1968 C-172K
Approaching thunderstorms, wind W at 15-20
The forecast for today called for thunderstorms by early afternoon; riding the bus at 11AM I can see the line far to the southwest, with a scatteredd group of small dark cumuli moving out ahead, like dark ominous scouts.
It's getting worse as I walk from the bus stop: the sun is bright, but the wind is picking up, and every now and then one of the gloomy puffballs casts its shadow on me. Arriving at N07 I can see the 30-knot windsock standing about 2/3 inflated.
Sure enough, the wind gauges in the office show gusts between 15 and 20.
J. is busy with a 100-hour inspection of 86S, so I opt to fly with C., the school's newest instructor.
During preflight, I keep checking the sock and the horizon, and I can see that if we're going to go, we must go immediately. But what about when we return? If the wind is any stronger then...
475 needs fuel- ugh!! Another delay! As soon as the fuel truck pulls up, C. and I look at each other across the 172's seats and shake our heads. The wind is forcing the door against my back, an the thunderheads are getting closer.
"What do you think?" I ask him.
"I don't think we should go", he says, matter-of-factly.
I agree with him.
By the time I get to the bus stop about a mile away, the rain finally begins. It's a serious cloudburst, and had I not thought to bring an umbrella, I'd be drenched.
But my spirit is dampened, even if I am dry. the only consolation is knowing that I still got a test today, and I passed, because I remembered that old pilots' adage:
"It's better to be down here wishing you were up there than up there wishing you were down here."
Of course, in a 30-knot crosswind, I probably would never have even gotten "up there", had I been so foolish as to try- scraping a wingtip or being forced into the trees by a downdraft would have likely been the result of that attempt.
As the bus drones on throught the gray afternoon, I peruse a copy of the National Enquirer that I had reluctantly purchased earlier, only because the cover headline caught my eye: "Twisted Mom Brainwashed Little Pilot!"
Pretty inflammatory stuff, but I'm curious about what happened to that bright little girl and more than a little haunted by that child's face, grinning indefatigably under a bulky David Clark headset.
She is sitting in the left seat of a 177 in a photo taken the very day that the plane crashed while attempting a departure from a high-altitude airport in rain and winds gusting at over 30 knots. The ship was at or over gross, as well. They were trying to beat an approaching front, under pressure to complete a world-record flight even though the record was already lost.
She was seven years old, and by all accounts, she'd discovered early that flying was what she was born to do. Yes, I'm more than a little haunted by that face. How quickly even the brightest light can be extinguished!
As far as I can tell, Jessica Dubroff, her father, and most importantly her instructor all failed to make the proper go/no go decision that day. The conditions were not much different from those I'd just faced.
The instructor, it seems, avoided compounding the tragedy by forcing the plane into a cul-de-sac near the airport after stalling, rather than trying to glide onto the roofs of nearby houses. His action may have save the lives of people on the ground, but he, his young student, and her father were doomed.
A flying lesson to be learned from this: once a poor decision is made, even before a flight begins, a sound decision may not be enough to save you. That is particularly true if the poor decision is the most important one of all: whether or not to fly in the first place.
Note: flight 34 proper, which was 1.1 dual with four landings and finished at Teterboro, is missing from my journal... I don't remember the details, but I'm sure I was brilliant.
Next: flight 35
