Are service documents mandatory? No. Are they a good idea to implement? It depends, but for the most part, yes, and you’ll soon discover why.

Corrosion comes in all shapes and sizes. It is a natural process in which metals deteriorate due to chemical reactions with environmental elements, such as oxygen, moisture, and pollutants. In aviation, corrosion can manifest in various forms, including surface, pitting, intergranular, and stress corrosion cracking.

Each type poses significant risks, potentially weakening the structural integrity of the aircraft and leading to safety hazards. We’ve recently seen how corrosion affects wing spars like with the Piper PA-28 and Cessna 177 and 210, for example. These started as Service Bulletins (SBs) to inspect for corrosion and escalated to mandatory compliance in the form of Airworthiness Directives (ADs).

• READ MORE: How Do I File a Pilot Weather Report Online?

The implications are severe. Corrosion can lead to structural failures, increased maintenance costs, and, in worst-case scenarios, catastrophic accidents. Once you have the basics and understand the theory, you are ready to progress to the next level.

That’s right, it’s aircraft maintenance time, and here’s one example.

Learjet 45

The Learjet is legendary among corporate aircraft—produced from 1964 to its unfortunate scuttling in 2021. Learjet became synonymous with business aircraft in the early days of private business travel.

“Learjet models are known for their exceptional performance, speed, and range,” said Sky Aircraft Maintenance. “Airframe issues can be a common maintenance concern for Learjet aircraft. Due to the high speeds and stresses placed on the airframe during flight, wear and tear can occur over time, leading to a need for structural repairs. This can include corrosion.”

On July 13, 2007, the Australian Civil Aviation Authority released AWB 57-004 Lear Jet Industries 45 Wing Corrosion. The agency said this correspondence was needed because “recent reports have been submitted indicating that corrosion has been found on the lower skin of both wings fitted to the Lear 45 aircraft. This corrosion resulted in the replacement of the entire lower-wing skins.”

Years later, in February 2019, Learjet, now owned by Bombardier, released a series of Service Bulletins addressing “wing spar inspection.” The reason? Corrosion had been observed on the lower-wing splice plates, requiring a more frequent interval to detect and correct protective coatings.

Remember our chat earlier about adhering to the manufacturer’s recommendations? 

• READ MORE: What Does It Take to Transition From a Jet to a Piston Airplane?

Fast-forward a bit and the series of Learjet bulletins are now the FAA’s AD 2021-23-08.

What prompted this escalation? According to the AD, exfoliating corrosion was found on a particular Lear 45 upper surface of the lower center-wing, midspar splice plate during unrelated maintenance. The corrosion appeared to extend halfway through the thickness of the splice plate. Since the initial report, the FAA has received 23 additional accounts of corrosion from Learjet.

Jerel Bristol, owner of SEAL Aviation in Hollywood, Florida, was not surprised when the call came in. Bristol is aware of the trouble that Learjets have with wing-spar corrosion and knows the AD well. His team deploys to aircraft or ​AOG situations for mobile fuel leak repair, nondestructive testing, and structural repairs anywhere in the world.

During the center-wing inspection, a SEAL technician identified corrosion on the center-wing splice plate. I spoke with Bristol, and he said that it is a common area to find corrosion past repairable limits, which requires the replacement of the forward and aft splice plates.

After pulling the affected parts off the airframe, the SEAL team quickly repaired the area and replaced the damaged parts. The pictures reveal a sea of cleco fasteners. 

The guys buttoned up the Lear, and the owner was wheels-up again. 

The Cause

The big question remains: What causes corrosion?

One follower commented on a SEAL Aviation webpage post about the Lear 45 repair, stating that brine used for deicing could have contributed to the corrosion. He is not far off. Environmental elements can contribute to aircraft corrosion.

These factors include:

• Humidity and moisture, particularly in coastal regions.

• Temperature fluctuations which can cause condensation.

• Exposure to deicing fluids and other chemicals.

• Poor maintenance practices and infrequent inspections.

The environment is not the only player in the corrosion game. According to Aviation Devices and Electronic Components (Av-DEC) in its article “Causes of Corrosion,” industrial pollutants are equally harmful and can be difficult to protect against.

These include several contaminants such as:

• Ozone (exposure from high altitude, motors, and welding)

• Carbon compounds (exposure from combustion engine exhaust)

• Sulfur dioxide (exposure from engine exhaust, smokestacks, and acid rain)

Operators and GA aircraft owners alike are well advised to take heed when an SB shows up in the mailbox. A recommended inspection, especially when it can be coordinated with other scheduled or unscheduled maintenance, may help ultimately reduce the total cost of ownership and down time if/when an issue becomes an AD.

Perhaps the best reason to take a closer look is personal safety and peace of mind through identifying a problem before it manifests in something tragic.

This column first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Corrosion 101: What Causes It? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The normalization of deviance is a phenomenon in which individuals deviate from what is known to be an acceptable performance standard—basically, accepting less than the acceptable in terms of performance or cutting corners—until the deviant behavior becomes the adopted practice. It’s often defended with phrases like “it wasn’t too bad” or “almost” or “close enough” or “we’ve never had a problem before,” and at the flight school level, “my CFI said I didn’t need to know that.”

The normalization of deviance was discussed often at the Spring to Proficiency 2024 IFR Clinic put on by Community Aviation at the EAA Pilot Proficiency Center in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. The clinic involved pilots testing and enhancing their skills using scripted scenarios and custom lessons applied in a fleet of Redbird AATDs. The objective was to help pilots identify skills and soft spots and then develop a plan to maintain proficiency all year. 

When bad practices are allowed to go unchecked and unchallenged, they could lead to bad outcomes as the deviance becomes the norm, causing  a downward spiral of deviations and an increased acceptance of poor performance until there is an accident.

The Chain of Deviance

Just as accidents are typically caused by a chain of events, normalization of deviance is also caused by it.

Scenarios like the pilot who doesn’t use the checklist, or is in a hurry and doesn’t get a weather briefing, or doesn’t determine aircraft performance, were topics talked about frequently. Some pilots can become lazy and then start rationalizing behavior, telling themselves it’s a short flight, just us in the airplane, we’ve made the flight before, and others—you’ve heard them all, I’m sure.

• READ MORE: How to Beat the Summer Heat When

CFIs can fall prey to this too when they are in a hurry or feel pressured by flight school owners. The rolling Hobbs meter is what matters to the business owners. If the CFI consistently flies an aircraft with deferred maintenance, or rushes from one lesson to another, putting in minimal effort to determine aircraft performance, or doesn’t check the weather, or permits check-the-box instruction, that’s what the learners will accept as normal.

When the learner becomes a CFI, the cycle repeats.

When the Pilot Isn’t Prepared

There are no participation trophies in aviation. You either fly to the certification standards, or you don’t. The CFI needs to hold the learner accountable for these standards. The instructor isn’t helping the learner by just showing up and sitting in the airplane, especially on cross-country flights that require a flight plan.

