refilling them so
that the new fuel gauge could be properly calibrated. This exercise
introduces air into the fuel lines, so we spent a lot of time running
the engine on the ground to ensure that all the air was gone.

The destination was my home base at Westchester County Airport, NY
(HPN): 35 miles and 12 minutes as the SR22 crow flies.
Notwithstanding the short distance, I filed an IFR flight plan because
the weather was hazy and the weather forecast for HPN was predicting
temporary cloud buildups starting at 2,000 feet. As I climbed through
800 feet I contacted NY air traffic control and picked up my clearance:
V39 BREZY intersection, Carmel VOR, direct; 3,000 feet. In quick
succession I was handed off to the next controller, and coming up at
BREZY intersection I was told to expect the ILS 16 approach at HPN.
After BREZY intersection I was handed off again, and that controller
started to give me vectors for the final approach course: fly a
heading of 080 degrees and maintain 3,000 feet. A few moments later I
was instructed to turn an additional 20 degrees to the left and
maintain 3,000 feet. Incidentally, the visibility in the air was only
2-5 miles, so the decision to file IFR was certainly prudent.

As I came out of the turn to 060 degrees, I noted that my altitude had
slipped to 2,840 feet while I was busy changing frequencies, turning
and loading the approach procedure into the Garmin. Apparently the
plane was not trimmed properly, and I concentrated on climbing back up
to 3,000 feet, while continuing my scan and noting that everything was
running just fine. Indicated airspeed was 160 knots, which is normal
for the cruise power setting then in use. Then I blacked out for a
period that I now estimate as being 5-10 seconds.

When I became alert again, I scanned the instruments and was stunned to
see the airspeed indicator showing 204 knots indicated; the attitude
indicator showing the nose below the horizon; and the altimeter
scrolling down quickly toward 1,900 feet. I also realized that my
right leg was weak, and that the controller was calling, asking what
happened to my altitude. For non-pilots, the redline threshold is also
known as the "never exceed" speed, because the airframe was not
designed to retain structural integrity above that number. In other
words, the wings can break off at any moment.

Adrenaline shot through my body as I quickly and methodically executed
the procedure for recovering from this unusual attitude: level the
wings, decrease power, and carefully lift the nose to avoid any further
stresses on the airframe. While accomplishing this I concentrated
almost entirely on the attitude indicator, and after a few seconds I
was satisfied that the loss of altitude had been reversed at roughly
1,700 feet above the ground. I did not see the airspeed, although I
knew instinctively that it was out of the red zone. After a fraction
of a second of thought, I then activated the parachute. The factors
that led me to this decision included: no desire to proceed any
further into marginal weather; concern over the loss of altitude;
concern that the plane's structural integrity was compromised by the
high speed descent and recovery; and concern that the weakness in my
right leg might hinder my ability to control the plane down to the
runway.

My parachute experience was quite different from what fellow COPA
member Bill Graham described last month at M3. I heard the rocket
launch and briefly smelled its fumes. A few seconds later I heard a
loud, ripping sound as the parachute reached full deployment. I then
felt a tremendous jolt-worse than any turbulence that I've
experienced-as the parachute billowed open and caused the plane to
decelerate. The POH advises 130 knots indicated as the highest
deployment speed for the parachute; but I have no idea what the
airspeed was in my situation. I suspect it was somewhere above 130
knots based on the very different experiences that Bill and I had.

This jolt tilted the airplane downward as the parachute established a
level position; it also threw my headphone and glasses in various
directions, and caused my head to hit the ceiling near the visor. I
have a very small bump to show for it; but that was the only injury
from the parachute deployment. In my opinion the seatbelt retraction
system and the parachute worked exceptionally well under the
circumstances.

After finding the headphone and realizing that the plane was now level
at roughly 900 feet above the ground and descending straight down under
the canopy, the first thing I did was call the controller on the
existing frequency: I had no time to switch to 121.5; and saw no point
in doing so since the controller was already urgently asking what was
going on. I said "Mayday, mayday, 52 Lima here, pulled the parachute
near the Hudson River." I believe that the second thing I did was
punch in 7700 on the transponder, although I later learned that my
plane was already below radar coverage. Inexplicably, I did not pull
the mixture back to idle, as advised by the POH, and left the power
lever just below the detent (roughly 19 inches MP). In the next minute
this would prove to be an invaluable deviation from what the POH
requires.

I looked out the window and saw that the plane was descending directly
over a fuel tank farm for the nearby conventional power station
(incidentally, Indian Point, which is a nuclear reactor, is located on
the other side of the river, 5.-8 miles upstream, and away from the
vectors for the ILS 16 approach course). This was now the scariest
part of the flight: worse than emerging from a seizure to find the
plane in a high-speed descent, because I already knew from training how
to handle that situation. But there is no advice in the POH on how to
control the plane once the parachute has been deployed.

