Grant Corriveau's Blog, page 2

Coldest Flight of the Year (part 3 – conclusion)

Second Officer’s Log:
Winter 1976, B727, YWG Departure Gate 

“Okay,” captain Dal said, “let’s do this.” 

I began reading the unfamiliar checklist, speaking loudly over the outside noise. We accomplished each step slowly and deliberately. We couldn’t afford any mistakes. We were stepping beyond the standard daily routine. We were going the extra mile to accomplish this departure, but we were also intent upon not damaging our expensive aircraft nor any of the much-more-precious human beings working with us on the ramp. 

Gradually needles, gauges and lights flickered on, giving us minimal insight into the aircraft’s status. I kept reading checklist items as each of us responded by moving the appropriate switch or confirming a pertinent gauge reading. Then the moment of truth arrived. It was time to hit the Start-button. I looked up at the pressure gauge on my panel. “Looks okay—barely,” I called out the reading. 

“Start number two,” Captain Dal commanded. The center engine on top of the fuselage, our number two engine, posed the least risk to the ground crews who were yet to service the plane. As FO Bear held the switch, I watched the start pressure needle drop. “Valve open,” I confirmed. The captain was closely monitoring his indicators. They began to move, so slowly. We all stared at the gauges, compelling the engine to spin. “Now or never,” Captain Dal muttered, throwing the fuel lever on. There was a short hesitation. Then the exhaust temperature flickered and began climbing. “Light on two,” the Captain called in a flat tone. His hand stayed on the lever, ready to snap it closed if the temperature climbed too quickly, indicating a misfire inside the engine. The RPM increased sluggishly towards the point where the engine would become self-sustaining. Other parameters crept up slowly. “Forty percent,” captain Dal called out the magic number. Bear released the switch and I glanced up to the pneumatic gauge. “Valve closed,” I confirmed. 

All our attention turned to our barely-running turbine. It still had to stabilize properly in the frigid winter air or we’d have to shut it down. We glared at the oil pressure reading. My flight deck colleagues were as keen as I to avoid destroying a multi-million-dollar engine. “There we go,” FO Bear finally called when a full minute had expired. “Oil Pressure.” An air of triumph flooded the flight deck. We were in business! Goodbye warm bed, hello San Francisco. We continued our start procedures. When I flipped on the electrical power, we felt a shudder through the entire plane. The frigid generator kicked into action. It came on-line. It held! More lights, gauges and normal flight deck sounds sparked into action. For the first time that morning, things seemed almost normal. The ramp agent reappeared at the flight deck door, cheeks burning raw from the cold. 

“We’re in business!” I proclaimed. He grinned back, “Just in time too. The air cart died. We can’t get it restarted. This must be your lucky day.” My internal eight-track (Hey! This was a long time ago!) burst into a stirring rendition of “California, Here We Come.” 

As our overhead engine purred away, doing the job its little brother-APU couldn’t this morning, we launched into our pre-flight preparations. The flight attendants were soon onboard, organizing the galleys and cabin. The fuel truck was connected and pumping gas. The cabin was not warming up quickly, so we had the passengers don all their winter finery for boarding. As the purser closed our cabin door, I glanced back down the aisle and smiled again. One hundred-and- some passengers, wearing parkas and gloves and hats, were all huddled happily in the cold, exchanging smiles and laughter. I imagined the jokes being shared: “These cost-cutting measures have gone too far,” and, “I should have flown first class. This economy ticket just wasn’t worth freezing my toes.” (insert appropriate body parts at your discretion). 

Then the main door closed and we were ready to push back. The ground crew tractored us off the bridge into the dark morning as I carefully read the ‘Cross-Bleed Start’ checklist. Using bleed air from number two engine to start the others, we soon had all three jets idling. A draft of warm air poured out of the vents and we were finally back to normal and on our way. The rest of the departure went smoothly. We were all warmed-up and nothing could hold us back. We stopped at Edmonton, then Calgary to load more winter refugees. Soon we were sailing southward along the Rocky Mountains, San Francisco bound. As we descended into SFO, the flight culminated with the majestic Point Reyes arrival along the Pacific shores and over a fog- bound Golden Gate bridge. 

