Every time someone asks me why, with all my flight time and qualifications, I haven’t gone on to an airline job, I just think about stories like this one. Keep in mind, Sam left behind a city he loved, picked up his whole life and moved across the country for this job. All I can say is, I would not have handled the day’s events as diplomatically as he did.
I’ve always said that life is too short to do something you hate all day long. No offense to those of you working in the trenches at a regional or major, because I have the utmost respect for the hard life you folks are leading, but a Part 121 flying job is just about the perfect definition of “something I’d hate”. I swear, if Dante Alighieri was alive today, the Inferno would be set at a domestic airline.
To add insult to injury, the everyday risks to one’s career at a Part 121 airline are not insignificant. Medical certification. FAA enforcement action. Bankruptcy and mergers are but two of the ways one’s seniority (and paycheck) can go from 60 to zero in a heartbeat through no fault of your own. Ugh. The airlines even have their own version of purgatory. It’s called “furlough” and can last what feels like an eternity.
Most of the former instructors I’ve met over the years look back on their teaching days as something they simply had to endure in order to get a “real” job in the aviation world. I am tempted to give them the benefit of the doubt and chalk it up to the repetition of working with one primary student after another. But the truth is, many of those folks were simply not any good as instructors. They got out of it what they put into it: not much. I feel bad for them, because they’re always looking toward the “next thing” to make them happy. When they’re at an airline, they’ll look toward that upgrade, or the next aircraft, never satisfied with where they are.
I don’t mean to suggest that Sam falls into this category. He seems to be taking the bumps and bruises with a lot more grace than I could ever hope to have in that position. But I have a hard time getting past the fact that, without exception, every single retired airline pilot I’ve ever met has given me the same piece of advice: stay away from the airlines. In what other field would one get such an overwhelming vote of no-confidence from the industry’s most successful veterans?
Come to think of it, I’m not sure why CFIs are so looked down upon. I probably made twice as much money as Sam did in 2007, and worked fewer hours flying more interesting aircraft to boot. The highest performance aerobatic airplanes in the world. Historical, fully restored open cockpit biplanes. The latest in composite glass-panel aircraft. Warbirds. Experimentals. Turbines. Formation flying. The list of aviation jobs out there is pretty long, and I’ve had the good fortune of working many of them. And I choose when and where I work, as well as who I fly with.
The allure of the airlines is a mystery to me. It’s like the ninth circle of hell, except in this version everybody is clamoring to get there.
Bob Miller at Over the Airwaves frequently touts the fact that ‘nobody’ provides spin training anymore. Perhaps my perspective is not typical, but I don’t find this to be the case.
At Sunrise Aviation (KSNA), we have the largest aerobatic program on the west coast. Not only that, but our private pilot students are all required to experience spins in a Decathlon before they solo. We’ve taught thousands of people to fly over the past quarter century using this philosophy. I was trained this way myself.
I can think of several other large operations which provide quality spin training just here in California. CP Aviation in Santa Paula, Attitude Aviation in Livermore, and Tutima Academy in King City.
I rarely have any problem getting pre-solo students to do multi-turn spins on their own (and recover on a specified heading). It’s simply a matter of proper technique when teaching this to students. Easier said than done. Most CFIs learn from instructors who have never done spins. There is no way they will effectively be able to teach it without proper spin training of their own.
Many pilots and instructors who do expose students (and perhaps even more egregiously, non-pilots) to spins introduce them by simply doing one unannounced. That is the worst possible idea. It guarantees the maneuver will simply blur by for the student, resulting in spatial disorientation and motion sickness. It also ensures they won’t learn anything other than to be afraid of flying.
More than any other maneuver, spins come with a long litany of baggage. Horror stories from other pilots. Tall tales of spins that swallow the aircraft whole like Moby Dick. Apprehensiveness about motion sickness. This requires delicate handling by the CFI, but instead it’s often approached with blunt force. “Just do it”.
Wrong approach.
Teaching spins must begin with a thorough understanding of the aerodynamics involved. That means ground training. I start with a review of how lift is developed. Then progress to a discussion of stalls, coordination, wing drops, and finally the aerodynamics of the spin itself. When teaching spins, the best advice for a CFI is: assume nothing. I’ve seen some really weird explanations from spin students about basic aerodynamics. One of the most common errors is a belief that aircraft stall at a specific speed rather than a specific angle of attack. The ground training is the place to get all that stuff taken care of.
In the air, it’s vital that the spins are worked up to slowly, beginning with stalls of various types. Falling leaf stalls are particularly valuable. The student must be comfortable with high angles of attack. Then, spin “drills” are introduced were the spin is started, then stopped within a quarter turn. Once the student’s technique and comfort have reached the requisite levels, a one turn spin can be introduced with appropriate ground reference. From that point it’s simply a matter of allowing the spin to develop through two and three turns while ensuring the student maintains situational awareness.
For the really apprehensive students, I begin the actual spins by having them work only one control, usually the rudder. Once they’re comfortable with that, I switch them to the stick. Then I have them do both, and eventually give them the throttle as well.
I also teach students the difference between a spin and a spiral dive. They are easy to confuse with one another if you don’t know what to look for. For students who take to the spins with more alacrity, I will sometimes introduce aggravated spin modes. Keep in mind these are all pre-solo students with maybe 20 hours of total flight time.
I’ve taught spins to countless students using this method. I’ve never had one get sick. I’ve never had one who didn’t feel more comfortable and confident with spins, stalls, high deck angles, high AOAs, and unusual attitudes afterward.
The importance of practical spin training doesn’t stem from the likelihood of encountering one inadvertently. If proper coordination is maintained (and it’s often not — that is why we have these stall-spin accidents), pilots are not likely to ever encounter one in the heat of battle. No, the best reason for teaching spins is to eliminate the “fear of the unknown”. Once they’ve completed the spin training, students uniformly feel that spins are “not nearly as scary as I thought”.
