Tag Archives: accident

Why Flying Experience Matters

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Experience helps pilots make good decisions.

I’m often amazed by pilots who seem outraged that they can’t find a decent flying job until they’ve logged 500, 1,000, or even more pilot-in-command (PIC) flight time. Too many of these people seem to think that they’re qualified to fly for hire as soon as they get their commercial rating and a few hundred hours of flight time.

How Pilots Gain Experience

Some new pilots don’t seem to understand that the best way to build time quickly is as a flight instructor (CFI) and they stubbornly try to enter the job market without sufficient experience.

I can name more than a few of these people who have been floundering around, taking odd jobs that give them a few hours of stick time here and there with little or no pay. Some even pay to work for the privilege of working for a helicopter owner. One good pilot I met managed to lock in a flying gig with decent flight time — I can’t use the word “job” because he never got paid at all — and added a few hundred hours to his logbook. Then the company’s owner disappeared, leaving the leased helicopter sitting on an airport ramp for its owner to repossess and the pilot locked out of the hangar he’d been living in because he couldn’t afford an apartment.

More than a few of these low-time pilots make their way to Washington in the summertime, with unrealistic dreams of logging hundreds of hours of flight time drying cherries. I’ve had guys offer to fly for me for free just to get the flight time. Really. (News flash: this ain’t Seattle. It’s usually dry here and the likelihood of flying even a dozen hours is slim. Don’t believe me? Ask the four pilots over the past two years who came up to fly for me who didn’t turn a blade in over four weeks.)

I didn’t come up through the ranks of a flight school to build my time, either, and it took nearly five years to get my first 1,000 hours. But it was different for me — I never intended to make flying a career. My second career put me in an excellent financial situation, one that included the ability to buy a helicopter and fly it around for fun. I put nearly 1,000 hours on my first helicopter, an R22, before selling it and buying the R44 I took delivery of in 2005. By that time, my goal was to simply earn enough with the helicopter to pay for the helicopter — a goal I achieved in 2007 when I started doing aerial survey work. That changed, and, by around 2012 (or thereabouts; I’d have to check my tax returns for an exact date), I was earning more as a pilot than as a writer and my flying career was in full swing. By then, I had more than 3,000 hours in helicopters, none of which was flying under the supervision of a flight school.

But is building time as a flight instructor the best way to get experience? I’ll always argue that it isn’t — as I did in a 2009 blog post titled “Real Pilot Experience.” In that post, I discussed the value of my experience at 2,100 hours vs. the experience of several newly minted 300-hour CFIs that I’d flown with. My experience was built flying real-life missions that required planning, decision making, and aviating while theirs was in a flight school environment, mostly with a slightly more experienced CFI sitting beside them. I thought it odd at the time — and I still do — that they were more qualified to teach people how to fly than I was.

Still, how else can a new pilot get the experience they so sorely need to be good, safe pilots on for-hire missions?

At Stehekin
I took Mr Bleu, Penny, and a friend up to Stehekin on Sunday for a nice day trip. In this shot, I’m parked next to the grass runway.

Landings and Wind

The other day, I blogged about the stress I felt at facing my 15th Part 135 check ride. In that post, I wrote a little about the decision making process on one particular maneuver. Here’s what I said:

On my check ride, I was asked to land in a confined space on a hillside. It was a relatively big area — I’ve certainly landed in a lot tighter spaces — and there were no real obstacles, although there were some open range cattle, fencing, and a water tank nearby.

I misjudged the wind. I thought it was light and inconsequential and set up my approach to give me a the best angle of approach. As I came near the landing spot, however, I saw trees blowing and felt the wind buffeting me. Left pedal kept things under control without getting too sloppy.

Still, I decided to go around and approach from a different angle. As I told the examiner as I started going around, “If the helicopter is light, performance is not an issue, and the wind isn’t too strong, I could make this work. But making a bad approach work is probably not a good idea on a check ride.” He agreed.

And that’s the difference between flying as a pilot and flying as a CFI. A pilot flies depending on her skills, the conditions, and her intimate knowledge of the aircraft. A CFI flies depending on the best scenario learned in training. We all know it’s best to land with a headwind and that’s what the CFI will always try to do. But an experienced pilot also knows that you don’t have to fly into the wind if other conditionals make a safe operation possible. In this instance, there wasn’t that much wind and we were light. I knew I could land safely with that right quartering tailwind; I’d done similar landings before. But I also knew that the FAA was more interested in a textbook approach. My going around showed good decision-making skills and the second attempt was a lot smoother with a lot less dancing on the pedals.

A Story about CFIs and Headwinds

About 10 years ago, I had to fly from Arizona to Washington State for cherry season — a 10+ hour flight. In those days, there were plenty of low-time CFIs who wanted to build time in R44 helicopters so they could meet the requirements of SFAR-73 for flight training. I think they needed a total of 25 hours. I’d let these guys, who already had their R44 endorsement, lease my helicopter with me as a passenger to bring me and the helicopter up to Washington State. They’d get cheap flight time and I’d get the helicopter moved at no cost. Win-win.

This particular flight has a lot of stories to tell, but I’ll focus on one: landing at Redding, CA. The airport is towered. We arrived late in the afternoon, light on fuel, from the south. The ATIS said the wind was about 4 knots from the south. The tower told us to land on Runway 34 — in other words, straight in with a slight tailwind. The pilot at the controls — a 300-hour CFI — acknowledged the instruction.

As we got closer to the airport, it came into view. The pilot was flying to the west of it. I assumed he didn’t see it — after all, when you fly at 500 feet AGL it’s not easy to see airports. I pointed it out to him.

“I was going to go around to the west in a downwind and turn midfield and land to the south,” he told me. For you non-pilots, that meant he was going to go around to the left and then land on the same runway but in the opposite direction.

I was floored and took a moment to figure out how to gently explain the problem with that. “Well, the tower told you to land straight in on Runway 34. So you have two options. You can either call the tower and request a landing on Runway 16 or you can land on Runway 34 as instructed.”

(Is it me, or am I correct in thinking that I shouldn’t be instructing a CFI?)

He took a moment to think about it, then changed course and landed straight in on Runway 34. Of course, he came in hot and did a quick stop so he wouldn’t overshoot the parking area. The quick stop was unexpected but well executed and he was so proud of it that he sought my approval when he touched down in our parking spot moments later.

