Chapter 1: Foggy Conditions

“Eight-Two-Four-Eight-Golf, radar contact. Cleared for the GPS Runway 36-Left approach, report AMEBE inbound. Altimeter two-niner-niner-seven.” AMEBE was a point in space that was easy to navigate to with the Global Positioning System.

I responded, “Cleared GPS 36-Left, report AMEBE inbound, 29.97. 48G.” The radio went silent for a few minutes as my Cessna Cardinal came around from what had been my southbound heading to intercept the approach path for one of Orlando’s longest runways. I was sailing along quite rapidly at 140-knots just above a fog layer that covered the ground.

I lined up at the EXBAN intersection, adjusted my heading and altitude, and upon passing AMEBE, I contacted approach. “Approach, 48G inbound at AMEBE.”

“Roger, 48G. Contact tower on 124.3. Good day.” The 124.3 was the frequency of the Orlando tower.

I clicked the mic, and rapidly switched the navcom over to tower. I already had the frequency dialed in so the switchover only took the touch of a button on the radio. “Orlando tower, 8248G with you GPS 36-Left, passing AMEBE inbound.”

“Roger, 48G. Cleared to land, 36L. RVR less than 2000 feet. Altimeter 29.97.” That interchange told me it was foggy as fuck maybe all the way to the ground. I replied, “48G, cleared to land 36-Left.”

I slowed and adjusted my flaps, verified the landing gear was down, and ran through my landing checklist for a third time. I had entered ‘the soup’; looking outside the plane in any direction showed only gray cloud. I was on the descent path right on the money. A quick glance out the side window even looking straight down and I could see nothing. I started to think whether I wanted to go my alternate or circle in a holding pattern and see if the fog lifted enough for another approach.

I broke out of the fog layer just as the altimeter touched my decision height. I had my hand on the throttle ready to abort my landing and start the missed approach procedure for the runway – climbing left turn to DNMOR.

I’d already been cleared to land by the tower after I switched over to them from Approach Control, but that was based on the assumption that I would see the approach lights before descending below the DH for the instrument approach that I’d been on for runway 36L. I lucked out again.

As I’d hit that critical point, I gave a quick glance out the cockpit window and there were the approach and runway lights blaringly visible through the fog and haze guiding me – rippling at me and leading me to the threshold the rest of the way into MCO. Orlando International was often foggy on days like this. The air was CAVU a thousand feet up – just what I liked: calm air, visibility unlimited. I’d been flying over the puffy fog below me for the last fifteen minutes as I neared Orlando from the north, with only occasional sightings of the ground. Most of middle-Florida was covered in the stuff from what I could see. I’d filed with Sarasota or SRQ as my alternate airport. They were reporting ten-miles visibility with no ceiling.

My wheels touched down with a slight bounce right on the runway centerline and just up runway from the numbers. The concrete runway was immense relative to my light, single-engine aircraft. I had the feeling that I could have landed sideways across the runway and still had room too spare ... My radio came alive. “Cessna four-eight-golf, Ground Control on one-two-one-point-eight, good day,” the tower controller informed. I guess he could see that I was down. I had my landing lights on.

I pushed the PTT switch on my yoke and spoke. “One-point-eight for four-eight-golf, good day.” I switched to the ground frequency that I already had dialed in on the top navcom unit, “Ground, 48G with you on 36L going to Air Services.”

My rollout on the immense 12,000-foot runway had slowed to near a walk. “48G is cleared to Air Services; no traffic,” they replied; my headphones went silent again. I acknowledged the permission to taxi as I came off the active runway onto taxiway Echo. I used my second com to call the FBO and announce my arrival and need to refuel and park for a few days. I’d already booked a parking slot with them by phone. After their brief reply, I started to shut down some of the panel equipment that I didn’t need now that I was on the ground as I taxied. The airport was quiet except for activity over in the main passenger terminal that I could just about see through the ground fog.

A lineman wearing shorts and a safety vest came out of the Air Services hangar and through arm motions with red batons showed me where he wanted me to park. After I was in position, I shut off the rest of the plane’s electronic gear and then pulled the mixture out; starved for fuel the large engine came to an abrupt stop about ten seconds later. I went through my shut down checklist, popped the door and got out. The lineman had already tied the plane down. “Thanks,” I said, “I’ll be here for until Thursday afternoon at a conference in town. I do need a load of fuel – 87 octane” He shot me thumbs up.

I pulled my briefcase, some flight gear, and overnight bag from the backseat and walked into the FBO’s office. A few minutes later I’d checked the plane in, left my contact information and gotten the keys to my rental car, which, I was told, was right outside the landside door.

