Much of The Judgment You’ll Need To Fly An Airplane, You Learned At Home

Originally printed in Flight Training Magazine

By Rod Machado
Copyright 1997

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The battle was on. From a distance it looked like a whirlwind of dust, dirt and chlorophyll had enveloped several head-tall Juniper bushes located in my front yard. Unwilling to forfeit their limbs, all 45 watts of bush-slicing power was put to test. It was garden-mock-combat, I was in my element and having a great time.

Zoom, zoom, zoom--then flash, then smoke, then fire! I jumped back at the sight of a burning bush. “What next,” I thought, “Will this bush speak to me? Isn’t that what burning bushes are supposed to do?” Looking downward I saw a still-smoking and now orphaned extension cord. I couldn’t believe that it was sliced in half. Quite clearly, I needed de-geeking.

At the moment of my silver-haired neighbor’s warning, I thought, “That’s not going to happen to me!” I refused to be associated with such a silly mistake--yet it happened. I had committed one of the of biggest mistakes in the exercise of good judgment. I didn’t listen to the voice of experience. It seems that neighbor Bill was highly experienced in these matters, having twice cut his extension cord with an electric hedger. Experience spoke but I didn’t listen. I simply didn’t think I’d be foolish enough to make such a mistake.

Everyone, at one time or another, has had an experience similar to this one. Removing the experience from its context (operating an electric hedger) and examining only its structure (not listening to experience), you have a valuable lesson equally applicable to the operating of an airplane. It seems that some of the very best lessons in aviation judgment have already been learned at home.

For example, distraction is a serious problem in aviation. Eastern flight 401 that crashed into the everglades many years ago was the result of a flight crew distracted by a faulty landing-gear light (among a few other things). Handling distractive influences in the cockpit is a primary concern for safe flight. Yet, the perils of distraction is a lesson learned long before most people enter an airplane cockpit.

Several years ago a father placed his infant son (strapped in a baby’s car seat) on top his automobile in preparation for a morning’s drive. Distracted by family matters, he entered the car and drove off with little Bobby riding rooftop-shotgun (unbeknownst to him). His first clue that something was wrong occurred at the freeway on-ramp. Centrifugal force sent the young fellow into a high speed tumble, bounding off the trunk and into the freeway’s bushes. Fortunately, little Bobby survived unhurt since the carrier was built sturdy and equipped with a plastic roll bar (imagine the little fellow’s dread the next time he heard those words: “Little Bobby want to go for a car ride?” Noooooooooo!). Fortunately, many of our home-type lessons, while no less meaningful, are much less risky.

I remember buying a vanilla milk shake at McDonalds and setting it on top my car as I fumbled for my keys. A friend drove by and honked. I waved and entered the car without my shake. At the first stop, the shake rolled down the windshield. My very first thought was, “Geesh, what kind of bird was that?” Then I realized my mistake. This was a simple and benign lesson in distraction that’s just as applicable to piloting an airplane as it was to driving an automobile. The only difference was that the consequences were much less severe.

A careful review of one’s experience reveals similar home-based lessons equally valuable as guidelines for the exercise of good aviation judgment. For instance, have you ever run out of gas in your car? Most people have had some direct experience with this.

As a 17 year old teenager I remember the fuel needle banging against the left side of the gage on my 1950 vintage Rambler. I found right turns caused the gage to read fuller while a left turn made it read empty. I hate to say it, but I found great comfort in making right turns (as if somehow centrifugal force caused my car to take on more fuel). Cough, cough, cough, my engine died--graveyard dead. The Rambler was out of gas.

I could have easily gassed-up earlier but something compelled me to keep going. Perhaps for many of the same (or similar) reasons pilots are compelled to press on without stopping for fuel. They usually fall into three categories: over trusting of fuel gages, get-home-itis and failure to properly assess the consequences of engine stoppage. I was guilty of all three. Fortunately, I was in a car, not an airplane.

People do run out of gas in airplanes. Surely, at least a few of them had, at one time or another, also run out of gas in their car. Why then, did their early experience not transfer to the piloting of their airplane? After all, despite the difference in context, the experiences are similar in structure. Why must we continually relearn these lessons in judgment when switching modes of transportation?

I believe the answer lies in how we assess our experiences. If one of our past home-type lessons in judgment makes enough of an emotional impression upon us, we tend to remember it longer. In other words, the details of the experience is strengthened simply because we think about it often enough. As I said in one of my earlier articles, “Experience is not what happens to you, it’s what you think about what happens to you.”

Because many of our home-based experiences are relatively benign and non threatening, there is little cause to mentally review them. Therefore, they often have little behavioral changing value and frequently don’t generalize to different areas of our lives. If, however, you bother to contemplate and review them, the mind weighs the experience with greater significance.

As a young pilot I can recall several instances where I was concerned about the fuel status of my airplane. On those occasions I wanted to believe my fuel gages, I wanted to get home, I wanted to avoid thinking of the consequences of my actions. But I didn’t. While I can’t say that visions of a helpless Rambler being summoned to the roadside flashed through my mind; I can say that a deep visceral feeling compelled me to err on the conservative side and pick up extra fuel for the flight. I just knew it was the right thing to do (and to this day I never land at my destination without at least a quarter tank reserve nor make an intermediate stop without taking on extra fuel).

Was my past experience responsible for this change in behavior? I believe it was. What I didn’t tell you about the Rambler fuel exhaustion incident was that it occurred on my very first date with a young lady I wanted to impress. I didn’t impress her at all. But her dad wanted to leave an impression on my nose when I called and told him that Judy and I ran out of gas and that we’ll be home a little late. I’ll never forget that experience. I ran it over hundreds of times in my little teenage cortex. The experience had greater behavioral changing power because I thought about it often enough.

Barring those instances where exercising judgment requires specific knowledge, most of our aviation accidents have causes similar in structure to events we’ve already experienced. Pick up any accident report in which the pilot exercised poor judgment and I’ll bet you find many historical parallels to your home-type experience. Examine these events. Make the connections. Because much of the judgment you’ll need to fly an airplane has already been learned at home.