Aircraft accidents are object lessons. Some, of course, teach more than others. One of the most classic involves Avianca 52, a Boeing 707 passenger flight that had departed Medellin, Colombia, on January 25, 1990, and ran out of fuel six hours and 26 minutes later. The aircraft crashed in a wooded residential area of Long Island 18 miles northeast of John F. Kennedy Airport, its destination.
Although this accident was analyzed and dissected long ago, one question never was answered: Why did the pilots not declare an emergency and land safely while there were numerous opportunities to do so?
Their last opportunity occurred after the flight missed its first approach into JFK. The approach controller advised the crew that he would be vectoring the aircraft 15 miles northeast before turning it inbound for a second approach. The fuel gauges read Empty and the engines were running on fumes—yet the first officer replied by saying, “OK. Thank you very much.”
If the crew had declared an emergency and turned inbound sooner, 73 lives likely would have been spared.
It seems that many pilots are reluctant to declare an emergency when conditions dictate that this would be justified. One reason might be a fear that declaring an emergency would be interpreted as failure of some sort. Another possibility is a fear of recrimination. A pilot might be concerned that he will be challenged by the FAA to justify his actions and have to complete a blizzard of paperwork. Such a fear, however, typically is unfounded. General aviation pilots rarely are asked to file written reports following an emergency. Besides, how can anyone justify risking lives simply to avoid inconvenience on the ground?
I declared an emergency once. My family and I were returning to Santa Monica, California, from a vacation in Bryce Canyon, Utah. I was guiding the Cessna 414 between scattered and towering cumulus over Southern California’s Mojave Desert. As we progressed, however, the clouds rapidly grew tempestuously taller and closer together, as if to challenge our right to the sky. No sweat, I thought. It seemed that we could remain in the clear with a bit more weaving and climbing.
But my options quickly eroded, and eventually we were surrounded by an angry swarm of thunderstorms that would not permit passage. A glance rearward showed that the weather was closing in behind us, too. Turning around was no longer viable; it was clear that I had gone too far.
The softest area appeared to the left, but this was a restricted area that the controller had already cautioned me to avoid. I had no choice but to declare an emergency and advise ATC that we would be penetrating R-2501N.
The voice in my headset was calm and reassuring. “Understand, Two-Two-Mike-Golf. I suggest an initial heading of one-eight-zero. I’ll try to get you through as best I can.” Unbeknownst to me, the controller had alerted Fort Irwin that an emergency was in progress and requested that artillery practice be suspended.
There was a certain wave of relief that came simply from acknowledging that I had gotten in over my head (literally and figuratively). No, this did not instantly solve my problem. I was still in turbulent IMC near the freezing level and surrounded by hazard. But I had help, and the vectoring finally did the trick. Fifteen minutes later we broke into visual conditions between the two most southerly cells.
Was I put through the third degree after landing? No. Was I asked to call ATC on the landline? No. Was I asked to file a report? Not one. I never heard anything further about the incident from anyone.
The system worked the way in which it is intended. Declaring an emergency provided me and my family with all available assistance, as well as the authorization to violate whatever regulations I deemed necessary in the resolution of that emergency.
Declaring an emergency and exercising command authority in the interest of safety is an option too few pilots exercise, even though authorized to do so. It can be argued—convincingly, I think—that a pilot is obligated to exercise emergency authority whenever the safe outcome of a flight is in doubt, and that a failure to do so constitutes negligence. I don’t know how many have perished as a result of not declaring a timely emergency, but that number, I suspect, is significant.
The Aeronautical Information Manual provides liberal definitions of an emergency, but for me, it is when my mouth becomes dry, adrenaline begins to flow, and a knot forms in the pit of my stomach—conditions I try desperately to avoid.
Barry Schiff has been writing “Proficient Pilot” for 25 years and with this issue celebrates his 300th monthly column.
Web: www.barryschiff.com
Barry Schiff
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