Unusual Attitude: Calm seas don’t make a sailor

It was Friday morning at EAA AirVenture in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, and the seaplane base had witnessed a tragedy the prior evening. An amphibious Lake seaplane with three people aboard had attempted to take off in adverse wind and water conditions and crashed. Emergency workers and volunteers at the seaplane base had pulled all three from the wreckage and helped resuscitate them, although one died two days later. The crash had been a searing experience for the seaplane base volunteers.

“I can’t order you not to take off,” the seaplane base manager, a veteran seaplane pilot, told me. “But I’m urging you not to go in the strongest possible terms.”

I carefully considered his advice and didn’t want to go against his wishes—yet, I wasn’t convinced. The Cessna 185 on amphibious floats I would be flying that day was a highly capable seaplane. The airplane would be relatively light with just two occupants and less than full fuel. And I’d flown it the previous day in similar wind and wave conditions without complication. Taking off seemed well within the airplane’s capabilities, and my own comfort level.

I called the aircraft owner, a veteran seaplane pilot, and described the wind and water conditions. He said he thought taking off was reasonable but left the final choice to fellow pilot Luz Beattie and me. Then I called a veteran seaplane instructor who had flown 185s extensively, who regarded the wind and wave conditions as challenging but “not a showstopper.”

Beattie, a highly experienced pilot who was new to seaplanes, said she’d support whatever I decided. Then the seaplane base manager offered a way to gather more information.

“Take a boat out onto the bay and judge the conditions for yourself,” he offered.

Beattie and I hopped in a skiff with a volunteer from the seaplane base, and we went through a narrow cut and out into the bay where seaplanes took off and landed. The surface was choppy; the wind was about 10 knots; the waves were about two feet tall; and there weren’t any whitecaps.

When we got to the dock, I told the seaplane manager that I respected his advice and sympathized with the difficult position he was in. But I’d made an aeronautical decision, and we would take off as planned.

He nodded, then asked a volunteer to retrieve the Cessna 185 from its mooring and bring it to the dock. We boarded, started the engine, then headed out through the cut and into the bay. With the engine gauges reading normally, we raised the water rudders and turned into the wind for takeoff. The airplane accelerated with its customary roar and, although the 18-second takeoff roll felt like a spanking at times, we lifted off without difficulty and began what turned out to be a full day of flying.

I didn’t return to the seaplane base until the next afternoon, and then I wondered if the manager would be angry at me for disregarding his recommendation. When we saw each other, however, he was exceptionally gracious. I told him Beattie and I had appreciated his heartfelt advice, knew it was offered for our benefit, and sympathized with the recent trauma he and his staff had experienced. He thanked us for making an informed choice and said he was glad that everything worked out.

“We all know the responsibility of the pilot in command,” he said. “I provide opinions based on my own knowledge and experience. But pilots make their own decisions—and that’s as it should be.”