Get-home-itis is probably more common for general aviation pilots, but there's another equally challenging malady I call landingitis that can strike pilots at any time. I define it as the overwhelming urge to land as soon as possible, to get back on the ground, and it's not limited to any one segment of aviation. We all suffer from it, regardless of our experience level.
I encountered a classic case of landing-itis a number of years ago while serving as the first officer on a long-range DC-10 airliner during a flight to Australia. We had been airborne for more than eight hours of an all-night, 10-hour flight from Honolulu to Sydney. As we neared our destination, we were finally able to pick up something other than static on the VHF radios, and we listened closely to the current weather reports just as we began to see the first morning light.
Eager to conclude the seemingly endless night flight (we'd departed Honolulu at midnight and eight hours later, it was still dark because of our westbound flight path), we began our preparations for the transition from over-water, infrequent high frequency radio communications to the more familiar and easily audible VHF reception we'd encounter once we were within 200 nm of the mainland. (On one occasion I'd en-countered a voice on Sydney Radio that sounded so American, I jokingly asked, "Did we go the wrong way?")
We didn't know that we were about to encounter a classic set-up for the formation of radiation fog, which can develop when the air close to the Earth's surface is cooled to its dew point, condensing into fog. It's normally thickest at the coldest time of day, which is usually around sunrise. As the sun rose, Sydney's visibility began to decrease rapidly. Once it dropped below landing minimums, the controllers asked us to state our intentions. Our alternate airport, Melbourne, was reporting similarly poor conditions, and ATC advised us that the only acceptable airport was Brisbane, some 300 nm north.
The captain of our long-range DC-10 briefly considered our landing problem and announced that we were diverting to Brisbane. He advised the flight attendants, who were in the midst of serving breakfast to some 230 passengers, that we would be arriving within the hour, and they should stow all the food trays and carts, secure the galleys, and prepare the cabin for landing. Meanwhile, I was busy checking our course to the new destination, pulling out charts for the approaches in Brisbane, and complying with ATC's numerous instructions to reroute us.
With the new course set for Brisbane, we asked to begin our descent, only to be reminded by the Australian controller of the 6 a.m. landing curfew. There was always a timing quandary when flying to Australia on that all-night flight. We would hustle to arrive on schedule, only to find that if we arrived too early, we couldn't land (the 6 a.m. curfew carried a steep financial penalty for flights that touched down even one minute early). Or, if the headwinds were strong, we'd fly faster to make up for lost time and hope to arrive with our fuel reserves intact. This flight had contained a double-whammy. We were too early, requiring that we use up more gas to hold, and the fog had forced us to divert to a distant alternate that required more fuel than we'd planned for our original alternate of Melbourne.
In the vicinity of Brisbane we had to wait our turn with all the other diverts. The passengers were now totally confused: They'd been rushed into preparing for a landing, followed by a 30-minute flight and 40 minutes spent in a holding pattern. Finally we touched down, glad to be on terra firma after almost 13 hours aloft. After refueling and refiling we finally arrived in Sydney, only two hours late. Unfortunately, we now had an airplane full of unhappy passengers who'd had their breakfasts yanked out from under them, were two hours late, and generally in a very poor frame of mind, thanks to the onset of landingitis.
In our hurry to land, we'd forgotten to consider all the available information. We'd focused on the "I want to get down on the ground because we've reached the destination" idea to the exclusion of several other factors -- all of which could have been considered to make the flight more pleasant for everyone, especially the passengers. For instance, we could have held in the area, which would have given us time to feed the passengers, wait to see if the fog over Sydney would dissipate, and determine other available alternate airports.
To avoid landingitis, you'll need to recognize its symptoms.
Knowing that nature can take control of the landing process if we don't make our decisions in a timely manner, I wonder if we aviators avoid admitting the existence of landingitis, hoping it will go away. Bad plan. It's better to face it squarely and plan your flight meticulously so that you carefully track your endurance-aloft times and can delay the "I gotta get down" feeling.
Since landing is such a well-planned phase of light, we tend to focus -- sometimes to excess -- on our arrival at the destination without giving sufficient thought to the variables involved. The instrument rating, for example, is probably 80 percent devoted to landings and the preparations for them. We review the airport diagrams, study area and approach charts, read the pertinent notices to airmen, and talk to other pilots about our destination, but what preparation have we made for the possibility that we may have to land elsewhere? Usually precious little, unless the flight is made under instrument flight rules -- then we have to make sure that it meets the federal aviation regulations' alternate airport requirements. In 28 years of airline flying, I think I've had to land at my alternate fewer than a half-dozen times, which contributes to my "mostly ignored until you have to deal with them" theory.
