January 21, 2001 Eye of Experience #36:
Luck vs. Skill |
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Which would you rather have, luck or skill? When — not if — you are confronted with bad weather, an unusual attitude or an airframe failure, which will you depend on? The correct answer is
January 21, 2001
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| About the Author ... |
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Howard Fried started flying with the Army Air Corps in WWII, where he
served both as a multi-engine instructor pilot and in combat piloting B-17s.
After a stint teaching sociology and on-the-air and management jobs in the
radio business after the war, he turned to teaching flying again full-time.
Over 40,000 general aviation hours later, he is still instructing
and running his own flight school. Along the way he administered over 4,000 flight tests
as a Designated Examiner until victimized by rogue FAA
officials.
He has authored two popular flying books aimed at student pilots and
instructors, Flight Test Tips and Tales and Beyond The Checkride, and a
series of audio tapes, Checkride Tips from
Flying's Eye Of The Examiner.
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 Many
years ago when I was a whole lot younger than now, I was a championship
athlete in a very competitive sport. When preparing for a competition, I
always used to say, "Let my opponent have the skill, just let me be
lucky!"
When it comes down to a really tight situation in an airplane, I sort of
believe I'd rather be lucky than skillful. While it is true that we make our
own luck by being properly prepared for all foreseeable contingencies, all of
us are human beings and as such are prone to occasional lapses. I know there
have been occasions when I momentarily suffered "brain fade" and
engaged in downright stupid activity with an airplane.
My
stupidity occurred on a beautiful spring day in Michigan. I had been towing
gliders for several hours. At that time we were using a Citabria KCAB, a fully
aerobatic airplane with a double inverted system (fuel and oil). Our procedure
was to tow the glider to around 2,000 feet MSL, at which time the glider would
release and break right and climb while the tug broke left and dove, with the
200-foot tow rope trailing. The tow plane would then make a low pass over the
field and drop the rope so it could be hooked up to the next glider while the
tug came around and landed, taxiing back for the next hook-up.
 After about three hours of this up-down, up-down activity it gets to be
rather boring. So, after the glider released on one particular flight and
feeling good, I looked around thoroughly, dove to entry speed and did a loop.
On the back side of the loop, I glanced in the mirror (we had a mirror mounted
at the top of the windscreen in the Citabria so we could observe the glider
while it was on tow) and I was horrified to see the tow rope, which was still
attached to my tail and about which I had completely forgotten. Stupid? You
bet it was! I was lucky. Had it been anything less than a perfect loop that
rope could very well have come down and fouled the prop or seriously damaged a
wing.
There's yet another example of my own dumbness. One of our clients, a very
nice guy, but one who is prone to occasional periods of unconsciousness, had
attempted to pull his airplane (a Cherokee Six) out of his T-hangar without
having completely opened the overhead door. You guessed it; he caught the
vertical stabilizer on the partly-opened door, damaging it badly. At that
time, our maintenance shop was at a nearby airport about a dozen miles away.
So, I simply called the local Flight Standards District Office and requested a
ferry permit in order to fly the airplane over there. Not knowing quite what
to expect what with a substantial kink in the vertical stabilizer and the
rudder canted somewhat backwards, be assured I flew it very carefully and
landed it very softly.
 As
I was rolling out on the runway after landing I happened to glance back. What
I saw brought my heart up into my throat and made me break out into a cold
sweat. The entire rear portion of the airplane was flapping up and down
through over a foot of travel! The back of the airplane had been broken at the
bulkhead at the rear baggage compartment. All the longerons were broken and
all that was holding it together were the control cables to the elevator and
rudder and the skin. Not knowing any better, I had flown it like that.
Again I was lucky. The air was calm that day, and there were no bumps. I
was also stupid. Had I pulled and pushed a little harder while preflighting
the airplane I might have discovered how badly it was really damaged — by the
stupidity of the guy who pulled it into the half-opened hangar door.
In my 57 years and 40,000 hours of aviating there have been a few other
occasions when I have had to call on my experience (and that of others) to
save myself from bad situations. Not all of them involved brain fade, but all
involved the element of luck.
Even in today's climate of denial of responsibility there are some things
that we must admit are our own fault. One such episode occurred a few years
ago: It was the only time in my long career as a pilot in which I lost control
of an airplane. Here's the story.
 One
of my fine clients owns a very nice Cessna 310 in which I had given him his
training and which he uses to travel to his business interests in Michigan,
Ohio and Indiana. He had trained for his multiengine rating in a Beech Baron,
and had some experience in a Piper Seneca. This nice gentleman spends his
summers at his home in Michigan and he winters in Las Vegas, running his
business by telephone, fax, and computer. On this particular occasion he had
returned to Michigan by carrier in mid-December to attend Christmas parties at
several of his facilities. Since his 310 was in Nevada, he decided to rent a
Seneca II but, because it had been some time since he had flown one, he asked
me to accompany him on a flight from Pontiac, Mich. (PTK), to Youngstown, Ohio
(YNG), for a party at his facility there. I agreed to do so and, with him
flying the airplane from the left seat and me acting as instructor in the
right seat, we embarked on the trip in a Seneca II.
