||| |—|—| | | | Last Sunday night, after the houseguests had gone to bed, my wife said, “That was the worst landing you’ve ever made.” My first thought was, “Little do you know! I’ve made some real mini crashes in my day.” The more I thought about it, though, the more I thought, “It was a lousy landing. And, even with 30-plus years of experience, I wish I could do better consistently.” And the more I thought about that sad state of affairs, the more I thought that many pilots will privately admit to the same frustration. We can land pretty well most of the time, beautifully occasionally, and then, just when we think we’ve finally gotten it all together, wham! My kids, trained from infancy to reward me with congratulations for any landing that didn’t require orthopedic correction, have a euphemism for a really terrible landing: “Not one of your best, Dad.”
Today’s arrival was not that hard, but the landing sure was. We were assigned Runway 27, and the wind was 200 at 12, not a big deal. The approach was fine, the speeds were good and the gusts not all that bad. But as I straightened the airplane out and dropped the left wing, I flared a little too much and we started back up. Every pilot knows this uncomfortable feeling; you’re going up when you should be going down; you’re sailing over some very fine runway that is not endless; your airspeed feels like it’s dropping rapidly, but you don’t dare take your eyes off the passing real estate long enough to look at the airspeed indicator. I know this feeling well.
I know other bad landing feelings well, too. I had a Musketeer one time, and I could fly it well enough but could never land it. As soon as I touched down, the airplane would start right back towards the heavens, leaving me to conclude that I must dump the flaps at the instant of impact. This unproven aeronautical technique committed my right hand to the flap lever rather than the throttle and was the basis for many interesting landings. The Musketeer was a great airplane. It had all that Beech quality, and it taught me many things, including other ways to make bad landings
I experienced my first (and I hope last) inadvertent downwind landing in that Musketeer. The runway was short and, although I had another pilot with me, he was even less experienced than I was. Neither of us noticed the wind sock direction change, and I was too naïve to note that the approach seemed fast. The problem became dramatically apparent upon touchdown. As we careened back into the air I dumped the flaps; we landed several more times for a few moments each and stared wide-eyed at the approaching trees. They were apple trees. Each landing was announced by a jolt and the screams of the tires, which were not allowed to roll because I had jumped on the brakes in a comic midair attempt to arrest our progress towards a fiery death. So, my wife really has no clue about very bad landings.
I could never land our Cessna 210s either. Maybe one out of 10 was a greaser, but four out of 10 were pathetic, and I was always left feeling chagrined that I had mistreated a piece of faithful flying machinery that had so competently taken us through clouds and around thunderstorms. The nose of the 210 is heavy, and I was always not pulling back hard enough or too hard, with the resultant excursions described above. I was told that continuous trim up during the final moments of approach would be useful, but, to tell you the truth, nothing helped.
Our move to twins made things slightly better. The increased weight left us less susceptible to the vicissitudes of wind gusts, and the heavier gear camouflaged many episodes of bad elevator judgment. But still I was not a greaser. I’ve watched with great fascination the way the airplane pros do it. I’ve witnessed some beauties and some uglies.
In the early ’70s, I went by Eastern Airlines DC-9 Whisperjet service from Louisville to Saint Louis. With a stop in Evansville, Indiana, of course. Takeoff and climb-out seemed routine, but our landing in Evansville was characterized by great excursions of power and pitch, some closely coupled right and left turns and an abrupt crash landing in EVV. During the turnaround, I watched the big burly disheveled pilot leave the cockpit not once, but twice, for the men’s room. Our landing in Saint Louis was equally “non stabilized,” and I have often wondered if it wasn’t Captain Jack Daniels at the controls, since many of my airline friends regale me often with stories of fast living, flying and the occasional alcoholic beverage back in those days.
Coming back from Italy into JFK a few years ago, I was thrilled to watch our Delta pilots fight chop heroically. The winds were gusting, and the whole airplane was shaking. On approach the power was up and then down, we dropped several hundred feet several times and I was, for the first time in a long time, consciously apprehensive about our approach and landing. Our landing was not subtle, but it was survivable, and I watched the incoming traffic with alarm as we taxied back to the gate. One 767 landed on its nosewheel and appeared to travel about 6,000 feet in that configuration: nosewheel on, the back end up in the air like a great Boeing wheelbarrow. It’s hard to deploy the speed brakes and get much reverse going when the mains are still in the air.