I’m afraid I didn’t deliver. Instead, I said the first thing that came into my mind based on my experience-based knowledge of flight conditions and possibilities: “If you do that at the Grand Canyon on a 90° day with a full load of passengers, you’ll have one hell of a hard landing.” (I can be such a bitch.) Most sea level pilots are completely clueless about flying at high density altitude and I can tell stories about that, too.

In my defense for misjudging the wind, during my high reconnaissance of the landing zone, there were no wind indicators — flags, bodies of water, large trees, blowing dust, smoke, etc. — for me to get an idea of the wind. The trees down near the landing zone weren’t big — maybe 10 feet tall? — and I didn’t see any movement from above. The location we’d departed from less than five miles away had a light wind out of the west. I came in from the north, assuming the wind would be about the same. It was, but it was also a bit stiffer. A better low reconnaissance would have helped me see this, but in the grand scheme of things, it really didn’t matter.

And that’s my point. Whether the wind over my right shoulder was 4 knots or 10 knots didn’t matter. (And yes, 20 or 30 knots would have mattered and I definitely would have noted on such winds.) The helicopter, with half tanks of fuel and just two average sized people on board, was light. It was still cool out and we were operating at about 1500 feet MSL, so density altitude wasn’t an issue. The helicopter’s performance was good. I was making a relatively slow, shallow approach, so airspeed and descent rate would not have put me into a settling with power situation and the minor tailwind would not have caused me to overshoot my intended touch down spot. As I came in on my approach and felt the wind, I could easily keep the helicopter under control with the pedals. I knew from experience — over 2,000 hours flying R44s in all kinds of conditions — that I could make a safe landing.

The only reason I went around was because I was on a check ride. The FAA isn’t interested in seeing pilots who can make a bad approach work. They’re interested in pilots who can made good decisions, even if those decisions mean breaking off an approach to go around and do it differently. So going around is exactly what the examiner wanted to see. He wanted to know that I could recognize a bad approach and act accordingly.

And I need to make one thing very clear: I’ve done go arounds on bad approaches before, without an FAA examiner sitting in the seat beside me. I recall one in particular at Sedona Airport, elevation 4830, years ago. There were three of us on board with luggage and half tanks of fuel, so we were pretty heavy. It wasn’t hot, but it was windy. I made my approach to the helipad following the path I always followed — I flew in there a few times a month. But in this case, it was a little too squirrelly for me and I was dancing on the pedals a lot more than I like to dance. I broke off about 50 feet from the ground and went around. My second approach was more into the wind and a lot smoother. Could I have made the initial approach work? Maybe. But why risk it?

That’s what experience teaches you. It teaches you what works and what might not work and what definitely won’t work. It teaches you how to fix little mistakes before they become big mistakes. Or fatal mistakes.

Does it teach you everything? Apparently not, as my February incident proves. But at least that won’t happen again. I learned my lesson.

Don’t Fly Like a CFI

Before you go ape and blast me for the above heading, let me explain.

A CFI is taught to fly “by the book.” If you’re a CFI you know exactly what I mean. Or you should.

Let’s take an example: taking off. Common instructions tell you to follow these steps:

  1. Bring the helicopter into a 3 to 5 foot hover.
  2. Pitch forward with the cyclic to start moving forward.
  3. Add pedal as necessary to stay in trim.
  4. Push through ETL and pitch for 45 knots, staying within 10 feet of the ground.
  5. At 45 knots pitch for 60 knots to climb out.
  6. When at desired altitude, pitch for cruise speed.

Did I leave anything out? This is from memory and I never taught anyone to fly.

This is basically how low-time CFIs always take off (unless they’re in a confined space or have an obstacle) because (1) it’s how they were taught and (2) it’s how they teach their students. Do takeoffs like this for 1,000 hours and it’s pretty much engrained in you.

But is that how all helicopter pilots take off all of the time? Of course not. The situation you’re in determines how you take off.

Need to get away from the ground quickly because of the potential for dust or damaging downwash along your flight path? (I was once with a low-time CFI when he did a textbook takeoff right past an ultralight sitting idle next to his flight path. He’s lucky the owner grabbed it as we went by.) While a maximum performance takeoff (with its inherent risks) might not be needed, there is some middle ground — and yes, it might require some flight in the scary part of the height velocity diagram.

And landing. I cannot tell you how many times a low-time CFI flying with me entered a traffic pattern at an airport in the middle of nowhere, did a one-mile final approach to land on the runway numbers, and then hover-taxied on the taxiway a half mile to the midfield self-serve fuel pump. What’s that all about? If you’re flying a freaking helicopter, you don’t need a freaking runway. Landing to get fuel? Land at the pumps.

(Want a story about that? I was passenger on a flight my friend Jim did to Prescott Airport (PRC) in his Hughes 500c. We were headed for the restaurant, which was adjacent to a parking area. The tower there put him on a wide downwind for one of the runways on the other side of the airport. Jim barked into the microphone: “Negative! Helicopter One-Two-Three-Alpha-Bravo is a helicopter! We want direct to the restaurant! When the controller recovered from the shock of getting this demand after working with flight school pilots all day every day, he gave Jim exactly what he wanted. Did I mention that Jim was a retired Eastern Airlines pilot?)

About high density altitude experience

Landing or departing at high density altitude is no laughing matter, especially if your ship is heavy and your experience is limited. That’s one of the lessons learned from this doomed flight in Easton, WA about 11 years ago. That’s what I was thinking of when I departed with three passengers at near max gross weight from an off-airport landing zone on a hot day this July.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that I struggled to gain altitude without puling pitch past the redline on my manifold pressure gauge. There was hardly any wind, which didn’t help matters at all, and the air temperature was about 90°F. When you consider our landing zone elevation of about 800 feet, that put our DA at about 3200 feet. Fortunately, the area around us was clear of obstacles and we inched up into the sky.

Once on our way, everything was fine. But I knew I had two problems ahead of me: making a safe landing in a confined space landing zone at 1400 feet and then departing from that confined space when it was likely to be up to 10°F hotter. That put us at about 4500 feet DA. We would not burn enough fuel on the 20-minute flight to make a significant difference in weight.

