Both were avid aviators; instrument ratings were already on their minds, so they had availed themselves of the day's opportunity to fly out and back as simulated instrument pilot and safety pilot, in turn. Loved ones awaited the grand arrival, the first such visit since the flying pilot's checkride. Those on the ground would be meeting the woman and general aviation for the first time. Overlay these considerations on what happened next, and you will have not excuses, but the sum of the pressures being felt by the pilot this early winter day as he entered the downwind leg for Runway 18 at Waterbury-Oxford. (Then a nontowered airport with two intersecting runways, it now has a tower and the shorter runway, 13-31, is no longer used.)
Upon arriving at the midpoint of the downwind leg, the pilot flying realized that something was amiss. Either the runway numbers had been painted wrong on the pavement, or he was flying the downwind to Runway 36. Dumfounded, it took him a moment to figure out who was in error. It wasn't the painters. There was no other traffic, and adjusting for the gaffe would have been simple enough. But the embarrassing distraction triggered an illogical sense of urgency to terminate the flight -- almost regardless of whatever it would take.
The final approach to Runway 18 was awful; it was high. Forgetting most of what he had learned before earning his certificate some five months earlier, the pilot came in with excessive airspeed and tried to plant the aircraft on the pavement. The result was the oh-so-predictable hot float in ground effect, followed by the always ill-advised attempt to poke the aircraft onto the pavement, bringing on the porpoise. The aircraft slammed into the ground, bounded back into the air, slammed on again, et cetera, finally alighting for good -- undamaged, amazingly -- about 80 percent of the way down the 5,000-foot runway.
The pilot recalls two things about the porpoising sequence. One is the frightfully loud impact noise an airplane makes when it is forced manually and repeatedly onto a hard surface. The second is that at some point during the sequence, he heard the other pilot shout some kind of warning and pull back on her yoke, to unknown effect. Despite being the rookies they were, both pilots kept astonishingly straight faces during the long silent taxi to the ramp, where a confused-looking reception committee, having witnessed the whole thing and sensing it had not been a normal arrival, waited. No explanation was requested, and none offered. After lunch and a brief visit, the pilot duo departed for home as originally planned. The return flight was, as the clich� goes, routine.
Both continued their pursuit of aviation and years later entered the flying workforce as flight instructors and charter pilots. She became an airline pilot. They flew together a few more times before time and distance ended their association. His respect for sturdy landing-gear construction had become enormous; he knew that it, and probably the intervention of his flying companion, had saved him from becoming a pilot with an accident on his record, with its assorted humiliations and other burdens.
We are all products of our own experiences, so as a flight instructor later on, he strove mightily to see to it that his students did not become so rattled during a botched approach that they would attempt what he had done, forcing the airplane down just to get it over with. No, his students would go around at the first sign of things coming unglued -- that was the rule, and he was adamant about it. (On occasion he would share the story of his near-mishap, never failing to mention that dreaded noise burned forever into his memory.) They would also never land in an improper configuration and attitude, thereby denying the porpoise even the slightest chance to strike. And he would test their skills in these regards by causing them to react to sudden unforeseen events while flying in the traffic pattern.
Like the patron saints they are, long runways and stout landing gear have saved more than one pilot from such a fix. But not always -- and never to be relied upon as a substitute for skill and training.
On October 2, 2003, they did not prevent another Cessna 172, this one piloted by a student pilot practicing takeoffs and landings solo in Seattle, Washington, from sustaining substantial damage to its firewall after a porpoising sequence. Once again, a distraction unrelated to the actual touchdown itself started the ball rolling. The student pilot, although focused on making power reductions and configuration changes during the traffic pattern, turned final and found himself too high. Here, according to a statement cited in the National Transportation Safety Board's accident investigation, the student began resorting to more aggressive measures but with improper technique. "The student lowered the nose of the aircraft, but did not reduce power. Airspeed began to increase and the student attempted to 'slip to slow down.' The student eventually got the aircraft on the VASI glideslope, but had an indicated airspeed of 75 kt. The student pilot then reduced power and continued to land with 70 to 75 kt airspeed. The aircraft touched down in a flat attitude with excessive airspeed and ballooned. The pilot pitched the nose down, and the aircraft touched down on the nosegear and bounced. The student pitched the aircraft down, and again the aircraft touched down on the nosegear and bounced." He taxied clear. Firewall damage was discovered later. Probable cause (determined on March 2, 2004): "Improper flare during the landing. Excessive airspeed and improper remedial action were factors."
These events are all too common. Remedial action is delayed, not taken at all, or attempted but botched. These are training issues; no pilot can confidently rule out mishaps and turn off his or her wariness. Cherish it always. Professional athletes recognize a similar mindset as "mental toughness" and train to maintain it.
During October 2003 alone, other examples of its absence can be found. On October 13, a Cessna 210N hits the runway flat and hard while landing at Hickory, North Carolina. The porpoise ensues. A witness states that on the third bounce the airplane rebounds 25 to 30 feet into the air, rolls left, and the left wing tip strikes the ground. The NTSB faults the pilot for failing to maintain airspeed. On October 21, a private pilot landing a Cessna 172N in Melbourne, Florida, flares too high with flaps fully deflected. Again, the final bounce is described as 25 to 30 feet high. The pilot adds power and tries to retract one notch of flaps as recommended. But the flaps retract completely and the airplane pitches down, striking the runway nose first. A problem such as inadvertent flap retraction was not invented on this day, and its avoidance must be stressed in balked-landing practice. Again, mental toughness.
The oft-related tragedy of all the damage and injury -- fortunately, usually minor -- from porpoising is that it is so easily avoided through training that drills home the lesson to the point where the proper corrective action is instinctive. Adding back-pressure and striving for the correct height/attitude combination, rather than pitching the nose down again after a bounce, drives the porpoise away. Performing a correct go-around -- whether in addition to or in lieu of another attempt to touch down -- likewise banishes the porpoise back to the deep, preventing porpoise events from becoming "Never Again" article subjects. (Articles of that title published in AOPA Pilot magazine and on AOPA Online are written by the pilots who experienced the problems, in hopes others will be spared similar dismay.) Most of all, setting a personal standard that requires a go-around as the answer to any generalized discomfort at a critical phase of a landing demonstrates mental toughness like no other piloting technique for staying out of trouble.
Dan Namowitz is an aviation writer and flight instructor. A pilot for 19 years and an instructor for 13, he resides in Maine.
