I silently pointed at the throttle. I watched in my peripheral vision as Steve vacantly stared at my finger, then at the throttle. The airplane sluggishly climbed and the airspeed began to decay. "We need full power," I said using my patient flight instructor voice. Steve advanced the throttle from three quarters to full; he seemed flustered and I could sense his frustration.
Steve was a student of mine (the name has been changed to protect the innocent). Steve and I were practicing power-off (approach to landing) stalls this day early in his primary training. I noticed that each time he would initiate the stall recovery procedure Steve would be reluctant to immediately and authoritatively advance the throttle lever to full power. I wondered if I had conditioned him too heavily to never jam a throttle forward. Steve was a bright guy, though, and I knew he understood the procedure and the significance of applying full power immediately during a power-off stall recovery. So what was the hang-up? I had seen this tendency before in other students and even in myself during my early training stages years ago. Clearly the problem wasn't lack of knowledge or comprehension. Something else was holding Steve back from executing the recovery properly.
This led me to reflect inwardly on human confidence, which directly relates to the actions we take in the cockpit. When a person feels uncertain of their abilities to perform a task a slight (or not-so-slight) hesitation can be observed in their actions. It feels uneasy and unnatural for this person to take charge of the situation and take authoritative action. This tendency can be seen frequently in students during initial training. When a student's confidence level is low it inhibits him or her from taking concise, deliberate action. This is something that must be worked through in order for the student to become a successful pilot because exactly this type of action is continuously required while commanding an aircraft. I thought I could help Steve overcome his hesitation during stall recoveries and other maneuvers by having a discussion on the ground with him about deliberate action.
I challenged Steve to become self-aware and monitor his actions closely during flight, and if he felt himself begin to adjust the power, raise the flaps, run a checklist, or respond to air traffic control in a fuzzy, unclear or unsure way to stop what he was doing and think about what needed to be done. "Anytime you flip a switch, move the throttle or mixture, touch the flap handle, or key up the mic it should be for a deliberate reason to accomplish a necessary task," I said to Steve. "If you find yourself hesitating with uncertainty before you flip a switch or change the power setting, stop. Set your hand in your lap and put your brain to work. Make a plan to accomplish what needs to be done and execute that plan, then put your hand back in your lap until it's time to do it again," I said. After a little coaching Steve was making huge progress and began taking much more deliberate action during stall recoveries and other maneuvers. His proficiency grew as did his confidence.
Focus on taking only one type of action in the cockpit: deliberate action. Uncertain action should be left for deciding what to have for dinner after the flight. When you catch yourself hesitating on your way to perform a task (gear down, flap setting change, fuel pump off, frequency selection, etc.), stop. Bring your brain back into the game and figure out what exactly needs to be done, then do it and nothing more. This forces you into a mode of uncluttered thinking that breeds good decisions and good airmanship. It also reduces the amount of mistakes you'll make. I like to play a game with myself where I imagine that every tiny move I make whether it be a control pressure on the yoke or rudder pedals, a power adjustment, manipulating switches, or anything else involving my hands or feet is being recorded electronically and monitored by a competition judge on the ground. After I land I'll be required to justify every move I made by providing a legitimate reason for the action. For instance, if I was high on approach I reduced power one hundred RPM. Still high? I reduced another fifty RPM. If there were any additional extraneous power changes that couldn't be explained points would be deducted. This promotes a culture of deliberate action and only the clearest thinking. Think about how an autopilot flies. It takes only the action it calculates as being required for the present circumstances, no more, no less. Humans can (and should) fly like this too.
Some pilots never learned this. In fact, I once saw a statistic that indicated the majority of airline crews fail to utilize full and immediate control input during unusual attitude recovery simulator training, even though that's exactly what the situation calls for. Certainly it takes discipline to calm a noisy mind, especially during times of emergency. But calm minds thinking clearly do a better job flying airplanes, and tolerating only deliberate action during flight helps to reduce human error and improve flight safety and efficiency.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Minimums
The engine and slipstream noise is low, the cockpit is dim, the approach is stabilized with the needles centered, and the view out front is dimensionless gray. Your glances at the altimeter are becoming more frequent as the needle approaches the decision altitude. The middle marker tone begins, two-hundred feet, you look up, no runway. Decision time.
