Most of us see flying in a schizophrenic sort of way: one perception of flight is all roses and sunshine, the kind of thing that inspires poetry and daydreams. The other—the one that forces us to facereality—recognizes the side that is mechanical and, therefore, both fallible and potentially lethal. This is a good thing because, as much as we love flying, we should never forget that seemingly minor mechanical problems can escalate—and every second we’re at the controls we should be prepared for those possibilities.
One logical approach is to first categorize mechanical emergencies by the systems affected (power, control, et cetera) and, second, by the part of the flight in which they might occur. We then develop ways of practicing those failures so that, if we encounter them, we won’t be tap dancing to a new tune.
The first question is “How serious is this problem?” The answer to that requires answering two more questions. First, the nature of the failure: Is the problem in itself capable of bringing the airplane down, e.g., an engine fire or engine failure that demands instantaneous action? Or is it something that can be dealt with over a period of time, such as a stuck landing gear, a malfunctioning aileron, or flaps that won’t retract? Second, where and when the failure happens: An engine failure on climbout is more critical than one en route. An electrical failure during the day while arriving at your destination is much different than the same failure at night while a long way from any safe haven.
Some failures are more common than others. And some are more critical than others. However, all lend themselves to practice, which will greatly shorten the spool-up time for your brain if the real thing happens.
Powerplant failures. There are powerplant emergencies and then there are powerplant failures. Is it running a little rough or is it missing badly? Neither is a pleasant situation, but a rough-running engine is still running, so we have options. If, however, there is no noise coming from up front, most of our immediate decisions are made for us and every direction is down.
Regardless of the type of powerplant malfunction, the tried and true first-action rules still apply to them all: nose down, change tanks, mixture full rich, boost pump on. These are givens.
To practice powerplant failures after takeoff, level off at altitude and slow down. Then start a full-power climb, as if taking off. Do this at a cardinal altitude, say 2,000 or 3,000 feet, and always at a minimum of 2,000 feet agl. Then, after climbing 400 feet, bring the throttle back to quarter power, simulating a partial failure. Level out and note the effect of the power reduction. See what it takes to push over and hold altitude in that condition. Experiment with retracting any takeoff flaps and see how that affects your ability to hold altitude.
The altitude where the climb was initiated is our make-believe runway elevation. With that in mind, try making 180-degree turns while holding altitude (slow-flight exercise). This will clearly show how much care would have to be exercised to keep from losing altitude while turning back to the airport with only partial power available. While making that turn in practice, look back on the ground and visualize where the runway would be located and what it will take to make it back there. Most important, always assume that a sick engine is going to quit in the next few seconds and begin the turn, so you’re never so far away from the runway that if the engine does quit, we can’t reach it. Keep an eye open for alternate landing areas in case it does quit in the wrong place.
To practice partial powerplant failure en route—out in the practice area, with the throttle reduced to the same “partial failure” level—pick out fields in the area and make landing approaches to them. Then try diverting to the closest airport while at reduced power, and making an approach and landing at partial power.
To practice total power failure on takeoff bring your flight instructor along and find the longest runway in the local area, 5,000 feet or longer to be safe. Then make a takeoff and, with sufficient altitude over the runway—300 feet or so—smoothly bring the power back (smoothly because abrupt throttle movements sometimes cause actual failures). Get the nose down, establish best glide speed—and slip, if necessary, as if trying to get the aircraft back down on the remaining runway. There should be no attempt to actually land, and the go-around should be executed long before approaching the other end of the runway and with lots of altitude. The purpose is to experience what it looks like to have a runway disappearing under your nose and get an appreciation of how extreme the moves have to be to get down from that altitude. Running off the end of the runway at 20 mph is better than an off-field landing.
When an engine fails during climbout off the end of the runway, the urge to turn back is almost overwhelming. However, unless quite high, and with the right wind conditions, it is almost always the wrong decision. A way to develop an appreciation for what that maneuver entails is to start another faux takeoff from the same cardinal altitude used earlier. This time, climb up 500 feet, chop the throttle, and make a 180-degree gliding turn—then see how close you come to completing it before you descend to your original altitude. Depending on the airplane, you’re likely to find that 500 feet isn’t nearly enough. In fact, part of the exercise is to determine how much altitude is needed to make that turn. In a real situation, add at least 200 feet to that number for unforeseen complications.
In an actual engine-out situation, the chance that your brain will function clearly and orchestrate a totally coordinated, maximum-efficiency turn is very small. Lots of excess altitude is likely to be lost to adrenaline-induced sloppy flying.