Personally, I think a lot of landing accidents are caused by a lack of spin training. Students who are afraid of spins will be afraid of deep stalls. It’s only natural to fear the unknown. Those wing drops can be scary if you don’t understand what’s causing them, what will happen if you don’t correct properly, and how the resulting spin entry should be handled. A fear of stalls means they’ll be apprehensive about high angles of attack and low airspeeds. So they approach the runway with too much energy just to be on the safe side, with predictable results.
There are many excellent reasons for practical spin training, but it’s hard to make any headway with those arguments when the FAA proclaims said training as unnecessary. To me, the proof is in the pudding. I see people every day who have had no spin training. It’s usually accompanied by poor rudder skills, limited understanding of the related aerodynamics, and a lack of appreciation for the importance of coordination. The low quality of basic airmanship skills can be quite dramatic.
And besides, just think about all the fun they’re missing out on!
Have you had spin training? If not, find a good aerobatic instructor and get the lead out. You won’t regret it.
From the “you learn something every day” file comes a fascinating Air Safety Foundation quiz on RNAV approaches.
For the non-pilots and/or non-instrument rated among us, RNAV is short for “random area navigation” and for the most part refers to satellite navigation — in other words, GPS. It’s not called GPS because there are other area navigation methods such as loran, omega, inertial navigation, and so on.
But they all do the same basic thing, which is to allow a pilot to fly from any random point in the world to any other point. Prior to RNAV, radio navigation consisted of flying from one ground-based station to another. A highway in the sky, if you will, but one firmly tied to the ground. These ground-based stations are housed in little buildings scattered around the country which transmit signals the aircraft’s navigation receiver can follow. The problem is, these buildings are not movable. They’re expensive to build, maintain, and monitor.
With RNAV, pilots can create virtual waypoints anywhere. RNAV systems therefore have more capability than the older ground-based navaids. If you’ve ever used a GPS, then you’re part of the RNAV revolution.
Of course, there has to be a down-side, right? Nothing is free in aviation, and so it is with RNAV. RNAV systems tend to be computerized and therefore more complex. They also tend to fly in the face of thing we’ve learned about IFR navigation. Curving approach paths, precision approaches without an ILS, etc.
For example, every instrument-rated pilot knows that in order to proceed below the published minimums for an Instrument Approach Procedure, three criteria must be met. In general terms, they are:
- The flight visibility must meet the published minimums for that procedure
- The aircraft must be in a position from which the pilot can make a normal landing using normal rates of descent
- The runway environment (pavement, lights, paint, etc) must be in sight
Aside from an esoteric 100′ rule dealing with a specific part of the approach lighting system, there are no exceptions. Or at least, that’s what I thought until the RNAV quiz taught me about “fly visual” segments.
“Fly visual” segments are typically seen on approaches to airports in mountainous areas. Treat them as red flags: If you see one, take some extra time and give the procedure a closer look.
There are a couple of reasons for this. First, as discussed in the main portion of the course, the visibility required for the approach is sometimes less than the length of the “fly visual” segment-meaning that the pilot can legally continue beyond the DA/MAP without the runway environment in sight, provided he/she has the required flight visibility. Obviously, this leaves a certain amount of room for interpretation. If you find yourself in such a situation, and there’s any doubt about whether to proceed (particularly if you’re not familiar with the local terrain and landmarks), it’s best to opt for the missed approach.
It’s also worth thinking about why the “fly visual” segment exists in the first place. Why did the designers of the approach essentially choose to “slide” the entire approach away from the airport by the distance of the visual segment? In many cases, the underlying reason is that terrain in the missed approach area would necessitate unreasonably high minimums if the MAP were in its normal position. By displacing the MAP a few miles, the designers can build a missed approach segment that doesn’t have terrain problems (a situation well illustrated by the NDB/DME or GPS-A approach at Hailey, Idaho).
Of course, the terrain is still out there, and the danger for pilots flying such procedures is that the unanticipated need to initiate a missed approach beyond the MAP can lead to obstruction conflicts (or, to put it more bluntly: a collision with a mountain).
The bottom line? For procedures like the one at Hailey, never continue the approach past the MAP unless there’s absolutely no doubt about the outcome.
Sounds like fun. Not! Imagine having 1/2 mile visibility and coming to the end of your RNAV highway in the sky, yet being permitted to continue flying visually without the having the airport in sight. TLAR (”that looks about right”) navigation at its best.
The scary thing about these approaches is that they occur in mountainous areas. By definition, these areas having high density altitudes in the summer and are prone to icing in the winter. A mountainous approach is one time I would want to start my missed approach segment earlier rather than later in order to assure adequate terrain clearance during the climb.
The RNAV Approach Quiz is free, and it was far more informative than I had anticipated. Normally I breeze through these things with nary a thought, but I really had to stop and think about some of the questions. And I must admit there were some things in there I didn’t know.
Reason #438 to avoid the iPhone: that smug Applesque feeling of superiority you get from owning one could backfire.
We push back from the gate and get advised of a ground stop in MEM due to storms in the area. My Captain informs the passengers over the PA. Not one minute later, we get chimed from the flight attendant. “Some guy with an IPhone says the weather is good, and wants to know what the REAL reason is for the delay. Is something wrong with the plane?”
Read the rest. Apparently Mr. iPhone doesn’t realize that he flies on that aircraft at the behest of the very person whose judgment and/or integrity he’s questioning.
I wish I knew which company employed that pilot! I’d like to give them some business next time I’m forced to subject myself to the depraved masquerade of modern airline travel.