From the airport, I rented a car and drove to visit my American cousin and her family. We had arranged earlier that I would come spend this layover with them. As I made my way across the hills to Manteca, I felt a lingering sense of satisfaction. Though still a rookie second officer, I had played a significant role this morning in solving an unusual problem. All our crew-members, both air and ground based, had worked together to improvise an unusual departure, everyone contributing their talents, skills and effort. 

Over my career, I would discover that solving such unexpected problems, often caused by chaotic weather or mechanical failures, was one of the most interesting parts of the job. On these occasions, we humans truly shine. It seems to me that something in us is made for this— creating solutions to the problems that life and the universe throws at us. 

Next morning my cousin plucked a fresh orange from her garden to garnish our breakfast plates. I tried hard not to think about the return flight to Winnipeg. 

Note: The coldest-ever recorded temperature in Winnipeg was -47.8 Celsius (-54 Fahrenheit) on December 24, 1879. 

Coldest Flight of the Year (part 2)

Second Officer’s Log:
Winter 1976, B727, YWG Departure Gate 

We were stumped and stuck in Winnipeg. We retreated into the bridge just as Captain Dal and FO (first officer) Bear arrived with our flight attendant crew close behind. We all huddled together taking stock. We had no electrical power from the ground power unit. No APU. No heat source to raise the cabin temperature to a survivable level. The Shell fuel-truck driver showed up and chimed in. Without electrical power, he couldn’t load our fuel. Our coveted February layover in San Francisco was definitely in jeopardy. Minus 40 is a powerful motivator to get out of Winnipeg, so we scratched our heads looking for solutions. Everyone seemed highly-motivated to find a solution, so I shivered in silence and refrained from suggesting that we just forget everything and head home to hibernate until spring. 

Then an idea burbled to the surface of my sleepy brain. “If we had an air starter,” I said, then hesitated as I realized everyone had turned to look at me. Apparently, I was using my “out loud voice” and was now committed to sharing the thought, no matter how silly it suddenly felt. “Could we get one main engine going and use it like a big APU…?” I trailed off. Even as I said it, it seemed like a strange idea. I was vaguely remembering an alternative method for starting jet engines. What we needed was a high-pressure air cart. Many airports still had these kicking around. The older jetliners from the 1960s, like the DC8s and 707s, depended on them because they lacked APUs. However, running a main engine for an extended period while parked at the gate was an unusual idea and nothing we’d learned in ground school. There was definitely no SOP for the situation we faced this morning. 

The mechanic turned to the ramp agent, “Don’t we have an old air cart stored somewhere behind the big hangar?” Then he said to Captain Dal, “How badly do you want to dangle your toes in the ocean today?” Captain Dal nodded enthusiastically. “Well, then let’s try it,” the mechanic said. He turned to leave with the ramp agent. “Let’s see if we can dig it out.” The winter-warriors trundled off into the bitter cold. The rest of us watched them go as we shifted from foot to frozen foot in our summer shoes, wondering what to do next. This was uncharted water. From here we would be creatively addressing issues one step at a time. 

Our flight attendants shuffled back to the warmth of the lounge to plan their strategy. We three pilots dragged ourselves and our baggage into the flight deck, shivering in our skimpy airline overcoats. We kept these on, along with our hats, stowing our flight cases beside our chairs and climbing in, as if we were actually going flying—which was still highly doubtful. As I glanced at my colleagues in the front seats, it’s the only time, other than in a low-budget Hollywood movie, that I ever saw pilots sitting at the controls wearing full uniforms. Anything to ward off the cold. FO Bear pulled a toque (the Canadian term for beanie) from his flight bag and donned that too. I couldn’t help smiling. We looked more like a comedy team filming a TV sketch than a professional flight crew. 

After a short discussion, Captain Dal laid out our plan and we began preparations. As I settled into my work station, fractured songs played from the jukebox inside my head. Tony Bennett left his heart, then cross-faded to Eric Burden finding no place left to go, followed by Scott McKenzie wearing flowers in his hair. Apparently, my mental playlist was loaded with Top-10 Odes to San Francisco. 