Some pilots make the wrong decision when they're presented with these circumstances. The decision, though, is an excruciatingly simple one: execute a missed approach. Instrument pilots know that the regulations call for a mandatory missed approach if the runway environment is not in sight at the published missed approach point. It's clear, simple, easy to understand and easy to apply to real-world situations. Yet we still find wrecked airplanes short of runways after a failed instrument approach procedure.
The Webster Dictionary definition for the word "minimum" is as follows: "the least quantity assignable, admissible, or possible." Let's reflect on the word minimum for a moment. A minimum is a value that is perhaps much lower than the ideal amount for given circumstances. It's not low, it's not really low, it's the absolute least possible amount. It's an extreme. It defines the absolute edge. Now apply this description to instrument approach minimums. Published approach minimums define the absolute lowest possible altitude (literally to the foot) at which an aircraft can be operated safely on a particular approach segment. Minimums aren't recommended altitudes, they exist to define the absolute extreme to which you can descend if you so choose. Many times chart symbology depicts this on the instrument approach chart profile view by showing a solid line below the published minimum altitude but not above it. That means you can fly above the listed altitude but never below it. I almost never descend all the way to the published minimum descent altitude (MDA) on a nonprecision approach. I prefer to level-off seventy-five to one-hundred feet above the MDA to leave myself an added safety margin. Safety is absolutely guaranteed at or above the minimum altitude listed on the chart, and danger is absolutely guaranteed below it. This is true of any approach.
Minimums are a last resort. Think of the MDA on a nonprecision approach or decision altitude (DA) on a precision approach as altitude options for your last ditch effort to find the runway environment -- the absolute minimum altitude to which you are authorized to descend in order to acquire the needed visual references to continue the approach.
Picture yourself on a narrow, uneven, dark and icy mountain road where the posted speed limit is fifty miles per hour (MPH). Notice the words used there: the speed limit. In other words, the maximum allowable speed you are authorized to drive. Visually depicted the minimum and maximum are the extremes, way out on the edges of the graph or chart. The ideal value is usually somewhere in between. Would driving fifty MPH here under these circumstances be conducive to safety? Absolutely not. Perhaps half of the limit would be a better idea. Fifty MPH is not the recommended speed, it simply defines the absolute edge of what is permissible. It's up to the driver to select the most appropriate speed below this value.
Unfortunately, in flying a traffic citation usually is not the only repercussion for violating the published limit. When a pilot descends below a published minimum altitude on an instrument approach he is elevating the risk level of the flight instantly into the red. He's depending only on luck for his survival. Many have died this way.
There is only one way to stay safe when approaching an airport in instrument conditions, and that is to follow the approved instrument approach procedure to the letter. Any deviation from what's charted equals a drastic and immediate increase in risk because margins are already small in the approach environment. The good news is that we're tasked with a simple mission: do exactly what the approach procedure calls for and don't worry about doing (or even thinking about) anything else. Are the required visual cues clearly visible at the missed approach point? If so, land if in a position to maneuver normally to the runway. If not, execute the missed approach procedure. Do this every time and you'll survive every approach.
Minimums are called minimums because they are just that and nothing else. Back to our flight at the beginning, the obvious and only thing to do at this point is begin the missed approach procedure. The increase in engine and slipstream noise means only that you are traveling away from terrain and obstructions, back to safety and an area of increased margins. From there another decision can be made about what to do to keep the flight operating safely.