Some beauties come to mind, too. The best commercial landing I’ve ever experienced was about 10 years ago in Houston. The runway was wet, the equipment was a Continental 727-200, and the only signal that we had touched down was the roar of reverse. I told the copilot (who had been at the wheel) that it was the best I’d ever experienced. Did he know I meant it??
Second best was a Delta MD-11 landing in Narita, Japan. After 10 hours of flying, we spent another 30 seconds just above the runway as airspeed bled off, and we touched down so gently and the airplane was so slow that no reverse was used as the captain savored the last few moments of his leg and we turned off at the end. Spontaneous applause broke out, not just in coach, but in business and first class, as well. Beautiful.
I’ve seen some memorable landings from the ground, too. What pilot hasn’t gone to the airport, parked at the approach end and watched how it looks from the outside? In the late ’60s, hooked as I was (and still am) on airplanes, I would borrow a camera and walk out along the single runway in Ithaca, New York, taking pictures of landing Mohawk Convairs and Martins. One day, in came a brand-new high-winged Fairchild FH-227. It flared in front of me, touched down quietly next to me and rolled 3,000 feet with its nosewheel off the ground away from me, and finally, reluctantly, came to a stop and turned that noble snout back towards me, back taxied right past me again and waved. Its been 35 years, and I can still see the autumn sunlight on that airplane and that nose in the air.
We live close to the big airport in Tampa, and I still like to drive out there just to watch. The airport has two big long parallel north-south runways that are used by the airlines. Only when the wind is screaming directly out of the east (or west) will the big boys use the shorter 9-27. This happens once every couple of years and I always try to get out to the field, park at the approach end, bring along a handheld radio, the dog and a snack. It is fun. Last time, I heard a TWA captain check onto the tower frequency as he lined up for 9 into a 35-knot gusty breeze with the words “We’re having some fun, now!”
Watching the little guys land is also great amusement, especially if I’ve just made a lucky landing at the same field a few moments before. I guess I feel better watching them struggle, too. My favorite place for this sport is Key West, where the winds are usually out of the east at 10 knots or better (right down Runway 9), but the water and terrain at each end invariably lead to some thermal disturbances that challenge all pilots.
No doubt you’ve got your favorite place to watch landings. I love watching big airplanes complete the river approach to 18 at Washington Reagan National. (Now called 19, it must have moved.) It is impressive to see those big airplanes making semi-steep turns at 300 feet. Fifty-ninth Street in Chicago is another great place to stand and see those Southwest jets slide over city buildings and jam on the brakes before they shoot down all 6,522 feet of 13C at Midway and out the other end onto Cicero Boulevard. The terminals at La Guardia and National even make good vantage points.
But you must try the Windsock Bar in San Diego. This place was immortalized in the movie Top Gun. It’s where Kelly McGillis confronts Tom Cruise and calls him a quitter. There are little brass nameplates at the bar to commemorate where they sat. (It is OK to admit how many times you have seen the movie Top Gun, just don’t let anybody at work know.) Just over JimsAir, this bar is up high and very close to Runway 27, the most commonly used runway. Not long ago I treated myself to an hour on the outside patio and a glass of Chardonnay. I watched the limo drivers wait for incoming big shots; I marveled at the massive jets coming down from the hills surrounding the airport and flying next to the parking garage as they approached 27. I watched a British Air 747-400 take off and looked on as an Airborne Express ancient DC-8 with old engines screamed off into the night. No Kelly McGillis-types but I left replenished by the roar of aviation so close to an agreeable watering hole.
Back home, we’ve got an old cedar chest sitting under the TV in the study. In it, copies of Flying are stacked by decade. It is fun to pick out some old ones, reread some favorite stories and admire those great hairstyles from the ’70s. I’ve got a copy of the July 1977 edition right here, next to the June 2001 issue. In both, Richard Collins has an article about how to land. This is why Richard can land so well; he’s been writing about it for a while. And he is still writing about it because I still can’t get it. I try to remember everything he has said, but often it is the last second or two that does me in. I’m still a work in progress.
Many pilots try to hide their concern about landing performance by complaining that the whole trip is often judged by the last 30 seconds of flight. They are right, in a way. My friend J.C. says that any landing where you don’t hit the runway lights, nothing falls off the airplane and you don’t run off the end is acceptable.
So it is. But it is the landing, that last sensuous touch where the airplane is re-embraced by earth, that speaks volumes about the sensitivities and abilities of the pilot. After today’s touchdown, I may seek counsel of an experienced flight instructor or, maybe, a psychiatrist.
