Learning Experiences

Wisdom in aviation, if there is such a thing, seems to be the sum total of bad experiences, hangar flying lies, magazine articles and direct advice from various characters who may or may not fit the description of “mentor.” At some point in my flying career, one of these old salts advised me to be wary of flying an airplane freshly out of annual. “It probably worked okay when you brought it in, but it probably wont when you get it back,” he used to say. I took the advice to heart, so my standard procedure in doing the first pre-flight after annual was to uncowl the airplane and have a good, long look at the engine room and at the airframe in general. I once found an unsafetied oil filter-no big deal, really, but satisfying to have detected and drawn it to an embarrassed mechanics attention. When I got busy instructing, I waxed and waned on this inspection habit. Sometimes Id do it and then, well, Id get in a hurry and not bother. After all, I really hadnt found that much before, so how much risk could there possibly be in skipping the check?

Expectations can force the eye to see what the mind wont parse. My lesson in this human frailty occurred when I was taking an end-state instrument student out into some real weather, which he had been pestering me do for weeks. The trip was a short one, from a central Connecticut airport, across Long Island Sound to Islip, then Westhampton Beach and back home again. A nice easy 90 minutes with four or five approaches. The weather was horrid, but perfect for IFR training. A late-winter warm front had moved in over the still snow-covered ground to produce uniform ceilings of 300 to 500 feet in a couple of miles of viz. Tops were widely reported at 3000 feet and since Id seen these exact conditions before, I knew what to expect. Link one: The lesson was a rushed after-work affair and I was pushing to get it done before full dark. I dont mind night IFR, but not in a Cherokee with no backup vacuum, thanks. We slammed together a briefing, filed a flight plan, got into the airplane and picked up a clearance while the engine warmed.

It was a lousy day to begin with: Gusty winds, steady rain and low ceilings covered the entire area. I departed home plate at 0700 in our Navajo Chieftain for Louisville-Bowman Field. After flying the GPS WAAS Runway 24 approach down to minimums, I taxied to the ramp where my four passengers were waiting. The mission was carrying the governors economic development group to different potential sites across the state. Within minutes, we were off again, headed to our first destination, Hopkinsville, Ky. After another approach to near-minimums and taxiing to the ramp, I was thinking this was going to be a long day, given the amount of airports on their agenda and the weather.

From the time in the late 1940s, when my father hired a small plane to take my brother and me for a ride around our home in northeastern Ohio, I wanted to learn how to fly. About 50 years later, I finally had the time and money and started training for the private certificate: A flight school, with excellent instructors and two long runways was only a few minutes away from my home. Things went well for several months as I learned basic maneuvers aloft and attended ground school in the form of John and Martha Kings interactive DVDs. As a former math teacher, I easily understood weight and balance calculations. Navigation using VOR radials was particularly interesting. An early case of “mic fright” gave way to comfortable conversations with controllers at the Class D airport and with other pilots at non-towered facilities.

Id had enough of Chicago for one weekend. It was spring of 2002, and the U.S. was still reacting to 9/11. Id flown into now-defunct Meigs Field a few days earlier for business and pleasure. Now, I was ready to go, having overdosed on both. First, of course, I had to get through Mayor Daleys gauntlet of airline-style security: After presenting my pilot certificate, drivers license, a picture of my first-born male child and assorted other documentation, three of Chicagos Finest watched me walk through a metal detector. I preflighted, loaded my bags, strapped in and listened to the ATIS. A Notam prohibited single-engine operations in a 20-knot-or-greater direct crosswind. The runway at Meigs, of course, was oriented 18/36. The observed wind was from 090 at 20 knots; the tower would not clear me to takeoff.

Its occasionally been said that the real difference between genius and stupidity is that genius knows its limits. And if the discussion involves two flight instructors in the same airplane, the definition of unlimited stupidity stretches out to infinity and beyond. As a new CFI, I had devised this theory about teaching crosswind landings. The best way to do it, according to my theory, was to pick a gusty day, find a crosswind and have at it. Theres nothing original about this; every CFI in the land has practiced it. But I can claim a unique teaching credential: extreme crosswind training. I had been working with another CFI who was training to take the ATP ride. He had more time than I did, but almost all of it was serious military time in Blackhawk helicopters, some in combat. He was a recent convert to fixed-wing flying and, as sometimes seems to be the case with helo pilots, he couldnt grasp the idea of cross controlling to track the runway centerline in a crosswind.

Good judgment comes from experience, which often comes from bad judgment.” One sees that quote in many places and, on one level, its easy to understand. The irony is one must obtain some experience before understanding it on other levels. Like most young aspiring pilots of the day, I was building time flight instructing. This was in the early 1960s, when the trainer of choice was the Piper Colt. This was a very forgiving airplane, even though it didnt look like one. After shepherding a student through his private certificate, he purchased half interest in a Bonanza. He needed 25 hours of training to satisfy the insurance company, so off we went. After the required training, I endorsed his logbook. Soon, however, I watched him make a very short pattern with steep turns. Despite lecturing him many times on the respect he must have for this aircraft, I decided to show him first-hand.

I bought my first airplane from the local Civil Air Patrol (CAP) squadron commander. I got a good deal, with one condition I thought was a privilege: I was to join the CAP and take part in their exercises and other duties. Soon enough, I was called out on an actual search and rescue mission. The previous day, four students at a local college left Buffalo, N.Y., flying south to near the Pennsylvania border where they were to drop leaflets on the rival college they were scheduled to play Saturday. The weather had been marginal with low clouds and snow flurries down the valley connecting the campuses. The airplane never returned.

I am a student pilot with about 60 hours total time split between a Beech Mentor T-34C, Cessna 172 and my just-purchased personal plane, a Beech Musketeer. I had flown about 20 hours with a CFI in the few months preceding my story, in both a 172 and the Musketeer. I had four flights for a total of about eight hours in the Musketeer. On the fateful flight, we took off normally in marginal VMC conditions. The smoke from several brushfires had cut visibility down to about three to four miles. We had an easy and uneventful flight with a normal takeoff, several ground reference maneuvers, a little GPS familiarization, stalls and slow flight. Nothing was out of the ordinary and the aircraft performed well.

I had been flying back and forth from Buffalo to New York City for some time. One weekend I decided to give my father his first airplane ride. He had never been off the ground, even in an airliner. On a nice calm weekend, I decided to fly him from his home in New York City to where I lived in Buffalo.