The landing didn’t worry me that much. I have a lot of high DA experience and it really paid off. I came in smoothly and landed to a hover, then quickly but surprisingly gently put it on the ground. My passengers climbed out and went about their business. While I idled there, I looked around me at the shop buildings, wires, and mature apple trees, and decided that there was no way I’d depart from there with all of them on board. I didn’t need performance data to tell me that it wouldn’t be safe. That 2007 Easton crash was up front in my mind.

So I called my client and told her that I’d pick up the group at an airport about 5 miles away. It was only a minor inconvenience for them; they were attending a meeting at the orchard and the orchardist had a truck he could take them to the airport in. I departed the orchard landing zone and waited for them at the airport.

My OAT gauge read 103°F when they met me for departure. I loaded them up, pointed the helicopter into the wind, and did one of those textbook takeoffs over the ground and across the runway of the deserted farm country airport, pitching for a 60 knot climb before I reached the fence line. We climbed out smoothly and safely, which is what any pilot should aim for.

And here’s my argument for why experience matters: According to the accident report, the Easton accident pilot had “a total time in helicopters of 2,122 hours, 1,492 hours of instruction given in helicopters, 160 hours in the last 90 days, 24 hours in make and model…” While 2,122 hours of helicopter experience is considerable, she had just 24 hours of experience in the make and model of the crashed helicopter (an R44). She was based in Seattle and had done the vast majority of her flying at sea level. The calculated density altitude at the crash site was 6,841 and the helicopter was only 33 pounds below max gross weight. The probable cause was listed as “The pilot’s improper planning/decision in attempting a downwind takeoff under high density altitude conditions that resulted in a loss of control and impact with terrain.  Contributing to the accident were the helicopter’s gross weight in excess of the maximum hover out of ground effect limit, a high density altitude, and the gusty tailwind.” I have to think that her limited experience with the helicopter and high DA conditions, combined with an understandable desire to please the client, contributed to bad decision making and execution of departure maneuvers.

Only experience can help protect you from a similar fate in a similar situation.

But what I’m trying to say here when I tell pilots not to fly like flight instructors goes beyond modifying standard procedures to fit a situation. It’s this: You will never become a better, more experienced pilot if you don’t push the edges of what’s comfortable to you.

Now I’m not saying you should go out and fly like a lunatic, pushing your skills and aircraft to their limits. That’s a good way to get yourself and possibly others on the ground hurt or killed. I’m saying that you should push gently to expand your comfort level and learn valuable lessons along the way.

Has your flight school forbidden flights when the winds exceed 15 knots? Fly when the wind is 20 knots. Then, when that’s comfortable, bump it up to flying at 25 knots. (Obviously, you should consult your pilot operating handbook to see if there are any limitations.) Don’t be like I was when I went to work at the Grand Canyon. After being taught to avoid flying in high wind situations, I was suddenly required to fly when the wind speeds were up to 50 knots. I learned to deal with high wind a little faster there than I probably should have.

Does your flight school limit flights to a handful of airports? Fly somewhere else. (Yes, get permission if necessary. Duh.) One of the best ways to get real-life flying experience is to fly to different places. It works your flight planning, navigation, and communication skills. It challenges you to think about your approach and landing rather than to do the same thing you’ve been doing for weeks or months.

If you’re a sea level pilot — I’m talking about someone who has learned to fly and usually flies mostly at or near sea level — do yourself a huge favor and fly to a destination above sea level. Someplace high enough where you can really feel the difference in the aircraft’s performance. Then take it to another destination even higher. Do you really want to get your first high density altitude experience when you get a job flying tours at the Grand Canyon, elevation 6600 feet? (And yes, I’ve done running takeoffs from Grand Canyon Airport twice: once in my R22 and once in my R44. They teach us that stuff for a reason.)

Do long cross-country flights. Solo. That’ll really test your flight planning and navigation skills — especially when unforecasted weather or other conditions force you to choose an alternate destination airport or land off-airport to wait out a storm.

I guess what I’m trying to advise is to do the things CFIs don’t generally do when they’re working as CFIs. But don’t go nuts. Build your skills and confidence levels slowly.

And shame on flight schools that don’t give their CFIs or commercial students the opportunity to do these things.

Mr Bleu and a Friend
Here’s Mr Bleu with a friend from Lake Chelan. We occasionally work together to take more than 3 passengers on charter flights. Here, we’ve landed in a soccer field beside a cherry orchard.

Passionate for a Reason

I feel very passionate about real life vs. CFI flying and even more so after my own accident.

I’m not a complete idiot. I realize that my accident was caused by two things:

  • Distraction in the cockpit. I was flying VFR and I should have had my eyes outside the cockpit. Instead, I allowed myself to get distracted and failed to maintain awareness of my flight path.
  • Lack of experience with night flight. Seriously! What was I thinking? I’ve got 3,700 hours of flight time, but less than 100 hours of that is at night. How could I possibly have allowed myself to get as complacent as I obviously was about the additional challenges of flying in the dark?

I’m lucky to be alive and I know it. And although I’m seriously embarrassed about the mistakes I made that led to my crash, I’m not too embarrassed to use my learning experience to teach others.

Throughout this blog, you’ll find lots of lectures about safety, many of which touch upon NTSB-analyzed accident reports. When reading between the lines, so many of them can be traced back to insufficient pilot experience with the situation or aircraft.

Don’t be one of those pilots. Push yourself gently to expand your skills and knowledge with real-life scenarios you can only get from non-CFI style flying. And never stop learning to be a better pilot.

A Story about Questioning Authority

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If something doesn’t sound right, it might not be.

Those of you who follow the aviation-related posts in this blog — and there are a lot of you — might recall how I balked last year when the FAA told me I was required to buy a radar altimeter to continue Part 135 charter operations in my VFR-only aircraft. I argued that a radar altimeter’s sole purpose was to tell a pilot how far the aircraft was from the ground and that VFR operations, by definition, meant that the pilot could see the ground. If I wanted to know how far I was from the ground, all I had to do was look out the window. I didn’t need to spend $8K to $20K for an instrument inside the cockpit to tell me how far from the ground I was.

The argument apparently had some merit because a handful of Part 135 operations like mine, who apparently have more reasonable FAA oversight, got a waiver of the requirement. To this day, they still have that waiver.

