New Pilot

The next best thing to an engine failure is thinking that you're having one.

We are westbound at 4,000 feet, enveloped in cloud. I can catch occasional glimpses of the wind-whipped seawater below. Sometime in the last few minutes we began our crossing of the Bay of Fundy, which separates Nova Scotia from Maine by about 60 miles. The boss had flown the outbound leg to Halifax, so as we prepared to return home, I had not hesitated when he stood aside and growled, "Get in, you're drivin'." Not having flown anything bigger than a Cessna 172 in many moons, I had sprung into the left seat of the Piper Aztec.

Now the boss is doing the clerical and radio chores as I taxi, run up, and launch. We are both weary from the day's toils, so once we are established on the airway, conversation subsides. I notice that his head has lolled against the headrest of his seat, and soon I hear a snore. Flattered by his confidence and relishing the rare pleasure of two engines, a horizontal situation indicator, and instrument meteorological conditions, I fly on happily and resolve to shoot a nice approach at the home field, where the weather is reported as interesting.

We are halfway across the bay. I visualize a perfect instrument landing from the ILS and shaking the boss awake so that he can dig out the paperwork for our friendly local Customs man, who drives around the airport in a very unofficial-looking vehicle rumored to have been confiscated from a smuggler. I am steeped in this fantasy when the right engine joins the boss in Sleepyland. It snorts once, spits a time or two, and goes silent. My unbelieving eyes meet those of my chief, who is now wide awake and watching me over his monofocals. With the same low growl I still sometimes hear in my sleep, he says, "What are you going to do?"

So, it's still my hand to play. Only a second has gone by while I seek confirmation of the engine failure, but things are already coming unglued. My hesitation has lost us 200 feet of altitude and we have rotated 30 degrees to the right. Belatedly I am into the drill: levers forward, identify, verify, secure. Yes, he nods, go ahead and feather it. My initial state of alarm has passed because his eyes tell me that the whole thing is a hoax. The "sleeping" man had reached between the seats and turned a fuel valve, and the joke is on me. The rest of the exercise is pretty much by the book, and the restart is routine, but lying on the sofa at home to reflect, I realize that I have learned a new and unexpected lesson while also being reminded of a critical old one.

The new lesson could only have come from believing that I was experiencing "the real thing." No matter how well trained you think you are for emergencies, something can cloud your thinking. Here I had been in the presence of a much senior pilot, so I had assumed — wrongly — that he would take over if there had been any "real flying" to do. This assumption I had made subconsciously, only for it to surface when the engine quit. He, on the other hand, expected me to fly the airplane, period. I was rated and knew what to do; I should just do it.

I wonder how many accidents have occurred over the years because of this gray area, which I have seen from both sides. Today I was the supplicant, but many times, as the more experienced pilot in a cockpit, I had been handed the ball in a similar manner when some kind of problem arose. It is a natural, if hazardous, response, and the only remedy is to have all such questions worked out thoroughly before the aircraft ever leaves the ground. In training, when everyone knows that the drill is "fake," the doubt never arises. The instructor causes the "emergency," and the pilot reacts. It's a ritual as old as airplanes, and everyone knows which role to play. But when student and teacher, or two pilots of varying experience, fly together on a trip or a sightseeing outing, there must be an understanding that preempts a short-circuit in the thought process.

Looking back at another occurrence, I realize that only the certainty of who was in charge saved the day. The owner of the airplane possessed fewer ratings but more type-specific experience. I was a virtual stranger to the airplane; we both knew who was king of his cockpit. Taxiing out for a routine flight home from an outlying airport, I expected him to switch to the fuller tank, and when his hand disappeared between the seats and turned the lever, I relaxed. It was a busy day with numerous aircraft in the pattern, so he took off from the intersection, giving up about 1,500 feet of runway but also preventing gridlock in the pattern. We were about 20 feet in the air when the single engine quit. He slipped her briskly down and came to a stop on the runway with a few feet to spare. Turns out his hand had indeed turned a switch between the seats — the one on his portable intercom! Now I always ask about the fuel or offer to set the switch myself (if I can reach it). And that day an airplane owner who knows his airplane as well as some people know their spouses decided that maybe it was time to replace that faded old copy of the checklist.

