Have you tried?
“No airline would ever hire me,” Flood answered dismissively. “My appearance would scare the bejesus out of passengers. Get real.”
Flood began walking six months after the accident, several months ahead of schedule.
Then he went back to school and earned a pair of technology degrees. He got an information technology job but chafed at sedentary office work. He was determined to get back to the airport—even if he couldn’t fly.
Flood joined Duncan Aviation in Lincoln as a parts expeditor in 2006, and that rekindled his interest in flying. He had no hesitation about getting back in the cockpit after the crash, but he insisted on meeting his former standards.
He bought a quarter-share in a Grumman Yankee and was surprised to find he could still perform to ATP standards. He even flew to Ainsworth and took Williams for a ride—the one the farmer had hinted at in his cheery hospital note.
Flood resumed teaching as a CFI in 2007. He also began flying a friend’s Cirrus SR22 and was dazzled by the glass-panel avionics. While waiting for departure behind a regional jet, one of Flood’s flight students asked him a question that struck him as absurd: How come you aren’t flying for an airline?
“No airline would ever hire me,” Flood answered dismissively. “My appearance would scare the bejesus out of passengers. Get real.”
But Flood’s student persisted. Well, have you tried?
Tell him he’s got guts
Flood at home in Lincoln, Neb.,
with wife Andrea and son Gavin.
Flood married Andrea Pflughaupt in 2004, a nurse he had met the previous year, and Williams and Hallenbeck, his rescuers, were guests at the wedding.
In 2007, the Floods had a son, Gavin.And Gavin’s arrival convinced Flood to pursue his own ambitions.
“I knew that one day, I’d have to explain to my son why I gave up on becoming a professional pilot,” he said. “I wanted to be able to honestly tell him that I had done everything I possibly could do to accomplish my goal.”
Flood posted a query on an aviation Web site that asked whether he had any real chance of becoming a professional pilot given his personal history and physical limitations. His inquiry generated scores of responses—some encouraging, others not.
After many months, Flood obtained a “statement of demonstrated ability” medical waiver from the FAA and a first-class medical, and he applied to several regional airlines. Republic Airways, a regional carrier that flies feeder routes for several major U.S. passenger airlines, was the first to grant an interview.
Flood was terrified before the meeting. Would the questioners see past his obvious physical disfigurement? Could he convince them that he could represent their company proudly?
“As soon as I stepped into the room, I could tell that they wanted to give me a chance,” he said. “That’s what I wanted more than anything.”
Flood got an invitation to begin training the next week. He was on his way to becoming a professional pilot—if he could make it through training.
In a flight simulator, Flood confronted one of the biggest potential stumbling blocks—operating the thrust reversers with his gnarled right hand. He found he could manipulate the levers with either hand, but not in the standard way. The absent fingers on his right hand required that Flood hold the ram’shorn yoke in the Embraer 170 differently, too.
Flood wasn’t sure his improvised methods would pass muster with his simulator instructor, or FAA examiners. But Marty Cupp, a veteran airline pilot and FlightSafety International simulator instructor who guided Flood through jet transition training, assured him there was no right or wrong way to hold the controls or move the levers. The regulations demand a certain level of performance from pilots, but they don’t spell out how pilots achieve it.
Flood is concerned his injuries will frighten passengers, but they have been supportive. Photo: John Simms
“Logan knows how to overcome and adapt, and that’s especially true in the cockpit,” Cupp said. “His dexterity is amazing. He’s a good stick, and he finds ways to make the airplane work for him.”
Flood, now 30, began flying regional jets in and out of Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport in March 2008. He felt comfortable in the flying part of his new job almost immediately. But he was nervous about the reception he’d receive from crewmembers and passengers. His scars were as prominent as ever, and no uniform could hide them.
When flying with a captain he doesn’t know, Flood usually tells the story of his accident once the airplane is at high altitude and the workload light. He discusses it in a factual, low-key manner and answers questions with candor and even humor.
“I let people know it’s OK to ask,” he said. “It puts them at ease knowing they don’t have to tiptoe around the subject. I don’t mind talking about it.”
On a recent flight between Chicago and Denver, Flood flew directly over Ainsworth, the site of his 2001 crash. On a clear day, from 35,000 feet, he could clearly make out the north-south runway and the nearby cornfield where he had lost a friend, and where his own life had nearly ended. On a spring afternoon, the green peacefulness of the place was a refreshing contrast to his stark memories of it.
Passengers in airline terminals sometimes stare at Flood. And he steels himself for the day he says he knows will come when his appearance so unnerves a passenger that he or she refuses to ride with him.
But so far, the only comments Flood has heard have been supportive. A flight attendant told him one passenger took her aside to ask whether Flood had been injured in an aircraft accident.
When the flight attendant said yes, the passenger asked her to relay a message.
“Tell him he’s got guts,” the passenger said. “Tell him I admire him.”