I fought long and hard on this issue and, in the end, lost. Through the efforts of someone at Helicopter Association International (HAI), I got a temporary waiver that gave me until this coming October to comply. I wound up having one installed on Mr. Bleu (my new old helicopter) because the kind folks I bought it from offered to do the labor for free. It still cost me $10K. (Unfortunately, I have to pass that cost on to my charter clients with a $25/landing fee for all Part 135 flights.)

A lot of people might think that my experience with this would convince me that it isn’t worth fighting when you think something is wrong. That’s simply not true. I will always fight for what I think is right — if it’s important to me. Yes, I pick my battles.

And that brings me to the topic of today’s blog post: two FAA findings in yesterday’s aircraft inspection.

A Tiny Bit of Backstory

When Zero-Mike-Lima was totaled, I had no helicopter. One of the requirements of a Part 135 certificate — the FAA certification that enables me to legally do air-taxi work — is that I have at least one helicopter on my certificate. When I informed my local FAA Flight Standards District Office (FSDO) that Zero-Mike-Lima was gone, they waited a week or two before kindly informing me that if I didn’t replace it soon, they’d cancel my certificate.

This is a huge deal. It took just four months for me to get my certificate in the beginning of 2005 and that was considered lightning fast. These days, it’s rare to get the process done in less than two years.

Admittedly, I don’t use my Part 135 certificate much anymore. Most of my work centers around cherry drying, with a dose of aerial photo/survey work, scenic tours within 25 miles of the starting point, and hop rides at outdoor events. For a while I was doing a lot of wine tasting tours, but I’ve dialed that down to hour-long trips that are a bit pricey for the average wine lover. Still, I want to keep my Part 135 certificate because it enables me to say yes to the odd charter flight that comes my way. When you have a small business with limited activity, being able to say yes can make a big difference in your bottom line.

So I was motivated to get a replacement. I blogged about my shopping experience here and about picking up Mr. Bleu and flying it home with a friend here. Once it was here and I had all the paperwork I needed the FAA to review, I contacted my guys at the FSDO to arrange for an inspection.

You see, it isn’t enough for me to get a helicopter. The FAA has to inspect it. There’s a laundry list of requirements for Part 135 work, as well as the general airworthiness of the aircraft itself. That’s why I was so picky about what I bought and why I wound up buying the helicopter I did. I knew it would comply with all requirements so it would be easy for me and for the FAA to get it on my certificate.

The Inspection

The FAA scheduled the inspection for May 3. I was expecting my Primary Operations Inspector (POI) and Primary Maintenance Inspector (PMI). That’s two guys. So imagine my surprise when a small car rolled into my driveway that morning and four guys got out of it.

Apparently, my inspection was part of a training exercise. Lucky me.

They all came upstairs and I handed over all of the helicopter’s paperwork to them. I pulled out my big dining room table — I normally keep it stowed against a wall — and the three maintenance related guys sat around it. I sat at the breakfast bar with my POI to talk about operations stuff. It seemed that they were combining the aircraft inspection with a base inspection and a post-crash interview. That was fine. I had nothing to hide and I was confident that the aircraft would meet their requirements.

I have to say that I did the right thing when I bought a helicopter with just one previous owner from a place with a well-managed maintenance shop. Every single document that they were looking for was in the packet I had for them. The only two things they brought to my attention is my need to register my ELT (Emergency Locator Transmitter; a piece of emergency equipment) and the possibility that I might need to update my Pilot Operating Handbook (POH) with a manual for the radar altimeter. That second finding actually came later, when they looked at the helicopter.

And that’s where we went next: to the helicopter. After I asked my PMI to take off his FAA hat and help me get my new printer up onto my loft and a chair down from my loft — a matter of handing a box up to me and taking a lightweight chair I handed down — we went back downstairs. They all climbed into their car — which, by that point, I had begun thinking of as a clown car, mostly because of so many big guys being in such a relatively small car — and I pulled my Jeep out of my garage. I led the way back down my road and around to my neighbor’s airstrip, where the helicopter was parked. (Long story there; it’ll eventually get blogged about.) We parked next to the helicopter and got out. I pulled off the cover and opened the doors. The four guys moved in.

At one point, I almost got a photo of them all poking their heads into various parts of the helicopter, but as soon as I took my phone out, one of them moved away and I skipped the shot.

I answered questions. We talked about the fire extinguisher (the Spokane FSDO seems obsessed with it — in 9 years the Scottsdale FSDO never even looked at it) and I was told that it needed to be inspected monthly by a mechanic who would put an entry in the aircraft logbook. We talked about the POH and my possible need to add a manual to the Supplements section for my radio altimeter — although no one seemed to know for sure if such a supplement existed or was actually required. We talked about the level of the main rotor gearbox fluid. We talked about how clean the helicopter was.

And we talked about safety wire.

The Safety Wire

Safety wire, in case you don’t know, is thin wire that’s used to secure nuts and other removable items. It prevents them from loosening and potentially spinning off. Look at any aircraft long enough and you’ll find these thin wires here and there, twisted tight.

The maintenance guys pointed out that there was no safety wire on the tail rotor gearbox or oil filter. This was a “finding” — that’s a word that auditors use when they find something wrong. I don’t know what FAA guys call it. Exception? Non-Compliance?

I was embarrassed. I should have caught that on preflight but didn’t. It looked fine to me. But what really surprised me was that the maintenance shop had let it go like that. I decided to rib them about it later.

I told the FAA guys that I’d fly it to the airport to have the mechanic there add the wire. They told me I needed a ferry permit. Apparently the aircraft was not airworthy without it. I said I’d get a ferry permit, imagining some form I’d fill out online. They asked if I’d ever gotten one before. I said no. They said that I’d have to fill out a form and then get a mechanic out to look at the aircraft and sign off on it.

“Since the mechanic has to come out here anyway, can’t he just add the wire while he’s here?” I asked.

“Bingo,” one of them replied.

I made a mental note to get in touch with the local airplane mechanic when the FAA left.

The Doors

At that point, we seemed to be done. But then my PMI said, “And we need to talk about the doors.”

They had sent me a document a week or two before (InFO 18002) that talked about helicopters on fire contracts, removing and installing doors in remote areas, and cargo doors (which I don’t have). It didn’t seem to apply to my operation.