Now, please understand I had been lecturing and writing on the subject of
hazardous attitudes for several years. [See "Eye
of Experience #13: It Can Happen to Me!" and "EoE
#15: Hazardous Attitudes Revisited." — Ed.] Although I certainly should have known better, on this particular day I fell
victim to the invulnerability attitude, and I believed "it couldn't
happen to me." I had been up virtually all night the day before the trip
and I was physically exhausted. However, having confidence in my client's
ability and in my own, I went along. While my client conducted business and
partied, I tried to catch a brief nap sitting in a chair in a darkened office
at his place of business.
 When
it was time for the return trip (around 11:00 p.m.), I suggested that we check
in to a hotel and fly back the next morning, but he insisted that we return
that night as he had an early appointment the next day in Flint, Mich. Knowing
better, I reluctantly agreed to return that night. I then obtained a weather
briefing that indicated we would have an easy VFR flight. So, having yielded
to the pressure, we embarked on the return trip under VFR, without a flight
plan, but with flight following.
Halfway across Lake Erie in good VFR conditions we got the shock of our
lives when the approach controller read us the Pontiac weather: a ceiling at
200 feet and visibility varying between one-quarter to one-half of a mile. He
also advised us that three airplanes had tried the approach before us: One had
made it in but the other two had missed and gone elsewhere. Then came the
usual, "What are your intentions?" I asked for the Flint, Mich., (FNT)
weather (about 35 miles from PTK). FNT was reporting 400 overcast and two
miles' visibility. There is an ILS at FNT, so that would be a piece of cake. I
therefore advised the approach controller that we would execute the approach
at PTK and if we couldn't get in, we'd go to FNT. Meanwhile, I air-filed IFR
as we were coming up over a solid undercast.
We were then vectored around for the ILS at PTK. I normally like a close,
tight turn on to the final, but that night the controller turned us on right
at the marker, 300 feet above the glide slope. This resulted in our having to
descend quickly in an attempt to capture the glide slope but, when we reached
decision height and broke out of the overcast, I had lost the localizer. The
runway was about a quarter-mile to our left, and we were a third of the way
down it already. Perhaps we could have maneuvered around and landed on the
remaining runway, but I called the miss, and climbed back up into the soup,
breaking out in the clear night sky on top about 1,000 feet AGL. Since we had
visual contact with the runway at decision height, I decided to take another
shot at PTK rather than diverting to FNT. This time I requested a long turn on
to final.
 This
time we joined the localizer at least a mile outside the marker at intercept
altitude. However, although the approach was right down the glide slope and
with the localizer needle centered, when we reached the DH (decision height)
we saw nothing below or in front of us. (I was flying and my client was
looking for the runway.) Again I called the miss, but this time due to my
physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion, I failed to retract the flaps and
gear. After applying power and honking back on the yoke to start climbing out,
the airplane stood on its tail and started straight up!
Realizing that the manually-operated flaps were still extended for landing,
I leaned over and reached for the flap handle. The missed approach procedure
for the ILS to Runway 9 calls for flying straight ahead and climbing. As I
looked up from retracting the flaps, I saw that we were in a 50-degree bank
and diving with full power only some 200 feet above the ground! My client was
screaming that there were trees right below us. I wrestled the airplane back
to a wings-level climb attitude. Our heading was 060 degrees and the approach
controller was asking just what we were doing. (We were supposed to be heading
090.) In a career spanning well over half a century this was the only time I
had completely lost control of an airplane.
After getting my heart out of my throat and back into my chest where it
belongs, and getting the adrenalin rush settled down, I asked for one more
shot at PTK. Having twice had visual contact with mother earth, I opted to try
once more before diverting to FNT. This time all went well and we made a
relatively uneventful landing.
I have no way of knowing how much of my regaining control of that airplane
was an instinctive response to the great training I had and the years of
experience I had accumulated at that time, but the factor of luck surely
played a substantial part in the recovery. There is no question about the fact
that we were lucky to survive. Since that time, I certainly pay a lot more
attention to my personal physical, mental, and emotional condition as part of
my pre-flight planning.
The hairiest experience I have ever had in an airplane occurred several
years ago when I was vectored into a tornado and the airplane came partially
unglued in flight — the cabin door was ripped off and lodged in the tail.
Here's the story.
 On
a quiet Sunday afternoon in early spring several years ago — with weather
throughout the area reported as 2,000 overcast and three miles (marginal VFR),
I embarked on a short flight (about 60 miles) from Detroit City Airport (DET)
back to Flint where an associate was waiting. My plan was to leave the Aztec I
was flying with him and return to (PTK) in the school airplane he had flown to
FNT. I didn't bother to file IFR, but took off VFR, requesting flight
following. I climbed to the minimum vectoring altitude for that area and
headed for FNT. My home base, PTK, was about halfway between DET and FNT, six
or seven miles to the left of a direct course between DET and FNT.
