"050. Got it. Thanks, Anderson."

Feeling a little better, I rolled out of the next turn onto a heading of 050.

"Cessna Seven-Two-Eight-Niner Sierra, this is Anderson Radio. Please advise us your fuel situation?"

"Roger, Anderson, should have better than an hour and a half of fuel remaining...probably close to two hours."

"OK, Eight-Niner Sierra. Continue to fly that heading of 050 degrees. Your radio transmissions are getting stronger here."

"Understand, Anderson. Eight-Niner Sierra."

At this point, Cessna N7289S is flying over one of the most desolate parts of the state of Georgia. The errant flight track had taken her some 30-40 miles south and 50 miles east of the intended course. She'd been airborne for an hour and a half, and had been communicating with the Flight Service Station in Anderson, South Carolina for the past 45-50 minutes. As both fuel quantity indicators bounced around the big "E," and the pre-daylight savings time sun sank slowly behind the tail, the radio came alive once again.

"Cessna Seven-Two-Eight-Niner Sierra, Anderson Radio. Try again to climb and circle your present position. Repeat; circle your present position. We're asking Atlanta Air Route Traffic Control radar to look for a primary target in that area. Atlanta Flight Service has been unable locate you with their direction finding equipment--you must be out of their range."

Anderson's radio transmission came through loud, and the meaning was all too clear. I was hopelessly lost and no one on the ground had been able to find me. With the sun hanging low, the tension and anxiety had piqued and the tightness I'd been feeling in the back of my head and neck, and behind my eyes, was now a blinding, skull-piercing throb.

Like a lamb being led to the slaughter, I followed the instructions and started once again to circle and to climb. As I banked the aircraft into the second series of turns, a reflection from the setting sun caught my eye.

"Anderson Radio, this is Eight-Niner Sierra. I can see a large body of water off my right wing, maybe eight or ten miles.

“Wait! I've got something else...an airport! Anderson, there's an airport with a paved runway and hangar visible to me just across the water! I'm descending to take a closer look. If it is an airport, I'm going to land!"

"Roger Cessna Seven-Two-Eight-Niner Sierra. Please advise us via landline (telephone) of your status and position. You may call us collect at Area Code 803-555-5501...I repeat Area Code 803-555-5501."

"OK Anderson. I'm circling the runway and descending to pattern altitude now. I'll keep you advised."

The landing was fast but safe. Cessna N7289S was on the ground in one piece. Somewhere I'd gotten lucky.

Taxiing the aircraft back up the runway, the hangar that had looked so good from the air, turned out to be a barn with a dilapidated Aeronca Champ tied down beside it. A rusty sign nailed atop the barn door read, "CHESTER MEMORIAL AIR--" The sign had obviously been used for target practice by some of the locals and was missing some of its original letters. There wasn't a pay phone or services of any type. Not even a restroom.

©Copyright 2002 David Ray Skinner/SouthernReader. All rights reserved.