For once, it wasn’t me. He’d radioed approach control that his vacuum pump had quit, rendering his directional and attitude indicators useless. He was also running precariously low on fuel. Probably no more than ten minutes of flying time left. None of that would’ve mattered much had Rancho Bonita been enjoying its usual postcard-perfect weather. You don’t need many gauges or even a working engine to land an airplane safely when the skies are crystalline and you can see the runway from miles out. You simply glide in. But this was June, and June on California’s central coast means fog, along with 300-foot cloud ceilings that can hang around for weeks like your couch-surfing, unemployed brother-in-law. The airport was socked in. “Mooney Seven Seven Delta, do you wish to declare an emergency at this time?” the controller asked over the radio like it was just another day at the office. “Affirmative,” the pilot responded calmly in a slow Georgia drawl. My eyes no longer tested 20/10 like they did when I was on active duty, but the old peepers were still plenty good enough to spot his airplane from afar.
