What kills pilots?
We can scan the statistics for specific answers. Turning too tightly at low altitudes. Buzzing. Not paying attention to weather. Trying to shoehorn fast airplanes into too-short runways.
The pilots involved probably knew what they were doing was unsafe. But they went ahead anyway, thinking they had the ability—or the luck—to get away with it. Maybe they were blinded by their overconfidence.
Or perhaps they didn’t cancel a flight because they didn’t want to look bad. They died because they had to maintain their image of being a “hot pilot.” Not to chicken out.
This can sometimes be tough to resist. Let me tell you about a successful case.
The Kingdome sports arena in Seattle used to hold a paper-airplane contest. Attendees would launch their gliders from the highest rows of seats, and win a prize if the paper flyer landed in a given circle on the arena floor.
One year, the advertising promised a special event as part of the contest: An ultralight would fly inside the Kingdome!
Two canard-type ultralights stood ready on the Kingdome floor. At the appointed time, the announcer brought his microphone up to the first pilot and interviewed him about the aircraft. The pilot explained the details of the sport, and explained he’d make a takeoff run while running the aircraft in an oval around the Kingdome floor.
The engine was started, producing the smoke and whine of those early ’80s two-strokes. The aircraft started turning its ovals around the floor of the arena. It made about four laps on the ground, then slowed to a halt without breaking ground.
The announcer ran to the airplane. He stuck the PA microphone in the pilot’s face.
“What happened?” he asked.
The pilot answered: “I chickened out.”
Could you have said that in front of thousands of people promised a spectacular aerial feat? Not me. I would have blamed the engine or used any of the host of little white lies pilots use to hide bad—or even good—judgment.
A great writer can vividly describe a character in few words. Here, three words (“I chickened out”) tell us a lot about a real-life pilot. He trusted his own judgment. He didn’t let the crowd’s presence sway him into doing something unsafe. And he had guts enough to not hide behind false excuses.
Did he make the right decision? We’ll never know. The other pilot started his engine, made a few laps around the oval, and took off. He landed safely a minute or so later.
We can all imagine how the first pilot felt.
Did the experience lead him into folly on a later flight? I don’t think so. He’d already shown he could make tough decisions under pressure. I’d like to think he’s still out there, buzzing safely through sunny summer skies.
So the next time the scud starts dipping toward your cowling or the gas gauges start tapping the “E,” think about that ultralight in the Kingdome. The true measure of a pilot is not the length of his obituary. The true measure is the peace of mind he feels when he grins and says, “Well … I chickened out.”
This is an excellent example of a pilot overcoming the pressure of external factors and the strong effect of continuation bias. We all need to work hard to make strong, objective decisions even when it is difficult.
Great article Ron! I’ve followed your sage comments on more than one aviation forum for a long time. Great to see you contributing to AvBrief.
I once sat on the ground at Mojave Spaceport for three days with my wife. The winds were more than I felt comfortable with. There is nothing to do in Mojave if you’re not flying. As the hours and days dragged on, my wife was getting frustrated.
I will never forget sitting in the restaurant watching all these other planes take off, and my wife asks in a condemning tone, “How come all these other pilots can take off and you can’t?”
It was embarrassing and humiliating because I had no good answer. “I guess I’m just not as good as them,” I said weakly.
But what makes you great Sir, is you had the courage to acknowledge it. I myself have had this same conversation a time or two. Stings a bit in the moment, sure, but I always feel better after I have acknowledged that today is just not my day.
Mojave is a bear of an airport. I remember landing there, handling the crosswind marginally well, but wondering “how am I ever going to take off?”
It’s one of the factors, I think, why I’ve been flying single-seat aircraft almost exclusively for the past forty years. Don’t have to worry about what the person in the right/back seat is going to think, and any errors in flight (as long as wood remains unbroken) are known by me and me alone.
Richard Bach, in “Stranger to the Ground,” wrote of the joys of flying a single-engine jet fighter…back in the days where one-engine meant one-occupant. Never met the man, but get where he was coming from.
Thank you, Ron. Great story.
Ron, you’re full of it!
You are just full of well-crafted essays of aviation wisdom, written in an easy, avuncular style. I’ve enjoyed your commentary since before the AvSIG days when some of us still had ARPANET addresses and had to know routing nodes. At least, it seems like that’s when I first came across your prose. Cerebral bitrot is a bitch.
Thank you for all your stories, and many thanks to Russ for providing the forum.
Yep, I’ve been around since me and Al Gore invented the internet.
Thanks!
Ya, I really like it too. It’s tough when you’re paid to go somewhere and you know it’s just wrong. Then again, you aren’t leaving grieving parents, wife, children and expectant bankers wishing you’de make last month’s payment. The world is big and time gives you a chance for a reset, but not if you’re pushing daisies.
I found the video of the successful flight inside the Kingdome. Even seeing it done without damage… I still would’ve stayed on the ground. Even at the slow speeds of an ultralight that big arena got really small, really fast!
Like that famous quote: “A superior pilot uses their superior judgment to avoid situations which require the use of their superior skill.”
BZ Ron!