When I was about 10 miles along the way, whisps of cloud began to form
under me and I noticed there was a solid wall of cloud straight ahead at my
altitude. I air-filed for an IFR clearance, "present position direct FNT."
My request was immediately granted and I was given an assigned altitude of
3,000 and a new squawk code for the transponder. After leveling off at my
newly assigned altitude, I began to get some pretty heavy jolts — you know,
the kind in which you bump your head on the ceiling even though the belt is
cinched up tight? I called approach and asked if he was painting any heavy
weather, or if he had his scope on circular polarization (which wipes out the
weather, leaving only aircraft on the screen), and he replied,
"Both!" This was a clear indication that all was not well. If he had
turned off the weather on his radar and it was still coming through, it
was indeed very heavy weather. I was also beginning to pick up a bit of
structural ice. Since PTK was much closer, and I had a dry house and warm wife
nearby, I decided to abandon the idea of going to FNT and head for PTK. I
advised the controller that I wanted to amend my destination and execute the
VOR 27 approach to PTK, which was only six or eight miles off to my left.
Note the extreme rudder
trim and overall damage.
That's the entire door
in the tail. Note how the top rear pin has been ripped out as well as
the hinge at the front of the door. That's ice on the windshield.
Pretty beefy structure,
huh? |
The response to this request was "Turn right heading 180 degrees for
vectors to the final." This would bring me outside the final fix for the
angling final to Runway 27 at PTK. I started the turn and ... WHAM! It was
like driving right into a brick wall. The cabin door departed the airplane,
followed shortly by the baggage door. I was being tossed around like a cork in
a stormy sea. I found myself inverted, hanging by the seat belt with the hand
mike plastered against the ceiling. The pressure changes were unbelievable.
The airspeed indicator was reading from 0 to 200 MPH and back to 0 within the
space of less than a second, and the altimeter was winding up and down from
1,000 to 4,000 feet and back in the same time frame.
I distinctly remember the thoughts that were running through my head. My
first thought was that the door had fallen through a roof and landed on a baby
sleeping in a crib in a house down below. Next, I was telling myself,
"Okay, after all these years you've finally had it — you've bought the
farm." Finally, I thought, "All right, dummy, if you just settle
down and do what you know how to do, you just might survive." I reduced
power, applied approach flaps and wrestled the airplane around to an upright
attitude. Of course the gyros had all tumbled, so I wasn't really sure of my
attitude. Meanwhile the controller was reading PTK weather to me. He said they
were reporting 1,000 and 3. With reduced power and approach flaps I continued
to let down, figuring I'd break out 1,000 feet above the ground.
I advised the controller that I had lost the door — it had not just popped
open, it was gone! He handed me off to the tower controller just as I was
breaking out beneath the overcast, but at 300 feet above the ground, not
1,000. I saw a water tank beneath me, and called the tower and advised that I
was "at the Waterford tank inbound." (There is a large water tank
4.5 miles southeast of the PTK airport.) The tower, which had been advised of
my situation by the approach controller, responded, "Cleared to
land." So I proceeded northwest, expecting to see the airport at any
second. It didn't happen. After a few minutes I saw an antennae tower in front
of me sticking up into the cloud. (Remember, I was about 300 feet AGL.) I had
mistaken a water tank just northeast of the airport for the one southeast. I
was now about 10 miles due north of the airport.
I advised the tower of my true position and headed back toward the airport.
As I came up to it, heading south (on a right base leg for Runway 27), the
controller said, "We just had a wind shift. The wind is now 360 at 34.
You may have 27 if you prefer." (Runway 27 at that time was 5,300 x 300
feet, and runway 36 was, and still is 1,850 x 50 feet.) I said I'd take 36 and
land into the wind. (36 has a long overrun between two rows of hangars.) As I
turned final, I added a bit of power for the flare, and the right engine
stopped! I had completely neglected to add carburetor heat and the carb had
iced up sometime along the way. I had been experiencing severe control problem
with the rudder, and now I knew why. I completed this adventure with a smooth,
uneventful landing.
By the bye, some five minutes after I landed, the airport went to 100 feet
and a quarter mile! A flight instructor who lived nearby had been at home
monitoring the radio, and he had come over to the airport to watch the crash
when I arrived. He had his camera with him, and took these pictures right
after my arrival. His wife dropped off the photos the next day.
Without my aerobatic experience, and without having kept my cool
throughout, I surely would have died that day. But, without a great deal of
good old-fashioned luck, I most certainly would also be dead. The lesson here
is simple — you can't count on luck to save your butt; you must also acquire
the skill to help yourself out of the tight situations.
Usual Boilerplate: If you have a comment regarding this
column, please post it here rather than sending it to me by direct email. That
way others may benefit from your input.
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