Recently I talked about all this with the boss. He agreed that training cannot duplicate those moments of gray. Disbelief, he said, is a trap that you don't see in training, when you are expecting something to go "wrong." When it's real, and the engine misses that first beat, "You're going to sit and wait for it to come back." Then it may be too late.

The only pilots who know how dangerous "I've got it, no, you've got it, no, nobody's got it"can be, are the people who had a system failure, saw how the brain works during real stress, and survived. That's why it's the best of all possible worlds to have thought that I was experiencing the real thing that day in the PA-23-250 without actually having been forced to take on the risks. It's like having a second chance. Thanks, boss, for one of the best lessons I've ever learned.

Practice Area: Strange Approaches and Landings

BY WILLIAM K. KERSHNER

How many pilots reading this have made an approach to the wrong airport?

Several airliners — and I — have been caught short in this situation. Some of the following items were experienced firsthand; the others are hand-me-downs, but all have a moral (I guess).

In the late 1950s I was flying a Beech Bonanza VFR into Louisville, Kentucky's Standiford Field (now Louisville International) in very hazy conditions. It was VFR, but barely, and after talking to Standiford Tower, I decided to do a "practice" VOR shot to the airport.

As I left the VOR, an airliner called in for landing instructions, and the tower suggested that he might want to take a shot off the VOR also.

(Certainly not! Let those amateurs in their little airplanes use such aids.)

A few minutes later, as I was on downwind at Standiford, the tower said, "Big Sky 237 (not the real name and number), you're landing at Bowman." Bowman was (and is) Louisville's smaller general aviation airport (also with a tower).

It must have been quite a sight to see that Connie looming out of the haze on final with everything hanging out, in competition with the various Cubs and Cessna 120s in the pattern. Bowman Tower couldn't talk to the Connie, which was on Standiford's frequency, but called Standiford on the hotline so that tower could act. The pilot responded with the only reasonable answer — "Ahhh, Roguh" — and took it around to find the originally planned destination.

Then in the late 1950s there was another propeller airliner that made an unscheduled landing at the wrong airport one night.

The crew, talking to the Jackson, Mississippi, tower, saw a lighted runway dead ahead, and the landmarks looked like those near Hawkins Field. The somewhat puzzled tower didn't have them in sight, but a successful — if short — landing was made on the rain-soaked 2,800-foot sod strip of Yazoo City, Mississippi, which was well to the north of Jackson. Fortunately, there were no injuries. The passengers were served coffee by a kind local Red Cross lady, which helped. Think of the lawsuits today for "psychological anguish."

For a while, there was a series of near-landings at Tennessee's Smyrna Airport, about 10 miles southeast of the Nashville airport. One of Smyrna's runways lined up with one of Nashville's, and a premature letdown in the right (or wrong) conditions led to errors. The pilots making near-landings probably said that they wanted the passengers to get a close look at what used to be a World War II air base.

A slightly different comment was made by me while approaching St. Louis on a very clear night when, at a distance, the arrangement of some lights convinced me that there was Lambert Field, so I started a letdown. I didn't get below 1,000 feet, but it soon became clear that Lambert was still a "couple" of miles farther on. I told my passengers that I just wanted to get a closer look at that nifty new parking lot.

At Pensacola, Florida, the flight students were told that in the event of an emergency (and they had to get down, or if they had a complete engine failure), they were to land gear-up except — repeat, except — at a "designated Navy field." This was emphasized throughout the training. This was to ensure that at the small civilian airports the gear would be up, resulting in a short "roll" and minimizing damage and loss of student life.

One day on a flight over Mobile, a cadet had an engine failure and saw a very large airport below. He knew by its location that it was not a "designated Navy field," so he elected to land gear-up right in the middle of a 9,600-foot runway. This resulted in a delay of air traffic, needless to say.

