I tuned the frequency and made my request. "Beechcraft One-Two-Yankee is over Cleveland [Texas]. Traffic permitting, we'd like clearance to Daisetta, and then a VOR Alpha approach back to Cleveland." Approach control wasn't busy, so the controller gave me a heading to fly and an altitude to maintain - "Expect vectors to the final approach course."
To understand what happened next, you must picture the local geography.
Daisetta VOR provides instrument approaches to two local airports. Cleveland Airport is west-northwest of the VOR. The approach uses the 291? radial, and it's 21 miles from the VOR to the airport. Liberty airport is 7.4 miles south of the VOR, on the 195? radial, and it, too, is a VOR Alpha approach.
The initial heading I received was somewhat north of a direct line to the Daisetta VOR. This made sense because the controller obviously needed some room to turn me back to intercept the approach. I was mentally prepared for a right turn to join the final approach course.
After reaching my assigned altitude (2,000 feet) and flying for several minutes on the assigned heading, approach control gave me the approach clearance. "Beechcraft One-Two-Yankee, turn right heading one-seven-zero, maintain two thousand until established on the approach, cleared VOR Alpha approach..."
Had this been almost any other instrument approach, I would have refused the clearance immediately. Fly a heading of 170? to intercept a final approach course of 295?? A 125-degree intercept angle? No way! As it was, I knew the area well, knew the ceiling was well above minimums, and knew that the missed approach fix was 22 miles out - plenty of room to get myself established on the radial. Not wanting to accuse the controller of giving me a lousy intercept, I figured I'd just work it out. I read back the intercept instructions, finishing with "...cleared for the VOR Alpha approach."
Because I knew what to expect and was ready, the intercept wasn't too difficult. As the VOR needle centered outbound, and I was congratulating myself on doing a fine job of salvaging a difficult situation, ATC called again. "One-Two-Yankee, are you doing a procedure turn?"
I immediately tensed up. In my experience, when a controller has to ask a question like this, someone has screwed up. I quickly verified the VOR frequency and radial before answering. All was as it should be. "One-Two-Yankee, I show myself established on the two-ninety-five-degree radial, and sir, this approach doesn't have a procedure turn."
"Ah, roger?" the controller said, sounding a bit confused. Then, after a couple of seconds, he said, "One-Two-Yankee, are you doing the approach to Cleveland?" I answered in the affirmative. "Sir, I cleared you for the VOR Alpha approach to Liberty! You are now cleared for the VOR Alpha approach to Cleveland."
Because I'd never mentioned Liberty when I called ATC, it never entered my mind that my clearance limit might be any airport other than my home base. The controller had apparently stated Liberty in the approach clearance, but it didn't register because I didn't perceive any need to verify the destination. I stopped listening after I heard "...VOR Alpha approach?."
When I read back the clearance, I read back everything but the airport name, eliminating any chance the controller had to catch the error. Confusing my request was the controller's mistake initially, but not catching the new clearance limit and not reading back the full clearance made it my mistake. It's called failure to comply with an ATC clearance.
What's the lesson I relearned - and experienced I don't know how many times before? Simple. In aviation, especially when communicating with ATC, when something doesn't sound right, it probably isn't.
As I think back over my flying career, I can remember many times when things just haven't seemed right. Sometimes a clearance or cockpit indication wasn't what I was used to seeing. Other times, I just had an uneasy feeling about something without being able to put my finger on exactly what was bothering me.
Most of the time, when I felt this way my vague uneasiness was justified because something was indeed wrong. A couple of times, when I ignored the warning bells in my head, bad things happened. Call it intuition, a sixth sense, or your guardian angel - the lesson is to stop and pay heed when something doesn't seem to fit.
On this flight, the intercept angle just wasn't reasonable. At the time, I passed it off as sloppy controlling. Yet I know that controllers generally do a darn good job. Even a rookie wouldn't be likely to botch a vector to the final that badly. The warning bells were there. I just ignored them.
What could I have done to heed them? It hadn't occurred to me that another airport was involved, so I wouldn't have thought to verify which approach I was cleared for. But plain English is always available when standard phraseology doesn't exist. How about, "Approach, that's more than a ninety-degree intercept. Verify heading one-seven-zero?"
It may have taken a second for the controller to figure it out, but the same process - questioning things that don't sound right - also works from his perspective. "Why is this guy saying it's a 90-degree intercept when it's really only 20 degrees?" Between the two of us, we would have figured it out.
This particular error could have been avoided in another way. Throughout my IFR career, I've recognized that understanding approach clearances is critical to safety, so I've always read back each element of the approach clearance - except for the airport name. The destination never struck me as ambiguous, so it seemed unnecessary to state it. Controllers always state it, though. Now I know why, and now I always read it back, too.
What other events have taught me this lesson? There have been several, but I'll mention two. There was the canceled-IFR-to-Newark-Approach-Control flight, when the controller responded with my call sign and the word, "Roger." Yes, I knew that they usually say "Cancellation received, squawk one-two-zero-zero, frequency change approved."
The controller sounded very busy, so I convinced myself that he probably didn't have time to utter the standard phraseology, dismissed my doubts, and went off frequency. The result was to be met at my destination by an FAA inspector and, although the ATC tapes eventually proved that I had indeed canceled my flight plan, I still got an unpleasant ramp-check out of it.
Then there was the time the prop-governor check on run-up seemed just a little strange. I ignored it, and three hours later I found out what runaway props are all about. Anyone with 100 hours of flight time can probably relate similar experiences.
Remember, when that little voice says something's not right - listen!
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