As we cruised over the shoals, I could sense him fighting the urge to take the yoke as he peered down at the long, white strips of deserted beach. "You can really fly low out here," he said, the hint prompting me to reconsider my altitude. I gave the controls a nudge, taking us a little closer to the treetops.
"No, I mean low," he said, unimpressed with my overly cautious technique. In my mind, the envelope was being pushed, but to him, we were barely squeezing it. It was a subtle war of perception, but the one that mattered most was mine, since I was the guy paying for the plane. "I'm good with this," I told him, and he grinned with a slight air of disappointment, folding his arms and resigning himself to the timid whimsy of this passing customer.
The exchange stuck with me well after the flight was over. While the hour passed without incident, and the instructor could find no fault with my technical skills, it still felt as if my failure to cross that low-level threshold branded me a novice. The seed of self-doubt was planted, and I began to wonder if there was more to good piloting than my little world of straight-and-level flight at recoverable altitudes.
I still recall that peer-pressure event whenever I see depictions of airplanes at perilous altitudes. The entertainment industry seems to take special delight in putting light airplanes close to the ground. Whenever filmmakers feature them in the movies, they inevitably craft the shots so that the airplane hugs the terrain. For example, in the opener to Steven Segal's Fire Down Below, a yellow Piper Super Cub gratuitously dips and rolls as it dances over the countryside. At one point it nearly wets its wheels in the mist of a waterfall, all under the pretense of depicting a "routine" pleasure flight.
There have been books, too, capitalizing on the romantic notion that small airplanes are predisposed to skimming the Earth. In Richard Bach's Biplane, the author skates along a stretch of highway for miles, watchful of oncoming cars, ruminating over the Zen-like pleasure of low-level flight: "When the road is clear, I fly over till my wheels straddle the centerline and I sit tall in the seat and crane over the windscreen and over the long nose and just enjoy flying low."
With so much emphasis and exposure behind the low-level phenomenon, the question resonates: Are general aviation pilots expected to possess the skills to fly low? While the answer may seem to be largely dependent upon individual judgment and ability, the notion that it is done at all must play on the psyche of every young pilot grappling with the question.
Perhaps the most vexing aspect of low-level flight is what the rules say. It's what the rules do not say that makes flying low such an acutely personal pursuit. The federal aviation regulations (FARs) merely demand (for unpopulated areas, of course) that a pilot leave enough altitude for a safe landing should the engine fail. Beyond that, the ground is the limit, as it were, and subjectivity reigns the more earthward the airplane becomes.
John Steuernagle, formerly a vice president of training for the AOPA Air Safety Foundation, offers a few thoughts on why the feds stop short of setting a minimum altitude. "Why promulgate a law you have no hope of enforcing?" he asks. "More importantly, why put blanket limitations on an aircrew who may need to fly low given a particular circumstance?"
While the language gives pilots significant latitude, Steuernagle points out that just because something isn't prohibited doesn't mean it is encouraged, or even smart. Even someone who chooses to fly low "responsibly"-completely within the letter of the law-must consider the consequences outside the cockpit. "We're in a new world now," he says, referring to the events of September 11, 2001. "Now more than ever, we fly with the consent of the public at large, and flying low can incite anything from concern to panic."
If the FARs render a vague definition of what is "too low," they have removed some of the guesswork by declaring that no pilot shall operate an airplane in a reckless manner. This means it is against the rules to fly low with openly ostentatious intentions, especially given that low-level flying results in a number of accidents. When it comes to accidents, the numbers show that flying low, regardless of intentions, is dangerous. Its danger is derived primarily from the fact that venturing close to the ground robs pilots of their options. Science tells us that an airfoil will perform the same at 10 feet as it will at 10,000, but it doesn't take a Bernoulli to figure out that immovable objects and airplanes don't mix. Safety reports involving low-level flight reveal that even "responsible" pilots often fail the litmus test of the FARs, and they are unable to execute safe landings when the occasion demands it. (See "Instructor Report: Watch this!" page 75.) Worse yet, they do not maneuver the aircraft around power lines, trees, or terrain, or their attention is diverted long enough to cause a loss of control. NTSB accident records reveal that even pilots with completely benign motives-those with no one to impress on the ground or in the cockpit, those without an aerobatic agenda-are often incapable of dealing with the demands imposed by low-level operations.
Jon (last name withheld) was a 140-hour pilot working toward his instrument rating when he and his instructor chose, on a whim, to fly low over a large, frozen New England lake. "It was exhilarating," he says, reflecting on the flight that was perfectly within the spirit of the FARs, well away from any person or structure. "We were cruising along, wings level, at 120 knots," he says. "We were about 50 feet off the surface with a beautiful blue sky above us." Yet a setting sun cast a deceptively flat light over the landscape, and with nothing but white beneath, Jon failed to realize that he was drifting closer to the surface. Flying without the benefit of depth perception, he unconsciously allowed the airplane to settle toward the snow, until suddenly the gear made contact and the airplane came to a shattering halt.
Both men walked away from the crash, but Jon learned a number of valuable lessons. "I'd certainly never get lulled into anything like that again," he says. "Things happen very quickly at low level, especially without good ground references. I would never recommend any general aviation pilots approach low level casually, if at all."
If the regulations smack of ambivalence, the GA training practicum has not clarified things. Again, it is what the syllabus omits that may leave a private pilot wondering just how close to the ground an airplane should get. While some instructors may expose their students to low-level training, others will not, except for practice of ground-reference maneuvers to be flown between 600 and 1,000 feet above the surface-and landings, of course. "There is nothing to prohibit training in operations close to the ground," says Arizona-based flight instructor John Walkup. "If the CFI has no standards and no experience in low-level flying then the student will be devoid of this training."
The AOPA Air Safety Foundation has focused its attention on the safety hazards associated with maneuvering flight. Its newest safety seminar, "Watch This!" debuts at AOPA Expo 2003 in Philadelphia. The seminar will go on the road to cities around the nation next year.
What about pilots whose duties require them to fly low? What precautionary words can they offer from their unique vantage point? Sam Riggs is a cropdusting instructor with more than 45 years' flying experience. While he is, by design, predisposed to flying low, he is quick to set a minimum altitude for those who have not been specifically trained. "Altitude is insurance," he says. "Just off the top of my head, I'd tell any pilot not to fly lower than 1,000 feet. Let the cropdusters do the low flying. "
What adds credibility to Riggs' credo is the fact that he did not undertake a low-level lifestyle until his vocation demanded it. He had always remained rightfully wary of the ground, and he continues to advocate that margin of safety for anyone without a legitimate need to fly low.
The altitude at which a pilot chooses to fly will always remain a largely personal decision. While hangar talk and media glorification may lure some pilots to that space just above the treetops, they should pause to consider the consequences to themselves, their passengers, and those on the ground. Professionals who fly at low level both accept and anticipate the risks, but those with casual interest should keep a comfortable distance from the ground.
Wes Andrues is a VFR pilot who lives in Springfield, Virginia. He last wrote for AOPA Flight Training about how "ostentatious display" can lead to fatal accidents.
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