One of the hardest things to do is cancel a flight when the learner isn’t prepared. Teaching someone how to fill one out can take an hour or more, so some CFIs are inclined to jump in the airplane and go anyway, relying on an app like SkyVector, or worse yet, Direct To on the GPS. 

• READ MORE: The Importance of Embracing Proficiency Culture

This is particularly poor practice if the learner has no idea about how long the runways are at the destination airport, if it’s towered or nontowered, predicted aircraft performance, weight and balance, etc. By allowing the learner to make the flight without thorough planning, the CFI has taught them it is OK to cut corners and skip preparation. At that point, the learner—who is ostensibly paying to become a pilot—is little more than a passenger. At the end of the 2.1-hour flight the learner still may not know how to use a sectional, plotter, and E6-B to create a flight plan, determine aircraft performance, check ground speed, fill out a navlog, etc.

It can lead to their future cross-country flights being done the same way. They push a few buttons on the tablet or GPS and activate the autopilot if so installed. This may come back to bite them during their check ride, because although they have logged the time as cross-country, they don’t have the required skills. This can make the DPE wonder if the CFI didn’t teach them these skills because the CFI never learned them.

The accelerated nature of flight training now has pilot candidates going from certificate to certificate or rating to rating—read that check ride to check ride—in minimal time and minimal hours. They learn the check rides, and many have very little solo flight experience—perhaps not more than 10 hours, because there is a new shortcut that allows the post-private pilot to fly with a CFI on board and log what used to be required solo time as Pilot Performing Duties of Pilot in Command (PDPIC).

While this builds the hours of the CFI it also robs the learner of the opportunity to gain valuable experience flying solo as in truly solo, in the airplane. The particularly distressing part of this is that a great many of these learners go on to be CFIs that want to be good teachers and experience builders rather than time builders—but they aren’t aware of the deficit they are operating under.

A friend who is a DPE sees this, as he has been tasked with flying with these underprepared pilot applicants who have the minimum required hours of solo flight time who were trained by a CFI with minimal hours “who is greener than Gumby” and doesn’t know how to teach beyond parroting what was taught to them by a (most likely) equally green CFI. Instead of trying to be better teachers, some of these inexperienced CFIs who are time builders focus on “workarounds,” like memorizing the knowledge tests or shopping for a Santa Claus DPE.

CFI Sets the Example

We learn that accidents are usually caused by a chain of events. I submit that a chain of events is also responsible for the normalization of deviance. When we accept the behavior of Hand-It-to-Me Henry, who wants the answers but won’t look things up for himself, or Pencil-Whip Penny, who expects to be signed off with minimal effort, we are enabling the poor behavior.

Flight instructing will make you a better pilot, and you may be surprised at how fulfilling it can be. That being said, it most definitely isn’t for everyone. If you don’t want to be an instructor—especially if you feel it is beneath you—go tow banners, fly as someone’s safety pilot, do pipeline patrol, talk your way into the right seat of a charter operation, or build hours any way besides teaching. 

• READ MORE: Separation Anxiety: When Your Instructor Moves on, Your Logbook Tells the Story

If you are going to teach, expect there will be a learning curve. Ask an experienced CFI you trust and respect to allow you to sit in on a ground lesson, or ride in the back during a flight lesson—always ask the learner if you can do this because you are riding on their dime. The learner is doing you a solid, so perhaps you could offer to help pay for their airplane or thank them by buying lunch. 

It’s more than teaching someone to fly. The flight instructor is the first point of contact most  pilots have in the aviation industry. Do your best to be a positive role model from day one. If you make a mistake, learn from it, and don’t repeat it or allow it to become the first link in a chain of normalization of deviance.

Draw upon your experience with both the good CFIs you had and the poor ones—the latter may teach you what not to do. Strive to be the instructor the learners remember favorably because you helped them build a solid foundation of skills and set the example you hope they follow in their piloting career by not taking shortcuts.

This column first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Normalization of Deviance Can Cause Problems for Pilots appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

One of them is the wing loading, that is, the airplane’s weight divided by its wing area. The other is the maximum lift coefficient of the wing, which coincides with its stalling angle of attack.

Extreme aircraft—ones with extremely high thrust-to-weight ratios, for instance, or powered lift—are exempt from this rule, but they form a small minority.

“Lift coefficient” may be a discouraging term for the mathematically challenged, but it’s simply the ratio between the amount of lift a wing produces and the dynamic pressure of the air striking it. The dynamic pressure of moving air is what you feel when the wind blows or when (if you are a dog) you stick your head out of the window of a moving car.

The word “dynamic” is added to distinguish this kind of impact pressure from the ambient, or “static,” atmospheric pressure. At sea level, dynamic pressure in pounds per square foot (psf)  is equal to .0026 times the speed (in mph) squared (use .0034 for knots).

The greatest lifting force a wing can produce per unit of area is the product of its maximum lift coefficient and the available dynamic pressure. Therefore, the lowest speed at which a wing can stay aloft is the speed at which dynamic pressure is equal to the wing loading divided by the maximum lift coefficient.

• READ MORE: Peruvian Excursion Provides a Lesson in High Vapor Pressure

Notwithstanding the simplicity of this relationship, people never cease telling tall tales about stalling speeds. I ran across this example in a Wikipedia article about the Antonov An-2, the big radial-engined biplane that was once as ubiquitous in Russia as the Cessna 172 is here:

“According to the operating handbook, the An-2 has no stall speed. A note from the pilot’s handbook reads: ‘If the engine quits in instrument conditions or at night, the pilot should pull the control column full aft and keep the wings level. The leading-edge slats will snap out at about 64 km/h (40 mph) and when the airplane slows to a forward speed of about 40 km/h (25 mph), the airplane will sink at about a parachute descent rate until the aircraft hits the ground.’”

Parenthetically, the reason the An-2 “has no stall speed” is not that it is able to stand still in the air but that its elevator does not have sufficient authority to raise the nose to the point where the wing will stall.

Like the Helio Courier, the SOCATA Rallye, and many other STOL airplanes, the An-2 has automatic leading-edge slats that pop out at low speed to squirt high-velocity air back along the upper surface of the wing and thereby delay the stall. In addition to its leading-edge slats, the An-2 has full-span slotted flaps—the outer segments of the upper wing’s flaps double as ailerons.

There’s nothing magical about this combination of high lift devices. Its properties, along with those of a slew of other combinations of slats, flaps and slots, were pretty thoroughly documented in 1932 in NACA’s Technical Report 427. Its authors, incidentally, included Fred Weick, who would go on to design another airplane whose limited elevator authority made it hard to stall: the Ercoupe.

• READ MORE: The Craft of Providing Variety in Airplanes

Your results may vary, but TR 427 reported that the leading-edge slat allowed the wing to gain another 7 degrees of angle of attack before stalling, and its maximum lift coefficient rose from around 2.0 to 2.25. It’s noteworthy that the increase in stalling angle of attack from 12 to 19 degrees was proportionally much larger than the gain in maximum lift coefficient: The slat delays the stall more than it increases the lift.