Robinson helicopters have simple door attachments: two hinge pins with round cotter pins to prevent them from slipping out, combined with little hydraulic do-dads that keep the door open when you open it. Of course, there’s a latch to hold the door closed in flight or when parked. Pretty simple stuff. As a student pilot in Arizona 20 years ago, one of the first things I learned was how to remove and install the doors on the R22s I trained in. With daytime shade temperatures in triple digits six months out of the year, I think we flew more often with doors off than doors on. That was certainly the case when I bought my first helicopter in 2000.

After reading the document, I’d emailed my PMI to tell him I didn’t think it applied to my operation. He said we’d talk about it at the inspection. This was the talk.

It wasn’t good news. According to the Spokane Gang of Four, I was not permitted to remove or install the doors on my helicopter since it was used for Part 135 operations. In the judgement of someone in Washington (who really needs a hobby), removing and installing doors is a “maintenance item.” Because it’s a maintenance item, it needs to be done by a mechanic and an aircraft logbook entry must be made. In large Part 135 organizations, the Maintenance Training Program can include instructions for training a pilot to do this job while operating in a remote area when a mechanic isn’t available. But since I was a single Pilot Part 135 operator and I didn’t have a Maintenance Training Program because I (1) didn’t have a maintenance department and (2) didn’t need one, I could not be trained to do this job so I could not do it.

So yes, they were telling me that I was no longer allowed to do a simple task that I had been doing for about 20 years.

Doors off Mr. Bleu
Here’s Mr. Bleu on a photography client’s front lawn not long after my FAA inspection. The front seat photographer did still photos while the guy behind him did video. (By Chelan County’s definition, this is a heliport. Go figure.)

Now you might wonder why this mattered to me. First, understand why I might need to take one or more doors off. It’s mostly for aerial photo work — no serious photographer is interested in shooting images through a curved, possibly dusty Plexiglas window. I have worked with photographers who have chosen me because other operators refused to remove a door for them. Doors off is required and, coincidentally, I had booked a photo flight for the following Monday.

Second, if the doors could only be removed and installed by a mechanic, that meant I’d have to schedule a flight to the airport when a mechanic was present (9-5, M-F), wait while he removed the doors and made the logbook entry, do my doors-off flight, return to the airport when the mechanic was present (9-5, M-F) to have the mechanic install the doors and make another logbook entry, pay the mechanic for his time, and fly back to my off-airport landing zone.

The level of inconvenience this interpretation of some obscure rule was causing me was astounding. Consider my Monday flight, when I was scheduled to meet my client in Leavenworth — the opposite direction of the airport — at 7 AM — two hours before my mechanic gets to work. That meant I’d have to fly to the airport the day before — well, no because that was Sunday so I really needed to be there three days before, on Friday — to have the doors removed, then return to my landing zone, leave the doors off while parked for several days, fly to meet my client on Monday, and then return to the airport before returning to base. I figure 4/10 hour on the hobbs meter just to add in all the flight time for the mechanic.

And in a helicopter, time is real money.

And what happens if I pick up a tour flight after the doors have been taken off? Do I just apologize to the folks paying me nearly $600/hour for the drafty in-flight conditions? Or just say no to them, thus taking a pass on an hour’s worth of revenue, and hope the photographer doesn’t cancel, leaving me with a net loss for the doors off adventure?

According to the Spokane Gang of Four, there was no way around this for me. Not at all. No waivers or anything else.

And that’s when I got seriously pissed off.

“Breathe”

After covering the helicopter back up and watching the FAA guys drive away in their little car — and wondering how comfortable they could possibly be crammed in there for the 3-hour ride back to Spokane — I got back into my Jeep and headed into town to run some errands. On the way, I called another Part 135 operator friend and vented to him about the doors, knowing that he was in the same boat as me.

“Breathe,” he told me. And then he told me a few other things that I won’t repeat here, including how he planned to deal with it.

I relaxed a little, but I knew his solution would not work for me. I’m too fucking honest.

And that’s really what it all comes down to: honesty. The FAA makes these rules that are nearly impossible to comply with, knowing damn well that some operators just won’t follow the rules because they can’t. It’s like they’re setting a trap. And one day, when they decide they just don’t want to deal with you anymore, they spring that trap and pull your ticket.

I have to say that I never thought this way about the FAA until I moved my operation to the management of the Spokane FSDO. I’m not sure if its a timing thing — maybe the whole FAA has changed? — or it’s just a higher level of unreasonableness. I thought the goal was to ensure safety. These days, it seems as if the goal is to see how many hoops an operator will jump through — how much money they’ll throw away on useless equipment and “maintenance” — before they throw in the towel and quit flying.

Another Part 135 operator friend of mine had enough when they zapped him for doing a photo flight at a train yard — long story there — and decided to punish him by suspending his license during cherry season, which is when he made 90% of his flying income. His “you can’t fire me I quit” response was to sell his helicopter and get out of the business entirely. I suspect that’s exactly what they wanted. I’ve also come to suspect that this FSDO sees small operators as nuisances. That would surely explain the failure to give waivers for a useless piece of equipment in a VFR-only aircraft — the radar altimeter — and this new rule about removing and installing doors.

The Safety Wire, Revisited

Of course, I also had to deal with the safety wire to satisfy the FAA guys. That meant getting my mechanic out to the helicopter to do the job, taking photos of the finished work, and scanning the logbook entry. I’d send all that evidence to them as soon as possible, knowing how long it takes them to process requests. All this had to be done before my photo flight on Monday. (Oddly, I wouldn’t need to have the mechanic remove the doors then because the helicopter was not yet on my Part 135 certificate so it was still legal for me to do it, as long as I made a logbook entry. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that convoluted piece of logic.)

But I wanted to rib the maintenance shop about missing the safety wires so I shot off a text to Paul, the Director of Maintenance where I bought the helicopter:

Spokane sent FOUR inspectors today. Just a few minor problems to resolve, the most embarrassing of which is the fact that there was no safety wire on the tail rotor gearbox and oil filter. (Oops!) I’m hoping to get a mechanic out to my LZ to fix that tomorrow. There was also some question on whether I need a radio altimeter supplement in my POH on board. Do you know?