A solitary air-start cart somewhere on the far side of the field, frozen into a snow bank, represented our only chance of getting to California. Our entire escape plan, er . . . I mean departure plan, depended on the mechanic and ramp crew finding it, digging it out and getting it going. I was in awe of their dedication and obvious desire to get rid of us. Meanwhile, we shivered and worked, using our flashlights to find our way, and continued our preparations in hope and faith that our scheme was going to succeed. 

Part way through an inspiring rendition of “California Dreaming,” Mamma Cass was interrupted by the hulking, winter-dressed mechanic bouncing back into the flight deck. “We got it!” There was a definite smile in his voice. Within minutes the growl of the pneumatic cart roared to life below the flight deck. “Air’s ready,” a voice called into our headphones. “Okay,” captain Dal said, “let’s do this.” 

To be continued: “Uplift – A Pilot’s Journey” part 3

Coldest Flight of the Year (part 1)

Second Officer’s Log:
Winter 1976, B727, YWG Departure Gate 

Arctic air gripped the prairies as Winnipeg’s overnight temperature plummeted to -40°. A frigid wind sucked heat from everything it touched, including our Boeing 727. I peered at it through my reflection in the boarding lounge window. The plane sat frozen in pools of feeble yellow light that seeped from terminal building fixtures into the morning darkness. Snow swirls drifted and snaked across the frozen concrete, depositing hard mounds of snow around the aircraft’s tires. The aerodynamic curves of our plane looked more like an ice-sculpture than a flying machine. But a flying machine it was and this morning it was scheduled for an urgent mission: to “rescue” our crew and a load of hopeful passengers from the depths of a Winnipeg winter and deliver us to the gentler climes of San Francisco. 

As I made my way down the bridge, hunching my shoulders against the bone-chilling cold, I was puzzled. Why was the plane still dead, dark and frozen this close to departure time? I had expected the ramp crews to have the lights on and the heat turned up full-blast. Suddenly, at the far end of the walkway, the ramp door swung open and a burst of snow swooshed in with a wintery blast, propelling a parka-clad agent. He spotted me, waved a greeting and headed towards me. He was holding the bare heel of his other hand against his frozen cheek. 

“The ramp equipment wouldn’t start. None of it. Not the GPU [Ground Power Unit], not the heater, and so far, not even the push-back tractor.” 

“Maybe the APU [auxiliary power unit] will start,” I said, doubtfully. The B727 auxiliary power unit was infamously unreliable at starting in cold weather. I thought of the cozy bed I’d left at home and wondered if I’d be seeing the warm waves of the Pacific Ocean today after all.

I led the way into the dim flight deck where I fumbled for a flashlight. Starting an airliner is a cascading process. Everything depends on one little battery that cranks the APU turbine. Once this starts, the APU electrical generator brings to life all the lights, controls and switches. The APU compressor supplies “bleed air” to heat the cabin and more importantly, to spin our main engines at startup time. 

However, before starting the APU there is a critical test required. The integrity of the fire protection system must be verified. This test is required because no one likes carrying flammable liquids on board an aircraft, but it has been determined—and often confirmed by inattentive pilots—that engines won’t run without a steady supply of highly-flammable jet fuel. Designers mitigate this risk by installing automatic detection systems that watch for uncontained fires and put them out. As it happens, starting turbines in extremely cold weather is known for increasing the chances of starting just such fires. So, I dutifully pressed the test-switch. 

Nothing. I held the test-switch longer. Still nothing. The icy-cold sensors, driven by a half-hearted, totally frozen APU battery, could not generate enough heat to trigger the test. I thought about starting the APU anyway. But as a new second officer, with a brand-new mortgage on a modest house in the suburbs, I reckoned that burning an aircraft to the ground was a “bad thing” and should be avoided. Employers are fussy about stuff like that. Paying back the cost of a torched plane from my paltry new pilot paychecks would take a long time—a very long time. 

