Learning Experiences

Who's In Charge Of The Checkride?

"Okay, taxi out to Runway 7 Aux." These words began the scariest flight of my life. It was December 1967 and, at the advanced age of 24, I was going to show the person seated next to me - a designated pilot examiner - that I could fly an airplane well enough to merit a private pilot certificate.

Having passed the private pilot written test and fulfilled the training requirements, I was confident I could pass the checkride without a hitch. To make sure everything was ready for it I arrived at the airport two hours early. My plan was to check the weather, all the aircraft papers, and give the flying club's Cherokee 140 an extra thorough preflight inspection. I was determined that nothing was going to go wrong.

After the checkride's oral examination phase, I was even more confident. The examiner asked me to flight plan a long cross-country, and, after he reviewed my work and asked a few pertinent questions, he was apparently satisfied that I knew my stuff. It was time to see if I knew how to fly the airplane as well as I knew the book work.

Runway 7 AUX was 1,000 feet of blacktop just south of the main airport buildings. Built to save the half-mile taxi to the main runway, it was limited to takeoffs only. Approximately one-quarter mile off the end of runway 7 AUX, electric transmission lines rose about 100 feet above the surface. Having used the runway many times during my training, I didn't have any concerns about clearing those wires on takeoff.

As the tower requested, I taxied to Runway 7 AUX and kept the nosewheel glued to the yellow line. In the run up area, I went through each point on the takeoff checklist and explained what I was doing - and why. Finally, I told the tower I was ready for takeoff.

Then the examiner spoke, and to this day, his words remain etched in my memory. "Okay, set your power at 2,100 rpm. I want you to simulate a high-altitude takeoff."

None of my flight training had prepared me for this type of takeoff. I hesitated for a minute and looked at those wires off the end of the runway. Even though just two people were onboard, the fuel tanks were full, which brought the little Cherokee to within 100 pounds of its gross weight.

"Don't you think we should use one of the longer runways?" I asked. "I don't think we'll clear those high wires this way."

The examiner seemed unconcerned. "We'll clear them - go ahead."

"Uncomfortable" doesn't begin to explain how I felt. Even though I'd never practiced this maneuver - and I was not convinced it was safe from this runway - I decided to defer to the examiner.

I taxied to the very end of the pavement, set the brakes, and ran the engine up to 2,100 rpm. When I was satisfied all was well with the engine, I released the brakes. The airplane accelerated much more slowly than normal. My eyes flicked between the airspeed indicator and the wires. Takeoff airspeed came painfully slow. As we became airborne I carefully allowed the airplane to accelerate to best angle of climb airspeed - and then I held it. I wanted to gain the most altitude in the shortest distance across the ground.

My heart was beating so hard it felt like my chest would explode. I kept the airspeed glued at the best angle of climb and watched the high wires come closer and closer. "We're not going to clear those wires," I told the examiner in the calmest voice I could muster.

"Yes, we are," he said.

I'd had enough. "No, we're not." I rammed the throttle to the firewall and raised the nose to maintain the best angle of climb. The airplane immediately responded. As I watched the wires pass comfortably under the wing, I expected the examiner to say it was time to take him home, that I'd failed the test with the first maneuver. Instead, he told me to set a course for the practice area.

The rest of the checkride was everything I'd practiced. Even though I was comfortable with every maneuver the examiner asked me to fly and performed well within the standards, I wondered why he was having me do all this. I had failed the test, or so I thought.

As I taxied the airplane into its tiedown space and shut the engine down, the examiner said, "You fly very well. Go ahead and tie the airplane down while I make out the paperwork. You passed."

I've been a pilot now for 30 years, and to this day I don't know why I passed the checkride when I refused to complete a maneuver the examiner requested. My pet theory is that the examiner felt good about a prospective private pilot who was willing to take charge of the safety of the flight regardless of the consequences.

Today, Federal Aviation Regulation 61.47 supports this theory because it says the examiner isn't the pilot in command. This makes the applicant the PIC, and makes the applicant responsible for the safety of the flight.

At the time a simulated high-altitude takeoff was not a prescribed checkride maneuver, nor is it prescribed in today's private pilot practical test standards. But examiners have some latitude in how they assess a person's fitness to hold a private pilot certificate.

An applicant can't refuse to perform a maneuver prescribed by the PTS, but he can refuse to perform it in a situation that would endanger the flight. In my case, if a simulated high-altitude takeoff had been part of the checkride requirements, I would have been required to demonstrate it to the examiner. But I would have been well within my rights, as the pilot in command, to insist that I demonstrate it on an adequate runway - in my case, one that was long enough, or without high wires close to the end.

A practical flight test is one of the most anxious situations a pilot will face, but it can be less so if the pilot remembers that the person in the right seat is, in effect, a very interested passenger. Don't make the mistake of abdicating your responsibility for the safety of the flight to the examiner. It's the biggest mistake I almost made.