Then they told me that I’m not allowed to remove or reinstall my doors because I’m not a mechanic.

His response came moments later:

Safety wire is not required.

There was more, mostly from me, but I’d prefer not to repeat it here. A while later, when I got home, I got his brief email:

Safety wire SL-45 link.
https://robinsonheli.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/r44_sl45.pdf

Sure enough, Robinson Helicopter Company had issued a Safety Letter dated July 3, 2013 titled “Deleted Safety Wire.” The Background section stated:

Safety wire and safety wire provisions have been deleted from various installations and parts. Deleting safety wire reduces maintenance cost and decreases the potential for safety wire-related FOD. This letter provides guidance for installing parts with or without safety wire provisions.

You can bet I wasted no time forwarding that document to my PMI. I’m sure it got to his office in Spokane before he did. Of course, he never said a word about it. I had to email him the following week to ask if he’d gotten it and whether it was still an issue. His response was brief:

I got it thank you. It takes care of the question raised about the safety wire.

There are three lessons to learn here:

  • The FAA is not all-knowing. In their defense, how could they be? There are hundreds of makes and models of aircraft. How could they be expected to know about every maintenance procedure or service letter for every one. While it bugs me that they automatically assumed there was a problem, it felt really good to educate them.
  • An experienced mechanic knows stuff the FAA doesn’t. I had already suspected this — which is why I prefer taking my aircraft for repairs and maintenance to a shop that sees Robinson Helicopters all the time — but my safety wire experience proved it.
  • Questioning authority can save you money. In this case, I saved at least $100 — the cost of getting a mechanic out to my LZ, which is a good 40-minute drive from the airport, for a 15 minute job that actually would have had me in non-compliance with Robinson’s Safety Notice.

But this got me thinking about the doors-off issue. If Robinson said safety wire wasn’t necessary in a place where the FAA thought it was, perhaps Robinson could weigh in on the door removal issue?

But haven’t you read enough here? (I’m surprised you made it this far.) I think I’ll save the door issue for another blog post. As you’ll see, it’s not a simple matter.

A Few More Thoughts about my Stupid Pilot Trick

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A response to some of the comments I’ve been getting, along with an update.

First of all, I want to thank the over 70 (so far) people who have taken the time to comment on my “Another Stupid Pilot Trick” post. It took me about a week to write it, mostly because I was embarrassed about what I’d allowed to happen to me, and I was feeling more than a little sensitive about that. I almost didn’t leave comments open on the post. But I’m so very glad I did. The outpouring of understanding and good wishes has been amazing. I didn’t get a single nasty or hurtful comment — which is pretty amazing given the percentage of low-life scum we all see bottom feeding on the Internet. You folks rock.

What’s really weird to me is how many people came to read the post. Apparently, it was picked up on Facebook or somewhere else and went a little viral. For two days in a row, it got more than 10,000 hits. So a lot of the comments I got were from complete strangers, including a lot of pilots.

The blog isn’t the only place I got feedback. I also got some on Twitter and a little on Facebook. I got a few email messages and even one phone call. Everyone was amazingly kind and made me feel good about my friends, acquaintances, and the pilot community.

Thank you.

Why “Stupid Pilot Trick”?

First, an explanation.

A friend of mine took some offense at the title of the blog post. She said:

I have to say I don’t like the title of your blog. It made me feel like you were hot dogging or pushing the helicopter to it’s limits.

Understandable. A lot of pilots use the phrase “stupid pilot tricks” to refer to that kind of behavior.

But as I explained:

“Stupid pilot trick” is the phrase I’ve always used to refer to accidents caused by pilot error. I’ve used it in discussing other accidents so I thought it appropriate to use it when discussing mine.

She seemed satisfied with that. I hope other readers are, too.

My Recovery

I’ve had some more time to recover both physically and mentally.

Windsock
One of my home projects was to replace my old, faded windsock with a bigger, brighter one. I even installed solar spotlights to illuminate it at night.

The bruises are almost gone — the one on my right leg, which my doctor says might take several months to disappear, is pretty much the only one left. (I’d include a photo of the way blood under my skin is now pooling on the right side of my right foot, but do we really need to see that? I don’t think so.) I had low-grade, nagging headaches for a while but they’re all gone now. I’d say I’m pretty much back to 100%, and that’s good. It’s springtime and I’ve got a ton of work to do in my garden and a long list of projects around the house to tackle.

Mentally, things are a bit weird. I think I’m suffering a bit from survivor guilt. You see, about three weeks before my mishap, a friend of mine was in a helicopter crash in eastern Washington state. He’d been doing some animal capture work with two biologists on board his Hughes 369 helicopter. One passenger died and my friend and the other passenger were seriously injured. No one knows what happened because no one can remember. My friend was in a coma for two weeks with a 10% chance of survival. He’s a young guy, though, and he came out of it. They did reconstructive surgery on his arms and legs. His wife recently sent me a photo of him in physical therapy. He’s got a long road ahead of him.

I didn’t want them to know about my crash mostly because I felt bad that I’d survived with very little injury and he’d very nearly died and will be working on his recovery for months (or more?) to come. But his wife found out — probably through the hoopla over the blog post. They’re okay with it — I mean, why wouldn’t they be? — and I know now that my survivor guilt is idiotic. I’m coming to terms with that slowly.

The gaps in my memory of the event are also bothersome. I still don’t remember anything from the time the helicopter went through the trees — which was very loud and seemed to take forever — to the time I was on the ground and realized I could get out. Somewhere in there, the helicopter hit the ground at least twice and turned 180 degrees but I don’t remember it at all. And no, I didn’t pass out; I had no head injury other than getting my brain rattled around a bit. I also don’t remember using the fire extinguisher, although I apparently did. And what did I do during the 30 minutes between when I texted another pilot right after getting out of the helicopter and finally calling 911? I remember parts of two telephone conversations I had during that time, but not 30 minutes worth of anything. I’ve never experienced memory gaps like that before and it continues to bug me that that time is missing.

I should stress that my memory beyond that is fine. My brain is back to functioning at 100% of whatever it was functioning at before the crash.

Counseling? No Thanks.

About two weeks after the crash, I got a letter in the mail from an organization that offers support to pilots after crashes. My response was to get angry. Very angry. So angry that I wrote an email to the guy who sent it, berating him for assuming that I needed help.