Instead, we called for the mechanic. Within minutes a burly, bundled-up form tromped into the flight deck, pulling off ice-encrusted leather mitts and his breath-frosted snorkel-hood. “I just got the push-back tractor going. Now, what did you guys break?” He looked irked, anticipating yet another cold-related problem about to be dropped in his lap. I explained. He reached over and hit the APU start button, ignoring the fire-protection test. He apparently had no mortgage to pay nor job security issues—and little fear of fire. But the frozen battery could barely crank the turbine. It would not spin fast enough to properly initiate the start sequence. 

We were stumped and stuck in Winnipeg. 

— to be continued —

— From “Uplift – A Pilot’s Journey.”

The Last Word in Safety…

[image error]

“No!” Passengers hate to hear it. It means “no,” you won’t be leaving on time. It means “no,” you won’t make your on-going flight connections. It means “no,” you won’t make it to your event on time.

Pilots hate to say it. We hate to disappoint our customers.

But often, it’s the safest word and the very best word you’ll hear. The main thing is that at least you’ll still be around to complain about it.

One of the hardest times pilots have to choose to say “No!” is when facing poor weather conditions. Finding the right place to draw the line in the air between “Go,” and “No Go,” can be very ambiguous. It can shift with the technology that’s available on the aircraft we’re flying. It can shift daily, even moment-by-moment, with changing conditions and our own experience, and even how we feel at the moment.

Sadly, faced with what feels like over-whelming pressure from our passengers and even (worst of all) our employers, pilots sometimes choose to acquiesce and fly into weather beyond safe limits. This usually ends badly.

Learn to love the “No!” word. Know it’s in your best interests.

The journey continues… make it a safe one.

Winter Travel woes…?

[image error]

One of the most important things to “pack,” when traveling by air in winter, is patience and maybe a good sense of humor. Operating aircraft, safely, in the extremes of seasonal weather, is a huge challenge.

Sometimes passengers are perplexed at how a snowstorm in “far-away” Vancouver can cause their flight from Toronto to Miami to be delayed. This is a fact of modern airline travel when jet-liners routinely criss-cross the entire continent in a few hours. Your aircraft and maybe flight crew might experience long delays getting out of Vancouver (or where ever) this morning due to on-going snow issues and the need to de-ice the plane before take-off. This puts on-going flights behind schedule as well.

Things can get even more complicated if the second leg of a journey would keep the affected crews working beyond their maximum allowed duty times. Beyond specified extension allowances for weather and mechanical delays, crews are not legally allowed to begin a flight if they will not be able to complete it without exceeding these extended duty times. So, the airline is forced to find replacement crew-members for your flight and – guess what. During extended periods of bad weather, these extra crew-members just aren’t available. They’re all busy elsewhere. So flight cancellations and consolidations occur. In other words – delays, delays, delays.

But, this is the reality of flying in winter. “It ain’t easy! Especially when the demands of maintaining a high standard of safety are paramount. So – keep patient. Keep smiling. And keep telling yourself “It’s an adventure. This will be a funny story to tell at a party someday.”

Photo By Nicholas Hartmann – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=52073782

QUESTIONS TO THE AUTHOR

1.      Why did you write this book?

Over the years I’ve found that a lot of people are interested in aviation. This is an attempt to share the unique aspects of this job with the many aviation enthusiasts who are interested in what happens“up front” in an airliner.

2.      Which airline did you fly for?

 I flew for a great international airline with over 80 years of experience worldwide. I don’t specifically name the company because I wanted readers to relate to familiar airlines of their own experience. Also, I want to protect the privacy of my colleagues and characters in the stories.

3.      What were some of the highlights of your career?

After the several months of initial training, I got to sit in the co-pilot’s seat of a B727 and fly a couple of takeoffs and landings. Later, as we were exiting by the back air-stair door I had to stop and turn back to stare at all that airplane that had been following me around the sky. Up until then I’d never flown an aircraft this size.

The first flight plan with My Name as captain. After all the years of training, and setbacks, finally it was real! I was an airline captain.