The actual maximum lift coefficient of an airplane is always lower than the “section coefficient” obtained from wind tunnel tests. But let us charitably assume that the An-2 really does achieve a maximum lift coefficient of 2.25. What is its minimum speed?

Its wing area is 770 square feet and its gross weight 12,000 pounds, so its wing loading is around 15 psf. Dividing by 2.25, we find that a dynamic pressure of 6.7 psf is needed to keep it aloft. The minimum speed of the An-2 is therefore the airspeed at which the dynamic pressure is 6.7 psf.

That speed is 51 mph.

But let’s generously give our An-2 a single occupant, an hour’s fuel, and no cargo. Its weight is now around 8,000 pounds, and the required dynamic pressure is down to 4.5 psf.

The minimum speed is 42 mph. 

So where does this 25 mph business come from?

• READ MORE: Looking at the Physics of STOL Drag

Setting aside mendacity and venality, the reason for all physically implausible claims about stalling speeds is airspeed indicator error. Pitot-static systems in airplanes are unreliable at low speeds, in part because the instruments are not optimized for accuracy at very low dynamic pressures, but also because pitot tubes go astray when wind hits them at an angle.

The prayerful An-2 pilot holding the yoke all the way back sees the ASI needle trembling around 20 mph, and that is the stalling speed that he reports. The aeronautical engineer knows this is nonsense, but he doesn’t want to spoil the fun and so he stays mum.

Power, to be sure, affects stalling speed. Prop wash over the wings increases their lift, but in a single-engine airplane like the An-2 the propwash affects only a small fraction of the wing area. Tilting the thrust vector upward also helps. If the An-2 is flown at an angle of attack of 19 degrees, a third of its 1,000 hp engine’s thrust acts upward. But this will still not bring the speed down to 20 mph, where the dynamic pressure is only 1 psf.

Illusions about extremely low stall speeds are encouraged by airshow flying, in which the effect of wind can be mistaken for a property of the airplane. Confusion between airspeed and ground speed is endemic to aviation, and the Wikipedia article on the An-2 contains an example: 

“…Pilots of the An-2 have stated that they are capable of flying the aircraft in full control at 48 km/h (30 mph)…This slow stall speed makes it possible for the aircraft to fly backwards relative to the ground: if the aircraft is pointed into a headwind of roughly 56 km/h (35 mph), it will travel backwards at 8 km/h (5 mph) whilst under full control.”

As an occasional editor of Wikipedia articles, I was tempted to delete this silly paragraph entirely. But why deny another reader a chuckle? Perhaps, to more vividly emphasize the remarkable properties of the An-2, I could just emend it to read, “…if the aircraft is pointed into a 150 km/h (92 mph) gale, it will travel backwards at 102 km/h (63 mph)—whilst under full control!”

This column first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Explaining the Fiction of Minimum Speed appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

First, in April 1996, I had spent an hour in recurrent training in my Skyhawk. We had done some air work, including steep turns and slow flight, as well as some partial panel flying. As we returned to the Purdue University Airport (KLAF), my instructor suggested a no-flap landing, something I had not practiced since primary training nearly 10 years previously. It went well, and I was reminded that no-flap landings are faster and with a more nose-high attitude.

Second, a few days later I went with my daughter’s preschool class to visit the KLAF tower. The day was solid IFR with little activity, so the tower controllers had to be creative to entertain 15 5-year-olds. They brought out the light guns and the kids were captivated. 

The main event occurred a few days later when my wife, daughter and I flew to Kalamazoo, Michigan (KAZO), on an early Saturday morning. We had made this trip many times, and it proved the utility of a small airplane. Instead of spending seven tedious hours on the highway to spend five hours with my wife’s family, we spent three pleasant hours in the air to spend nine hours with her family. The flight was easy, we had a relaxing day with my in-laws, and in late afternoon we returned to the airport for the flight home.

• READ MORE: Everyone Should Pay Close Attention in the Cockpit

The walkaround was normal, the tanks were full, and with a forecast for “severe clear,” we were set for a relaxing flight home. On the run-up pad with the engine to 1,700 rpm, the mags checked out, and the oil pressure and suction were in the green. The ammeter showed a discharge with the landing light turned on and returned to center with the light off—well, maybe not completely center but close enough. After all, many a CFI had complained that these gauges in Skyhawks were not precise. A small voice in the back of my head said, “Hmm, maybe I should investigate that,” but I ignored the voice and we departed. 

On our IFR flight plan, as I spoke with air traffic controllers, the radio seemed scratchier than usual, but this was probably just some random electrical glitch, right? No. Just as the sun was setting, we lost all electrical power—no radios, no transponder, no lights, and, of course, no flaps. 

This happened as we were about 25 minutes from KLAF, but we were directly over a small airport where I had frequently practiced touch-and-goes. I told my wife that we could land immediately—without flaps—but otherwise all would be straightforward, and we could call a friend to fetch us. Alternatively, we could continue homeward. I explained that although ATC had lost our data block when the transponder lost power, the primary return was still visible on radar, moving steadily to KLAF. Chicago Center would tell the KLAF tower that a NORDO was inbound. We would fly 1,000 feet above pattern altitude, looking for the steady green light that meant we were cleared to land.

• READ MORE: Beloved Flight Instructor’s Lessons Continue to Replay in Airline Captain’s Head

My wife said that we should go ahead to KLAF. I was grateful for the vote of confidence. I grabbed my flashlight so that I could see the instruments and on we went. And it worked out exactly as I had told her: We approached KLAF above pattern altitude, saw the steady green light, entered the pattern, and made an easy landing in the dark with no landing light and no flaps. (And it was really dark—when we left KLAF that morning, I was wearing my prescription sunglasses and had left my regular glasses in the car in the hangar). After we had put the plane in the hangar, I called the tower and thanked the folks for their help. They confirmed that Chicago Center had forewarned them of my arrival and that they had alerted everyone in the pattern to be especially vigilant.

On the drive home, I reflected on the evening’s events. On the one hand, I was pleased that I had handled the emergency calmly and by the book. And I was grateful that the event had occurred in familiar airspace with no additional challenges associated with bad weather. On the other hand, I was annoyed that I had misread the signs that led to the emergency. 

What did I learn from the episode? 

First, periodically expand my scan of the panel to include instruments, such as the ammeter, that are on the far side of the panel. Second, receive recurrent training regularly to get feedback from a CFI about skills that may have grown rusty and should be practiced. Third, use the ATC system. These folks provide great service that can simplify a pilot’s tasks and can be a tremendous asset in an emergency. Fourth, when there are signs that something might be wrong, don’t weave a story to explain and then dismiss those signs. Instead, when the little voice says, “all is not right here,” pause to evaluate what’s going on.

Finally, keep a spare pair of glasses in the flight bag! 

