Where Lesser Angels Roam

Dad and I had been waiting for a ride home from a towered airport where we had delivered an Aeronca 7BCM Champ. We had planned to get a ride in a truck over a well-traveled toll road. But with a small fleet of aircraft rentals at their disposal, two pilots—one a designated pilot examiner, the other a flight school owner—had decided to take us on the short flight back to our home airport in one of their Cessnas.

I had no objection to flying home. But when I found out that they intended for four well-fed guys to pile into a fuel-heavy Cessna 172, my common-sense alarm went off. The examiner should not have encouraged this idea. He was familiar with our small, tree-lined grass airstrip and knew that the airplane would be taking off in a very heavy condition on an exceptionally hot day.

The Cessna 172 is a marvelous machine, but it was never a genuine four-place transport. I had used a similar model many years earlier to get my instrument rating and had seldom flown one since. Yet as we approached the aircraft, the examiner insisted that I sit up front.

The weight and balance did favor this arrangement, but we were already well beyond anything reasonable. This did, however, afford me access to the controls, which I would need if things did not go well. I believed the airplane was capable of making the flight, but I thought this venture was both unnecessary and stupid. My objections were noted, but trivialized by the other pilots. We had all been trained at one time or another by the examiner, and most chose to favor his judgment.

The left-seat pilot was the flight school owner, a multiengine airline transport pilot who operated his own on-demand charter service. Behind him sat the examiner, and beside the examiner sat my father, a private pilot.

My experience in banner towing had helped to bestow in me some reasonable stick-and-rudder skills, but my time spent as a commuter captain for a small airline warned me against trying to cheat the numbers. The Cessna was going to be challenged by current circumstance, and it was being flown by a guy in whom I didn’t have a lot of faith.

The departure runway was several thousand feet longer than the little carving we were headed to. We rolled an exceptionally long distance down that first runway before liftoff. For most pilots, this warning would have been enough to abort, but I was the only one who seemed concerned.

The trip to our airstrip took less time than the three failed approaches that were made once we were there. Nothing was said on the first attempt, which began with a downwind leg that was higher than the one I would have made. The pilot surprised me when he turned base leg so close to the runway. At first it appeared as though he was going to use some kind of chop-and-drop descent strategy, but it became obvious that he had no strategy at all.

All of his go-arounds were sloppy, with the first one being the worst. I suggested that he try making his downwind lower the next time. I also sat a little more ready in the event that he began to lose control of the airplane. The second approach was better but much too fast. I could tell that he was upset and had been since the first abort.

Now the examiner in the backseat was yelling for me to take the controls. But the frustrated charter pilot was more receptive to input, so I tried once to talk him through a landing. The last failed approach came nearer to success. But by this time I was the only calm person in that airplane. After his third attempt, the pilot threw up his hands in disgust and relinquished the controls. I then brought the airplane in for a mostly uneventful soft-field landing.

I say “mostly uneventful” because the approach was intentionally low and slow over the last remaining tree on the south end of the field. Holding a small amount of power directly overhead of that obstacle, I chopped the throttle and nosed the aircraft down in contour over that form. The aircraft then accelerated into a mildly steep descent, losing much of that added kinetic energy with a large braking pitch change that ended barely six inches above the ground. My passengers weren’t expecting this kind of maneuvering, and, given their already high level of anxiety, I didn’t tell them about my plan to do so beforehand.

In doing this, I underestimated how much potential energy would be turned into airspeed by this burdened aircraft. The airspeed was safe but several knots fast. Rather than float down the runway, I released some of the back-pressure on the control wheel and allowed the airplane to land.

I could have used some refined aerodynamic braking, but I thought everyone would feel better with the wheels on the ground. The aircraft’s unchecked momentum carried us over the remaining distance to the other end of the runway.

I felt vindicated by my earlier caution, but condemned by my participation in the flight. I would never have participated in that flight had it not been to protect my father from harm.

That night I spoke about the incident with my dad. I was angry. His overconfidence in the examiner had helped to involve us in an ill-advised adventure. He vowed never again to take his former instructor’s opinion over mine when it involved the safety of a flight. The most frustrating thing for me was not being seriously considered in a matter of such grave importance. This kind of blind faith I find disturbing.

My father is gone now. I hope to discover that better angels will prevail the next time something like this comes up, but I won’t be convinced again to partake, in case they don’t.

John Carroll of Auburn, New Hampshire, is a multiengine ATP with commercial glider privileges. He is a former tow pilot and commuter captain, with more than 9,000 hours.