Winning the landing contest
"Nice landing," Jeff said, nodding his head appreciatively. The parking checklist was complete and passengers were streaming off the Boeing 737-800 series aircraft at Houston's George Bush Intercontinental Airport.
"Well?" I asked, pretty sure I knew what he would tell me.
"A solid 8," he pronounced confidently. "Superb approach, landing on centerline, in the touchdown zone. Almost did not feel the wheels touch down at first — almost. You could have held another bit of rudder, though. Wouldn't have gotten that little side shudder we felt."
"All right then, an 8. That means we're still tied. Your last chance coming up."
The truth is, it's just about impossible to consistently make perfect "greasers" in an airliner like the 737-800. A stabilized, well-flown approach earns you a respectably good landing most every time. But beyond that, near-flawless landings are as much a matter of luck as technique. I've never met anyone who can do it every time, or even most of the time.
For some reason, though, Jeff and I had been nailing our landings all month long. I'll be the first to admit mine were better than my average touchdowns. Each one seemed a little nicer than the last, the kind passengers tend to comment about on their way off the airplane.
We were each basking in a lucky streak. And as any pilot knows, no lucky streak lasts forever.
But so far, at least, there was no end in sight. All throughout the previous week's trip our competitive streaks were raging full force. It had turned into a blatant game of one-upmanship between us. We agreed to a landing contest on the final trip of the month to decide who could make the better landings.
The rules of engagement were simple. We would each fly three legs. Landings would be judged on a simple 10-point scale, with 10 being flawless, 1 being time to call out the crash trucks. Whoever had the highest point total by the last day would be the winner.
Neither of us had expected any 1s or 10s, and so far we were correct. We each held a pair of 8s, with one landing apiece remaining. A 9 would likely cinch the win for one of us, a 7 would almost certainly doom any chance of victory. No matter how you sliced it, it would be close.
Since Jeff and I had vested interests in the outcome, we agreed that gentlemen's honor would be observed at all times. There would be no Olympic figure-skating-judge funny stuff with the scoring.
A few hours later I glanced over at Jeff as we cruised at Flight Level 350, en route to San Diego International-Lindbergh Field. Jeff was professional all the way and as sharp a pilot as I had ever flown with. I thought I detected a smirk on his face. He was feeling pretty confident.
At our planned top-of-descent point 110 miles out, my request for lower altitude was met with indifference by the Los Angeles Center controller.
"You've got opposite-direction traffic 12 o'clock and 20 miles, FL330, another one right behind him. I'll get you lower when they pass."
I smiled to myself. The key to a good landing was a stabilized approach. Center was going to keep us high, and Jeff would be playing catch-up all the way down, trying to lose speed and altitude. He would have to work hard at getting the aircraft stabilized for the approach and landing.
By company definition, stabilized meant we needed to be established on the glidepath at a steady rate of descent, in landing configuration, in trim, and with proper thrust setting. Since the weather at the field was good VFR that day, we had the luxury of meeting those criteria by 500 feet above the touchdown zone. In instrument conditions we would need to do so by 1,000 feet above.
Not only that, but Jeff had to keep the airspeed within plus-15 or minus-5 knots. Usually that wouldn't be especially difficult, but our late descent would make it a challenge. Based on our planned landing weight of almost 140,000 pounds, the V REF speed (1.3 times the stall speed for that weight and configuration) with flaps at 30 degrees was 146 knots. The standard 5-knot wind additive for light winds gave us a target speed of 151 knots, the speed Jeff would fly to touchdown. If he couldn't make everything fit by 500 feet, his only choice would be to perform a go-around.
By the time we were handed off to SOCAL Approach, we were still several thousand feet higher than we ought to be and less than 12 miles from touchdown. Jeff was working the speed-brake handle with one hand and the autopilot with the other. Like a maestro, I thought.
"Flaps five," he called as the speed bled off and the descent rate increased.
When we switched to the tower eight miles from Runway 27, Jeff was still high and fast, but the trends were moving in the right direction. By 600 feet above touchdown zone he was solidly in the slot. He clicked off the autopilot and autothrottles, and flew the airplane the rest of the way like it was on rails.