This column first appeared in the July/August Issue 949 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Listening to That Inner Pilot Voice appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

A) Back Course (BC)

Sometimes, a back course (BC) is present even when it is into the prevailing winds instead of having a full ILS aligned with those winds. It might be for obstacles or equipment-positioning reasons that a glideslope is not able to be established from a particular direction. The BC is “the other side” of an ILS approach and traditionally requires a pilot to “reverse sense” while flying the approach. This means that instead of flying toward the deflected side for course alignment, a pilot would fly away from the direction, or, as most of us remember, “fly the needle to the ball.” Many modern avionics packages have HSI equipment or are digitally able to “flip” the signal and make it so a pilot doesn’t need to fly using reverse sensing. Knowing how your system works is critical to making sure you are correcting in the proper direction when flying this approach.

• READ MORE: Chart Wise: Charlottesville RNAV (GPS)-Y Rwy 21

B) Disregard Glideslope

Note 4 on this approach, like on many back-course approaches, indicates that a pilot should “disregard glideslope indications.” Glideslopes are typically generated on the opposite end of a runway when there is a back course and would lead a pilot along an incorrect descent path. This is a nonprecision approach,and a pilot should establish an appropriate descent rate to arrive at the minimum descent altitude before reaching the missed approach point.

C)  Discrete VOR and LOC Frequencies

On this approach the inbound course is generated through using the localizer (I-ESC) on 109.3. The VOR is also on the airport (ESC on 113.55), so be sure you are using the correct navigation source when you are inbound. This becomes especially confusing if you were using the VOR to navigate to the area and then along the DME ARC. Be sure to be selected to the LOC frequency for the inbound course.

• READ MORE: Chart Wise: Ocean City (KOXB) LOC Rwy 32

D) DME ARC Alternative

If you are flying this approach and don’t want to do the DME ARC to establish onto the approach, you can also track outbound from the VOR on a 092-degree radial to the KULAH waypoint, where you will intercept the localizer and then conduct a procedure turn after you are out past the waypoint, which is either 6 DME from the ESC VOR or 5.7 from the I-ESC LOC.

E) VDP and Map Differences

A visual descent point (VDP) is noted with the dark “V” at 1.1 DME from I-ESC, the localizer-based DME. A missed approach point (MAP) is noted at 0.5 DME from I-ESC and is where a pilot would need to go missed if they did not see the runway environment. Be careful not to confuse these DME readings with ones from the ESC VOR a pilot may have previously used to navigate onto the approach or while conducting a DME ARC.

F) Missed Hold Entry Turns Nonprotected Side

When going missed on this approach, a pilot would execute a climb to 2,500 feet, turn right back to the ESC VOR, and then hold. The turn in this case is toward the nonprotected side of the hold for the entry, and once established you will continue right turns while in the hold at 2,500 msl.

• READ MORE: Chart Wise: Spirit of St. Louis ILS 26L

G) Magnetic Disturbance Note

A note on the chart indicates that “magnetic disturbances of as much as 14 degrees exist at ground level in Escanaba.” A pilot is going to want to take that into account when setting their directional gyro. You might be best served to set it based on runway alignment rather than using a comparison to your magnetic compass.

This column first appeared in the July/August Issue 949 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Chart Wise: Escanaba (KESC) LOC BC Rwy 28 appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Convective outflow boundaries emanating away from thunderstorms are generated as cold, dense air descends in downdrafts then moving outward away from the convection to produce a mesoscale cold front also known as a gust front. Some gust fronts can be completely harmless or may be a precursor for an encounter with severe turbulence and dangerous low-level convective wind shear. The direction of movement of the gust front isn’t always coincident with the general motion of the thunderstorms. If the gust front is moving in advance of the convection, it should be strictly avoided. The pilot’s best defense is to recognize and characterize the gust front using METARs, ground-based radar and visible satellite imagery.

According to research meteorologist and thunderstorm expert, Dr. Charles Doswell, “cold, stable air is the ‘exhaust’ of deep, moist convection descending in downdrafts and then spreading outward like pancake batter poured on a griddle.” As a pulse-type thunderstorm reaches a point where its updraft can no longer support the load of precipitation that has accumulated inside, the precipitation load collapses down through the original updraft area. Evaporation of some of the rain cools the downdraft, making it even more dense compared to the surrounding air. When the downdraft reaches the ground, it is deflected laterally and spreads out almost uniformly in all directions producing a gust front. 

• READ MORE: Keeping an Eye on the Storm

Gust fronts are normally seen moving away from weakening thunderstorm cores. Once a gust front forms and moves away from the convection the boundary may be detected on the NWS WSR-88D NEXRAD Doppler radar as a bow-shaped line of low reflectivity returns usually 20 dBZ or less. Outflow boundaries are low level events and do not necessarily produce precipitation. Instead, the radar is detecting the density discontinuity of the boundary itself along with any dust, insects and other debris that may be carried along with the strong winds within the outflow. The gust front in southwest Missouri shows up very well on the NWS radar image out of Springfield as shown below. 

 An important observation is to note the motion of the gust front relative to the motion of the convection. In this particular case, the boundary is steadily moving south while the thunderstorm cells that produced the gust front are moving to the east. This kind of outflow boundary is usually benign especially as it gains distance from the source convection. On the other hand, a gust front that is moving in the same general direction in advance of the convection is of the most concern. These gust fronts often contain severe or extreme turbulence, strong and gusty straight line winds and low-level convective wind shear. 

As mentioned previously, gust fronts are strictly low-level events. As such, even the lowest elevation angle of the radar may overshoot the boundary if it is not close to the radar site. Shown above at 22Z, the NWS WSR-88D NEXRAD Doppler radar out of Greenville-Spartanburg, South Carolina is the closest radar site and clearly “sees” the gust front (right image). However, the NEXRAD Doppler radar out of Columbia, South Carolina (left image), is further away and misses the gust front completely. As the gust front moves away from the radar site, it may appear to dissipate, when in fact, the lowest elevation beam of the radar is simply overshooting the boundary. 

As a result, it is important to examine the NEXRAD radar mosaic image before looking at the individual radar sites.

Not all gust fronts are easy to distinguish on visible satellite imagery; the gust front could be embedded in other dense clouds or a high cirrus deck may obscure it. It is also possible that the boundary may not have enough lift or moisture to produce clouds. In many cases, however, it will clearly stand out on the visible satellite image. When the gust front contains enough moisture, as it was in this situation, cumuliform clouds may form along the boundary and move outward. This is very common in the Southeast and coastal regions along the Gulf of Mexico given the higher moisture content.  

As this particular gust front passed through my neighborhood located south of Charlotte, North Carolina, strong, gusty northerly winds persisted for about 10 minutes. As is common, the main core of the precipitation didn’t start to fall for another 10 minutes. When a gust front such as this appears on satellite or radar, it is important to monitor the METARs and ASOS or AWOS closely for the occurrence of high winds. Several airports in the vicinity reported wind gusts peaking at 30 knots. The sky cover went from being just few to scattered clouds to a broken sky with these cumuliform clouds moving rapidly through the region.

