Distracted Flying

I was stopped at a four-way street intersection the other night, the kind with stop signs. Traffic was moderate, so, I had to wait my turn, as did others. In a perfect world, all four drivers would arrive at four different times, and it would be clear who has the right of way and should go first and who doesn’t. Simple. But this day was not perfect.

Along with all the other drivers, I was talking on my phone and came to a complete stop behind the car ahead of me. After it moved off, I moved up a bit, took its place, and stopped before the stop sign, nice and legal. I saw no movement, and started to move straight ahead, when suddenly I saw a huge dark pickup truck on my left “come out of nowhere” and enter the intersection, trying to turn left—into the same physical space I was about to occupy. We didn’t swap paint, but it was closer than I’d like. 

Hands-Free

How could I have missed him? I went through the five stages of grief in 1.5 seconds as my life passed before my eyes. Then it hit me. Not the truck, the answer: I was on the phone when I got to the stop sign, and I was so distracted I didn’t see what was right in front of me. I “looked without seeing.” I missed the huge stationary object with headlights at the stop sign to my left.

But since the truck wasn’t moving, its dark color blended into the background. Later, I went back to that intersection and saw there are trees near the corner partially blocking the view, and the headlights blended in with the streetlights and houses. I missed the truck completely, but, still, I should have seen it.

That’s when I realized that driving and talking on the phone “hands-free” was every bit as distracting as driving and holding a phone in my hand. The only difference is one is illegal while the other isn’t but probably should be. Since I was on my way to the aerodrome, I got to thinking about flying aeroplanes. 

Sterile Cockpit?

When I’m talking on the radio—or to passengers or cross-cockpit to another pilot—I’m “hands free,” too, unless you count thumbing the mic button or using hand gestures. (My old aircraft commander in the Air Force, Tony, grew up in Sicily until age 12, so he had a big, huge Italian accent and used his hands a lot when he spoke. Other pilots said about him, “If you hold Tony’s hands still, he can’t speak.”)

Talking—and listening, the other half of a conversation—is very distracting when driving. And when flying. I got a strong reminder of this another night.

I was in the traffic pattern, and my left main gear indicator wouldn’t illuminate. I had “two green.” Fortunately, I could see, with the little belly-mounted video camera, that the gear was down and locked. Plus, this very thing had happened before, so I thought in technical pilot terms, “It’s only the switch-sensor thingee.” 

I was on final, lined up to land. But just to “be sure,” I told the tower I was going around, that I had only two green. (I found out later, even though I didn’t declare an emergency, that nowadays they report things like this to the FAA, and a fed calls you up and wants to “talk”—look at your aircraft and logbooks, which they did.)

Well the tower talked, and I listened. He cleared me to “maneuver outside the pattern as necessary.” And then he talked some more, and I listened some more, and then I talked and the next thing I knew, I was…where was I, anyway? 

I’ll tell you where I was: safely outside of the VFR traffic pattern in the weeds just west of Fargo, a thousand feet above pattern altitude—but my airspeed had decayed to like 109 knots. Why? Because I was focused on my ongoing conversation with the tower guy.

Losing Focus

Tower: “Lancair 12345, well, what do you want to do? It’s too dark to do a fly-by.” Me: “Stand by,” but I didn’t mentally stand by. I got to thinking about what I was going to say next, blah blah blah. That’s when I realized I had gotten sucked into the sometimes-fatal method of “communicating, communicating and communicating,” instead of aviating and navigating, and then, yes, communicating.

I caught myself being distracted as my airspeed dropped further and the Garmin woman’s voice screeched, “PUT GEAR DOWN NOW, PUT GEAR DOWN NOW!”

I pulled that circuit breaker and she stopped scolding—I wish I could have done this when I was a kid with my mom—and then pulled the hydraulic circuit breaker like the checklist says, and lowered the gear handle, and then worked the emergency extension system using a handle about the size of the one on the well pump on my grandma’s farm.

Still, the tower pestered me: “Lancair 12345, how many people on board?” he asked. I said, “Two souls on board, five hours of fuel, Lancair 12345,” and realized again, I was distracted, listening to the tower. I got to thinking about how he said “people,” instead of “souls” and didn’t ask about how much fuel we had in hours and minutes.

ATC As Distraction

I listened to the tower guy coordinate with “Crash One,” and “Crash Two,” the two B.G.F. (Big Green Firetrucks). I saw their flashing lights on the side of the runway as I landed safely.

Later, I realized how very distracted I was by the radio calls. Yes, it was night, I had “two green,” and it was hard to see that the gear were indeed down and locked, even with the belly camera. But I had let the tower guy convince me that “it’s too dark to do a fly-by.” How did he know it was “too dark”? Maybe if I had just done a low pass fairly close to the tower or—and I thought of this later—near the two fire trucks on the ground. They probably could have seen what looked like three down and locked.

So What Are You Gonna Do About It?

It’s easy to get distracted by the radio, if I’m not careful. I have to anticipate radio calls, but still listen carefully, in case what I am anticipating is different. Trying to minimize “expectation bias.”

The approach controller here in Fargo asks, “What would you like for the next approach?” right after I request the first practice approach, and I sometimes have to say, “Stand by, please.” Why? Because I’m busy flying—climbing, raising the gear, flaps, turning, etc. Unanticipated calls can throw me off.

Distractions are a fact of flying and life. Some are good, some are bad, but most of them are just time-consuming.

Despite all the buzzwords, it turns out humans really aren’t good at multitasking. Instead, we tend to perform one task, and then another. If you’re like me, you’ve heard “aviate, navigate, communicate” before. What might that look like as a series of tasks to help us minimize distractions and their impact? Maybe something like this?

Aviate: If I get too slow in this Lancair, it’s unforgivable, and a stall is sudden and ugly—pretty much deadly. (Lancair owners don’t even practice stalls at “safe” altitudes, just ask around.)

 Navigate: Watch where you’re going! Fly in some direction that isn’t a collision course with airplanes, towers, mountains, etc. Always know the airplane’s trajectory and flight path.

 Communicate: Tell the tower or CTAF or whoever where you are and what you’re doing. Applies to crew and passengers, too.

There are some extra basic tasks we might to tack on, but only after ensuring the first three are accomplished. They include:

 Avionics: Push buttons and turn knobs when you can afford to not be performing the first three tasks. 

 Manage Your Time: Only after these tasks are performed can we plan for what’s next. It’s the old yardstick by which we often measure a pilot’s skill: Can you get and stay ahead of the airplane?

Distractions are one of the things that make flying challenging. The best defense against them is to fly the airplane.