About a year ago, the FAA rewrote the regulations on flight-time and duty-time limits for airline pilots (FAR Part 117). The new rules are pretty dynamic and, despite being given many months to comply, the airlines pretty well botched it for the first several months, resulting in canceled flights. We pilots were often left to figure out on our own whether we were legal to start, continue, or finish a trip. After all, pilots are ultimately responsible for compliance with the regs. At times, we felt like we needed a pop-up lawyer to take into account the Byzantine rules, requirements, and wording.
In the end, using your common sense avoided most violations of the new regulations. Any time your body tells you, “it’s been a long day,” whether it be through multiple yawns, nodding off, or just plain feeling run down, it’s time to take a look at throwing in the towel. At the airlines we can declare ourselves to be fatigued and call it a day. Although you’ll probably have some explaining to do later with the chief pilot, it’s our way to say, “I don’t feel physically up to flying this flight.”
In the general aviation world, there are no hard-and-fast rules that must be adhered to, but the accident records illustrate a few examples of pilots pushing their physical limits. Some fall asleep at the yoke, others get disoriented, and some make ludicrous decisions likely because they were too tired to care and just wanted to get home.
Many years ago, I had one of those long flying days that tested my limits. And when I elected to throw in the towel, unforeseen circumstances had me crawling back against my will into an airplane I had flown more than 10.5 hours in a 15-hour period. Luckily, I was in my 20s and more capable of handling that many hours at or above 8,000 feet, which really does take its toll on those not acclimated to living at altitude.
The day’s mission was optimistic, to say the least. I’d fly my family’s Beechcraft Baron from the Montgomery County Airpark in Gaithersburg, Maryland, to nearby Frederick to pick up a coworker. From there, we’d fly to Batavia, Ohio, where I would drop him. After Batavia, I would continue in the Baron to Duluth, Minnesota, to cover a press event hosted by Cirrus Aircraft. The event lasted into the early evening, and at that point I would make a decision to fly home or call it a night in Duluth. After the event, a call to flight service brought a promise of good weather and tailwinds home. I bid thanks and farewell to my hosts and colleagues, and saddled up.
I settled in to cruise at 11,500 feet GPS direct to Gaithersburg with the sun setting behind me. A few hours later, over northwestern Pennsylvania, I started to see lightning in the distance straight ahead. I chastised myself for getting complacent with the weather and not even calling Flight Watch for an update in the previous flight hours. Soon, the Strike Finder was lighting up with dots.
Sure enough, a line of thunderstorms had spawned over the eastern Appalachians and was pushing southeastward, just like me. Since the weather and I were going to the same place at nearly the same time, I slowed about 50 knots to delay my arrival and conserve fuel. As I approached the line of storms from behind, I was surprised to see the beacon at my destination 30 miles ahead and the AWOS there promised good weather. I overflew Frederick in my descent with the beacon at Gaithersburg still in view. With only 10 miles to go I thought I was home free. Suddenly, the beacon that I’d been homing in on disappeared and soon after, rain started hitting my windshield in fat drops. The AWOS weather was deteriorating rapidly with every loop of the report. As the rain got worse and the reported weather went below IFR minimums, I turned around for the safety of Frederick.
On the ground there, I decided to throw in the towel and call a cab. Thirty minutes later, no cab. Another call, another 30 minutes, still no cab. A call to the Gaithersburg AWOS promised now-clear skies. Oh, well, what’s 10 minutes of flying after what I’ve done today? So, off I charged in the late evening, capping off my longest day of flying.
Eleven hours of flight time and 16 hours later, I was proud of my decision to throw in the towel, but being stood up by the town’s only cab company had me reversing my decision. Was it justified? In the hour I waited for a cab, I gave it a lot of thought. The weather’s good, the airplane’s good, but the pilot? Well, he’s tired. The agitating wait for a cab got my adrenaline going, and I declared myself fit to fly again. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to sleep soundly on an office floor.
Could I do it again today, 15 years later? Perhaps. I’ve had some marathon days flying for the airlines, many of them involving flying on the back side of the clock. In those cases, however, I have another pilot, dispatcher, and very capable turbine equipment for added layers of safety. I’m certainly more aware of the physiological effects of long hours in the cockpit and the effect it has on the body. I’ll touch on that in a future column.
Related Articles
