Thick, dark clouds filled the California sky on the day of my third instrument stage check with my CFII. I had an ominous feeling on my way to the airport.
I only needed to complete two approaches: a GPS into Carlsbad (CRQ) and a VOR into Oceanside (OKB). With the cloud base hovering just above approach altitude, I was hoping we could stay below the clouds for the approaches. I was wrong.
Overcoming spatial disorientation and vertigo is the toughest part of instrument flying. The best way I can describe it is being spun in a chair many times, then having to walk a straight line. Many hours of flying with no visual reference to the horizon are needed to overcome it. Unfortunately, my time in the clouds and at night has been limited.
The problems appeared early. Sitting on the tarmac, I called ground control for clearance. Unbeknownst to me, I was talking to a rookie air traffic controller. Most of the terms I used were old-fashioned, picked up from other pilots' radio transmissions. Veteran controllers don't mind the antiquated parlance of aviation's golden age, but this controller would have none of it. It took several readbacks of the clearance before he accepted it.
I taxied to the runway and began the runup. A few minutes later I pulled to the hold-short line and called for clearance. "Skyhawk Five-Eight-Seven- Sierra-Papa, holding short of 24--IFR." The tower was quick to answer.
"November Five-Eight-Seven-Sierra-Papa, squawk 5243. Cleared for takeoff Runway 24." I turned on the transponder, set mixture to rich, checked fuel shut-off and selector valve, turned on the navigation and strobe lights, and added power. I pulled the aircraft nose up at rotation speed, and began to climb. At around 1,000 feet, the tower instructed me to change frequencies and contact SoCal Departure Control.
SoCal answered immediately when I called.
"Five-Eight-Seven-Sierra-Papa, radar contact three miles west of Palomar. Upon reaching 3,000 turn left heading 090 and continue for vectors to the final approach course."
"Five-Eight-Seven-Sierra-Papa, left to 090 and up to 3,000," I replied, furiously scribbling the vector on my notepad.
"Five-Eight-Seven-Sierra-Papa, incorrect. Climb to 3,000 before turning left to 090. Confirm." Uh-oh, I should have listened better. This controller was all business. I read back the instructions correctly.
Less than a minute later I reached 3,000 feet and banked left. The belly of the aircraft brushed up against the side of a cumulous cloud. Now flying east, I peeked through my Foggles (a view-limiting device worn by instruments pilots in training that simulates the absence of a horizon) and saw a line of huge cumulus clouds about five miles ahead. Their bases were around 3,500 feet, so I was hoping to stay just below them on the GPS approach. A few minutes later, ATC instructed me to climb to 3,500--an altitude that would fly me straight into the cloud mass.
I have climbed and descended through cloud layers dozens of times, and had no problem with scattered and few clouds or fog layers. Now I was flying laterally through a huge cloud mass for an instrument approach I had done only once--and my performance was not satisfactory. An easy remedy is engaging the autopilot to fly the approach, but at this stage of training that is not an option. All approaches need to be flown by hand.
I began to feel nervous. My mouth became dry, my palms started to drip sweat. Worst of all, my Foggles began to fog up as a result of the perspiration. I held the yoke tightly and scanned the instruments furiously. As I entered the cloud, turbulence began to bounce me around. My body began feeding me false senses; it was becoming more difficult to keep the airplane coordinated and under control. "November Five-Eight-Seven-Sierra-Papa, turn left heading 030 for vectors to GAYGE [the initial approach fix closest to us for the GPS approach]. Cross GAYGE at or above 3,500. Cleared for the GPS approach, contact tower on 118.6."
"Five-Eight-Seven-Sierra-Papa, wilco" (will comply). I started to turn the airplane to the new course, and everything went haywire. My attitude indicator was dipping left, then right. The VSI needle was bouncing up and down. I felt as if I was beginning to lose control, that I was tumbling backward. I began to feel very conscious of the chief flight instructor sitting next to me in the cockpit, who had remained quiet up to now.
"Heading, Dan!" he called out, his voice full of uncertainty. I was now more than 30 degrees off course.
"Five-Eight-Seven-Sierra-Papa, you are heading into other traffic on final! Expedite your turn!" the SoCal controller called out, clearly beyond casual concern.
"My controls. Just sit back and relax," said the instructor.
The airplane was in a 60-degree bank to the right, and 30 degrees nose down. I had gone more than 30 degrees off course and 200 feet below assigned altitude. I had put us in an unusual attitude, and had started a graveyard spiral. We were still in thick clouds. I took a deep breath and tried to relax.
The flight instructor was struggling to regain control of the aircraft. He was sweating, and his hands were shaking. He performed several very steep and pronounced turns--he was still struggling. He started reverting to his training by thinking out loud, which acts as an affirmation that the pilot is doing the right things. Finally, he went full throttle and climbed through the cloud, emerging on top. SoCal gave him vectors to the intermediate approach fix and instructed him to change to tower frequency. The tower immediately cleared us to land.
I felt like a complete failure. "Sorry I wasted your time today, James." He let out a laugh.
"You did not waste my time, Dan. Both you and I learned some very valuable lessons today." He seemed nonchalant over our flight. "So many instrument pilots earn their instrument rating without ever flying in true instrument conditions. Then, the first time they fly solo into zero visibility, they end up in an emergency. This is a very tough skill to learn, and it takes time. You need to fly in clouds and at night, as much as you can to overcome it. Just be thankful you are experiencing it during training, and that you now know how to prepare for it."
After we landed we went in his office for a full debrief. Of course, everything was so clear then. The verdict? Spatial disorientation. Vertigo. Not trusting my instruments. Peeking from under the Foggles. The remedy? Get back up in the air and challenge myself. Fly with an instructor through every cloud and fog bank I could find, and at night.
"Learning Experiences" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for students and pilots to learn from the experiences of others. It is intended to provoke thought and discussion, acknowledging that actions taken by the authors were not necessarily the best choices under the circumstances. We encourage you to discuss any questions you have about a particular scenario with your flight instructor.
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