Three business associates and I had been in Denver to attend an aviation trade show at the convention center downtown. The flight into Denver the previous night had been uneventful.
Denver is a beautiful city nestled against the Rocky Mountains. Looking west, the mountains rise from the mile-high base to more than 14,000 feet in just a few miles. To the east, the great plains stretch more than 500 miles with nothing but a few trees along the creek beds to break up the seemingly relentless wind.
Denver's elevation of more than 5,000 feet gently slopes off to the east to elevations near 1,000 feet in eastern Kansas. Summer afternoon weather forecasts almost always include a chance of locally heavy thundershowers.
As my friends and I stepped outside the convention center to catch a taxi out to the airport, dark, heavy clouds south and west of the city told me that a departure to Wichita might not be in the cards for an hour or two. Thunderstorms in the Rocky Mountain region are usually isolated and tend to move through quickly. The rain and associated electrical displays are often spectacular but have a short life span over any single location.
When we arrived at the airport, the dark blue-black cloud seemed to be spitting lightning in every direction and roaring with thunder every few seconds. Large drops of rain were already splattering on everything left in the open. This was an intense storm, and I wondered if we might not be leaving for Wichita at all that evening.
The flight service specialists said that the weather from Denver to Wichita would be ceiling and visibility unlimited, or CAVU, once the local thunderstorm passed to the northeast. This was a typical summer afternoon storm that was not associated with any larger weather pattern. I filed a VFR flight plan with an estimated departure time in one hour. There was nothing left to do but wait.
In the meantime, the storm was dumping torrents of water on the airport. My friends and I stood inside the FBO watching the display of violence with no small amount of awe. It was magnificent, but certainly nothing to mess with for the pilot who values life and limb.
As the minutes passed, the rain began changing from a blinding wall of water to something more benign. Shafts of sunlight began to break through the clouds and gave the airport that liquid yellow look that seems to be a sort of reparation for the violence of the storm. Then, suddenly, the rain stopped.
We grabbed our bags and headed out to the airplane. My friends loaded it while I conducted the preflight inspection. I could see that the storm hadn't quite cleared the northern end of the runway. It looked like a black wall of water that stretched from the ground upward into space. My plan was to request a turn to the southeast as soon as possible after we got off the ground in order to stay clear of the black monster.
Ground control gave us an immediate clearance to the end of Runway 35 Left. Now that the storm had passed, I could see the airliners pushing back from the gates for departure. I wanted to beat those guys to the runway because I didn't want to be the gnat among the eagles competing for airspace. Gnats lose that contest every time.
I did my runup in position to taxi onto the runway.
"Denver Tower, Skylane-Seven-Five-Sierra ready for takeoff Three-Five-Left."
"Skylane-Seven-Five-Sierra cleared for takeoff, maintain runway heading, contact departure one-thirty-two-point-seventy-five."
As I taxied the airplane onto the runway, I could see the black wall of water off the end of the runway. Since the runway was nearly two miles long, I was confident that I could take off and turn before encountering the weather.
Rolling down the runway I could see a spray of water being kicked up by the prop blast and the wheels as we raced through the puddles left by the storm. After about a thousand feet, the Skylane lifted into the air, and when the tower handed me off I immediately switched frequencies to talk to the departure controllers. After the initial contact pleasantries, I made a request for a turn to the east. The request was summarily denied.
To say I was surprised by the denial is an understatement. Never in all my years of flying had I been denied a request for a heading change because of weather. I could continue on my present heading for perhaps another minute before getting too close for comfort to that black wall.
"Ahhh, departure, Seven-Five-Sierra needs an immediate turn to avoid running into a thunderstorm."
I emphasized the word immediate in hopes that the controller would recognize the potential seriousness of the situation if my request for an alternate heading was denied.
"Seven-Five-Sierra, maintain runway heading," came the reply.
I was dumfounded. We were passing over the north end of the runway with about 500 feet of altitude and looking directly down the throat of a raging thunderstorm. I considered my options and they fell miserably short of anything favorable. I did the only thing I thought was reasonable.
"Ahhh, departure, Seven-Five-Sierra can't continue on this heading any longer, so I'm turning right to a southeast heading."
"Seven Five Sierra, deviation southeast approved, pilot's discretion."
There was anger and frustration in the controller's voice, but I knew I had to risk the wrath of the FAA in order to live to fly another day. Continuing to fly on the runway heading was simply not an option, even if the FAA administrator had been giving me the instructions.
There was a little residual turbulence from the storm but we were not too uncomfortable on the climbout. Most important, it was safe.
"Departure, Seven-Five-Sierra, why didn't you approve my turn back there when I asked for it?"
"Ahhh, Seven-Five-Sierra, our information indicated that there was a storm off to the east."
The look on my face must have been priceless. I had all but pleaded with the controller to give me a turn to stay out of weather and the man on the ground wouldn't give it to me because he had information that must have been out of date. I had to respond.
"Listen, departure. You guys are in a dark room down there and can't see what's going on. I'm up here where I've got a pretty good view of the situation. When a pilot asks for an immediate turn, I think you need to listen to him."
"Seven-Five-Sierra, I understand. We do the best we can with what we have to work with."
The rest of the trip was uneventful, but this situation is an example of the rights of the pilot in command (PIC). As PIC you are solely responsible for the safety of the flight. The FAA is not. You have the legal obligation to exercise your right as the sole decision maker for your aircraft whenever you deem it necessary to protect you and your passengers from harm. You do not have to follow the instructions of a controller when following those instructions would put the safety of the flight at risk. The FAA may ask you to explain your actions afterwards, but if you have acted with prudence, little if anything will come of it.
Consider the alternative. If I had continued on course and flown into instrument conditions on a VFR flight, the FAA would have had every right to take me to task. Not only would I have blundered my way into instrument conditions, but I would have likely run into turbulence that would have resulted in a true emergency situation. The better decision might have been to delay my departure for another 15 minutes to give the weather more time to clear the area, but, once I took off, I knew I needed to avoid the potentially dangerous weather conditions. Obviously, I would rather risk a slap on the hand for being too safe than face the consequences of flying into a thunderstorm.
Your authority as pilot in command is as unlimited as your responsibility for the safety of the flight. Use it wisely, but decisively.
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