Fortunately, I didn’t send it. I grew to realize, with the help of some of my Twitter friends, that some pilots do need help getting past a crash and that the organization would probably be very helpful to them.

A lot of the comments I got from people about the crash assumed that I was seriously traumatized by it. But am I?

I don’t feel that I am and I think I know why.

You see, if you were to make a list of the traumatic things in my life and rank them by how traumatizing they were, this crash would actually appear pretty far down the list. I don’t want to share the list — jeez, why would I want to revisit all the things that have traumatized me throughout my life? — but I will offer one example: the man I lived with for 29 years, who I loved and trusted with my life, cheated on me (with a woman old enough to be my mother!), lied to me (and a judge, under oath), and then tried (and failed) to ruin me financially through a long, drawn-out divorce battle. You don’t think that’s pretty traumatizing? A helicopter crash I walked away from with just scrapes and bruises is nothing compared to that.

(So yes, my crazy divorce prepared me for a helicopter crash. Thanks, honey!)

It’s all relative.

If you remember nothing else from this post, remember this: When you live life, shit happens. The more you live, the more shit happens. I’d rather deal with the shit that’s a byproduct of life than to have no life at all.

‘Nuff said.

Getting Back in the Saddle

I don’t need counseling. What I need is to fulfill my desire to get back into the cockpit and go flying.

No, I’m not afraid to fly now — although I admit I have no interest at all in flying at night. (Other than the “Moonlight Dinner Tours” I did in Phoenix between 2005 and 2011, I never really enjoyed flying at night.) Knowing what caused the crash — distracted flying at night — and what I can do to prevent it from happening again — pay attention, idiot! — takes away any fear I might have of flying again. After all, I really am a decent pilot — a “good stick,” I’ve been told. I flew my R44 like most people drive their car — or maybe even better. (Actually, probably better considering the way some people drive.) I’ve learned my lesson and am eager to get back in the cockpit.

Of course, that means getting another helicopter. I’m working on it. The week after the crash, I put in an offer on a helicopter in Canada, but the guy’s price, which I thought was high, was firm and he wasn’t interested in helping me get it into the U.S. And then there’s all kinds of paperwork to deal with when bringing an aircraft down and I’m simply not interested in dealing with any of that. So I’ve scratched all Canadian helicopters off my list.

I’ve also rethought my strategy on buying a new helicopter. Rather than getting one in the same condition as the one I lost — jeez, it was just a year out of overhaul! — I figured I’d buy one that needs an overhaul in two to five years and get the overhaul done when the time came. That meant I could buy a helicopter for cash using the insurance proceeds and save up for the overhaul. Without a helicopter loan, saving up would be possible. After all, I did it in 2013-16 after paying for a divorce, buying land, and building a home. (I do make a decent living as a pilot and still earn royalties on some of my writing work.) Then, in overhaul, I could get it fixed up to be more like the one I lost.

With that in mind, there are three candidates I’m considering. The closest is in Phoenix and I’ll likely check it out within the next week or so. I’m hoping we can go for a test flight.

I will admit one thing here: not long after the accident, when I first started thinking about buying another helicopter, there was a fleeting moment when I considered taking the insurance money, putting it in the bank, and not buying a helicopter at all. I’m a little young for retirement — although I consider myself semi-retired since I only work half the year — but financially, I’m secure enough to call it quits now if I want to. And I could still manage my cherry drying contracts every summer for a little side income. It would be an easy way out of the inconvenient mess I put myself into. But there’s no challenge in easy and I’ve come to believe that I live for challenges.

And I’m not ready to give up yet.

On Bravery

A lot of the people who commented about my blog post or contacted me other ways told me I was brave to tell my story. I’m having a little trouble wrapping my head around that.

You see, I don’t consider telling my story about what happened “brave.” It happened because I was dumb and let it happen. It’s embarrassing, but not something I could (or should) hide.

Last Photo of N630ML
This is the last photo of N630ML in one piece. I was one of a team of three frost control pilots. This was shot in the hangar we were based in at Yolo County Airport.

Like it or not, I have a bit of a public persona. Part of it dates back to my writing days when I did a lot of public appearances. Part of it is because of this blog and my general outspokenness. There was no way in hell that I could crash a helicopter and prevent people from finding out. After all, one day, I’m flying a beautiful red helicopter with my initials in the N-number and a few months later I’m flying something completely different. And it isn’t as if pilots don’t read the NTSB reports. I do.

And why should I hide it? I did something dumb. If I could admit it and other people hear about it and that prevents them from doing the same dumb thing, I might save lives. Why wouldn’t I do that?

It’s not bravery that has me writing about this. It’s common sense. It’s caring about the pilot community and the passengers that pilots carry. It’s wanting to use my experience as a teaching moment for others.

And let’s face it: I’m in my mid 50s, approaching the end of my flying career. I’m self-employed and am not going to lose my job by admitting I did a dumbass thing that could have killed me and totaled my helicopter. I’m not worried about future employment because I’ve already come to terms with this fact: very few employers would consider hiring a middle aged, outspoken and set-in-her-ways woman with only 3700 hours of helicopter flight time for any flying job that would really interest me.

So what’s so brave? I’ve got nothing to lose by speaking out.

Dealing with the FAA and NTSB

Some pilots reading this might want to know what it’s like to deal with the FAA and NTSB after an accident. Let me fill you in.

First, I have to stress how lucky we all are. First, I survived with very little injury and a decent memory of what happened. I’m not in denial about what happened and why it happened. I’m not interested in hiding the facts. No one other than me was involved in the crash. There was no property damage — other than the trees I “trimmed” on my way to the “landing zone.” (Humor does help.) The crash was never even reported in the local news. The only photos that exist are the ones taken by police — I assume; I haven’t seen any — me, and my friend Sean who was there for the recovery. All this makes it a lot easier for everyone concerned.

The NTSB was the first to get in touch. Their local guy called while I was still in the hospital. (I was in the hospital for less than 3 hours.) I think he got my number from the police. I gave him a verbal account of what I remembered over the phone. He was very kind and polite. And relieved, it seemed. By simply surviving and telling him exactly what happened I was making his job very easy. In fact, the NTSB didn’t even come out to the accident site. They got a lot of information from the police, I guess. They released the helicopter for recovery within 3 hours of the crash. It was removed by noon the same day.

