I recently read a thread on this board regarding another fatal fuel-exhaustion accident. As I read the article, I could feel my hand reaching for the ground to pick up a stone to throw.
The thread started me wondering, “How could anyone takeoff without a firm grasp of how much fuel they have on board?” After some consideration, the question is not, how, but who. “Who could takeoff without a firm grasp of how much fuel they had on board?” What sort of pilot launches without visually checking tanks and performing careful consumption calculations? What are the characteristics of such an aero naught? I’m primarily interested in answering this question as a catharsis. If I could see these dead-men-walking, would I be looking in a mirror?
This morning I was sitting in the lobby of the local FBO contemplating this very question as I looked around at my fellow pilots. Could I spot by casual observation the pilot who would take off with only vapor in the tanks? What do pilots who run their airplanes out of fuel look like? Do they wear their casual attitude towards life-and-death decisions on their sleeves?
Pilot number one. Professional in appearance. Neat, well groomed with hair that makes you want to go up to him and ruffle it. He has that “If it weren’t for Fridays I’d be in a suit all the time” look about him. His wrinkle free Dockers are pressed, his Izod shirt is crisp. His flight bag is leather with a pocket for each unused accessory. His watch, a Rol-Breit-something with E6B, 6 time zone display, GPS and sextant; I notice it’s 5 minutes fast.
He tends to be very abrupt with the girls working the counter. He is mildly irritated that they can’t seem to get his diamond VISA to swipe properly. His contempt for the guys on the line is thinly veiled: he takes the fuel receipt from one as if he were a leaper.
I’d think the guy were a total loss if I hadn’t personally witnessed him at all hours of the day and night providing flights for cancer patients as an Angel Flight pilot. Maybe he’s doing it for the hours? I don’t know. But I do know he’s doing it time and time again.
Pilot number two. Late 40 something. His graying hair is drawn tight into the ever fashionable greasy pony tail. His “Live Free Or Die” T-shirt is straining to contain his six-pack stomach (authors note: men with outies should consider vertical strips.) Here is a man who understands that the operational word in flight bag is bag. Why spend precious beer money on Cordura or leather when a Mervin’s paper shopping bag will hold those headphones and torn sectional just as well. The clomping of his bulky leather boots on the linoleum is drowned out by the screams of a thousand hapless rudder pedals.
Crude? Yes. Unrefined? Oh yeah. I also know that he worked for years and saved like a miser to afford flight lessons. Every hour in the air is precious to him. Besides, there is something disarming and genuine about a guy climbing into an airplane carrying a stick of pepperoni and an “up yours” attitude.
Pilot number three. 18 going on 30. This kid will be a professional pilot. His talent is already showing forth. After all, how many of you can work the words “dude”, “sucks”, “chya right” and “totally” into a conversation regarding dead reckoning? As I survey this budding young pilot, I can’t help but hear my father’s voice ringing in my ears, “Pull up your pants, turn your hat around and get a job!”
My assessment of this young man is probably tainted by a certain generational bias and a disdain for gaudy earrings. It’s probably also influenced by jealousy. I see in this kid fervor and excitement that is unstoppable. Somewhere in that too-baggy coat I see a young man who will someday sit left-seat in a jetliner: a position I will never enjoy.
Last but not least, pilot number four. I have seen this older gentleman around the FBO for years, yet I have only witnessed him climb into a cockpit twice. His interests are varied and numerous. As proof, I offer the dozen or so lapel pins and stickers that adorn his hat. The leather vest that covers the ever present denim shirt, bears the scars of many lost battles with a coffee cup. It appears that the vest and the cowboy boots were made from the same hide.
While I’ve never seen his logbook, he must have logged tens of thousands of hours. He has seen it all, done it all and is willing to share his vast experience with anyone who is willing to listen...even some that are not. He stands as judge and jury, ensconced behind the coffee pot, ready to dispense judgment on every landing, every takeoff and every story told.
He is gruff and unforgiving especially when ‘young punks’ are involved. Watching him interact with pilot number three is Shakespearean. I personally have felt his scorn (see my post, “bump, Bump, BUMP” in left seat/right seat.)
It would be easy to dismiss him as playing the role of FBO curmudgeon except for one small detail that goes unnoticed by most. Towards the back of his pin-ridden hat resides a small bar with the unmistakable red, white and blue bands of the Distinguished Flying Cross; and the bar is no lie. According to those who know, he earned his DFC in combat over Korea. With all the talk and all the bravado, it’s one tale I’ve never heard him utter. To my way of thinking, that lends credibility to the story.
So which one? Which one would leave terra firma minus the resources to return under power? Given the right (or wrong as the case may be) circumstances, I can envision any one of them tearing out, jumping into an airplane and heading out sans fuel.
In the end, I’m not convinced that one can tell just by looking at the outside which pilots will auger a silent engine into the ground. There are too many variables. Pilot one is organized but has a bad ‘tude. Pilot number two is a mess but has invested not just money, but himself in becoming a pilot. Pilot number three has a lot to learn but he knows it. Pilot four might have more hours near the coffee pot than near a cockpit, yet he is a walking contradiction; he is old and at least at one time in his life, he was bold. All are capable of great idiocy, yet that assessment cannot be based on their appearance alone.
Does that mean it’s impossible to spot a pilot who has a propensity for reckless behavior? Not at all. Already in my short flying career I have met pilots that I wouldn’t fly with on a bet. However, my assessment is not based on how they look or the stereotype they fill, but upon the stench of laissez-faire surrounding them. They have stopped caring, they have stopped learning and they have stopped being afraid.
What’s worse, they try and proselytize others into there deadly way of thinking. You hear them spout how flying a light airplane is safer than driving. You hear them daring others to swim in shark infested waters. They exude a folksy sense of urgent-complacency that makes the words, “Oh hell, I checked those tanks yesterday!” seem benign, inviting and right. They come as angels of light, patting you on the back, beckoning you to go fly with them, all the while they are winged sirens calling you onto the rocks. Lash yourself to the mast; they are out to kill.
While I can’t quantify it or put a face on it, I honestly believe there is a type of pilot that is living on borrowed time. I pray that I can avoid them and the disease of complacency they carry. I also pray that if I’m one of said pilots, someone will have the courage to pull me aside and forcefully tell me so.
As I survey the local pilot population, I see a little piece of myself in each of them; both the good and the bad. By extrapolation, I also need to attribute to myself the ability to do really stupid things like run an airplane out of fuel. I look around my glass house and decide to let the stone fall from my hand.
