Cushion of Time Is My Copilot

I write a monthly column for Flying magazine sermonizing upon fatal aviation accidents. As a result, I have become something of a connoisseur of crashes, regularly browsing the National Transportation Safety Board’s files at www.ntsb.gov/ntsb/Month.asp in search of instructive or, failing that, bizarre crashes. Many of the accidents I write about involve private planes, and because I fly them myself, I’ve taken to heart a few simple lessons. Collectively about as safe as motorcycles, all those Cessnas and Pipers and whatnot could be as safe as airliners (that is, much safer than cars) if their pilots just avoided the basic mistakes that recur, singly or in random combinations, with incredible persistence: pressing on into deteriorating weather without the necessary equipment or training; running out of fuel; flying under the influence of alcohol, cocaine, antidepressants and what-have-you; and trying to get home on time.

Like all pilots, I am aware, often irritably so, of nonpilots’ misconceptions about airplanes. Watching television reports of the crash, on March 16, of a four-seat single-engine Mooney near Santa Monica Airport, I was struck once again by the odd notions some people have. One interviewee after another reported living in constant expectation of an airplane dropping out of the sky. There was almost a sense of triumph that it had finally happened. Now, it’s true that airplanes do occasionally hit houses, and that it’s most likely to happen near an airport. But it’s equally true that cars occasionally jump curbs and topple pedestrians, yet few people report strolling the sidewalk or sitting on a bus bench in a state of perpetual anxiety.

I doubt that the precise cause of the Santa Monica accident will ever be known. It was foggy when the pilot and his wife arrived from Mammoth in the afternoon in a borrowed airplane. The airport was socked in -- a 200-foot ceiling and half-a-mile visibility -- but the pilot tried to fly an instrument approach anyway. He was within his rights; there’s always a chance that the clouds might suddenly part, Red Sea fashion, and let him in. But they didn’t, and at a height of 700 feet he broke off the approach, saying he was “going around.” An instrument approach consists of precise instructions, the most important of which is the altitude at which the pilot must break it off. At Santa Monica, it’s 485 feet above the ground. If the pilot can’t see the runway at that point, he has to fly the “missed approach,” also according to precise instructions.

But this pilot didn’t, and this is where the mystery begins. He circled around the area southeast of the airport for about a minute, apparently without telling the radar controller what he had in mind. Maybe he was just above the tops of the clouds, looking for a hole through which he could descend. If so, he was making a grave misjudgment. When the weather at Santa Monica is 200 and a half, you’re not going to get in. Van Nuys was clear, as were a bunch of other local airports; he could have gone to any of them.

Maybe, distracted by scanning the stratus layer, he slowed too much, so that the airplane lost lift and went into a spin. Nobody knows, or is likely to find out for sure, but that’s a likely explanation. The NTSB will probably chalk the accident up to “failure to maintain flying speed” and file it along with thousands of others accruing for years from across the nation, all equally puzzling, sad and unnecessary.

But failure to maintain flying speed is only the final link in a chain. The real cause of accidents like this one is expectation. People plan -- they have dinner dates, the dog needs its walk. An airplane is supposed to be a convenience, a time-saver, a magic carpet. It’s not supposed to strand you in El Monte when you’re due in Malibu at 7 p.m.

Flying an airplane makes you feel like a god; you won’t take no for an answer. Pilots have a name for the condition that impels pilots to take chances: “gethomitis.” But pilots also sum up aviation’s potential for annoying delay with the cliche: “Time to spare? Go by air.” A wise pilot has time to spare, no appointments and keeps a good novel with him at all times.