My closest shave to wrecking happened on a quiet, beautiful, dead still Floriduh morning. I was doing touch-and-goes at the uncontrolled Boca Raton Airplane Patch. Had done about four or so, and a fargin 4-engined humongumous military transport plane gets in the pattern.
No big thing, but it was tres unusual for a military plane to land on this ex-military (WWII) runway nowadays. I really thought it was kewl, as I was on my downwind leg in 51Hotel the Spam Can, and could watch it coming.
I turned base leg as the monster bird approached, rapt at the sight of it, with flaps as large as my whole fargin plane. The freight train lumbered by, and I turned and followed.
It was traveling faster than I was, of course. The landing speed in a single-occupant Cessna 152 is a measly 46MPH. So he was in no way (HAH!) in my path as I approached the runway.
I forgot about the hurricanes made by big aerioplane thingies...
I was twelve feet above the runway when the nose of the Spam Can just... dropped.
Like in, a vacuum. Which it sorta was. The instant angle was so steep, I do not know to this day how the prop did not hit the runway.
But the front wheel took every bit of the weight of the entire airplane... and bounced it back up for a damned shaky landing. No damage at all.
Except for the washers bitten out of the pilot's seat by my ***-hole.
