Just before retiring I worked an accident involving two brothers in their Grumman American trying to take off on a 97-degree, windless afternoon from a runway with a 3-degree upslope. Witnesses said that on the first try the pilot obviously wasn't accelerating and that he gave up while there was still room to abort. So even if he hadn't crunched the numbers — and most of us who own an airplane know when they need to be crunched — he used his head. Then why did they taxi back for another attempt? The airplane performed about the same this time, but the pilot, unfortunately, didn't. He was determined to yank it off and did clear the boundary fence but not the tree across the road. A bank, a stall and an impact into a sod field, with the airplane upside-down after one, maybe two, cartwheels. Seeing it from the air in my Cessna 180, I muttered a prayer for those poor souls. But on landing I learned that, unbelievably, they had escaped with minor injuries, so I didn't need to deploy the holy water. When I interviewed the pilot the next day, I said it was wonderful that he and his brother were OK and that I sincerely hoped his cuts and bruises would hurt like hell for a long time.