Some pilots make the wrong decision when they're presented with these circumstances. The decision, though, is an excruciatingly simple one: execute a missed approach. Instrument pilots know that the regulations call for a mandatory missed approach if the runway environment is not in sight at the published missed approach point. It's clear, simple, easy to understand and easy to apply to real-world situations. Yet we still find wrecked airplanes short of runways after a failed instrument approach procedure.
The Webster Dictionary definition for the word "minimum" is as follows: "the least quantity assignable, admissible, or possible." Let's reflect on the word minimum for a moment. A minimum is a value that is perhaps much lower than the ideal amount for given circumstances. It's not low, it's not really low, it's the absolute least possible amount. It's an extreme. It defines the absolute edge. Now apply this description to instrument approach minimums. Published approach minimums define the absolute lowest possible altitude (literally to the foot) at which an aircraft can be operated safely on a particular approach segment. Minimums aren't recommended altitudes, they exist to define the absolute extreme to which you can descend if you so choose. Many times chart symbology depicts this on the instrument approach chart profile view by showing a solid line below the published minimum altitude but not above it. That means you can fly above the listed altitude but never below it. I almost never descend all the way to the published minimum descent altitude (MDA) on a nonprecision approach. I prefer to level-off seventy-five to one-hundred feet above the MDA to leave myself an added safety margin. Safety is absolutely guaranteed at or above the minimum altitude listed on the chart, and danger is absolutely guaranteed below it. This is true of any approach.
Minimums are a last resort. Think of the MDA on a nonprecision approach or decision altitude (DA) on a precision approach as altitude options for your last ditch effort to find the runway environment -- the absolute minimum altitude to which you are authorized to descend in order to acquire the needed visual references to continue the approach.
Picture yourself on a narrow, uneven, dark and icy mountain road where the posted speed limit is fifty miles per hour (MPH). Notice the words used there: the speed limit. In other words, the maximum allowable speed you are authorized to drive. Visually depicted the minimum and maximum are the extremes, way out on the edges of the graph or chart. The ideal value is usually somewhere in between. Would driving fifty MPH here under these circumstances be conducive to safety? Absolutely not. Perhaps half of the limit would be a better idea. Fifty MPH is not the recommended speed, it simply defines the absolute edge of what is permissible. It's up to the driver to select the most appropriate speed below this value.
Unfortunately, in flying a traffic citation usually is not the only repercussion for violating the published limit. When a pilot descends below a published minimum altitude on an instrument approach he is elevating the risk level of the flight instantly into the red. He's depending only on luck for his survival. Many have died this way.
There is only one way to stay safe when approaching an airport in instrument conditions, and that is to follow the approved instrument approach procedure to the letter. Any deviation from what's charted equals a drastic and immediate increase in risk because margins are already small in the approach environment. The good news is that we're tasked with a simple mission: do exactly what the approach procedure calls for and don't worry about doing (or even thinking about) anything else. Are the required visual cues clearly visible at the missed approach point? If so, land if in a position to maneuver normally to the runway. If not, execute the missed approach procedure. Do this every time and you'll survive every approach.
Minimums are called minimums because they are just that and nothing else. Back to our flight at the beginning, the obvious and only thing to do at this point is begin the missed approach procedure. The increase in engine and slipstream noise means only that you are traveling away from terrain and obstructions, back to safety and an area of increased margins. From there another decision can be made about what to do to keep the flight operating safely.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Forget Procedures, This is an Emergency!
Expletives, lots of expletives. That's what you'll find peppered throughout most cockpit voice recorder (CVR) transcripts from air carrier accidents. Sometimes it seems the only space between the expletives is frozen silence.