• READ MORE: The Ins and Outs of Pilot Weather Reports

As mentioned earlier, a gust front moving away from thunderstorms is a low-level event that can contain very strong updrafts and downdrafts. The graph shown above is a time series, plotting the upward and downward motion or vertical velocity in a strong gust front as it moved over a particular point on the ground. The top half of the graph is upward motion and the bottom half is downward motion. 

Time increases from left to right. As the gust front approaches, the vertical velocity of the air upward increases quickly over a one or two minute period. While the maximum vertical velocities vary with height in the outflow, a common maximum number seen is 10 m/s at about 1.4 km or 4,500 feet agl (25 knots is roughly 12 m/s for reference). As the gust front moves through, the velocities abruptly switch from an upward to a downward motion creating strong wind gusts at the surface. Most outflow boundaries don’t extend above about 2 km or 6,500 feet agl. What is remarkable is that upward to downward motion changes in just about 30 seconds over the ground point where this was observed. But imagine flying an aircraft at 150 knots through this; the up and down exchange will happen in just a few seconds producing a jarring turbulence event.

Just in case you were wondering, gust fronts are conveniently filtered out by your datalink weather broadcasts as shown above for XM-delivered satellite weather. This is because the broadcast only provides returns from actual areas of precipitation. Often outflow boundaries or gust fronts produce low reflectivity returns that fall below the threshold used to filter out other clutter not associated with actual areas of precipitation. When in flight, pay particular attention to surface observations looking for strong, gusty winds before attempting a landing at an airport when storms are approaching. 

This feature first appeared in the July/August Issue 949 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Know Your Convective Outflow Boundaries appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

After starting up, calming my nerves, keying the mic, and receiving my taxi clearance, I joined the slow parade of aircraft taxiing up to the departure point of Runway 27. This looked startlingly familiar to the long lines of aircraft I’ve seen for years on the taxiways at KOSH during the real AirVenture.

Fond memories returned to me of short breaks taken beside the taxiway watching aircraft, a northerly breeze keeping the summer heat in check, puffy white cumulus clouds rolling softly over the field as innumerable one-of-a-kind, rare, and well-loved GA, warbirds, antique, and homebuilt aircraft slowly roll by on their way to go flying.

Although I’m in my home flight simulator, I am excited to be trying this bucket list flight simulator activity, knowing that landing at KOSH this afternoon will be a test of concentration and flying skill as I join my fellow sim pilots in attempting to traverse the famous Fisk arrival. 

Snapping out of this momentary reverie, I receive my clearance from the tower to line up and wait on Runway 27, and then: 

“November 3-8-3-Romeo-Sierra, cleared for takeoff, Runway 2-7.”

• READ MORE: Earning Your Winter WINGS

Then, with as much calm in my voice as I can muster: “Roger, 383RS, cleared for take-off, runway 2-7.” 

Ahead of me, another Cessna 172 is on the upwind, a safe distance ahead. On either side I can see many more GA aircraft waiting their turn to launch, propellers all spinning in anticipation. We are 12 miles due south of KOSH, but my heart rate is up, left hand on the yoke, push the throttle forward, and the takeoff roll begins. A quick glance at the oil pressure, it is in the green, and my airspeed is alive: 30, 40, 50 knots, but no faster—something’s wrong. 

I can hear something is not right with the engine. But this is near impossible as I thought I had turned off major failure modes for the event. Another check of oil pressure—still green. A bit exasperated and running out of runway, I contemplate what it will feel like to botch this takeoff in front of 30 other sim pilots who are probably watching and listening on the radio.

If I don’t figure this out, I will need to abort the takeoff. I have only a few seconds to make the decision when I look across my sim cockpit and spot the culprit of the engine trouble. I leaned the mixture on the long taxi to the takeoff point, and it was still at roughly 50 percent. I jammed the mixture full forward, the engine responded, and the 172 returned to normal acceleration, up through 70 knots. I pulled back on the yoke and cleared the end of the runway to my upwind climb. Certainly an inauspicious start to the most exciting live flight sim event in which I have participated.

Having failed to double-check the mixture, I made a silent promise to myself—no more big mistakes. After all, this is the big live event of the summer for sim pilots. 

With my heart rate settling back to normal and Fond Du Lac fading into the distance behind me, it was time to get ahead and stay ahead of the aircraft. One of my goals for the flight was to hand fly it, which was made easier by the calm weather programmed into the flight simulator. 

I turned the heading bug on my Real Sim Gear G1000 PFD CDI and steered my 172 in a south-westerly direction over the small town of Waupun, Wisconsin. I set my altitude bug for 1,800 feet, per the arrival instructions, and trimmed to maintain the altitude.

• READ MORE: Highlights From FlightSimExpo 2024

Just like in the real world, twins and faster aircraft could opt for the 2,300-foot altitude arrival, but I purposefully chose the slower single-engine piston Cessna 172 Skyhawk, knowing that it would still provide plenty of challenge. Once I reached Waupun, I would turn the aircraft in a north-westerly direction toward the Fisk arrival Transition starting point. This would be revealed as soon as I checked the ATIS, which functioned in this SimVenture event exactly as it does in real-world flying. 

There were a few important differences between the real-world EAA AirVenture Oshkosh arrival and the SimVenture version. To coordinate the same flight sim environment for all participants, pilots were asked to set their simulator weather to CAVU skies, calm winds, and standard pressure altitude of 29.92 on the barometer. This assured that all pilots were flying at the same altitude and that there were no major crosswinds, given the high density of live aircraft in the simulation.  

The most interesting and compelling similarity to the real-world AirVenture experience was the fact that real Oshkosh ATC were controlling all pilots participating in SimVenture. Some of the participating controllers were even using SimVenture to warm up for the real AirVenture environment just like some pilots use simulators to fly routes in advance.

Having some of the real-life KOSH air traffic controllers join the flight simulation community to provide the ultimate full-immersion experience made it a can’t-miss event. Working from their own homes, the controllers were provided with software and access so they could see the activity on their screens and control the sim participants effectively. As soon as I tuned into the ATIS to learn which Fisk arrival transition was in use, I recognized the familiar voice, having watched numerous real-world arrivals on YouTube as part of my preparation.

PilotEdge delivers the integration of the live ATC service with participating sim pilots connecting to the event through their software client. For SimVenture, PilotEdge designated one of the four runways at KOSH for each day, providing incentive for sim pilots to fly the Fisk arrival all four days of the event. For those pilots wishing to be surprised, the runway information can be picked up when listening to ATIS or from the announcements of the approach controllers. Trying to preserve that element of surprise and realism, I briefed all four runways as part of my prep work and felt reasonably prepared for each. 

I experienced some trepidation about how much of the critical scenery I would be able to see out my left window, even at 1,800 feet. Spotting the railroad tracks at Ripon, for example, and picking up Fisk Avenue over the town of Fisk were both critical details. So, a few days before SimVenture, I took a practice flight on my sim from Ripon to Fisk, trying the Fisk Avenue transition first, and then looping back to try the railroad track transition over the gravel pit second.