As I started to leave the building, there was an attractive young woman pacing by the exit door looking into the parking lot area every few seconds. She also had two pieces of luggage sitting on the floor near the door.

I was feeling charitable, so I spoke. “Can I give you a life someplace?” I questioned, “I’m headed towards downtown and you look like you’re waiting for a cab.”

“Well, I’m trying to get to the Intercontinental Hotel,” she said. “I’ve been waiting an hour and I’ve called the taxi company twice. They keep saying ‘any minute’. I should have gotten a rental.” She shrugged.

“The Intercontinental is exactly where I’m headed. Are you going to the Energy Futures Conference? That’s was I’m planning to attend this week.”

She gave me a big smile, “Why, yes, I am. I’m tomorrow’s keynote speaker at the luncheon.” She paused then extended a hand, “I’m Kim Winslow. And, yes, I’d love a ride if it doesn’t inconvenience you.”

I shook her hand, “Ron Hume. Come on then and nice to meet you. How’d you end up at the general aviation terminal? Did you fly in?”

“Yes I did, from North Carolina” she offered as she collected her luggage and we exited the building into the gray, damp air. “My plane is the red and white Mooney next to your Cessna. I watched you come in. Low ceiling out there! I had four-hundred feet when I landed, but things seemed to lower since then.”

I felt good for offering the ride and having her accept. Kim was a looker, and I tried to avoid staring at her in a lecherous manner, although that was what my reptilian brain wanted to do.

Further, I gave her a perfect score for not only being attractive, but also for having an instrument rating that let her fly a relatively high-performance plane into a socked in airport.

Kim was a pretty brunette with sparkling blue-green eyes that just drew you into her soul with your own. She was in a ponytail, and her tresses were down to the middle of her back. She had a beauty mole up by her right cheekbone as she turned to talk to me that added to her sex appeal. Her youthful face had lovely angular features. I’d read somewhere about a study of beauty; people perceive beauty based on placement of facial features, distance between the eyes, eye shape, mouth and lip shape, and hair, profile, on and on.

This young woman was exceptionally beautiful, no doubt about it. Even though she’d been sitting and wearing slacks I noted her trim figure. She had a healthy glow and a suntan so I speculated that she had some athletic ability that put her outside some of the time.

We did pilot talk as we packed our stuff into the Camaro that I’d rented and drove towards downtown using the GPS on my cellphone with Kim giving me crisp directions as she watched the display. We headed right to the hotel. Meanwhile I was assessing my passenger: very pretty, very professional, very smart it appeared, no nonsense, and, as I discovered a commercial-instrument-rated pilot. I asked, “What do you do when you’re not flying or giving keynote talks to a bunch of energy geeks?”

“Well,” she said watching me, “I hang out near Chapel Hill. I run a business there that mainly builds specialized and custom solar panels and related equipment. I have an electronics background from my undergrad. I got started about five years ago while in grad school at UNC when I was working on my MBA. In one course, I had to conjure up an idea and do a business plan for it. I already had some thoughts about my company back then, and after I did that plan, I thought I could make some money if I really implemented it. Turned out I was right. So far, I’ve paid off my student loans, my company’s angels and backers, bought a house and decorated it, and most recently bought the airplane but I’ve been flying since I was eighteen. I started flying lessons when I was sixteen. Tell me about you, where do you hang out?”

“I have three hangouts,” I responded somewhat humbly. “I have a year-around camp near Saddleback Mountain in Maine, a condo at the Watergate in DC, and my main residence, which I don’t see as much as I like, is on Amelia Island, outside of Jacksonville. My flight here today was from DC, with a refueling stop in South Carolina.

“I’ve had my own management consulting company for the past fifteen years; before that I worked for a couple of other consulting firms doing the similar work – taking a client’s watch, telling them the time, and keeping the watch.”

She gave a delightful laugh at my very old joke. “You must have a lot of watches,” she said. Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“If that means you think I’ve been in this business too long, you’re probably right,” I said to her comment. “I’m long of tooth and experience. I do have a lot of wisdom from all my mistakes, however.” I chuckled and gave her a big grin.

“Oh, dear,” she said, putting her hand on my right arm, “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re old or anything like that. I wasn’t thinking. Your comment about watches and you look like you’re good at your job and...” she stuttered.

I stepped in and rescued her, “Oh, hey, I know I’ve got a few years on you. And, yes, I think I’m good at my job; at least I fool my clients into thinking so. These graying temples are worth an additional $200 an hour on my billing rate,” I gestured to my temples. “It’s even gotten easier finding people to pay twice that to have me work with them on company change projects. I seem to specialize in the energy field; didn’t plan it, just happened that way. It’s taken me around the world several times, but not in the Cessna. As you’ve probably noticed, the field is a kind of close-knit society.”