Mea Culpa

Not all landings are happy

NASA, in addition to all its high-profile space exploration programs, is deeply involved in aeronautics research—everything from developing “boomless” supersonic flight to testing new cockpit technology or improving air traffic control.

            Among the lesser-known programs NASA manages is the Aviation Safety Reporting System, or ASRS, a voluntary incident reporting system developed by the FAA to help collect data and gain insight on aviation safety issues. Those who submit reports, be they pilots, flight attendants, air traffic controllers, airport personnel or even passengers, do so confidentially and anonymously. To further encourage such reporting, the FAA offers limited immunity in cases where an incident could lead to a pilot facing license suspension or other sanctions. 

            Since the program was started in 1975, thousands of reports have been submitted—and every one is free and available to the public. At the ASRS site online <https://asrs.arc.nasa.gov/search/database.html>, NASA has compiled sets of reports into various categories: “Air Carrier Flight Crew Fatigue Reports,” “Air Traffic Controller Reports,” “Cabin Smoke, Fire, Fumes or Odor Incidents,” “Passenger Misconduct Reports,” etc. 

            For those with a more particular interest, the site’s search engine allows narrowing searches to specific criteria, such as phase of flight, weather conditions, type of aircraft, location, type of event, or even specific words. Curious how many incidents involve “snakes”? (6). “Sex”? (11). “Assault”? (50).

            These reports offer a very different perspective than the dry, clinical narratives produced by the NTSB after a major crash. In those, the thoughts and emotions of the pilots can only be guessed at because in most cases they’re dead. These reports are different. They are written by the participants, in most cases soon after or not long after the incident described. These people are not professional writers, so the stories don't have the precision of language used by investigators, but there is an immediacy to them, an urgency that puts you right in the cockpit. 

            For example (I have slightly edited the following to eliminate abbreviations and clarify descriptions):

On Saturday, October 5, I departed XXX airport in instrument conditions, with the ceiling approximately 400 above ground level. Upon entering the clouds, I radioed approach to confirm I was off XXX. During initial climbout, I realized that my directional gyro was tumbling and not working. Approach cleared me to the ABC VOR. I looked and reached over to my navigation radio to switch frequencies and to dial in my new heading on the VOR. At this same instant, my passenger (and husband) was so totally overcome with vertigo and complete and utter fear that he began screaming to get him on the ground, and in a panic grabbed the controls, which caused the aircraft to go into an unusual attitude. Because I was focused at that same instant on tuning my heading, I too became disoriented. I instantly made the decision to declare distress to approach. Approach asked what was the nature of the emergency. I tried to tell them I didn’t know if I was right side up. This, I think, was the last communication for several seconds because my husband would not stop screaming and I could not hear air traffic control. I then decided that I needed to do whatever it took to regain control. I proceeded to reach over and punch my husband in the face and pulled his beard to disrupt his current and extreme panic. During this time, I was trying to get my scan back onto the instruments, as I had broken out of the clouds and needed to get myself straight and level and climbing before impacting the ground. Keep in mind, my directional gyro was still tumbling. I finally got myself in a wings level climb to 7,000 feet. During this time, air traffic control asked what I wanted to do. I said, “Get to VFR or on the ground.” The controller initiated an emergency ASR assistance (giving pilot precise control instructions). Thank God for good controllers. During this time, I was trying to reset my directional gyro. I was able to perform the required actions of ATC, but I was having difficulty holding headings due to my nervousness, my passenger’s episode, and the time I spent trying to get the gyro working. Once on the ground, tower asked me to call them. 

            

This was one of 174 incidents reported involving Piper Comanches, the same type of plane I fly (there are likely many more, but pilots don’t have to identify the type of plane involved in their report).  While this report definitely stands out, more typical are stories of mechanical issues or confessions by pilots who committed some error in judgment, These run the gamut, from pilots who forgot to remove tiedowns or somehow taxied into another plane to cases in which a pilot inadvertently flew into weather, busted restricted airspace or just want to report a rude air traffic controller. 

            By far the most common errors are by pilots who mismanaged their fuel and their engine quit (12), or pilots who forgot to lower their landing gear (39).  Luckily, these incidents usually don’t result in injury. Ironically, they are the most preventable type of error, as well as the ones student pilots are most drilled in guarding against. Pilots are all trained in the rigorous use of checklists and developing procedures to reinforce proper technique. Pilots of retractable-gear aircraft nearly all have the acronym GUMPS placarded on the instrument panel. This stands for: Gas, Undercarriage, Mixture, Prop, Switches and seatbelts. Or, as one friend put it: Gear down, Undercarriage down, Make sure the gear is down, Please put the gear down, Shit put the gear down!

            Still, it happens and far too often. In most cases, the pilot’s attention is distracted or task flow broken during the critical phase of landing. This could be from any number of things—dealing with other traffic in the pattern, or a difficult instrument approach, or having to do a go-around, or landing at an unfamiliar airport. Or perhaps nothing at all.

            In one of the 39 cases of gear-ups among Comanches, the aircraft owner was flying with an instructor during a biennial flight review. Neither student or instructor caught the error, and there was no explanation as to why. Perhaps each pilot thought it was the responsibility of the other. Who knows?

            Sometimes things happen for no apparent reason. Consider the following:

            This was my first test flight after the plane came out of the shop after a major repair to replace a broken landing gear strut. My plan was to perform five take-offs and landings at a neighboring airport to insure the repair was solid then return home.

            During the flight test, the plane performed perfectly, and after the fifth landing I turned the plane for the short flight to my home field. I remember calling in, entering onto the left downwind to the active runway, slowing the plane in order to lower the gear, then turning base, then to final and then over the numbers. I remember needing some slight cross-control to keep the plane on the centerline.

            The fact that the plane seemed to be taking some time to settle onto the runway didn’t bother me, as it tends to float in ground effect. When contact was made, there was a grating sound, followed by the plane tipping slightly leftward. My initial thought was that the gear was collapsing, and that the repair had failed. When the rest of the plane hit the pavement and the sound of tearing metal combined with an acrid burning smell, I knew what had happened—I forgot to lower the gear. 

            

After cutting the mixture and shutting off the fuel, I turned off the avionics and the electrical master and quickly exited the plane. I took a quick look at what I had done and was instantly filled with a mixture of anger, frustration, shock, shame and humiliation. 

            I knew the plane could be fixed, but I was less sure about my sense of confidence in myself. The feeling was as if I had committed a terrible crime. 

            Pilots have tried to console me—some with jokes, “Any landing you can walk away from is a good one!” or the usual cliches, “When it comes to gear-up landings, there are those that have had them, and those that will.” They reassure me, tell me that I will be flying again, that my ego will heal, and that I can use the experience to become a better pilot. I nod. Sure. Sure, I know.

            Only time will tell.