By Lynn Holland

I sat in the gathering darkness for what had seemed an interminable time. Reflecting on the train of events that had brought the situation to a head. 

The lazy hot summer day was over; the calm weather had beguiled me into a false sense  of security. Now the hairs on the back of my neck were rising with the sickening  realisation, the weather had changed, and with it, any chance of my returning to home  base at Milson airfield, Palmerston North. 

As the sun went down, the temperature was dropping along with the cloud base. 

The light westerly wind had been pushing clouds up against the Tararua Ranges, causing  them to shelve downwards. 

I was returning from Paraparaumu in a small two-seater Cessna plane and  underestimated the time needed for my flight. A rookie mistake for a brand-new private  pilot. 

I thought of my brother Derek, he had been visiting me to see my new Siamese kitten, and we enjoyed our day together basking in the sun and catching up on family news. He  missed the last bus to his Wellington home, and I was pleased to be able to give him a  faster and more scenic way back.  

As I approached the city outskirts I tried to descend below the lowering cloud base. Flying low around Linton Camp I could see Awapuni Racecourse ahead, ironically close  to where I lived and only three or four miles from the airfield. Wispy white feathers of cloud  were brushing past my plane windows, and I knew I had to turn away from rising terrain before I was enveloped in cloud. 

I felt a flush of heat, my vision blurred, I was shaking.  

Circling my small plane, my bad weather training kicked in and I instinctively reduced  power to slow airspeed and lowered 10 degrees of flap for better visibility. 

I was frightened and angry with myself for allowing this to happen. 

Weather in the Manawatu can change quickly and I had not allowed enough time. With Milson airfield cut off and Paraparaumu too far, my options were limited. 

Peering out under the thickening cloud base towards the West Coast I remembered  Foxpine airfield, a private grass airstrip surrounded by pine plantations and sand hills next to the town of Foxton. Weather conditions were better on the coast; light was fading but I estimated I would arrive before complete darkness.

With time against me I turned my plane towards Foxpine, raising the flap and full power  to race against the remaining daylight. I planned to join straight in on long finals for the  western runway vector. Changing radio frequency, I gave the non-standard call in a  squeaky voice but confident no one would be listening on a late Sunday evening. 

I was well clear of the power lines and could see the lights of Foxton township and dark outline of the racetrack on finals for vector 27, completing my pre-landing checks with a strong sense of relief. It was almost completely dark, but I had been here before; my night vision adjusted for landing, I felt safe. 

The runway lights came on with a blinding flash, brilliantly and unexpectedly. In shock I  pulled back sharply on the flight controls, causing the plane nose to pitch up and the  plane to balloon dangerously upwards. Another rookie mistake.

I had been close to touchdown after a dark approach, but a concerned local hearing my  radio call advising my flight diversion, had switched on the runway lights just as I flared  the plane for touchdown.

Quickly I corrected my mistake and released back pressure to level the plane. Valuable  airspeed lost the plane sunk, landed heavily, bouncing several times down the long  grass runway. With little vision I could only control by instinct. 

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