Pilotage

Aviation journalist Mark R. Twombly writes from South Florida.

I'm not sure why, but the voice from air traffic approach control keeps me high until very close in to the airport. As I prepare to lodge a protest, I'm cleared for the visual and shuffled off to the tower. The complaint will have to wait. Right now, I have a dive-bomb approach to complete.

There's still time to descend briskly to the proper glidepath for a stabilized final approach, but it's going to take just the right combination of configuration and timing. Everything comes down — power, gear, landing flaps, the nose, and, finally, us. The airplane plummets, the runway looms, the tower voice speaks. "Cleared to land!"

No hint yet of the white-over-white VASI lights segueing to I'm all right (red over white) but, based on the tickle in my backside, I'm thinking this actually may work out.

When my backside says it's time, I feed in power to slow the descent and, sure enough, as the vertical speed indicator needle settles on a normal final approach descent rate, the lower VASI light turns a welcome red. Power set, on speed, on glidepath, airplane configured for landing, passengers in back chatting happily. Final check: The wheels are down and we're cleared to land. Life is good.

At 50 feet I wipe off the power, flare, and feel for the runway. The few seconds left in the flight allow for ample speculation as to whether the moment of touchdown will be as gentle as falling asleep, or as cantankerous as waking up. I never know.

Thud!

There's my answer, and it's not the one I had hoped for. At least nobody in back asks if we have just landed — or were shot down.

The planning and skill that went into the rescued approach just a moment ago matter little. For reasons not yet adequately addressed in advanced aerodynamics textbooks, a skillful final approach can get tossed out the door and into the trash the instant of touchdown. Whatever the cause — a wayward gust, a few too many smashed bugs on the leading edges, a passenger nervously shifting in his seat, that breakfast slice of leftover sausage pizza — the effect is that the perfect flight, a developing no-hitter, ends in the very bottom of the ninth with a thud.

There's no doubt in my mind that smooth landings are overrated. I love it when the airplane glides onto the runway as easily as it slides off on takeoff, but it doesn't bother me terribly when the touchdown is firm. The pros who fly every day can't get it exactly right every time, either. Firm arrivals don't appear to bother Navy carrier pilots, and they have pretty high standards.

A big bounce, skidding after touching down in a pronounced crab, a nosewheel-first arrival — those are obvious characteristics of an undesirable landing. Call it a thud, but if it is a safe and secure touchdown, I say no harm, no foul.

What should matter more than a smooth touchdown is everything that precedes it. A lot of effort goes into each incident-free flight, beginning with weather and flight planning long before we arrive at the airport. But the real work happens in the airplane as soon as it is under way on the takeoff roll. The effort continues until the landing, however smooth or firm, and the rollout.

Combining the mental complexity and physical dexterity it takes to aviate, navigate, and communicate well in a gravity-defying vehicle that revolves around three axes and operates in daylight and darkness, clouds and rain, and wind and turbulence is the central challenge that attracts us to flying. Focusing too much attention on the quality of the touchdown is like judging a great meal solely on the sweetness of the sugar served with the after-dessert coffee.

I rank hovering and precision aerobatics at the top of the list of flying activities requiring superior seat-of-the-pants feel, but there's plenty in everyday flying to keep us average Joes on our toes. A last-minute go-around in a busy traffic pattern. A short-field approach and landing at an unfamiliar airport. A night circling approach with wispy cloud bases licking at the airplane. After tackling one of those situations, who cares if the airplane plops down on the runway with a thud?

All the effort of the total flight, especially one involving a surprise or two, should not be assigned supporting-role status to a fickle and ephemeral star — the smooth touchdown. We should grade our performance, and others should judge us, not on the final moment, but on the full range of decisions we make and the actions we take from the beginning of the flight to the end.

After the firm landing, I felt like turning around in my seat and casually commenting, "Nice save after the approach controller finally cleared us for the visual and dumped us when we were close in and still way high, huh?" Yea, right.

Even though no one groused — other than Chief Pilot Bill, who took sardonic note of the event — I felt like reminding them that there is more to a safe and successful flight than the final few seconds. I'm sure they understand that, but the fact is that the last impression made on passengers is the touchdown, and that colors their perception of the entire flight.

Life may be good, but it ain't always fair.

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