Instructor Report: Riding a Rogue Waco

On my twenty-first landing of the day 15 years AGO at Owatonna, Minnesota, the Waco UPF–7 came down hard on the concrete and bounced several feet in the air, its tires acting like spongy trampolines. Full power failed to slow the second descent and it bounced again, and then again. As a pilot with more than 2,000 hours, I was getting a checkout to fly the Waco, although I held a tailwheel endorsement in smaller aircraft.

By the time the aircraft stopped bouncing it was headed for the grass, taking out the visual approach slope indicator lights first. Beyond the grass was a ditch. In seconds we arrived, catching the Waco’s gear on the berm and flipping in slow motion upside down in the ditch.

Moans were the first sounds from the aircraft, first from me and then from the instructor in front. (I was told a dent in the instrument panel was from my head.) The propeller was bent, as was the top of the vertical stabilizer, yet there didn’t seem to be much damage to the biplane’s upper wing or the rest of the aircraft. We weren’t injured. We turned off the switches, popped the buckles, and eased to the ground.

Certificate of shame

Now I have something no pilot wants—my very own National Transportation Safety Board report: identification number CH103LA034. As with most accidents, this one had an accident chain of events leading to the moment when the 76-year-old Waco became a ditch digger, although not much digging was done. See if you can follow the chain—it isn’t difficult. Whatever the reason, at times both the instructor and I helped fashion its links.

The instructor was not aware I was on his training schedule and had just returned from piloting an international airline flight. He was asleep when called.

There was pressure to do most of the training that day, given that a front was coming and high winds were forecast. Winds can be hard on a tailwheel aircraft, but they are especially challenging for someone checking out for the first time.

The winds started building throughout the afternoon. We checked on every trip around the traffic pattern. The previous landing, which had a bounce and a recovery, had a nine-knot crosswind. The NTSB report says the accident minutes later happened with winds from 360 degrees at 14 knots, gusting to 18. That’s 60 degrees off Runway 30.

Good start to a bad ending

The first of four flights were in an American Champion Citabria tailwheel aircraft that, like the Waco, has tandem seating. The instructor directed me to a nearby airport to practice six landings and to give him an idea of my level of competence with tailwheel aircraft. I did well—too well, because it advanced me to the next stage. Next was a flight in the Waco for airwork, including slips, stalls, slow flight, and airspeed control at idle power. We took a break for lunch.

After lunch I distinctly remember the instructor asking if I was tired. I was.

“Nope,” I said. “I’m good.” After all, I was on a mission, and winds were coming the next day that we had already agreed would cancel training. Back in the cockpit, we began the third flight in the Waco, including 10 landings on grass beside the paved runway at Owatonna.

There was pressure to do most of the training that day, given that a front was coming and high winds were forecast.After another break, the fourth flight began. I recall developing pain in my elbows during the day—maybe a holdover from strenuous workouts at my gym back in Frederick, Maryland. It made my arms weak. The final instructor critique before the accident was that I shouldn’t congratulate myself too much on the smooth touchdown because I didn’t hold the aircraft off long enough, touching down with too much speed. I said nothing about the aching in my elbows. Then training moved to the concrete runway for the first time. The first wheel landing went well, although I probably touched down with too much speed. You already know about the second and third one.

The aftermath

The aftermath included self-doubt and seemingly disapproving glances from other pilots. That was October 2002, but by the following April I was still confessing my sin to anyone who didn’t really want to listen. At Sun ’n Fun in Lakeland, Florida, a year later I freely admitted my crime to acquaintances—almost as an extension of the word, “Hi” (as in, “Hi, haven’t seen you in awhile; I crashed a Waco last year”). It was especially frustrating because I had tried to prepare before my Waco training, flying a Decathlon with an instructor in the Washington, D.C., suburbs, and traveling to Pennsylvania to take several checkout flights in a Boeing Stearman. I did well there except for one landing in which I began to slip sideways on the wet grass after safely touching down.

After the Waco accident the tail was repaired, the engine checked, and the prop replaced. It was then sold to someone in my hometown. It seemed that every time I walked out the front door of my townhouse that same Waco was passing above, a flying reminder.

I often dream of a parallel universe—scientists say one really exists—where an alternate me admits in 2002 he is tired before the afternoon flights, or stops training as soon as the aching in the elbows begins to affect the flight. That version of me never rode a ditch-seeking Waco. I envy parallel me.

The lessons for an instructor in hindsight are clear. Don’t let the pressure of having a student who has traveled 1,000 miles and has to fly home in two or three days affect your judgment. Don’t let an approaching front with high winds affect the decision making. Look deeply into the lying eyes of any student who completes 10 landings or so and says he isn’t tired. Don’t fail to cancel if you are the one who is tired. As you approach 20 landings in a single day, challenge the student as to his condition. All these preachy rules seem obvious, but they only work if the student—who in this case also happens to be an instructor—doesn’t lie to himself.