The first part of the flight was peaceable enough. It was just two hours from Savannah, Georgia, to White Plains, New York, with two passengers (one a spry 95 years of age, delightful smile included) and plenty of gas. The weather at the destination was the only wrinkle in the silk fabric of a perfect day. KHPN was showing quarter-mile visibility and 200 vertical visibility, but things were forecast to improve to 600 and a half-mile about the time we were to get there. We needed three-eighths-mile visibility or RVR of 1,800 feet to start the approach.
We kept abreast of the metars as we shuffled along at Flight Level 410 at 440 knots. Things weren’t getting any better, so Capt. Bruce Stewart, who was the pilot monitoring, went back to discuss alternates with the mother-daughter passenger combo. Teterboro, New Jersey, was slightly better, as was Stewart, New York. Both were showing 200 and half-mile visibility. But, understandably, our passengers wanted to get home without a long drive.
As we got closer, Bruce picked up the new ATIS. Disappointingly, it was still showing quarter-mile visibility. Bruce queried the approach controller, who announced that the RVR was 2,000 feet. “RVR is controlling,” Bruce said to me. It is nice to have a 10,000-hour pilot sitting next to you. We decided to try for KHPN; Stewart (KSWF) was our backup (less congestion with other flights and a shorter commute to White Plains on a Friday afternoon).
We briefed the ILS 16, the missed approach and our self-imposed limits on fuel remaining before we diverted. These were slightly higher numbers than the company mandates. Now down to 2,000 feet in the murk, we were instructed to slow to 170 knots. As I pulled the power back I could see the TCAS signatures of flights ahead and behind us on the PFD. We were all pretty close to 5 miles apart — just New York approach doing what it does so well in all sorts of weather.
CZIMR is the final approach fix, and our assigned heading of 190 degrees looked like it was going to turn us inside that marker, making it difficult for the autopilot to capture the glideslope. About 20 seconds before intercept, the controller said, “Those winds are taking you east; turn right to 220 degrees. Let me know if that works. If not, I’ll pull you out and send you around again.”
Just as he finished, the HSI went to green needles, indicating that we had captured the ILS and the glide-slope just at CZIMR. We started down. The intercept angle was ambitious for the autopilot. We went through the localizer and the airplane turned back to recenter it. Again, the autopilot overcorrected — within limits, but the heading excursions seemed excessive.
“I’m gong to click off and hand-fly a more dampened approach with smaller heading changes,” I told Bruce. He agreed. At 200 feet he called the runway and we landed without difficulty.
I’ve been reading in these pages for almost 50 years that a good landing starts with a stabilized approach. Richard Collins convinced me this was a good idea. This approach was more difficult because of the late turn to intercept and the increased angle. In retrospect, Bruce and I agreed that the next time we’d both accept the offer to start over and set us up a little farther from the outer marker.
It also occurred to me that there are some life lessons in the concept of a stabilized approach. It is not a bad idea for living life as well as flying airplanes. A stable approach to finding a career path, to finding a good mate and to raising children well requires discipline and an ability to “go missed” and try something else when the approach has exceeded tolerances.
Does this mean that I think life should be lived within a half-dot of the localizer on an approach to my home airport? Not at all. I think that living a full life requires risk and creative thinking. You have got to do the unconventional, seek the uncharted, free yourself from what everybody else thinks you should do, and do what you want to do. I view a balanced existence not as tiptoeing down the center of the balance beam of life, but as falling off to the right or left with equal frequency. Think of it this way: One needs to choose challenging and interesting, sometimes exotic, destinations; then honor them with a careful, stabilized approach. There is a difference between being adventuresome and being reckless.
When I think about the friendships that mean the most to me, they have all been the product of a stabilized approach in getting to know someone. I’ve had fleeting friendships where immediate identification with the other person left us finishing each other’s sentences, but the relationship had no legs. We burned through the friendship too quickly. We didn’t give it time to season, mature and develop. We were ref plus 30 and way below the glideslope. Not every experience ended in a crash, but it left us with no appetite for more and no reason to go on.
I used to say to surgical residents: “You can be very aggressive in surgery only if you are also very careful.” This meant that the planning of the operation and the preparation of the patient (including the psychological readiness) must be done meticulously if surgical derring-do was required to set right what nature had allowed to go wrong. It was all about a stabilized approach.
Four years ago, while watching the snow fall on a quiet New Hampshire evening, I made a New Year’s resolution to fly for hire. As a private pilot with 4,500 hours and an instrument ticket, I knew that a stabilized approach to that goal required a commercial license, an ATP, a type rating in a commonly found Part 135 jet and a first-class medical. And so I set about crossing each fix.
When it comes to finding and landing a good mate, I guess it is best not to refer to an “approach plate.” He or she might view such a moniker to be unromantic. But keep it in the back of your mind. You’ll be better off if you pick someone that you want rather than somebody everybody else is telling you is right.
Of course all approaches are dependent on heading information. In today’s cockpits, AHRS or at least reliable gyros make the use of the whiskey compass an anachronism. Just so in life. We have lots of input as to what our heading should be, but the compass that really matters is your own. This is true for work and love.
I enjoy the situational awareness that I count on in the two airplanes I fly: the Cheyenne that my wife, Cathy, and I own and the CJ3 I fly at work. The Cheyenne has a Garmin G600 and an Avidyne EX500; the CJ3 has the Collins Pro Line 21. In each cockpit I can see terrain, thunderstorms and traffic by looking just over the control wheel. If only I could see such peril in real life. Imagine being able to detect when a colleague has just heard some bad personal news, or when a major change in the company is about to be announced.
It is all about the journey, not the destination, we are told regularly. I know this to be true, even if hackneyed. The flight to White Plains was all about the planning, the strategizing, the backup plans. Then came those few short minutes of execution. The smooth touchdown and the happy passengers were nice rewards, but nowhere near as satisfying as the bond with Bruce Stewart as we dissected the day over a cocktail and a superb dinner.
So, life’s great smorgasbord awaits our sensory delight. Unstabilized, I fill up on the pickles before I even spot the roast beef. Stabilized, I taste it all.
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