4.      How safe/dangerous is flying? 

Despite what the jargon and airline advertising might say, flying is inherently dangerous. But we make it relatively safe through continual effort and attention to detail. We make it as safe as the flying public demands as they vote with their dollars. Which is to say — it’s as safe as it needs to be to keep passengers coming back for more. There is a continual struggle by companies to remain profitable which is often the enemy of safety.

We could totally eliminate all RISK if we stayed on the ground and didn’t fly. So, it’s all about risk management. Which is why we need properly paid and trained employees; properly funded infrastructure; properly regulated environment (not the wild west); and a travelling public who are aware of the costs of maintaining these high safety standards.

5.      Your stories span several years during which there have been significant changes in the airline industry. How has the job of piloting an airliner evolved during this time?

The environment has become safer, more team oriented, more systematic. Systems have grown up, incorporating all the things we’ve learned along the way – the new technology. For example, we have significantly enhanced weather reporting and forecasting, more detailed maintenance plans, more automated equipment to help us to the job. So along with all this we have developed better training methods for the people who have to manage all this.

6.      Do the computers fly the airplanes? What do the pilots?

Automation has always been an excellent flight deck tool, helping us operate in worse weather than we could without it. But automation is only a tool. It doesn’t care if it “lives or dies.” Aircraft computers experience the same limitations as your home computer. In aviation, automated systems are working in a 3-dimensional world where weather constantly changes, mechanical and electronic equipment fails, and “stuff happens.” There is no replacement for the instantly re-programmable, problem solving skills of a human being. I don’t see this human-automation balance changing much because of the law of diminishing returns. That is, the cost of increasing the level of automation becomes exponentially higher beyond a certain point, while the real benefits are few.

7.      Greatest accomplishment of the aviation industry? 

Today this industry moves more passengers, more miles than anything ever accomplished before in history of the human race and we do it with such regularity, safety, comfort and convenience that folks have come to take it for granted (too much so). The aviation industry has pioneered and developed the concepts of risk management and brought safety to such a high level that today our chances of being killed on a trip are low enough that travelers hardly think about it. In fact, 2017 was a remarkable year because (within certain parameters) there were no fatalities. CLICK HERE FOR AN ARTICLE ON AVIATION SAFETY  

8.      Please summarize the message of your book and why we should buy it. 

Uplift: A Pilot’s Journey is simply one pilot’s journey through a typical airline career. But, along the way, he discovers how intricately-connected and interdependent we all are. And how, together we can overcome obstacles; build wonderful adventures and grow (as individuals, groups, and societies) into something beyond our wildest dreams. We are on a grand journey and we can work together to make it amazing! This is true of each of us, no matter what we do in life.

Airline Pilot: A Day in the LIfe is an attempt to share the flight deck environment in more detail for the benefit of anyone thinking about an airline career or anyone who’s ever wondered about what goes on during a typical flight.

Airline Pilot – A Day in the Life video trailer…

Diversions – meh!

[image error]

This recent news item won’t bring any joy to the hearts of travellers:

More Frequent Weather-Related Flight Diversions

“Weather delays in the U.S. have been trending higher the past four years, upending historical patterns and jumping to an 11-year high for this year’s summer storm season, according to government data for the 30 biggest airports.”

In my recent book “Airline Pilot – A Day in the Life,” I describe how pilots regard last minute diversions away from our scheduled destinations:

Every frequent flyer has a horror story about being dumped at an airport that was not their destination and then having to wait an intolerably-long time while harried airport staff struggled to make arrangements for the ongoing journey. In the days before air travel, this never happened. No one ever got on the famous 20th Century Limited American express train at New York City’s Grand Central station and then, instead of getting off in Chicago found themselves dumped in Kalamazoo, Michigan, in the middle of the night, because Chicago’s weather was too foggy. Never. 

Getting on a transport heading to one city, and ending up in an entirely different city, is a phenomenon of the Air Age. And it doesn’t just happen to our luggage. It’s a vital part of our safety strategy in aviation that we never fly to an airport experiencing bad weather without carrying enough fuel to divert to some other designated airport that has better weather. But we hate going there. Diversions make everyone unhappy, most of all our passengers. 

