“Show me how to start the engine, and I can fly anything,” is a boast I’ve heard from several pilots, and not all of whom I’d consider the best “stick” at the aerodrome.
‘Course, if you can’t start it, you can’t fly it. I once rented a Cessna 150 for a flight with my sister, Sonia. All the newer 150s I had previously flown had the starter switch operated by the key. But the only available airplane was older and the key didn’t activate the ignition. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how to get it started and, of course, the longer I took searching for the solution, the more my sister’s confidence in my piloting abilities eroded.
“Hang on,” I said as I left my sister in the airplane and went in search of a mechanic who could give me a starting point. He told me to look for a small t-handle on the panel. “Pull it out and it’ll engage the starter,” he explained. I did. It did. True to the claim, once the engine was started I was able to fly the airplane with no problem. But, the only difference between the airplanes I was used to flying and the non-starter was the starter. In that case transition training simply covered the starting procedure.
I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard a story about a pilot who earned his type rating for a business jet in a simulator without ever flying the actual airplane. It seems when he went out to fly the jet for the first time, he didn’t know how to open the door. I can imagine what he said: “Forget starting the engines, just show me how to open the door and I can fly this sucker!”
It’s probably true that when you fly enough different airplanes you develop a comfortable familiarity with the way airplanes move about their three axes. Most experienced and competent pilots can probably safely get just about any airplane off the ground, around the patch and back down on the ground. But that’s assuming the airplane is loaded in the center of its CG range and flown well above its stall speed. The landings probably aren’t going to be pretty the first couple times around the circuit, but with practice, they’ll smooth out enough to be acceptable. There have been enough stories of nonpilots managing to land an airplane after the pilot became incapacitated to prove it can be done. But safely?
Just because a pilot manages to successfully fly a new airplane – or escape an icing encounter or make a landing in a serious crosswind – doesn’t mean the results of other attempts will end as well. Building up a “tolerance” for risk is a recipe for disaster. Like the Wizard of Oz, the myth behind the curtain of overconfidence will be exposed when you throw in a couple of variables like a low ceiling, turbulence or the nonstandard placement of instruments or controls.
There was a time that transition training, learning to safely operate an unfamiliar airplane, was relatively simple and straightforward. For the most part, it was a matter of learning the airspeeds for various configurations and whatever idiosyncrasies the airplane exhibited during various types of stalls, takeoffs and landings.
But today, in many cases, being able to fly an airplane after the engine’s turning – or after a cursory introduction – is no longer sufficient. Two new airplane classifications – technically advanced aircraft (TAAs) and very light jets (VLJs) – have raised the bar for what constitutes adequate transition training. TAAs that are “advanced” because of their avionics require a thorough understanding of the complexities of the software that drives their glass panel displays. Pilots planning to fly behind glass panels, particularly in instrument conditions, need to spend the necessary time – both on the ground with the manual, simulator and/or DVD/CD training materials and in the air with a safety pilot – to learn how to find the information they need when they need it.
On the other hand, for some, particularly those who have grown up as part of the computer generation, the glass cockpits and their software “intelligence” may actually make it possible for them to fly an airplane confidently and even competently in which they have had very little training. But as we inculcate pilots with the need for risk assessment, it’s important that each individual realistically consider their capability – and that of their airplane – before accepting the risk of flying an unfamiliar airplane on which they haven’t received training.
A question that hasn’t been posed as often as perhaps it should, is what happens when an advanced-avionics-trained pilot gets into an aircraft equipped with a basic six-pack of instruments and dual VORs? My problem with the starter switch in the 150 was nothing compared to the obstacle course someone completely unfamiliar with a conventionally instrumented cockpit would have to navigate before being able to navigate the airways.
For pilots of VLJs, which typically feature advanced glass panels and higher speeds than the pilots are used to, the transition training first has to include preparation similar to that for pilots of TAAs, followed by a type-rating course, time spent on line oriented flight training (LOFT) that incorporates scenario-based training (SBT) and, finally, depending on their prior experience, a period spent with a “mentor” pilot. The mentor acts as a “coach” while the transitioning pilot is exposed to a variety of environments, including traffic, weather, airspace and terrain. The need for a mentor pilot will depend on the transitioning pilot’s experience and typically be determined by the pilot, the training provider and, most influentially, the insurance underwriter. The National Business Aviation Association has produced training guidelines for “Single Pilot Operations of Very Light Jets and Technically Advanced Aircraft.” The guidelines suggest that the time a pilot might have to fly with a mentor/coach ranges from 25 hours with at least five cycles for a pilot transitioning from the left seat of a jet to 100 hours and at least 25 cycles for a pilot transitioning from a single-engine piston airplane. It’s obvious the NBAA takes proper transition training seriously – and with good reason.
Recognizing the need for transition training is a form of risk assessment and, if a pilot isn’t forced by insurance requirements, voluntarily undertaking transition training is an important way of minimizing the potential risk of getting into a situation beyond a pilot’s ability. Superficially simple items, such as the workings of an airplane’s fuel system, have put too many airplanes on the ground.
But, promoting transition training is in many cases preaching to the choir. Unfortunately, there are too many pilots who don’t accept the need for “differences” training and think they can fly anything if someone will just get the engine turning. And their cavalier attitude often spills over into their approach to their flights.
A couple accidents serve as object lessons for what happens to pilots who think they’re above the laws of aerodynamics. Take the case of a non-instrument-rated pilot of a Beech Bonanza who requested a special VFR departure clearance. He was advised that the base of the clouds was at 700 feet and that the weather was deteriorating with a decreasing ceiling and a lowering of the visibility. Nevertheless, the pilot elected to take off. A witness reported losing sight of the airplane seconds after it entered the base of the overlying marine layer. Radar indicated that the airplane climbed to about 1,400 feet within two minutes, at which point it entered a right graveyard spiral. The pilot never recovered. What temptation is strong enough to lure a non-instrument pilot to launch when the weather conditions are serious enough to test the mettle of even a proficient IFR pilot?
In another example, the pilot of a Cessna 310 during an IFR flight at night in rain was cleared for an instrument approach. The ceiling was reported to be 500 feet with visibility less than a mile in rain. When still about 13 miles south of the airport, the pilot asked the controller to advise him when the airplane was over the final approach fix. The controller said he was unable to advise the pilot due to the lack of radar coverage. At that point, the pilot chose to cancel his IFR flight plan. The airplane crashed into trees five miles from the airport. We’ll never know why the pilot couldn’t locate the final approach fix on his own, but even stranger is his decision to cancel his IFR flight plan rather than get his navaids in line and select an alternate he could find.
Then there was a non-instrument-rated pilot in a Cessna 172 on a cross-country flight when he encountered snow showers. At some point ice began to accumulate on the airplane and the pilot wisely chose to land. But then, after only partially removing the ice, he elected to continue the flight. The nearest weather station was reporting a visibility of four miles with freezing rain in the vicinity. The airplane entered the rain and ice began to build rapidly. The airplane’s speed dropped from 115 to 80 mph. The pilot finally made the correct decision and chose to divert to a nearby airport. But by then it was too late and he couldn’t maintain altitude or airspeed and landed in a field short of the runway. Okay, he had escaped an ice encounter and he was safely on the ground. So, what made him think, having once found that the iceman cometh, that another encounter would end differently?
There’s no question that there are pilots who will strap on an airplane to which they’ve never been properly introduced. And there are pilots who recklessly base the expansion of their safety envelope on the successful outcome of previous encounters. But any pilot who thinks the rules don’t apply to him is only asking for trouble. And more often than not, he’ll eventually get what he’s asking for.