Our ancient limbic brain is programmed to freeze our body (and cognitive mind) during times of danger to protect us from being detected by predators. Unfortunately, this "deer in the headlights" response is exactly the opposite of what is needed in times of emergency on the flight deck. The "limbic freeze" response (which precedes the familiar flight or fight responses) hijacks our thinking brain and causes us to lock up and refrain from taking immediate action in response to an emergency. In aviation this is often referred to as the "startle factor." Examples of this can be seen from low altitude engine failure accidents in single engine airplanes shortly after takeoff. The average human pauses for more than five seconds (sometimes much longer) before responding to the situation, establishing a glide and selecting a suitable landing spot if one is available. Initial mental reactions tend to be limited and any thinking happening is probably along the lines of, "This can't be happening." That inner resistance to circumstances which already exist has proven to be quite fatal in airplanes. So what can we do to avoid this? There are plenty of things we can do.
All pilots receive emergency procedures training on various emergency situations throughout their training. Procedures are learned and practiced repeatedly for emergencies such as engine failure, engine fire, partial panel flying for instrument students, and many others. That is a good start, however, there is an extraordinary amount of room for improvement in emergency procedures training for general aviation pilots. Many pilots learn procedures that are designed to save their life but are unable to access those skills during a real-life event. That does the pilot exactly no good, and the pilot would've been just as well off having not received any emergency procedures training in the first place. I'm disappointed when I read accident reports where the pilot or flight crew threw all learned, rehearsed, trained, and practiced procedures to the wind when things got serious because they did not possess the mental ability to override the powerful limbic response of the brain. They probably never realized how different and scary it would feel when it actually happened in the real world. That's something we don't train for in today's system. Learning procedures to be used in an emergency is only half the battle, learning to overcome or manage the intense physiological response during a real emergency is the other (and just as critical) half.
I advise you to use the power of your imagination and do some armchair flying. Make up scary situations and imagine what you would do. Think about how terrified you'd probably be and how you'd handle those feelings. What would you do? What would you think? Be honest about your fear and prepare yourself for ways you'd calm or suppress that fear when you think you hear your angels singing. This is the best method of physiological stress training we currently have for pilots. Some airlines are beginning to use simulators that more accurately simulate the loud bangs and rattles of compressor stalls or bird strikes, and that's a tremendous step in the right direction.
I recently read a CVR transcript from a regional jet that crashed during a repositioning flight in central Missouri. Luckily, only two pilots were aboard. The crew experienced a failure of both engines at high altitude allowing for a considerable amount of time from the onset of the emergency until impact with a house. I was surprised to see just how poorly the emergency was handled by the crew. Virtually no crew resource management (CRM) techniques were used, the cockpit seemed chaotic and disorderly, and the crew even lied to air traffic control about their situation which prevented them from receiving an early vector toward a nearby airport where they may've been able to glide. This crew clearly threw all procedures and emergency tactics out the window which resulted in a fatal crash and what easily could've been loss of life on the ground. It's a shame that the simulator sessions and hours these pilots spent practicing for emergencies like this one were ignored during the one and only time they would be needed. The reason pilots train for emergencies is so that we'll be able to employ those skills during an emergency to keep us alive, so if you don't use these procedures during an emergency, when would you ever use them?
We've got to keep our brains thinking clearly and usefully during times of great fear and stress. That's the only way to survive up there when things go wrong. All pilots have heard the phrase, "Fly the airplane." No matter what happens, fly the airplane. This is a tactic for managing physiological response to danger. It's a good start, but we need to be training pilots to a much greater extent on this topic. Pilots need to know to expect a freeze, a dried out throat and sweaty palms with that primitive part of the brain shouting "Stop!" We have to able to calmly and assertively say "go" with our thinking brain, take several deep breaths, clear our mind of unhelpful fear and focus on what needs to be done to preserve life. Hopefully, someday physiological response training will be a mandatory pre-solo training topic for new students.
Flying requires humans to override ancient physiological responses of the limbic brain in order to manage emergencies. This is just one example of how transcendental flying really is. Once these skills are learned they can be transferred to other life situations. And when a sticky situation presents itself, you'll probably find that you need to use fewer expletives, too.