Too often we mistakenly think that all of our preparation entitles us to that landing at the destination for which we've so painstakingly planned. We forget to include a viable plan should all the variables not fall into their proper places. I'm talking about more than just the alternate airport requirements for IFR flights mandated by the FARs. I'm talking about a mindset that leads us to believe we have to land when we arrive at the destination. By the way, it's the same mindset that makes us reluctant to go around when we know we should.
To avoid landingitis, here's a simple solution used at my airline to keep everyone, including ATC, aware of our progress and our alternatives: Know how long your fuel supply will keep you aloft versus your planned en-route flying time.
Go-aroundsI've often thought that all pilots should be required to execute a go-around at least once every 90 days, just to ensure we're proficient. Then, when we find a likely candidate (poor approach, maybe high and fast), we'll be more likely to take that opportunity to fulfill the go-around proficiency requirement and do what should actually come naturally -- abandon the approach and return for another landing.
Too many pilots worry about what others will think when they should be patting themselves on the back for using good judgment to exit a bad situation. "With your safety in mind, we'll be returning for another landing" is a great way to explain your actions, emphasizing your concern for everyone's safety. |
On international flights we used to include with each position report our endurance as a number of hours and minutes of fuel remaining on board. To determine this number, we figured the time and fuel required for each phase of flight by adding up the en route, alternate, holding, and any contingency fuel on board. We knew our total endurance aloft as a number of pounds of fuel -- used instead of gallons as a measure of fuel quantity in turbine aircraft -- as well as hours and minutes of flying time. We used a dual count-down timer to see at a glance the difference between our flight-planned time and the fuel remaining. On a three-hour, 30-minute flight that started with five hours plus 10 minutes of fuel, it quickly became obvious when the first timer expired and we were burning into our reserves as shown on the second one.
Monitoring how much time and fuel have been used versus what we had projected for each segment of the flight is another important tool. Any discrepancies (very strong headwinds requiring more time and thus more fuel, or deviations for weather that lengthen our planned course) are easily seen, and some remedial action (a different power setting, an altitude change, or a change of destination) can be taken promptly before the situation becomes critical.
To alleviate the possibility of getting landingitis, I routinely decide what is my "bingo" fuel (the minimum I'll need to get to my alternate airport and land with a comfortable margin for a go-around) long before I ever leave the ground, while my brain is clear and my resolve firm.
You can benefit from this kind of planning by using the same techniques. Airliners have the luxury of very accurate fuel gauges; in many piston-engine aircraft, it is preferable to calculate bingo fuel as a function of time. Figure your total endurance aloft by converting your fuel on board to time aloft in hours and minutes. Compare it with your planned flight time (plus an alternative, even if you don't think you'll need one) and then throw in an extra fudge factor to allow for unforecast winds and weather diversions. If your fuel gauges are the traditional sloshing-needle type, use your wristwatch to define your bingo fuel. For an alternate that is 10 minutes' flight time away, I like to have double that in extra fuel, over and above the 30-minute (VFR) or 45-minute (IFR) reserves required.
Now you've got a good jump on landing-itis. When you reach your destination and find the runway closed or your gear won't come down, you can look at your timer, see how much more time aloft is showing on your endurance timer, and remind yourself that you have time to deal with these events. You don't need to land immediately and perhaps accept a less-than-suitable set of conditions, because you've got a margin that allows you the luxury of adjusting the flight to address the adverse conditions: the extra fuel represented by the difference between your flight plan and endurance timers.
With time (read: fuel) on your side, you can consider all the options and make an informed decision. Use all of your resources and you'll never succumb to landingitis, like we did that morning in Australia, because you've planned the details of your flight -- not just let them happen.
Karen Kahn is a captain for a major U.S. airline and author of Flight Guide for Success -- Tips and Tactics for the Aspiring Airline Pilot. Type-rated in the Boeing 757/767, MD-80, and Lockheed JetStar, she is an FAA aviation safety counselor who holds ATP and Gold Seal flight instructor certificates. Kahn is rated in gliders, seaplanes, and helicopters. Visit her Web site.
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