I feel very bad. Really I do! I slipped up big time and I did not check the fuel level as I was suppose to do, because it was a short flight.
I was so bussy talking and explaining stuff to my pax, I failed to do my cheks as I should have.
My good old friend Zeljko Markovic
(X-Skydiver of note) flying with me, pointed out to me that my fuel light had just come on.
(He is a bit uneasy up in the Air without a shoot)
Ag and you know that dreaded heavy cold sweat I must be dreaming wake me up it can't be true, no! Not me!-Feeling; chills ran through my bones as I shivered with goosebumps running like crawlies over my skin-feeling.
We both said nothing.
My embarresment was palpable and complete. Like a big smelly dog with us in the cockpit. A cross between a Saint Bernard and a Great Dane. Both higly advanced in age with bladder and bowl problems.
So, the next time we flew I invited Mr Z along again, and to my amazement he immediately said yes.
But then I got him involved to help me drain the fuel so I could see how close I came to dying. (and to show Z it was not quite the end in sight)
Not that we would have died, the engine would have skipped a beat, my Adrenalin Glands would have jolted and spouted a pint of it's stuff into my arteries, and in 0.45 of a second I would have (read "aged 5 years") switched on the fuel pump, changed the tanks, converted speed to height, had an out-landing-field identified and had my hand ready on the ignition to turn it again had it stopped.
In this picture you see Mr Z, where he and I are draining the fuel to see how much of it is left when the warning light comes on.
It is a 25 litre can, we estimated that there was about 8 litres in the can when the warning came on (and went off again), the Samba's consumption is about 14 liters an hour, which implies I had about 36 minutes left plus what is in the fuel line and filters, make it 40 minutes.
I will see to it that I never fail myself in this way again.
