CHAPTER 13 / THE ROMDANE SPINAL SPIRAL™ — “The Manoeuvre That Works Great—If You Survive It.”

A contortionist’s fever dream. Effective. Shameful. Patent pending. Also known as: The Hangar Houdini™—because when it works, nobody—including you—can explain how. Let’s be honest—after everything you’ve just witnessed, it’s time to offer a solution before desperate Super Cub owners start self-lobotomising with a flap handle and a copy of the POH. And so—after years of unlicensed experimentation, mild herniation, and several borderline-spiritual out-of-body experiences—I present to you: The Romdane Spinal Spiral™

An entry manoeuvre discovered by accident, regret, and gravity.

I stumbled upon it somewhere between refuelling the right wing and silently negotiating with my centre of mass. And while I may have slapped my name on it, I can’t claim full ownership. Over the years, I’ve witnessed other contorted aviators perform similar acts of desperation—usually accompanied by the sound of groaning aluminium and vertebrae filing workplace hazard reports in Morse code.

Now, to be clear—this manoeuvre is not universal. It doesn’t scale across all dimensions of the human form.

If you’re built like a stray balloon animal in a crosswind, you’ve got options.

If you’re shaped like a protein-loving manatee on his cheat day—you don’t. 

You have torque, suffering, and a Super Cub that silently judges you from the shadows.

But despite all odds, the Spinal Spiral can be adapted.
It’s not elegant.
It’s not OSHA-compliant.
But it might just save your spine, your pride, and your headset cable.

And if it doesn’t?
There’s always orthopedic surgery.
Or a Cessna.

THE ROMDANE SPINAL SPIRAL™

The only cockpit entry method that doubles as a chiropractic diagnostic tool.

Also known as:
“The Manoeuvre That Works Great—If You Survive It.”

STEP 1: MOUNT THE WHEEL OF DOUBT™

Climb onto your oversized, thread-less 35” Alaskan Bushwheel—
or, if you’re still living in 1962 and clinging to stock 6.50s,
hoist yourself onto the fuel step the way you would when refuelling your right wing
and quietly questioning every decision that led to this moment.

You are now elevated. Vulnerable. Fully committed.
There is no safe exit from here—only forward motion and orthopedic consequences.

STEP 2: THE BACKWARD TWIST OF REGRET™

Now comes the turn.
Twist your body so you’re facing backward—
right foot planted on the fuel step,
left leg dangling in open air like it’s looking for a purpose in life.

Unless you’re a gymnast—or made of PVC piping—
your hands should rest on the wing’s leading edge.
This is your only connection to sanity. Do not let go.

You are now balanced on one leg, backwards,
clinging to aluminium,
in what scientists refer to as the "Pre-Spinal Rupture Position."

STEP 3: THE ONE-HANDED COCKPIT SEDUCTION™

This part isn’t an entry technique.
It’s a full-body plea for mercy.

With your left arm, reach blindly into the cockpit and grab the front crossbeam, just beneath the windscreen.
Not the left-side beam.
Grabbing that one would require either a pre-existing shoulder dislocation
or a deeply toxic relationship with pain.

Grip the beam like it owes you money—
because what happens next is violent, irreversible, and almost certainly a bad idea.

Here’s where it gets kinetic:

At the same moment you’re pulling with your left hand,
you launch your left leg into the cockpit—
aerially, like you're punting your own knee through the fuselage.

You’re aiming for the floorboard just left of the stick.
You will miss. That’s fine. Aim anyway.

Then—as soon as your foot makes contact—
you must twist your entire torso clockwise in a desperate, full-body spin move.
It’s less “graceful rotation” and more sideways violence with consequences.

And here comes the timing trap:

The moment your left foot lands, it’s commitment time.
You must release your right leg from the fuel step.

Do it too soon, and you’ll collapse into the luggage compartment like a folding chair with PTSD.
Do it too late, and you’ll tear your groin in half like expired Velcro at altitude.

Yes—it sounds awkward.
That’s because it is.

This is where careers are ended,
friendships dissolve,
and vertebrae file for reassignment.

There is no second attempt.
Only the sound of your spine whispering:
“I trusted you.”

STEP 4: THE FINAL FOLD™

This is the moment of truth—
when everything either comes together in a miracle of bad physics,
or you fold like a parachute packed by vengeance and despair.

Best-case scenario?
You tumble in like a delusional yoga influencer high on espresso—
awkward, slightly injured, but somehow miraculously seated in the front seat.
Your breathing is erratic.
Your shirt is snagged on something prehistoric.
But you’re inside.
Which means, legally, you can still call yourself a pilot.

Worst-case scenario?
You’ve just lost the high-stakes gamble of rudder cable roulette.
Your flailing foot snags the cable like a snare trap for the overconfident.
Your momentum betrays you.
You trip.
You fold.
You slam into the apron like an emotionally unprepared sack of aviation-grade regret.

Your hip dislocates.
Your femur snaps.
You become a long-term orthopedic case study—referred to by hospital staff only as: “the Cub guy.”

They’ll whisper in the hallway: “We found him like this. He said it was a Super Cub.”

You made it.
Or you didn’t.

Either way—Kalli’s watching, halfway through his sandwich.
Your wife is already crying in the car.