We arrived at the airport a few minutes early, and another pilot was still up in the flying club's airplane. We passed the time discussing basic aircraft operations. The conversation turned to the weather, and I noted that the sky seemed hazy. Hoping to soothe Gary's growing concerns, I told him I'd check with the pilot after he landed and get a pilot report.
A few minutes later, the club's Cardinal rolled in, and the engine sputtered to a stop. I asked the pilot about the weather, and he gave me the grim news. It seemed a fog bank over the ocean was rolling in from the southeast and was now approaching the shoreline. "I wouldn't go up if I were you," the pilot warned. I sized him up and decided that he was simply trying to dissuade this young pilot from going up in questionable weather.
He wasn't me, and I was only going for a short ride. I could keep an eye on the fog bank, and even if it did roll in, we could easily divert to any of the half-dozen airports within range. Of course, I really didn't want to go to another airport. I wanted to return to home base where we had parked our cars. Landing somewhere else would be a hassle. No, we'd just keep the flight short and land before the fog arrived.
Anxious to get in the air before our narrow window of opportunity slammed shut, I hurried through the preflight. The fuel tanks looked about half full; certainly enough for a quick jaunt around the area. We got in the airplane, and I gave Gary a perfunctory safety briefing.
Without hesitation, I sped through the familiar checklist and hurriedly taxied to the favored runway. Glancing to the southeast, I saw a shroud of mist enveloping the trees just beyond the airport boundary. Still, I was committed. I had gotten my friend here, we were ready to go, and God only knew when we'd get another chance. I just couldn't let my friend down now. I pushed the throttle forward, and we sped down the runway, lifting into the gathering gloom.
I hadn't climbed 500 feet when I realized what a dire mistake I had made. The fog was rolling in quickly, and just ahead of it was an anvil of low clouds that threatened to form a low overcast. Scanning the horizon, I saw the entire region being swallowed up by fog. It formed in thick patches and quickly smothered the terrain in a sea of gray. Like the fabled town of Brigadoon, the half-dozen airports I had planned as my alternates had vanished in the mist. There was nowhere else to go, and the fog was boiling up and spilling across the runways behind me.
There was little decision-making left to do now. The runway below was the only option. With the wall of clouds and fog to the left, there was no way I could fly a standard left pattern, so I rolled the plane to the right and beat a hasty retreat. The clouds were now above me, so I dropped down 300 feet on downwind to stay in the clear. Looking down at the runway, I could see that the intersecting runway was now obscured. There was probably only a minute or two left before the remaining runway was engulfed by rolling gray. I chopped the power and made a short approach.
By the time we had taxied to the hangar, visibility had dropped to a quarter mile. I couldn't even see across the ramp to the runway. It had been a close shave, and I couldn't believe how stupid I had been. I had let the pressure of wanting to fly erode my judgment. It dawned on me that the next accident report could easily have been mine.
Luckily, I hadn't missed anything critical in my hasty preflight or as I sped through the checklist. But I had done a sloppy job of both and certainly had no business taking off in the quickly deteriorating conditions. If anything had gone awry, I would have had no time, altitude, or resources to deal with it.
I'm neither the first nor the last pilot to be suckered by a perceived pressure to fly. In a recent NASA Aviation Safety Reporting System (ASRS) report, a student pilot shared a story similar to mine. The report begins, "I had been planning my first solo cross-country for almost a month and on [this date] it appeared the weather might cooperate. I called for a standard weather briefing and got a visibility of seven miles with scattered clouds at 4,200 feet. My destination was reporting visibility of 10 miles with a few clouds at 3,100 feet. There was some haze as there had been all summer. I consulted with my CFI, and filed a VFR flight plan."
"I did my preflight and called for a top-off of fuel. The fuel truck was leaking so I could not get a top-off. However, the fuel was within one to one-and-a-half inches of the top, so there was more than enough fuel for my planned 45- to 60-minute flight with a slight tailwind. A stick gauge was not available. I decided to top-off the fuel at [my first stop] before going on. I took off and activated my flight plan."
En route, the pilot drifted slightly off course and, in deteriorating visibility, had a difficult time locating the airport. With fuel running low, the pilot requested assistance and received radar vectors from air traffic control.
Although he, too, arrived safely at his destination, I'm sure that pilot felt much the same way I had. We both let our eagerness to achieve a goal cloud our judgment and shortcut safety procedures. It's always easier to see mistakes in retrospect than when you're caught up in the moment.
It's a common occurrence: We feel some sort of schedule pressure and rush through our flight-related tasks in order to get back on track. Maybe we want to complete a planned trip and get home. Perhaps we're on our way to a special event that we don't want to miss. Whatever the reason, we get tunnel vision and, as a result, are unable or unwilling to recognize potential risks and hazards to safety. Referred to as the "hurry-up syndrome" or "get-home-itis," the perceived time-pressure that degrades a pilot's judgment can be a serious threat to pilots of any skill or experience level.
The problem is probably as old as aviation itself. I'm sure the Wright brothers felt the pressure to get in the air on more than one occasion, but what brought the hurry-up syndrome into the spotlight was a tragic accident in the Canary Islands on March 27, 1977. Weather conditions had forced numerous aircraft to divert to Tenerife Island's Los Rodeos Airport. The flights had suffered what seemed like interminable delays. Now the fog was rolling in and threatening to shut down the airport, and pilots were itching to get out of there while the getting was still possible.
Without ground radar, the tower staff struggled to keep track of the growing logjam. Language differences and improper terminology complicated the situation. Amidst the ensuing confusion, two Boeing 747s loaded with passengers ended up on a collision course on the runway. KLM Flight 4805 departed in thick fog without the proper clearance and slammed into Pan Am Flight 1736, which was still on the runway near the opposite end. More than 580 passengers and crew lost their lives in the collision, and the aftermath shook the aviation safety community to its core.
Numerous recommendations and changes were made as a result of the Tenerife accident, but the underlying problem of the hurry-up syndrome continues to this day. To help bring about a better understanding of the syndrome, researchers Jeanne McElhatton and Charles R. Drew performed an analysis of safety incidents, and published their results in the proceedings of the Seventh International Symposium on Aviation Psychology at Ohio State University in 1993. The study analyzed 125 incidents involving air carrier and commuter aircraft reported via ASRS. The results of the study include some interesting findings for all of us who fly.
