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Jumpseat: Comfort Zone

An airline pilot's perspective.

As the gear of the Mooney 201 thumped into the wheel wells, I squinted over the glareshield at a setting sun that was transforming the horizon into a postcard of purple, yellow and red. We climbed southwestward toward the VOR that established most of the routing around our airport. It wasn’t a 777, but just as enjoyable — probably more so. And I was now the copilot, acting as the check airman I had been in a former life.

My friend Wayne Harrison purchased the Mooney a few months back. He asked me to provide instructional guidance on a mission to reinforce his comfort level operating the airplane in an IFR environment. He was scheduled for an instrument proficiency check in three days.

We hadn’t anticipated flying the whole mission at night, but Wayne had been delayed at work. At my age and with my profession, a single-­engine flight in the dark is not necessarily high on my preferred list. When I was a bulletproof kid, I never gave the idea a second thought.

Although I was at the edge of my own comfort zone, I had become familiar with the airplane, and I knew the mechanic who had inspected its condition. The mechanic was a mutual friend. And Wayne had elected to add more fuel despite his estimate that it wouldn’t be necessary. This was a decision I would have made at the airline. Good deal.

I created a lesson plan involving navigation operations that included en route portions and approach portions. Although the airplane carried a Garmin 430, a Garmin 696 and Wayne’s iPad synced to automatic dependent surveillance-broadcast, I felt it important to test the limits of his comfort zone with good old-­fashioned VOR navigation. That being said, I did allow him to use the electronics for situational awareness.

As a side note, I’m a current CFI but not an instrument instructor. Regardless, Wayne valued my airline experience. I am fortunate not only to have valued friendships but also valued friendships with aviation people that demand professional ­performances of themselves regardless of their backgrounds. Wayne is no exception.

As we plowed forward into the darkening sky, Wayne’s focus buried into the instrument panel, I glimpsed the distant silhouette of an approaching mass of billowing cumulonimbus. A brief study of the pixilated red, yellow and green Nexrad picture on the iPad confirmed my observation. The New York approach frequency we were using for traffic advisories was becoming congested with discussions of deviations and holding. Continuing on the course of the planned training exercise might prove to be a race against Mother Nature. It seemed my preflight weather review of the advancing cold front was in contrast to the reality, and it was traveling faster than originally indicated.

How many times in my career had I been confronted with a similar picture? On the big jet, it would be a simple matter of adjusting the radar tilt up or down a degree or two. I’d note the wind and evaluate an appropriate deviation direction. I’d stretch for a moment, reach for the beverage in my cup holder and consult with my copilot. We’d make our deviation request to ATC and twist the heading select knob accordingly. The airplane would respond with a lumbered roll. End of story.

I glanced around the tight, little cockpit of the Mooney bathed in the glow of the yellow instrument panel lights. I reminisced about Mach numbers, flight levels and two 90,000-pound-thrust Rolls-Royce engines. The anxiety level I felt wasn’t quite reflective of my airline world. So now what?

Not wanting to abandon Wayne’s training experience, I opted for a semirealistic solution. In my best play-­acting ATC voice, I instructed, “November … ‘1234,’ due to weather on the arrival, you are cleared direct to ‘such and such’ VOR. Expect the VOR Alpha approach at ‘such and such’ airport. Cleared to hold as published.”

Well, that’s what I meant to say, but part of my clearance was confusing. To his credit, Wayne asked for a clarification. The deviation airport was nearby. I watched my friend shift into high gear. After having an argument with the G430 that he wasn’t winning, Wayne abandoned the GPS and began to prioritize tasks. I could hear his brain saying “aviate, navigate, communicate.” Although his organization was awkward because of the time lapse spent away from IFR flying, his situational awareness was tremendous.

I had taken Wayne to the edge of his comfort zone. If I had been a true sadist, the entire exercise would have been sheer entertainment, but he seemed to embrace the increased workload. Our ground discussion of holding pattern entries had made a positive impact. He correctly stated and performed the holding pattern. Aside from a few minor glitches, the VOR approach, the ILS approach and the corresponding missed approaches were executed safely.

Our return home presented another realistic challenge. For the final act, I had cleared Wayne direct to the initial fix of the GPS approach. As he prepared for the approach, I noticed an absence of lights below as we drew closer toward our airport. The ground was blacker than it should have been. The ATIS gave no indication of anything other than good VFR conditions. When the tower cleared us for the approach, I asked for a visibility confirmation. The reply of 10 miles was agonizingly delayed because of a radio issue on our part. When we penetrated an unexpected layer of clouds 800 feet above the MDA, my comfort zone was challenged again. No radio and IMC conditions? Great.

My attempt at requesting the runway light brightness be increased was met with silence. Wayne reacted by turning on the Mooney’s landing light, but almost as quickly he turned it off. We were enveloped by milky white. The scatter back from the landing light proved too distracting. Just when I was considering a nearby diversion airport, hoping that conditions weren’t the same there, the yellow twinkling of the runway lights popped into view.

On the drive home, I contemplated the evening’s flight. On what occasions had I experienced a challenge to my comfort zone after 29 years with the airline? My nonairline friends would chide: A coffee supply failure halfway across the ocean? Not being offered a sundae? Minimizing the stress of my work environment makes an interesting statement. It is a testament to the airline world. The reliability of the airplanes, background support, operations, training and pilots all work together to make airline flying one of the safest forms of transportation.

Sure, like many of my colleagues I’ve experienced stressful circumstances. I’ve dealt with minimal fuel situations because of traffic and adverse weather. During one of my takeoff rolls in the 727, an engine bearing committed suicide and threw itself into the turbine blades with dramatic and predictable results. We were forced to abort just above 80 knots. In cruise flight, the engine of a 767 decided it was done for the day and quit because of a sensor failure in the accessory gear box. But none of these incidents took me outside of my comfort zone. Never once did I feel as if the situation would have anything other than a successful outcome.

Only one circumstance takes me out of my comfort zone. And that’s a medical emergency. When I diverted to Tampa, Florida, after a departure from Orlando upon being told by our flight attendants that a 10-year-old boy was bleeding profusely from his nose because of a serious medical condition, I left my comfort zone. It wasn’t because I was screaming the 757 toward the outer marker at 300 knots. And when I diverted to Keflavik, Iceland, because a woman was exhibiting heart attack symptoms, I again left my comfort zone. And it wasn’t because we had to follow the strict guidelines of the North Atlantic track contingency procedures, having to cross in front of other airliners at various altitudes.

The reason I left my comfort zone in those circumstances was because I had no control. I could do nothing to change the medical condition of the passenger. I had no checklist to follow other than to establish communication with an on-call doctor. My only contribution was the decision on where to land and how fast I could get there. And that decision could be a matter of life or death. Give me an engine fire or an electrical malfunction any day of the week. For those problems, I have control.

Comfort zone? It’s a relative term. As pilots, we can define it only for ourselves.

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