Our ancient limbic brain is programmed to freeze our body (and cognitive mind) during times of danger to protect us from being detected by predators. Unfortunately, this "deer in the headlights" response is exactly the opposite of what is needed in times of emergency on the flight deck. The "limbic freeze" response (which precedes the familiar flight or fight responses) hijacks our thinking brain and causes us to lock up and refrain from taking immediate action in response to an emergency. In aviation this is often referred to as the "startle factor." Examples of this can be seen from low altitude engine failure accidents in single engine airplanes shortly after takeoff. The average human pauses for more than five seconds (sometimes much longer) before responding to the situation, establishing a glide and selecting a suitable landing spot if one is available. Initial mental reactions tend to be limited and any thinking happening is probably along the lines of, "This can't be happening." That inner resistance to circumstances which already exist has proven to be quite fatal in airplanes. So what can we do to avoid this? There are plenty of things we can do.
All pilots receive emergency procedures training on various emergency situations throughout their training. Procedures are learned and practiced repeatedly for emergencies such as engine failure, engine fire, partial panel flying for instrument students, and many others. That is a good start, however, there is an extraordinary amount of room for improvement in emergency procedures training for general aviation pilots. Many pilots learn procedures that are designed to save their life but are unable to access those skills during a real-life event. That does the pilot exactly no good, and the pilot would've been just as well off having not received any emergency procedures training in the first place. I'm disappointed when I read accident reports where the pilot or flight crew threw all learned, rehearsed, trained, and practiced procedures to the wind when things got serious because they did not possess the mental ability to override the powerful limbic response of the brain. They probably never realized how different and scary it would feel when it actually happened in the real world. That's something we don't train for in today's system. Learning procedures to be used in an emergency is only half the battle, learning to overcome or manage the intense physiological response during a real emergency is the other (and just as critical) half.
I advise you to use the power of your imagination and do some armchair flying. Make up scary situations and imagine what you would do. Think about how terrified you'd probably be and how you'd handle those feelings. What would you do? What would you think? Be honest about your fear and prepare yourself for ways you'd calm or suppress that fear when you think you hear your angels singing. This is the best method of physiological stress training we currently have for pilots. Some airlines are beginning to use simulators that more accurately simulate the loud bangs and rattles of compressor stalls or bird strikes, and that's a tremendous step in the right direction.
I recently read a CVR transcript from a regional jet that crashed during a repositioning flight in central Missouri. Luckily, only two pilots were aboard. The crew experienced a failure of both engines at high altitude allowing for a considerable amount of time from the onset of the emergency until impact with a house. I was surprised to see just how poorly the emergency was handled by the crew. Virtually no crew resource management (CRM) techniques were used, the cockpit seemed chaotic and disorderly, and the crew even lied to air traffic control about their situation which prevented them from receiving an early vector toward a nearby airport where they may've been able to glide. This crew clearly threw all procedures and emergency tactics out the window which resulted in a fatal crash and what easily could've been loss of life on the ground. It's a shame that the simulator sessions and hours these pilots spent practicing for emergencies like this one were ignored during the one and only time they would be needed. The reason pilots train for emergencies is so that we'll be able to employ those skills during an emergency to keep us alive, so if you don't use these procedures during an emergency, when would you ever use them?
We've got to keep our brains thinking clearly and usefully during times of great fear and stress. That's the only way to survive up there when things go wrong. All pilots have heard the phrase, "Fly the airplane." No matter what happens, fly the airplane. This is a tactic for managing physiological response to danger. It's a good start, but we need to be training pilots to a much greater extent on this topic. Pilots need to know to expect a freeze, a dried out throat and sweaty palms with that primitive part of the brain shouting "Stop!" We have to able to calmly and assertively say "go" with our thinking brain, take several deep breaths, clear our mind of unhelpful fear and focus on what needs to be done to preserve life. Hopefully, someday physiological response training will be a mandatory pre-solo training topic for new students.