Even worse, are diversions late at night, when everyone is tired and grumpy, and there are no good choices regarding what to do next. One option after a diversion is what I call the “bus ride from hell.” Whereas the aircraft couldn’t land at the destination, the roads remain open, and the only way to get everyone to the destination is by chartered bus and the long, long, slow drive. Of course, no charter bus company just keeps their expensive vehicles and drivers sitting around an airport, late at night, hoping for such trips, so it always takes several hours for the arrangements to be made, the buses to show up, and the passengers and luggage to get on board. It is not a fun way to spend the night.

Other times, the best option involves arranging last-minute hotel accommodations, assuming there are any available. After all, if one flight was diverted due to poor weather, probably others have as well. Again, there are long waits for the arrangements to be made, for shuttle buses to show up and then, the stay in the hotel is short. Next morning the trek must be made back to the airport because the sooner you get in the standby line, the sooner you might get a seat on the next flight out. Worst of all are the times when there are no provisions available at all, for whatever reason, so passengers end up spending a long, horrible night camped in the terminal building. One way or another, diversions are almost guaranteed to ultimately leave everyone totally exhausted and fed up with the “joys” of air travel.

But airlines also hate diversions. Besides causing angst and ill will in customers, diversions cause additional expenses and messed up schedules when aircraft and flight crews are suddenly not where they were scheduled to be. Airline planners must scramble to find available resources during times of changeable weather, and nothing throws a bigger wrench into the works than a flight diversion to a little-used, off-main-line alternate airport, in the middle of the night.

As far as most aviators are concerned, beyond all these negatives, the worst thing of all is the stress on our sphincters from operating flights with these minimal fuel reserves. It’s against our ultra-conservative natures. Unhappily for us, nowadays, thanks to computers and the ever-growing demand for lowest cost airfares our routes are carefully analyzed by very bright statisticians, using sophisticated algorithms, to establish airline fuel policies and procedures to determine the “acceptable rates” of diversions, while maximizing airline profits.

But statistics won’t alleviate the feeling in the pit of my stomach watching our small contingency fuel allotments disappearing during unplanned eventualities. Then, as we and our passengers and colleagues are dealing with the consequences, these talented statisticians who dreamed up the algorithms and the airline accountants and executives who approved them are at home sleeping comfortably in their own beds.

So, pilots use every flight procedure available to safely and legally avoid diversions.

More here:  “Airline Pilot – A Day in the Life,”

Fly Safe! The Journey Continues…

Clouds From Both Sides Now…

“It’s the tower calling for you.” Mabel, our receptionist, bookkeeper, and general manager of all things administrative around the flight school, held the phone in an outstretched hand toward me. “Your student is stuck on top of the clouds. They want to talk to you.”

I was nervously aware already that one of my most enthusiastic student pilots had departed on his solo cross country flight a little less than an hour ago. As a relatively new flight instructor, I was still on edge each time one of “my” fledglings was out on an exercise. J.J. (Note 1) and I had successfully completed his dual cross-country flight the weekend before. I figured he was ready to go again, solo.

J.J. was a bit of a conundrum. He was a prof at the local university, and as such, he had little trouble mastering the theoretical material for the Private Pilot license. But, when it came to handling the conglomeration of nuts, bolts, aluminum, and accessories called The Aircraft, he was far from a natural. But, J.J.’s enthusiasm for flying and his determination to succeed and his constant, diligent effort were all his strong suits. With constant practice, he was slowly mastering the level of skill needed for the license. He was one of my most diligent students and while I sometimes felt discouraged at his slow progress I was always uplifted by his constant good humour, refusal to become discouraged, and that smile. Always, that smile. He just seemed to enjoy everything about life and especially, life at an airport.

With trepidation, I gingerly held the phone to my ear and identified myself.

