Demystifying spins

A blaring stall horn, sluggish controls, and airframe buffeting were pretty clear evidence that the Cessna 150 trainer I was flying didn’t want to stall, and I was forcing it to do something unnatural. I also was aware that a bungled stall could result in an inadvertent spin—and spins were disorienting and dangerous. Spins were so dangerous, in fact, that none of the local flight instructors were willing to teach or even demonstrate them.

Eventually, I found a flight instructor who was regarded as a spin expert, and we climbed well above 6,000 feet one morning in preparation for what would be an unforgettable spin demo.

“We’ll do a few turns and then recover,” he said as he pulled the nose up and applied full left rudder. “A spin can be a really smooth and gentle maneuver when you know what you’re doing.”

The little Cessna rolled inverted, and the instructor pulled the throttle to idle as the airplane began an incipient spin to the left. The first turn was gentle, as he described, and the rate accelerated during the second turn. After that, the ground was a blur.

The instructor applied opposite rudder and pushed the yoke forward to recover. Instead of recovering, however, we continued spinning while a spike of negative Gs lifted pens, paper charts, and other loose items. The instructor slammed the yoke fore and aft and full left and right. The engine quit and the odor of avgas filled the cockpit.

Then the rotation mercifully stopped, we pulled out of the dive, the engine restarted with a roar, and the instructor returned the airplane to straight-and-level flight.

“I don’t know what the hell just happened, but something’s bad wrong with this airplane,” he said. “Let’s get back on the ground and figure it out.”

The approach and landing were normal, and the instructor told the flight school owner of our travails. A skilled mechanic took a close look at the airplane, tested its cables and linkages, measured the elevator and rudder deflection, and pronounced it fit to fly. The instructor resumed teaching in it but said he would never spin it again.

The experience left me rattled, still intimidated by stalls, and no more knowledgeable about spins.

I told my tale to a veteran aerobatic pilot who built and flew a two-seat Christen Eagle biplane. He performed in airshows and competed in aerobatic contests, and volunteered to help.

The Eagle is a tremendous spinner, and we did multi-turn upright, inverted, and aggravated spins. Each time, the pilot entered and recovered exactly as he intended. Spins were suddenly a lot less mysterious. With study and practice, they could be understood and mastered. Eventually, I took a 10-hour spin course in a two-seat Pitts biplane that thoroughly demystified spins. Then I bought a single-seat Pitts of my own and used it to compete in regional aerobatic contests. I also became a flight instructor and taught spins in airplanes such as an American Champion Decathlon and Extra 300L.

All that spinning cured my anxiety about practicing stalls. If the worst thing that can happen from a botched stall is an inadvertent spin, and you know you can recover from a spin, then stalls aren’t scary anymore. But I still sympathize with students who are intimidated by stalls, and I’ve come up with helpful techniques.

First, silence the airplane’s stall warning horn. That blaring alarm is annoying and stress inducing, and it inhibits normal student/instructor communication. Then, if possible, take a formal spin course. The happy side effect of intentionally entering dozens of spins is that it gives you a sixth sense about stalls. You’ll see them coming well in advance. Even if a stall happens, you’ll have a highly refined sensitivity to yaw—and a spin can’t happen without both an aerodynamic stall and yaw.

Finally, all this spinning allowed me to resolve the what-just-happened question my instructor asked after our traumatic Cessna 150 spin surprise: It was an upright spin that became a cross-over spin. Forcefully applying, and then holding, forward stick and opposite rudder allowed an upright spin to transition to an inverted spin, and negative Gs stopped the carbureted engine. Simply neutralizing the controls would have allowed the airplane to recover.

It’s doubtful that any of the instructor’s wild gyrations did any good. But the instructor did one thing right that day that made up for all subsequent errors. He gave us plenty of altitude—and I’ll always be grateful for that.