A better tactic is to develop the habit of keeping track, on every takeoff, of those areas on the ground that offer a survivable touchdown point. The number and locations of reachable areas will increase considerably as your altitude and speed increase. Initially, they’ll be right on the extended runway centerline and quite close. But, as altitude is gained, the ability to deviate to either side to pick out the optimum touchdown area increases.
On your next takeoff, as soon as you’re high enough to see what’s ahead, begin playing “what if” games with yourself: “If it quits here, where will I put the airplane?” Practice doing that every second of every takeoff and soon, looking for emergency landing areas becomes second nature.
An engine failure en route, at altitude, is not nearly as dramatic as losing it off the end of the runway because we have more time to deal with it. The primary task in an en route failure is planning the approach to an emergency field, which can easily be practiced by flying approaches to random fields in the practice area.
Bring the engine back to idle (remembering both carb heat and to clear it from time to time) and set the goal of arriving opposite your touchdown point in what would be a fairly normal downwind position. Figure out how much altitude your aircraft loses in a 90-degree gliding turn, a 180, and a 360, and then use combinations of those to arrive at the appropriate altitude in the logical downwind position. By doing this the emergency landing will involve at least a little normalcy in the form of a routine power-off approach. Only the touchdown will be different.
If an engine is lost while flying a stabilized, power-on approach, which automatically puts the airplane in a position from which it can’t reach the runway without power, things get very serious, very quickly. The changing tanks/fuel pump drill has to be executed instantly, and a landing site straight ahead picked out. Practice going through the drill at altitude until you can do it with your eyes closed.
Frozen controls. Flight controls almost never jam or become disconnected, but it can happen. Unfortunately, it’s often pilot-induced, as are many system failures. But it can be practiced.
Mentally separate each control system in the airplane and fly with someone in the other seat blocking the movement of that control. When he or she blocks ailerons, you’ll find you can steer the airplane fairly well with just the rudder. Blocking the rudder is no big deal on a tricycle-gear airplane; many won’t be able to tell the difference.
Flying without the elevator is a different scenario. Try flying approaches at altitude with the elevator held in neutral. Make glides and use various amounts of trim, in combination with power, to get the nose up for the landing flare. Then try the same thing with the elevator in a slightly up position. Then slightly down. Get adept at changing pitch with power applications at the right time. In these kinds of situations, don’t expect to make a pretty touchdown. A safe one will do.
The elevator is more likely to be disconnected than jammed, so fly some at-altitude approaches with no hands on the yoke. The airplane will respond to trim changes much better but you’ll learn that you have to lead the needed changes and bolster them with power.
The mental portion. There are two very distinct aspects of emergency preparedness. The most obvious is practicing scenarios we know are most likely to happen in a mechanical way. This is important but not nearly as important as the other, less tangible aspect of coping with emergencies—developing the proper mental attitude.
Most flight instruction emphasizes technique. We don’t often talk about mental attitude, especially when it comes to something as potentially stressful as an airborne emergency. For many, to put flying in anything but a positive light takes some of the joy out of it. So, we turn a blind eye to the possibilities rather than facing emergencies and preparing for them. This is the wrong mental attitude. The proper attitude is a defensive one in which we willingly accept the fact that something can go wrong, and prepare for it.
In developing a proactive attitude, many of us actually make the assumption that whatever can go wrong, will go wrong—yet we don’t let that negative point of view detract from the satisfaction and joy flight gives us. There is a perverse peace of mind that comes from the sure knowledge that, as much as possible, we’re prepared for whatever might happen at any time.
A subset of the “be prepared” attitude is recognizing that in even minor emergencies, every one of us has the capability to become our own worst enemy. We have to keep our fear in check, and remember to “Fly the airplane.” Panic has killed more pilots than mechanical failures because panic destroys our ability to think clearly and causes us to do dumb things in haste. In many cases, simply slowing down, thinking about the situation, and then acting in a defined and logical way is the right choice.
The types of potential mechanical failures are incalculable, so the next time you climb in your airplane, from the moment the takeoff roll is started, watch what you move and what you touch. In each instance ask, “OK, so what if that breaks? What would I do?” It might be a failed throttle that won’t retard, trim that won’t move forward, a control lock that was left in place: if you can imagine it, it can happen, so take the airplane up to altitude and work out solutions. This will make you a better pilot, a safer pilot, and a more confident one.
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