Pilotage

The flight was without incident is how a practicing pessimist describes a normal flight. This is a pilot whose tanks are half empty rather than half full.

To say that a flight ended without incident suggests that the pilot undertaking the flight assumed that an incident would occur, but when it was over, none had. Seems to me there's a faint whiff of disappointment in such an assessment, which begs the question, what kind of pilot is disappointed when nothing goes wrong? A fatalist, a cynic, a pessimist — that's who. I hope I never hear myself saying the words "without incident." I much prefer "Fantastic flight. Everything went perfectly."

"The flight was without incident" is just one of the clichés that make me grind my teeth. Clichés are as much a part of aviation-speak as are acronyms. A cliché is an expression or idea that has become trite. I've compiled a short list of some oft-repeated aviation clichés that, in my opinion, deserve to be sent to the recycling bin.

Survived another one, usually uttered after a successful landing. Sure, we've all had arrivals that might have qualified us for carrier ops. But to punctuate every landing, no matter how smooth or bouncy, with this desperate judgment is to make nonpilot passengers rethink their decision to place their mortality in your clumsy hands. How different they would feel if, on the roll-out, you casually let slip the comment "Tower controller reports that was the best landing of the day."

There are those who have, and those who will. This, of course, refers to gear-up landings, and it's hogwash. If this cliché had an ounce of truth to it, those who haven't yet ought to go right out to the airport and get it over with. Personally, I like to say, "There are those who have, and I feel their pain."

Flying is hours upon hours of boredom, punctuated by moments of sheer terror. This one really gets my goat. Would anyone who has dreamed of learning to fly pursue the dream if he or she heard this horrible characterization? I don't think so. This cliché obviously was coined by senior airline captains daydreaming en route about the money they had invested in llama-meat futures and Beta-format VCR venture capital.

There are old pilots, and bold pilots, but no old bold pilots. If you consider bold to mean reckless, OK then, I'll consider letting this one pass. But I take bold to mean willing to take calculated risks. It's something every pilot does, especially those of us who fly single-engine aircraft in IMC at night with one alternator and a discount-priced battery. As for the cliché, I have just two words for you: Bob Hoover.

You'll never be as good an instrument pilot as you are the moment you get your rating. I first heard this cliché from my instrument instructor, and it made a powerful impression on me — negative impression, that is. The reason is that I was less-than-brimming-over with confidence when I was awarded my instrument rating. Sure, I knew the procedures involved in instrument flying, but there's more to performance than possessing textbook knowledge. This cliché completely ignores the skill that flows from wisdom, which itself derives from a combination of experience and continuing education. You can't know everything right out of the box. That's like saying that the best lawyers are the ones just coming out of law school, which in itself assumes that there is such a thing as a good lawyer. (Just kidding, John Yodice, just kidding.)

Pull the yoke back and the houses get smaller. Push it in and they get bigger. This one's not so bad. I've used it myself lots of times. It's semi-clever and somewhat funny. It works best when you use it on a wide-eyed novice. Makes you sound cavalier, devil-may-care — in other words, a stereotypical pilot. The problem is, it isn't entirely accurate. Yes, the houses get smaller when you pull the yoke back, but hold it there long enough and you'll either loop (not very likely) or stall (much more likely). Either way, the houses soon will appear much larger.

Defied gravity once again. Call me cranky, but I have a problem with this one. I know, I know; it's just a silly little saying with a heart of gold, an acceptably adult way of expressing childlike wonderment over the fact that ordinary folks like you and me can actually fly. What bothers me is that it assumes a confrontational relationship between lift and gravity. What's next? Snubbing drag?

I prefer to think of the forces of flight in a "new age" teamwork context. Instead of infighting to win dominance, think of the forces as interacting, cooperating, empowering each other to achieve a climb, a level-flight cruise, and a descent.

Next time you're moved to make the observation that you've "defied gravity once again," try this much more precise declaration instead: "Balanced lift with gravity, thrust with drag, to effect fully controlled, harmonious maneuvering flight once again."

Then again, there are those of us who have sounded like dolts, and those who will.