The moment of truth was rapidly approaching. I noted with admiration that he held airspeed at exactly 151 knots as we crossed the fence. He could have easily cheated here and carried a little extra speed, a common method used by pilots trying to milk a landing. But he didn't. He was going for style points.
Unlike light aircraft where it's OK to touch down closer to stall speed, swept-wing jets are flown onto the runway at a calculated target speed. Holding the airplane off in the flare to try to achieve a smooth landing can produce the opposite result. That's because the rapid increase in drag of swept wings at low speeds can cause sudden speed decay. And the 737-800 is likely to hit the pavement hard if speed drops well below target speed. Worse, because it is longer than earlier-model 737s, it is more geometrically limited. A degree or two of excess pitch, combined with a strut-compressing hard landing, can result in a tail strike and damage to the airplane.
But Jeff flared perfectly as a computer-generated voice counted down the remaining radar altitude. "Fifty ... thirty ... twenty ... ten." At the point I expected to feel the main wheels touch down the engines went to idle and I felt nothing. Not even a quiver. Not even when the nose gear touched down a few seconds later. Only when the spoiler handle moved backward, signaling that ground spoilers had deployed and the airplane's full weight was on the wheels, could I feel the runway. The airplane knew it was on the ground before I did.
At 70 knots I took control of the airplane and turned off onto the taxiway. Other than landing a little right of centerline and being a few seconds late going to idle reverse thrust, there wasn't much I could fault him with.
I had to be fair, but I didn't have to be Santa Claus. Jeff had his 9. And I had one chance left. Since a perfect 10 was probably out of the question, the best I could hope for was a tie. But I was still feeling lucky. Jeff didn't have it in the bag yet.
Conditions couldn't have been more different the next evening as we were vectored for the ILS 4 Right approach at Newark Liberty International Airport, after an uneventful flight across the country. The sun and mild temperatures of San Diego were gone, replaced by three-quarter-mile visibility with mixed precipitation, slush and snow on the runway, and braking action reported "fair." A stiff crosswind from 070 at 12 knots, gusting to 18, promised to make for a sporty landing. Target speed for the landing with flaps at 40 degrees was 145 kt.
I adjusted my seat height for optimum viewing out the front windscreen. Sitting even an inch too low in the 737 can cut down on your view of approach and runway lights over the glareshield. And, even though the visibility wasn't all that bad tonight, it could always worsen. If it did, seat height could make the difference between landing and going around during my transition from instrument to visual conditions. I selected maximum autobrakes because of the runway conditions.
By the time we started down the glideslope, light turbulence was rattling the airplane. The autothrottles moved back and forth, doing a good job of maintaining speed in the gusty wind conditions.
I reminded myself that I might need to extend the ground spoilers manually if my landing was too smooth. Then the wheels might hydroplane in the slush, confusing the airplane's ground-sensing logic and delaying automatic spoiler extension. And that could use up a lot of extra runway.
At 500 feet Jeff called approach lights in sight. I looked up to see the runway lights come into view to the left of the aircraft nose because of the strong right crosswind. At approach minimums I clicked off the autopilot and kept driving the aircraft toward the runway.
As I flared the Boeing, a last-minute gust stole 10 knots of airspeed, just like that. The aircraft stopped flying an instant later and we dropped like a stone the last few feet to the runway. The nosewheels clattered noisily to the runway as I yanked back on the throttles, applying maximum reverse thrust. The engines spooled up loudly and the airplane shuddered and bucked like a New York subway train. The antiskid cycled on and off as the autobrakes worked to find some traction on the slick runway. When we slowed enough, I turned off at a high-speed taxiway and headed for the terminal.
At the gate a short while later, Jeff was all smiles as we shook hands and I congratulated him on his win.
"So?" I finally asked. Jeff hadn't yet told me the score.
"An 8, definitely. Nice idea about the firm touchdown with the slush on the runway. The ground spoilers popped right up."
So there it was. My lucky streak was over, and Jeff had proved gracious in victory — not a single Richter scale joke.
There's always next month.
Vincent Czaplyski holds ATP and CFI certificates. He flies as a Boeing 737 captain for a major U.S. airline.