• READ MORE: Here Are 2 Quick VFR Flights to Try on Your Home Flight Simulator

My justification for this practice flight was simply that I would use my home simulator to do the same thing if I was flying the arrival in real life, so why not get a quick familiarization ahead of the big event? Also, I knew how task-saturated I would feel on the day of SimVenture, and I wanted to ease that a bit. 

I was 10 miles south of the start of the Fisk arrival now and dialed in the SimVenture ATIS, confirming that Puckaway Lake was the selected transition starting point and that Runway 27 was the active arrival runway for the day at KOSH. I then tuned to the Fisk Approach frequency and started to listen to the controller providing a series of directions to aircraft far ahead at the RIPON checkpoint. For now, I turned my attention to the aircraft forming up over the lake. Whatever aircraft I could form up with would become the loose formation that would make the run up the railroad tracks to the town of Fisk, and then on to landing at KOSH. 

When I arrived over Puckaway Lake, the informal formation of aircraft had the organizational qualities of what I remember my middle school dances looking like— a few parts of chaos and a lot of improvisational choreography as we danced with two left feet—trying to find an aircraft of similar size and speed to fly with. It was a group assembly en masse, like a murmuration of starlings but with much more function and a lot less beauty. 

Aircraft of all varieties were moving generally eastward but at a wide range of altitudes and speeds. I counted no fewer than 30 aircraft and did my best to join a small group near the southern edge of the lake. There was a concerted effort among us to order ourselves, with some jockeying for position. I slowed down to 82 knots momentarily to set myself in the back of the flying-V formation that was beginning to take shape. It wasn’t pretty, but we were Oshkosh-bound.  

The next transition point ahead of us was Green Lake. Per the notice, we had until the town of Ripon to form a single file line, and this had to be completed without talking to each other on the radio. All of us were doing our best to balance the many simultaneous tasks of navigating visually, watching out for nearby traffic, holding altitude and airspeed, and listening to the controllers. The leg from Green Lake to RIPON isn’t more than 10 miles, so there wasn’t much time to make it all work. It was odd to be so close to other aircraft but with no direct way to communicate with them. The flying-V shape was holding on the right side, but there was a bevy of aircraft that still needed to sort themselves into order off to my left. 

Farther ahead, the radio was alive with the Fisk Approach controller turning around a group of sim pilots that couldn’t get themselves into a single file. They were receiving the “turn back” instructions, which meant the whole group had to enter a left turn counterclockwise and fly over the northern shore of Green Lake, then fly nearly 20 miles back to the transition point on Puckaway Lake and try the entire process again. In my group, we had 6 miles to go until RIPON and we still had some work to do.  

I used the hat switch on my yoke to move the camera view to my left and right so that I could read our position and progress towards single-file-ness. Satisfied with my relative position to the other aircraft, I clicked the button to return my camera view to straight ahead out my windscreen, and without warning, another single-engine piston aircraft flew directly in front of me from the left, giving me cause to wonder if I would feel the prop wash in sim.

If it had been real life, it would have been a nerve-wracking close call, and I suspect that I could have seen the other pilot’s eye color. I immediately corrected more to the right and tried to slow down by a few knots, wanting to avoid the accordion effect of stacking up the sim pilots behind me. Not an ideal situation, but one I probably should have been expecting given all of the traffic. By now, the frequency was alive with activity from the Fisk Approach controllers, who were exercising equal parts patience and directness. 

Soon we were on the doorstep of the RIPON transition, and I began looking for the railroad tracks that would lead us to Fisk. I was confident that I could see the tracks from 1,800 feet, having run the practice flight a few days before. I was glad I had done so since Route 44 runs closely alongside and can be visually mistaken in the sim environment if glanced at casually.

Our informal gaggle of aircraft formed a decent single-file line of four, and we made it to RIPON without getting sent back to the end of the line. The others in our group had pressed ahead, probably at faster than 90 knots. No matter. I double-checked my altitude, airspeed, engine instruments, fuel remaining, and that I was still tracking correctly over the railroad just out of my left window.

This feature first appeared in the July/August Issue 949 of the FLYING print edition.

The post SimVenture Adventure Doesn’t Disappoint appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Out of power, altitude and options, Captain Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger and copilot Jeffrey Skiles ditched the aircraft in the Hudson River near midtown Manhattan. There were 155 souls on board. There were injuries but no loss of life, and the term “Miracle on the Hudson” was coined since it was viewed as one of the most successful ditchings ever performed.

What Is Ditching?

According to the Aeronautical Information Manual (AIM), ditching is defined as “a controlled emergency landing of an aircraft on water.” If the aircraft isn’t equipped with floats, it’s usually a one-time-only event, and unlike power-off landings to full stop on a runway, it is not something you can practice. But you can prepare mentally by studying what to do in the unlikely event of a water landing.

Any time you fly over water, you should be thinking about it, especially when the aircraft is beyond gliding distance of the shoreline.

Always Consider It When Flying Over Water

“Do you know how to swim?”

A pilot of the J-3 Cub asked me this the first time I took off from Runway 17 at the Tacoma Narrows Airport (KTIW) in Washington. The airport sits on a peninsula that leads onto the Puget Sound. If you have seen the 1983 movie War Games, the scene with the ferryboat and the island was shot just south of KTIW.

The pilot asked the question after I wondered out loud where we’d land if we had an engine issue. I assured him I could swim as in my teens I trained to be a lifeguard and was thrown out of boats in the middle of a lake fully clothed, with no life vest to test my skills. Until that flight all my training had been over land.

Most of my information about ditching comes from interviewing colleagues who have done it.

• READ MORE: For Those Aviators Attracted to Water

In July 2022, John La Porta, a CFI in the Seattle area experienced an uncommanded loss of engine power while flying a Cessna 150 over the water west of Seattle. La Porta was alone in the aircraft at the time. According to La Porta, the aircraft was at less than 2,000 feet when he noticed a loss of oil pressure. He was attempting to reach King County International Airport-Boeing Field (KBFI), but when the engine lost power, he knew he wouldn’t make it. He didn’t want to take a chance on flying over the hilly terrain, homes, and streets, so he set up to put the aircraft in the water next to Alki Beach.

Things happened quickly, he recalled. He tightened the lap belt and cinched the shoulder harness as tightly as he could. He did not lower the flaps to 40 degrees per the ditching instructions in the POH, but that may have been a blessing as the flaps would have possibly blocked his egress from the aircraft, which flipped over. He was upside down but couldn’t tell in the submerged aircraft.

Although the shoulder harness probably saved his life since it kept him from slamming into the panel, it also pinned him inside the airplane.

“I could not get the belts to release until the airplane’s tail settled into the water. I had one hand on the window, and I was able to sort of stretch up and take a breath of air, and then I found the lap belt and was able to get it undone. I held on to the window as I released the shoulder harness, and then I swam out of the window,” La Porta told FLYING, adding that, if he had someone else in the airplane, he’s not sure if they both would have survived because of the seat belt jamming.

After that experience, La Porta became a big believer in carrying a seatbelt cutter on his person.