Flying requires humans to override ancient physiological responses of the limbic brain in order to manage emergencies. This is just one example of how transcendental flying really is. Once these skills are learned they can be transferred to other life situations. And when a sticky situation presents itself, you'll probably find that you need to use fewer expletives, too.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Cockpit Flows for GA
Some of you are thinking, "What the heck's a cockpit flow?" Most GA pilots aren't familiar with this term. Many pilots will be surprised that they've been using cockpit flows for years without knowing it. A cockpit flow is a systematic way of configuring an aircraft's systems by visually sweeping your eyes and hand across various panels while manipulating any switches or knobs that need to be selected or changed for the current phase of flight. Jet crews do this every flight. There's a flow for each phase of flight. For instance, captain's receiving flow, first officer's after takeoff flow, captain's landing flow, etcetera. After a flow is completed a checklist is run to make sure nothing was missed. This is the difference between a check-list and a do-list. A checklist is used to check that everything was completed as required, and a do-list is used to walk the pilot through a flow. Some airlines refer to a do-list as "read and do."
Cockpit flows are typically only used on flight decks of high performance aircraft. However, cockpit flows are just as useful and contribute just as much to flight safety in a Piper Archer cockpit as they do in a transport jet.
Light aircraft demand a professional approach to their operation in just the same way complex jets do. A Cessna 150 can be just as deadly as Concorde or a Boeing 767. In terms of safety and human survivability, 110 MPH is no less dangerous than 550 MPH. On the same token, an altitude of 2,000 feet above the surface holds no less potential to kill a human than flight level 390. Far more people die in GA airplanes than on air carriers every year. While GA airplanes aren't nearly as complex as higher performance aircraft in terms of systems they're just as hazardous to a person's health when not operated in a professional manner; sometimes they're even more hazardous due to lack of systems redundancy that jets are built with. Transport jets always have more than one engine, backup fuel pumps, backup flight instruments, and an APU or air driven generator to provide electrical (and hydraulic) power in the event of engine(s) failure. Many light airplanes also aren't equipped with ice control systems or weather detection/avoidance gear. Light airplane pilots don't have the luxury of climbing above certain adverse weather conditions and are forced to operate in the lower atmosphere where most of the earth's weather is concentrated. Light airplanes are affected by winds and turbulence (including wake turbulence) to a greater extent than heavy aircraft too, and turbine powered airplanes have drastically superior climb and cruise performance capabilities. On the human factors side, jets are almost always operated by two or more pilots. Us GA guys are often the only pilot in the cockpit and don't have an extra brain and set of eyes and ears to catch our mistakes. Some GA airplanes don't even have an autopilot; many don't even have a heading bug. I can remember years ago flying a Piper Cherokee without an autopilot installed in low IFR conditions at night shooting approaches and executing holds just for fun, single pilot (I wouldn't do that today).
GA pilots flying IFR operate in the exact same air traffic control system as the airliners do, and often we fly in more challenging weather systems than the slippery high flyers do. We fly far more nonprecision instrument approaches than jet crews do, often in nonradar environments without the aid of ATC vectors and safety alerts. Often the runways we use are marginal in runway lighting and length at airports without weather reporting or radar service.
Light airplane flying requires just as much professionalism and discipline as jet flying. Somehow people will argue this. I suppose when all one considers is aircraft systems complexity it is true that high performance aircraft require more flip switching and systems configuration during operation, but missing one switch or lever in a light airplane can be just as risk-elevating as it would be in a jet (landing gear lever, for instance). Certainly the flows in a Piper Archer cockpit will look different than in a Boeing 737, fewer switches to manipulate and fewer systems to configure or re-configure, but forgetting something as simple as turning on the carburetor heat for descent could potentially lead to an engine failure. And maybe that engine failure occurs at night at low altitude over rugged terrain. There has to be a system used to prevent us from forgetting these things. That's what cockpit flows are for.