“Just to let you know,” the clipped tone of the air traffic controller from the local tower informed me. “Your student who is out on his solo cross country climbed on top of the layer of clouds while he was departing the airport eastward on his first leg. He called us right away to let us know his situation. Thankfully, he’s in the clear on top of a flat layer of clouds. The cloud layer is broken to the west of the field so we are giving him vectors to an area where he should be able to descend visually and get below the clouds again. He actually wanted us to give him vectors to continue doing his cross-country trip, but we figured you’d probably want to have a chat with him first.”

I certainly did!

“Wow. Okay, thanks. Yeah, I obviously need to go over a few things with him, such as the meaning of VFR!” VFR stands for Visual Flight References. It is the set of procedures under which all pilots begin learning to fly. It means that we are expected to control and navigate our aircraft with reference to visual cues obtained from seeing the earth and the surrounding horizon and landmarks. At a much later time in our careers, we may choose to gain more training that lets us fly into and above clouds by using information from our specialized flight instruments. But that’s an advanced course. It’s certainly not something a new student pilot is qualified to do. J.J. was indeed lucky that he was on top of a layer of level clouds with good visibility, which meant he was able to keep the aircraft right side up. As for navigating, now that he could no longer see the landmarks on the ground, (this was pre GPS days), J.J. had been wise enough to immediately report his predicament to the tower controller who was giving him compass headings to fly to a region where the clouds were less dense. Once J.J. could see the earth below, through breaks in the clouds, he would be able to descend back to proper “VFR” conditions and return to the airport.

So far, despite whatever he’d done to get ‘on top’ J.J. was doing a couple of other things right. He was remaining calm and flying the aircraft, and he was calling for assistance from ATC.

A few tense moments later I got another call from the tower to let me know that J.J. was safely back under the cloud deck and was returning to land at the home base. “He’d actually requested vectors to continue on his cross-country flight,” the controller informed me again, sounding incredulous.“

After a few more minutes I watched out the flight school’s front window, towards the active runway. Our training C-150 with J.J. at the controls executed a perfectly acceptable landing, and not long afterward I greeted J.J. as he strolled back into the flight school lobby, smiling broadly from ear to ear. “Wow! It is soooo beautiful up there!” were the first words out of his mouth.

I immediately took him aside for a de-briefing. He explained what happened: “I was climbing to the east and it was such a beautiful day and the sun was shining so strongly and I was just looking at the ground, and I just kept climbing. Then suddenly, I was on top of all the clouds! Wow! It is soooo beautiful up there!” he said again. His eyes glazed over in memory as his smile grew even bigger.

I struggled to manage my reaction. I wanted to acknowledge his expression of joy at what he’d just experienced, but I also wanted to impress upon him that this was not the way to be flying VFR at his particular skill level. We talked seriously for a few minutes about the perils for an inexperienced pilot wandering into instrument flight conditions without proper training (Notes 2, 3, &4).  J.J. nodded but didn’t stop grinning.

The following week, J.J. successfully completed his solo cross country exercise without any further forays into VFR-Over-The-Top flight, and I received no more calls from the tower. He never stopped smiling all the way to his Private Pilot license and beyond.

_____________________

1. The student’s name is changed to protect privacy. Not his real initials.

2. Average time before untrained pilot loses control in IMC: 178 seconds. (Wilson, D. R., & Sloan, T. A. (2003). VFR Flight Into IMC: Reducing the Hazard. Journal of Aviation/Aerospace Education & Research, 13(1). https://doi.org/10.15394/ jaaer.2003.1567)

3. https://commons.erau.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1567&context=jaaer

4. https://www.flightsafetyaustralia.com/2016/01/178-seconds-to-live-vfr-into-imc/

“Ride” Sharing

“How’s the ride?” That’s a question airline pilots often ask of one another and of ATC. We are referring to turbulence that affects the smoothness of our flights. According to this video (linked below) a new Delta Airlines “app,” crowd sources turbulence information from all Delta flights and helps pilots find the smooth air. If it works, this is a touch of genius!

Since the implementation of aircraft with flight management computers, that continually record the outside air temperature, wind, and pressure, I used to wonder why all airlines weren’t selling this data to the meteo departments in the hope that it would help come up with more accurate forecasts.
Does anyone know if that might be happening anywhere, yet?