The FAA’s Sacramento office got in touch three days later. I was at Heli Expo in Las Vegas by then. I spoke for about 15 minutes on the phone with an inspector, telling him pretty much the same thing I’d told the NTSB. He asked if I’d be interested in doing a presentation at a WINGS safety seminar in my area. Sure, I told him. I want other people to know how easy it is to let complacency kill you. He recommended that I get back in the cockpit and start flying as soon as possible, perhaps with a CFI. (Another one worried about my state of mind.) He asked me to send him a summary of the crash in writing via email and I took down his email address. The next day, I sent him the same stuff I’d sent my insurance company.

About a week after the crash, an NTSB investigator from Washington called. I gave him the same information. He said he’d send a report I needed to fill out and warned me that I’d have 10 days to complete it and send it back. It got lost in email and was resent and the 10-day clock started when I confirmed receipt. Then I forgot about it. I remembered it six days later and spent about an hour filling it out. It was pretty straightforward, asking for basic information about the aircraft and my logged flight time, as well as a narrative about the crash. There were full pages I was able to skip because there were no other aircraft involved and no other crew members or passengers.

Along the way I had to tell my Part 135 POI that the helicopter no longer existed. He asked me to write an email officially asking to remove it from my Part 135 certificate. That was a 10-minute job.

And that’s it, so far. Although the FAA might ask me to do a special check ride with them, no one has asked yet. I don’t think there’s any doubt that I know how to fly safely. I was very forthcoming with the dumb thing I’d done that caused the accident. I do my Part 135 check flight in June anyway and I bet it would take them that long to schedule a special flight.

So my dealings with the FAA and NTSB have been pretty worry-free and very professional. I’m happy with the way they all actually seemed to care about me and my wellbeing. There were no accusations or unfair finger-pointing. After all, how could there be? I blamed myself because it’s my fault.

Why Deny the Truth?

And that’s another weird thing that I’ve realized: too many pilots won’t take blame for accidents that are their fault.

I know a good example. A few years back a pilot was flying a Schweizer 300 on a cherry contract. He had full fuel and another pilot on board so they were pretty close to max gross weight. He came in over a cherry orchard at high speed and made an aggressive turn that involved coming to a stop and descending. The helicopter went right into the trees. He claimed that the engine lost power but the NTSB, which took the wreckage in for investigation, could find nothing wrong with the engine. Instead, they reported that the accident had been caused by the maneuver he’d used to come in over the orchard: descending at a near stop had likely caused him to settle into his own downwash. Settling with power.

While it’s true that the pilot may really believe that the engine lost power, it’s more likely that he’s in denial of what really happened and his part in the cause of the accident. After all, when you get into settling with power, pulling pitch just makes it worse. It might seem as if there’s an engine problem. But we’re trained to avoid, recognize, and recover from settling with power and he was a flight instructor so he should understand what happened.

I’ve met this pilot and years after the accident he was still defiant, claiming the NTSB had gotten it wrong. As if the NTSB, which exists to investigate transportation related crashes, doesn’t know what it’s doing.

Now suppose I was in denial about my part in this accident. Suppose I claimed that the helicopter had lost power in flight and I’d found myself flying into trees. All of a sudden, the case isn’t cut-and-dry. The NTSB would have to take possession of the wreckage and perform all kinds of tests on the engine to see if it had lost power and why that might have happened — all on the taxpayer’s dime. (And yes, I’m a taxpayer and I care about how the government spends our money. Don’t get me started on $30K dining room sets, please.) Robinson would get involved. Reports would be delayed, I’d be questioned over and over. All this would still be going on now — and likely for months.

At what benefit?

Isn’t it better when a pilot honestly reports what happened and takes blame when he/she is to blame?

As far as I’m concerned, this chapter in my life is nearly closed; I’m already moving forward with the things I need to do to replace the helicopter and continue my work. That wouldn’t be possible if I didn’t recognize and admit what really happened and work with the authorities to help them quickly get the facts they need to complete their investigation.

On my Well-written Account

A few folks have commented about how “well-written” my blog post about the accident was. I appreciate the praise but, in all honesty, this one makes me giggle.

While lots of people know me as a helicopter pilot, what they may not know is that I became a helicopter pilot and bought a helicopter by building up a 20+ year career as a writer. Yeah — I wrote for a living. A good living. I think that says something about my writing skills. Somebody who can’t write can’t earn enough money as a writer to pay for helicopter flight training and buy a helicopter.

I wrote boring stuff. Books about how to use computers. Step-by-step instructions with lots of screenshots and captions and sometimes even callouts. I wrote it all and I often even did the layout. I wrote for numerous publishers, some of which you may have heard of: Peachpit Press, McGraw-Hill, Macmillan, Brady, Sybex, Microsoft Press, etc, etc. Some of the later books, which I’ve self-published, are about more interesting topics. If you’re interested in numbers, the count so far is 86 books.

I also write for magazines, both print and online. I wrote for computer magazines in the old days (pre 2012) and now write for aviation magazines. The most recent issue of Vertical included an essay I wrote, right near the beginning.

I started this blog in 2003 as an outlet to write stuff I found interesting — mostly stuff from my life, including my flying life. I use it to record and save information I want to share or consult later, like recipes. I use it to vent when something pisses me off or heap praise when something makes me happy.

I’ve also been working on a book about my first ten years as a helicopter pilot. It’s about halfway done. If I get a little more motivated to work on it, I hope to have it finished by this summer. (And yes, I know I’ve been promising that for a while now.) Will it include this accident? No. I’ll save that for Book II, which will cover the next 10 years.

So to those of you who think my accident account was well written, thanks. It better be.

That’s All for Now

And that’s pretty much everything on my mind in response to the comments I’ve gotten on my accident blog post, in email, and by phone. Once again, I want to thank all of the folks who took the time to reach out. You really made me feel good.

It also brings the situation up to date as far as my plans for a new helicopter and dealing with the authorities. I’m sure some of you were curious. This should satisfy that curiosity.

Any new comments or questions? Use the comments link for this post and I’ll try my best to address them — hopefully individually this time.