I can remember a time before I used cockpit flows when I was preparing for takeoff in a Piper Archer. I had completed my before takeoff do-list but had deferred a couple of items on the list (fuel pump and landing lights) because of a delay in receiving takeoff clearance. I had planned to turn them on upon taking the runway for departure. The takeoff clearance came and at five hundred feet I reached up to perform my after takeoff do-list and realized I had forgotten to turn the fuel pump and landing lights on. Whoops. Luckily that day wasn't my day to have a runway incursion or low altitude engine-driven fuel pump failure. Had I been using cockpit flows those switches wouldn't have been forgotten and the risk during takeoff would have been more effectively managed.
Cockpit flows are designed to minimize human error, and there's plenty of human error to be minimized. Do yourself, your passengers, and the innocent folks on the ground a favor and design a cockpit flow that works for your airplane. One of my aviation heroes, Richard L. Collins, used to own a Cessna P210. He used cockpit flows by starting at the left side of his panel and methodically working his way to the right side, considering and acknowledging every switch, knob, or lever along the way. That's an excellent way of doing things and strongly resembles the way airline crews conduct their overhead panel flows. In designing a flow for your airplane you want to make a logical, orderly pattern or route that your eyes and hand follow across applicable panels for each phase of flight. Many GA pilots are taught an engine failure flow where they start on the left side of the panel and work their way across changing any control along the way that could restore engine power. Certain flows will be extremely short, possibly one item. My after takeoff checklist flow is two items: fuel pump OFF, landing lights OFF. In a retractable gear airplane it becomes three items: gear UP--3 dark NO red, fuel pump OFF, landing lights OFF. My takeoff flow (not to be mistaken with before takeoff flow) is similarly short: mixture FULL RICH (or as required), fuel pump ON, landing lights ON. Once you have your flows for each phase of flight designed, you'll need to standardize the exact times that each flow will be completed. For instance, my takeoff flow is always completed after takeoff clearance is received and I'm lined up with the centerline, and my after landing flow is completed after the tail is clear of the hold lines and I've brought the aircraft to a complete stop on the taxiway. Don't forget that checklists must still be used after each flow is completed to double check yourself. In using a checklist you'll visually check to make sure the flow was accomplished completely and correctly.
We've got a real safety problem in general aviation. The primary reason for this is because of the people who settle in behind the yoke and throttle. Most pilots understand that an extremely high percentage of aviation accidents occur due to human error. That's completely unacceptable, and we must do better. Fly your light airplane like it's an airliner. By doing so you'll be keeping yourself, your passengers, and those innocent ground-bound people much safer.
Cockpit flows are typically only used on flight decks of high performance aircraft. However, cockpit flows are just as useful and contribute just as much to flight safety in a Piper Archer cockpit as they do in a transport jet.
Light aircraft demand a professional approach to their operation in just the same way complex jets do. A Cessna 150 can be just as deadly as Concorde or a Boeing 767. In terms of safety and human survivability, 110 MPH is no less dangerous than 550 MPH. On the same token, an altitude of 2,000 feet above the surface holds no less potential to kill a human than flight level 390. Far more people die in GA airplanes than on air carriers every year. While GA airplanes aren't nearly as complex as higher performance aircraft in terms of systems they're just as hazardous to a person's health when not operated in a professional manner; sometimes they're even more hazardous due to lack of systems redundancy that jets are built with. Transport jets always have more than one engine, backup fuel pumps, backup flight instruments, and an APU or air driven generator to provide electrical (and hydraulic) power in the event of engine(s) failure. Many light airplanes also aren't equipped with ice control systems or weather detection/avoidance gear. Light airplane pilots don't have the luxury of climbing above certain adverse weather conditions and are forced to operate in the lower atmosphere where most of the earth's weather is concentrated. Light airplanes are affected by winds and turbulence (including wake turbulence) to a greater extent than heavy aircraft too, and turbine powered airplanes have drastically superior climb and cruise performance capabilities. On the human factors side, jets are almost always operated by two or more pilots. Us GA guys are often the only pilot in the cockpit and don't have an extra brain and set of eyes and ears to catch our mistakes. Some GA airplanes don't even have an autopilot; many don't even have a heading bug. I can remember years ago flying a Piper Cherokee without an autopilot installed in low IFR conditions at night shooting approaches and executing holds just for fun, single pilot (I wouldn't do that today).