Training for the Worst

When it’s more than just you in the airplane, ditching reaches a whole new level, said Amy Laboda, an ATP/CFI and FLYING contributor.

On June 14, 2001, Laboda was in her Cessna 210 with her two daughters, ages 9 and 10, their 15-year-old babysitter, and an adult family friend heading for the Cayman Islands. Shortly after takeoff from Key West International Airport (KEYW) in Florida, as the aircraft passed through 1,500 feet, there was a loud bang and a loss of engine power.

• READ MORE: Stearman Pilot Found Guilty of False Statements in Water Crash

“It was the kind of sound that makes you push the nose over and start turning back,” said Laboda, adding that she drew upon her experience as a glider pilot to get the most distance out of the altitude available but quickly realized she wasn’t going to be able to make it back to land.

She declared an emergency and was cleared to any runway but had to respond, “Unable.”

“The last thing I heard from ATC was ‘services on the way,’” she said.

The aircraft came in like a bobsled, and the windscreen popped out. “It was like getting hit in the face with a fire hose,” said Laboda, noting they were lucky because the water was flat, warm, and smooth.

Laboda boasts years of experience teaching the ditching seminars for the FAA FAASTeam, and from an early age she taught her kids how to quickly put on the overwater safety gear.

“When they were little, we made a game of it,” she explained, adding that part of the preflight briefing is what to do if they had to put it down in the water.

Everyone did what they had been told to do and survived with just cuts and bruises. “There were several boats in the area, and we were in the water for less than 10 minutes,” she said.

Train to Ditch

If you have the opportunity to take a water survival course for aviators, do so. If not, chapter 6 of the AIM provides illustrations and textual descriptions of how to ditch an aircraft. There are a great many variables that result in a successful ditching.

The condition of the landing area is key. Is the aircraft coming down in rough seas or a calm lake? Does the pilot have the skill to come in at the slowest possible airspeed? Was there time to prepare?
The AIM advises stowing or jettisoning loose objects from the cockpit so they don’t become projectiles. Tighten seat belts and unlatch doors because if the aircraft frame is bent, they might jam. If you have time, jam a shoe in the door crack to prop it open.

The National Search and Rescue Manual along with the emergency section of most POHs advise pilots to attempt to bring the aircraft in at a slightly tail-low attitude—slower, the better.

Once the airplane comes to a complete stop, keep your seat belt on and reach for the door. When you have found the door and opened it, release the seat belt. It is important to stay belted until you have grasped the door handle because it helps with orientation. It’s dark underwater, and if the airplane is upside down, you won’t know it. Use the seat belt cutter if you have to—but still hang on to the door.

Once you are free of the belt, pull yourself clear of the aircraft and activate the life vest if you are wearing one. If you are underwater, blow one bubble and follow it to the surface.

Unlacing your shoes so you can kick them off easily is also a good idea because of all the articles of clothing you are likely wearing they are the heaviest and will drag you down.

This feature first appeared in the July/August Issue 949 of the FLYING print edition.

The post The One-Time Water Landing appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The contest, which typically occurs on grass or dirt areas parallel to paved runways, was to take place alongside Runway 5-23. 

On Friday afternoon the wind picked up. It blew out of the northwest across the STOL Drag course. Qualifying heats were postponed until the next day. 

A number of the competitors then decided to conduct an impromptu “traditional STOL” event, omitting the drag racing component. They would use the grass Runway 31, which was conveniently aligned with the wind. The pilots, organizers, and FAA inspectors who were present held a safety briefing, and the participants were divided into four groups of five or six aircraft to prevent clogging the pattern. The objective of the contest was to see who could come to a full stop in the shortest distance after touching down beyond the target line.

Each group completed two circuits without incident. Two groups had completed a third circuit, and now the third group was landing. The third airplane in that group was a modified Rans S-7, the fourth a Zenith STOL 701—unusual among the participants in having tricycle gear—and the last a Cessna 140. The S-7 landed, came to a stop in less than 100 feet, and taxied away. The 701 was still a fair distance out, and the 140 seemingly rather close behind it and low. 

• READ MORE: A Cautionary Tale About Pilot Freelancing

A STOL Drag representative who was coordinating the pattern operations radioed the 140 pilot: “Lower your nose. You look slow.” The 140 pilot did not acknowledge. Half a minute later, the coordinator again advised the pilot to lower his nose. 

A few seconds later, the 140 yawed to the right, its right wing dropped, and with the awful inevitability of an avalanche or a falling tree, it rolled over into a vertical dive and struck the ground an instant later. A groan went up from the small crowd of onlookers. “Oh, my God, what happened!” one voice exclaimed. What had happened was all too clear—a low-altitude stall-spin that resulted in the pilot’s death.

The 140 pilot, 45, had an estimated 470 hours total time, more than 300 of which were in the 140. He had already qualified for STOL Drag competitions at a previous event.

The wind at the time of the accident was 15 knots gusting to 21. (As with all aviation wind reports, the 15 is the sustained wind and the 21 the maximum observed; no information is provided about lulls or wind speed variations below the sustained value.) The pilot of the 701 said that he had been maintaining about 50 mph (44 knots), as he had on several previous approaches, and that the wind on this approach felt no different than on the others. 

The 701 is equipped with full-span leading-edge slats, which make it practically incapable of unexpectedly stalling. Operating at a likely wing loading of less than 7 pounds per square foot, it could probably fly at around 35 mph. For the 701, an approach speed of 50 mph was conservative. The 140’s wing loading was only slightly higher, but its wing was not optimized for extremely slow flight. The 140’s POH stalling speed at gross weight was highly dependent on power setting, ranging from 45 mph power off to 37 mph, flaps down, with full power.

• READ MORE: Two Fatal Cases of the Simply Inexperienced

An FAA inspector who witnessed the accident reported his observations to a National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) investigator. He noted that the 140 generally took longer to get airborne than other airplanes in its group, in part because the pilot, after first lifting the tail, rotated prematurely, so that the tailwheel struck the ground and the airplane continued rolling for some distance before finally becoming airborne. The pilot, he said, would climb steeply at first, but then have to lower the nose to gain speed. He appeared low and close behind the 701 on the last approach.

Earlier videos also showed that, on landing, the 140 rolled farther than other contestants, despite braking to the point of almost nosing over.

On previous circuits the pilot had used flaps, but on his last approach he failed to put the flaps down. The omission could account for the coordinator’s observation that the nose seemed high. Full flaps would have resulted in a more nose-low attitude.

The NTSB blamed the accident on the pilot’s obvious “exceedance of the airplane’s critical angle of attack.” It went on to cite as a contributing factor the “competitive environment, which likely influenced the pilot’s approach speed.” Since there were many knowledgeable observers of both the accident and of several previous takeoffs and landings by the 140, and everything was recorded on video from several angles, the NTSB’s diagnosis could probably have been even more specific and mentioned the failure to use flaps and the premature downwind-to-base turn.