He escaped punishment back at Pensacola by pointing out that the airport was not a "designated Navy field." He was let off, but the folks at Brookley Air Force Base were pretty perturbed, to say the least, and the directive was soon revised, or so I'm told.

At basic training in Pensacola in the early 1950s, the procedure was to switch tanks in the North American SNJ at exactly 1,000 feet mean sea level (msl) during the climbout to the practice area. The SNJ carried its fuel in two wing tanks. I was royally chewed out by an instructor on one occasion when I switched tanks at 1,100 instead of 1,000 feet.

A French cadet had stayed out in the practice area longer than usual and had run one wing tank dry. He picked a small civilian airport, making what was described by witnesses as a perfect (gear-down) approach. He would save the airplane and perhaps be given extra liberty in New Orleans.

On final, he remembered — but, of course! — he had not switched tanks as part of the engine failure procedure. He proceeded to switch to the full tank, and the windmilling propeller started the engine. A close call! He would fly the airplane to his base and no one would be the wiser. Sacré bleu! A close call indeed.

He left the airport and, while climbing out over miles of pine forest, he reached exactly 1,000 feet, and ….

He was OK, but a number of pine trees and the airplane were written off. (These crazy Americans and their rules!)

And another Why of a continuing series:

Why is it that a pilot cannot look at an Aeronca Champ without smiling? People smile at puppies, kittens, babies, and Champs. I have been asked to name my favorite airplane. Is it the Corsair, the Hellcat, Cougar, or Panther? No, it's the Champ. I was instructing in the Champ when I was 19, and it was my first airplane as a professional pilot. It holds many great memories. In those days I always preferred the Champ over the Cub. I never mentioned this to Mr. Piper while I was working in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania, but during a period while I was testing the brand-new Cherokee for vibration, I thought that I was in trouble when he asked me on one of our trips in the Aztec how I liked our latest single-engine airplane. I figured that he really wanted to know, and I was always honest with him, so I replied that "If it flew like a Cessna 172, we'd have a real airplane." After that trip I was transferred to Kiska, Alaska (or was it Attu?) to sell airplanes only to Arabs. (There are no Arabs on Kiska or Attu.) No, that didn't happen. He just laughed and said to get on with the testing. W.T. Piper, Sr., was one of my heroes before I met him and was much higher in my regard after I got to know him.

I have a painting of the Champ hanging on my wall, and I smile every time I see it. I'm sorry, Mr. Piper.

Fears of Flying: On Instruments

BY CARL VANDERVEEN

I earned my private pilot certificate in April 1990. The same weekend, my wife, Jackie, and I decided to fly from our home base in North Las Vegas, Nevada, to see friends in Bakersfield, California. Our 1977 Piper Warrior II performed beautifully that Friday. (We had bought the airplane before I ever had a flying lesson. That's really smart if you think about it … but read on.)

Sunday came, and it was time to fly home. But the skies were not inviting, and the 45-knot winds were discouraging to me, the rookie private pilot. So, a good decision was made — we would sponge off our friends for one more supper and night of lodging (they said that they didn't mind). Jackie and I could get up at 3:30 a.m. on Monday, take off by 4 a.m., and be at work in Las Vegas by 8 a.m. The weather forecast said that occasional clouds, lighter winds, and generally better conditions would prevail. We were good to go.

Dang, it was dark outside in the wee hours. But we downed the coffee, upped the airplane, and opened the flight plan to North Las Vegas. We climbed east, toward the 8,500-foot mountains. The city lights were behind us, the adventure ahead.

What was that?

I quickly figured it out like a regular ace pilot — it was a cloud. We were in it and back out in the blink of an eye. No time to get scared about it; it was that fast. Well, I'll be dipped! There's another one, here and gone just as fast. I had this feeling of wonder at the sky, and another sensation starting to grow — sweaty palms.

I told Jackie that if it stayed like that all the way home, it would be a gorgeous, fun flight, playing with the clouds for two hours in the sunrise. I told myself that there could be trouble.

There was. The next cloud wasn't gone in the blink of an eye. It was there for many seconds.