GA pilots flying IFR operate in the exact same air traffic control system as the airliners do, and often we fly in more challenging weather systems than the slippery high flyers do. We fly far more nonprecision instrument approaches than jet crews do, often in nonradar environments without the aid of ATC vectors and safety alerts. Often the runways we use are marginal in runway lighting and length at airports without weather reporting or radar service.
Light airplane flying requires just as much professionalism and discipline as jet flying. Somehow people will argue this. I suppose when all one considers is aircraft systems complexity it is true that high performance aircraft require more flip switching and systems configuration during operation, but missing one switch or lever in a light airplane can be just as risk-elevating as it would be in a jet (landing gear lever, for instance). Certainly the flows in a Piper Archer cockpit will look different than in a Boeing 737, fewer switches to manipulate and fewer systems to configure or re-configure, but forgetting something as simple as turning on the carburetor heat for descent could potentially lead to an engine failure. And maybe that engine failure occurs at night at low altitude over rugged terrain. There has to be a system used to prevent us from forgetting these things. That's what cockpit flows are for.
I can remember a time before I used cockpit flows when I was preparing for takeoff in a Piper Archer. I had completed my before takeoff do-list but had deferred a couple of items on the list (fuel pump and landing lights) because of a delay in receiving takeoff clearance. I had planned to turn them on upon taking the runway for departure. The takeoff clearance came and at five hundred feet I reached up to perform my after takeoff do-list and realized I had forgotten to turn the fuel pump and landing lights on. Whoops. Luckily that day wasn't my day to have a runway incursion or low altitude engine-driven fuel pump failure. Had I been using cockpit flows those switches wouldn't have been forgotten and the risk during takeoff would have been more effectively managed.
Cockpit flows are designed to minimize human error, and there's plenty of human error to be minimized. Do yourself, your passengers, and the innocent folks on the ground a favor and design a cockpit flow that works for your airplane. One of my aviation heroes, Richard L. Collins, used to own a Cessna P210. He used cockpit flows by starting at the left side of his panel and methodically working his way to the right side, considering and acknowledging every switch, knob, or lever along the way. That's an excellent way of doing things and strongly resembles the way airline crews conduct their overhead panel flows. In designing a flow for your airplane you want to make a logical, orderly pattern or route that your eyes and hand follow across applicable panels for each phase of flight. Many GA pilots are taught an engine failure flow where they start on the left side of the panel and work their way across changing any control along the way that could restore engine power. Certain flows will be extremely short, possibly one item. My after takeoff checklist flow is two items: fuel pump OFF, landing lights OFF. In a retractable gear airplane it becomes three items: gear UP--3 dark NO red, fuel pump OFF, landing lights OFF. My takeoff flow (not to be mistaken with before takeoff flow) is similarly short: mixture FULL RICH (or as required), fuel pump ON, landing lights ON. Once you have your flows for each phase of flight designed, you'll need to standardize the exact times that each flow will be completed. For instance, my takeoff flow is always completed after takeoff clearance is received and I'm lined up with the centerline, and my after landing flow is completed after the tail is clear of the hold lines and I've brought the aircraft to a complete stop on the taxiway. Don't forget that checklists must still be used after each flow is completed to double check yourself. In using a checklist you'll visually check to make sure the flow was accomplished completely and correctly.
We've got a real safety problem in general aviation. The primary reason for this is because of the people who settle in behind the yoke and throttle. Most pilots understand that an extremely high percentage of aviation accidents occur due to human error. That's completely unacceptable, and we must do better. Fly your light airplane like it's an airliner. By doing so you'll be keeping yourself, your passengers, and those innocent ground-bound people much safer.
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