He was, according to his obituary, an “extreme and gifted athlete” in all he tried, including distance running, snowboarding and motocross racing. He “worked hard, but played harder.” A CFI who prepared him for his Private Pilot license described him as having “very high achieving and performance traits” and as being, though a conscientious flight student, “a ‘go-go-go’ type personality [who] led a fast-paced life.”
The instructor knew that his student intended to use the airplane in connection with the telecommunications business run by him and his wife, and told investigators, after the fatal accident, that he “was concerned that he might try to ‘push too hard’ with respect to weather conditions, fatigue or airplane maintenance to accomplish a business trip.” He had attempted, he said, “to instruct the student on ‘not getting over his head’ with respect to flight conditions,” and had repeatedly reminded him that “there are many circumstances which [might] require him to adjust and/or cancel a trip.”
If his reported concerns were not merely an example of recollections shaped by subsequent events, the instructor was remarkably prescient.
The student pilot had done all of his 98 hours, 63 of them dual, in the same Cessna 182. The airplane was due for an annual inspection in a couple of days, and he was eager to get his Private check ride behind him before the plane went into the shop. On the morning of the scheduled ride, which was to take place at an airport 20 miles from his home field, a low stratus layer obscured the sky. Below the clouds, however, the visibility was 4 miles. The student telephoned the examiner, who told him that it was clear where he was and that he should wait for the stratus layer to burn off before flying over.
The student did not wait. At 7:30 in the morning he took off under a 600-foot ceiling.
He didn’t get far. The 182 struck soft earth 2 miles from the departure end of the runway, bounced, tumbled and disintegrated. The engine ended up 60 feet ahead of the fuselage, and the propeller, implausibly twisted, several hundred feet behind it. The wreckage pattern suggested that the pilot had entered the clouds, lost control, dived steeply to get back into the clear, and struck the ground at high speed and in a flat attitude while attempting to recover.
The student pilot had logged only six-tenths of an hour of simulated instrument flying — puzzling in view of the fact that, as the National Transportation Safety Board’s report on the accident pointed out, the FAA requires three hours before the Private flight test. The NTSB cited unspecified “personal and business stressors … both self-imposed and external” that might have influenced the student’s decision to take off rather than wait, and attributed the accident to his “decision to attempt flight into instrument meteorological conditions.”
It’s true that a 600-foot ceiling with 4-mile visibility is technically IMC, but it’s quite possible to fly visually under such a ceiling, and so it’s not quite the same thing as “flight in instrument meteorological conditions.” In my opinion, it’s not likely (though not impossible) that the pilot deliberately flew into the clouds. For one thing, the examiner was prepared to wait for him, and so he was almost certain to get the check ride done that day even if he had to wait a couple of hours for the sky to clear.
The NTSB seems eager to pile up evidence that he was almost pathologically impatient and driven, but this type of accident happens to non-go-go-go people too, so we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. It’s equally possible that the clouds were thinning and that he saw a bright spot — a “sucker hole,” as more experienced pilots have been known to call those deceitful bits of blue — and climbed toward it, not realizing, because he was inexperienced, that it might be too small to allow him to remain in the clear while climbing through. Once he found himself in cloud he quickly became disoriented, and we know the rest.
Although takeoff seems like one of the more innocuous phases of flying, a fair number of accidents take place during or shortly after takeoff. In August 2013 in Missouri, for example, an instrument-rated pilot took off in night instrument conditions — 3-mile visibility, 400-foot ceiling — and promptly flew into the ground, probably a victim of the “somatogravic illusion” that makes a pilot feel that his accelerating airplane is climbing more steeply than it really is. A few days later, in Massachusetts, an Aeronca Champ entered a gradual descending right turn after taking off. It crashed, killing the pilot and his passenger, who happened to be a pilot and a Champ owner as well. The apparent cause — although it is not clear why it would render the airplane uncontrollable — was the failure of both pilots to notice that the rudder gust lock had been left in place.
In October 2013 in Minnesota, a pilot was killed when he lost control of a Piper Tri-Pacer during or after takeoff; investigators could not figure out why. In December in New Mexico, an Aviat Husky stalled out of a steeply banked turn shortly after takeoff, killing both occupants. The pilot was apparently trying to reverse direction within the airport boundary; the wind was 12 knots gusting to 23.
In January 2014, the instrument-rated pilot of a Mooney apparently tried to turn back to the airport from which he had taken off at night in heavy snow and gusty winds. He and his passenger died in the ensuing crash. In June, a Piper Malibu crashed within the airport boundary at White Plains, New York, after a night takeoff in fog, another apparent victim of the somatogravic illusion. In July, in Maine, the pilot of a 1942 Culver stalled during his initial climb, shortly after taking off; in Georgia, another Malibu taking off in fog flew under control into the ground. In August, in Texas, a Lancair IV took off on a dark, moonless night, rolled to the right and crashed, killing three.
A thread that connects many of these takeoff and initial climb accidents — and I have looked only at fatal ones; many others occur without a fatality — is the fact that in every case they resulted from pilot errors. The pilots had ample time to assess the conditions and to anticipate and prepare. Instrument-rated pilots who succumb to the somatogravic illusion know that they are taking off in fog and darkness; they know — or certainly ought to know — that from the moment of liftoff their attention has to be riveted to attitude, altitude and airspeed. The pilots who take off in gusty winds ought to know that extra airspeed margins will be necessary and that aggressive maneuvering close to the ground should be avoided. All pilots know that they need to maintain flying speed, and that the closer they get to minimum speed the more carefully pitch attitude must be monitored. These are not secrets; they are basic principles that every pilot learns either in primary or in instrument training.
Yet we continue to see accidents occurring just after takeoff. One has to suspect that some pilots do not take the trouble to mentally prepare for flight, and only begin the transition from social animal to airplane operator as they advance the throttles. You don’t need a go-go-go personality to get into trouble; any sort of personality will do.
This article is based on the NTSB’s report of these accidents and is intended to bring the issues raised to our readers’ attention. It is not intended to judge or to reach any definitive conclusions about the ability or capacity of any person, living or dead, or any aircraft or accessory.