We passed through the cloud and were into another one with no delay. I was afraid. I was reading the loran for headings, and it didn't match the compass. Where was 180 degrees for my turn out of the clouds? The wing is dropping; keep the wings level and forget the compass. Forget the loran. Fly the airplane.

Good Lord, you just got your certificate, idiot stick! If you call somebody, he might take it away. It means too much; you cannot risk it; you have a big investment in it. Try to fly your way out of the soup and chalk it up as a learning experience. Don't panic. Watch the instruments. It's working out OK. I'm keeping things level. Or am I?

Occasionally I looked out to the wing tips. The strobes made beautiful flashes on the crystals in the clouds. There was nothing else. No sun. No sky or ground. No turbulence. Just gray cloud, holding us in beautiful and deadly suspended animation. Hey — watch the wing dip on the attitude indicator and pick it back up, idiot stick. Listen for engine sounds as clues.

I had more than 40 minutes in that soup. It became light gray as the sun became a factor. I'd turned off the strobes — they had become terrifyingly hypnotic and not conducive to level wings. My control of the airplane was good, although it appears that we turned some big circles chasing the loran. I'd climbed to 14,600 feet to try to get over it, but with no luck. I'd descended to 9,000 feet to get under it, also with no luck. I couldn't go any lower — there are mountains west of China Lake. Had I drifted north, toward the fearsome Mt. Whitney? Did I dare take my eyes off the instruments to consult a chart to find out?

My airspeed suddenly read zero. I felt that if I lost one more instrument, it would very soon be the grinding end of us. I felt that I didn't have the skill to survive any more problems. I dialed in 121.5 and made the call. It took maybe 15 seconds for a reply. We sorted out who would help — Joshua Approach or Los Angeles Center (it was the latter). I dialed in 7700 and resigned myself to losing my hard-won private ticket. I felt relief that at least we might survive in the bargain. Center told me that I was "10 west of Inyokern" (over a mountain) and gave me a heading with standard rate of descent to the southeast, away from the terrain. In maybe five minutes we were suddenly below the clouds and into the morning. The desert was down there, and it was a glorious sight. I knew that every day alive after that day would be a gift.

I didn't have the judgment that (sometimes) comes with experience. My instructor had given me an hour or more of hood time and unusual attitudes during training. He even had taken me into a few small clouds north of Red Rock Canyon. His intent had been to scare me into staying away from them — but Idiot Stick was thrilled and awed by it instead. What a marvelous experience it had been!

I cannot blame my instructor for any of it. He couldn't teach judgment to me. He did teach me how to do 20 things right to save my butt (and my wife's). I didn't have to look up 7700 or 121.5. I knew to aviate first and foremost. I knew to trust my instruments and ignore the occasional vertigo input. I learned that loran headings can be 20 seconds behind reality and to use the compass. I learned that forecasts occasionally are on the optimistic side of things, and not always the gloomy tomes we have come to expect for reasons of liability. I learned to turn on pitot heat and carb heat. I learned how fussy the controls can get with light rime ice. I learned how to use the NASA Aviation Safety Reporting System Form 277B. I learned a bunch of things on that scary flight, acquired some much-needed humility and judgment, and became a better pilot. I used a telephone to thank Los Angeles Center after arriving safe at North Las Vegas and followed it up with a letter; I never heard from the FAA about the incident.

Yes, Jackie still flies with me from time to time. She's a pinch-hitter , in the sense that she will pinch or hit me if I even think of ignoring that little voice that says, "Be careful, rookie, and listen to your guts. Palms sweat for a reason." No more get-home-itis for me. Rookies at all levels, beware.

Carl VanderVeen, AOPA 1046476, is a private pilot with 1,070 hours and 105 mountain crossings in six years of flying. He manages airfield and civil engineering operations at the Air Force's Tonopah Test Range in Nevada (former home of the F-117A Stealth fighter). He serves as a flight commander in the Civil Air Patrol and has given 100 flights in EAA's Young Eagles program. He and Jackie have just acquired a Beech Bonanza and live at Sky Ranch Estates in Sandy Valley, Nevada.