Now everything happened at warp speed. I called the controller again
and said "Mayday, 52 Lima is descending directly over the fuel
tanks". No response; and besides, there was nothing the controller
could do to help me. I then used "all available resources" to
change that outcome: I applied right aileron and rudder, and rocked
the power lever to make sure that the engine still had power. These
actions caused the plane to gently veer away from the tank farm and
over the water: Bowline Creek, a very wide, calm tributary to the
Hudson River near the town of Haverstraw, NY, a few miles north of
Nyack and the Tappan Zee Bridge.

An instant later the plane crashed straight down into the water, which
both then and now I consider to be the lesser of two evils. It was
like a massive belly flop. This was now the second, scary part of the
flight, as water splashed up almost to the top of the windows. Because
I landed in water rather than solid ground, the gear did not absorb
much of the impact. Instead, the wings and seat did all the work. It
was at this point that the fourth lumbar vertebrae in my back cracked
and compressed from the impact of the crash.

Then came the very worst part: I could not open the door. The wings
were now sitting right at water level, which leads me to theorize that
the doorframe or pins were deformed by the impact of the crash. And
upon impact, water immediately came into the cabin; in the three
seconds it took me to realize that the door wasn't going to open, the
water level was up to my ankles. More adrenaline shot through my body.
I reached for the hammer in the armrest compartment, and with two
hands swung at the pilot's window. Two whacks with all my strength
and there was an eight inch hole. Steam was now coming out of the
engine as the nosecone dipped underwater and the cabin tilted forward,
so I now remembered to shut down all the switches and turn the fuel
selector to off. I ripped the lap board off my leg, reached behind my
seat and grabbed one of the two life jackets that's always there. I
then clawed apart most of the rest of the window glass (which gave me
some cuts and splinters) until the hole was big enough, and climbed out
of the cabin. The wings were now slightly under water; I sat down to
put on and inflate the lifejacket.

I sat on the wing for a minute to survey the situation and collect my
thoughts. The closest point to shore was roughly 300 feet away, near
the power plant. Several people were already assembled there at a boat
launch, and I spotted a police car already driving in that direction.
The parachute was flat on the water, mostly on the other side of the
plane. I slipped into the water and began swimming to shore. My leg
got caught on something: no doubt a line from the parachute. I kicked
it free and swam faster and farther away from the plane. Within four
minutes of impact, the plane was nose down in the water and sank in 30
feet of water. No fuel leaked out of the plane. In the next ten
minutes I kept swimming slowly, but stopped after roughly 150 feet.
There was pain in my back and some blood on my left hand. I was
getting cold. A Haverstraw Fire Department launch appeared about half
a mile away, where the tributary joins the Hudson River. They came up
beside me and sloppily pulled me onboard. The pain in my back was now
considerable, so I lay down flat across the deck. A moment later the
boat docked near the power plant, where an ambulance was waiting to
take me to Nyack Hospital.

Enroute to the hospital, a police detective sat next to me and took
sparse notes of my story. The EMT folks stuck me full of needles for
IV and blood tests; my body temperature was 90 degrees, so they wrapped
me in more blankets. I felt a hot spot on my rear end; it turned out
to be the battery from my cell phone that was overheating from being
underwater. We arrived at the hospital and I was wheeled into the
trauma part of the emergency room. They immediately cut off all my
clothes (losing my keys in the process), poked more needles into me and
did a quick check of my limbs and abdomen. I was then sent for a CT
scan of my neck and brain; and later for X-rays of the rest of my body.

When all the test results were in, the ER doctor came in and told me
that my back was broken, and that the orthopedist would be there
shortly to explain further. He then left the room, but came back a
moment later and casually said: "By the way, did you know that you
have a brain tumor? The neurologist will be here soon to explain it
some more".

* * * * *

I walked out of the hospital on Friday afternoon. My back still hurts,
mostly from the pressure of the brace that I have to wear for the next
four weeks whenever I'm vertical. I'm taking anti-seizure and pain
medications and next week will consult with neurosurgeons on what (if
anything) to do about the brain tumor.

Last night was the first time I was able to sleep through the night
without waking up several times, sometimes in a sweat; other times just
to cry for ten minutes because I couldn't deal with the emotions of
how and why I nearly died, yet somehow managed to survive.

* * * * *

Unlike other people's descriptions throughout history of near-death
experiences, I did not see my life flash before my eyes; a warm glowing
light; or any symbols of divine presence. What I saw were stark
realities that needed to be dealt with: airspeed, jolts, altitude,
fuel farm tanks, water, pain.

When the plane crashed and the cabin was underwater, and I couldn't
open the door, I sadly thought: "So this is how it ends". But I
immediately determined to reject that outcome, grabbed the hammer and
clawed my way out.