If, by a chance misjudgment, the 140 pilot found himself too close behind the 701, he still had options other than slowing to the lowest possible speed. Since there was no one behind him, he could have gone around or made a 360 on final. The aircraft waiting to take off would have had to stand by a little longer, but only a fool would grumble because another pilot was being wisely cautious.

• READ MORE: Three-Mile Limit: Novice Pilots Succumb to the Perils of Total Darkness

Instead, the 140 pilot chose to maintain his spacing by flying as slow as he could.

The decisive factor in the accident was most probably the failure to use flaps. It was almost certainly inadvertent. He probably forgot to put the flaps down, then believed they were down—because he had them down on the previous circuits—and chose his speeds accordingly. Adding flaps would have brought the stalling speed down 3-4 mph and also obliged him to use a little more power. Actually, it would have been quite a bit more because he was low, and the added power would have given him still more cushion.

The 140 was a goose among swans in this flock of dedicated STOL airplanes that possessed a near-magical ability to take off and land in practically no distance at all. Still, it was OK to be an outlier. The point of the contest was to have fun. You didn’t need to go home with a trophy—not that there even was one for this impromptu event.

But integrating an airplane with somewhat limited capabilities among more capable ones required special attention to speed and spacing. It would be easy to make a mistake. Once the mistake was made, and compounded by the failure to use flaps, all the pilot had left to lean on was luck—or willingness to recognize an error and go around while there was still airspeed and altitude to recover.

Note: This article is based on the National Transportation Safety Board’s report of the accident and is intended to bring the issues raised to our readers’ attention. It is not intended to judge or reach any definitive conclusions about the ability or capacity of any person, living or dead, or any aircraft or accessory.

This column first appeared in the July/August Issue 949 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Nothing Short of a Fatal Mismatch appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

He complained there was something wrong with the airplane. The engine wasn’t producing enough power. He had attempted two takeoffs and wisely chose to abort, as it did not lift off when he expected.

“It pretty much ate up the whole runway!” he said. 

When asked if he had done the performance calculations, specifically accounting for density altitude, he acted like a deer in the headlights. He had not performed the computations because he didn’t think the conditions warranted. The field elevation was approximately 492 feet—certainly not what you would consider high elevation, and the temperature was in the mid-80s Fahrenheit. He was from Arizona, where the temperature routinely topped 100 in the summer, so this was not hot, and it didn’t feel humid out there, at least not by Midwest or Gulf state standards—also places he had been.

“Don’t you need all three to create density altitude?” he asked.

No. No, you don’t.

• READ MORE: The Importance of Embracing Proficiency Culture

He was surprised to learn that a single one of those factors can reduce aircraft performance, which is why those numbers need to be crunched and double-checked before every flight. And I mean every flight.

Of all the skills that go by the wayside after the check ride, determining aircraft performance is right up there next to “obtaining a weather briefing” and “weight and balance.” If you don’t make it a habit to use these skills, they fade—and quickly. I will never forget the private pilot who had her certificate for all of four months yet couldn’t remember how to access a weather report or read a takeoff performance chart and therefore had no idea how long the takeoff roll would be.

Consider what is off the end of the runway as well. If the performance chart says you need 1,120 feet to clear that 50-foot obstacle at the end of the runway, and the runway measures 1,900 feet, ask yourself where could you go if something went wrong? Is there a golf course? An industrial park? A lake? Don’t forget to review the short-field takeoff checklist and review the fine print, especially with regard to leaning the mixture for best power.

Watch the Weight

We can’t control the weather, but we can manage the weight of the aircraft. On warmer days, it is not uncommon to limit the fuel load of an aircraft to adjust for its reduced performance.

Most flight schools that use scheduling software have a place to put notes in the rental reservation where you can leave a remark such as special refueling instructions, such as do not refuel after flight. To be safe you might want to add a Post-it note in the dispatch binder or on it, or a note on a whiteboard in the CFI cubicles can work. This is a belt-and-suspenders and a staple-gun approach, but if your flight school doesn’t have the ability to expediently and safely offload fuel, it can save a flight. 

Don’t forget to note the time to climb in your calculations. It is a bit chilling to have planned for a climb rate of 500 feet per minute to clear a ridgeline but then notice the aircraft is struggling to achieve 300 feet per minute. This is one of those times you will want to fly  a shuttle climb, going back and forth in a confined space.

Protect Pilot Performance

High altitude, heat, and humidity also degrade the performance of a pilot. Most aircraft in the training fleet don’t have the same caliber of environmental controls as modern cars, so pilots, especially flight instructors, have to be creative. (You know it is a hot day at the airport when the CFIs keep the door of the aircraft open during taxi and don’t close it until just before takeoff.)

You can try to work around it by scheduling flights early in the morning or late in the evening but if that is not an option you have to adapt.

• READ MORE: Separation Anxiety: When Your Instructor Moves on, Your Logbook Tells the Story

In the Seattle area, anything over 90 degrees is unusual, and our homes, airplanes, and bodies aren’t used to it. There was one summer where it really got us. I still had to fly, so I scheduled as many of my learners as I could in the cooler part of the day—two before noon and one for when the day began to cool. I had learned that even if I used those products advertised to control sweat and stink and wore a cotton T-shirt under my flight school uniform (a black polo made from a material that nature never knew existed), by midday my shirt was sweat soaked and I felt as though I needed a bath in tomato juice.

I started changing my T-shirt at least twice a day, and when the temperatures reached the 100s, drew upon primacy, drawing upon my days as a teenage girl at slumber parties: I froze my own T-shirt. It’s not quite what we did back in those days, but the principle was sound, and I highly recommend it. Put a clean, dry T-shirt in the freezer overnight. Wear it the next day during the flight. You will be surprised how comfortable it is and how long it stays cool. 

On those hot days, I learned to carry frozen bottles of water in the airplane. Put the bottle in a clean tube sock to absorb the condensation. Sip from the bottle in between maneuvers, and in particular before landing, as dehydration can manifest as fatigue and slow down your reaction time. Also, you can be dehydrated without being thirsty. You may find it useful to take a few sips off water bottles as part of your before-landing checklist, as it increases alertness.

The Difficult Conversation

Using deodorant and daily bathing is not a universal thing. This was explained to me by a colleague who had some bad experiences with learners from other cultures, to the point her flight school added a page on hygiene information to its welcome-to-our-school packets. The CFIs told stories of using air fresheners in the cockpits and classrooms and using lemon-scented polish on the aircraft windows to try to mask the odor.

It is particularly awkward when it is a co-worker who needs the talk. I was forced to do a Redbird training session with a CFI who was a heavy smoker, and frankly smelled like a cross between an ashtray, a latrine, and a skunk. I’d been warned, but that did not do the situation justice. My eyes were watering, and I cut the lesson short—then promptly went to the gym around the corner, showered, and changed my uniform.

I had two more learners that day, and I wanted the focus to be on flying—not fragrance.

This column first appeared in the July/August Issue 949 of the FLYING print edition.

The post How to Beat the Summer Heat When Flying appeared first on FLYING Magazine.