CharleyV,
Thanks for your comments. I should clarify something. Several posters have commented on calmness and coolness as though I might approach each situation as though it were a ho-hum event. Not so. I don't want to give that impression, either. Sometimes that's certainly the case, and many of my engine shutdowns have been that way; proceedural and pretty much a non-event.
When I started the season this year, I had been out of it for two years. I had been out of a conventional gear (tailwheel) airplane for quite some time, and haven't had any single engine time in donkey's years. When I did the checkout in the single seat airplane, I got airborne and thought about all the foolish things I've done in my life, and added that to the list. Just like all single seat checkouts. Depart, and you have fifteen minutes to teach yourself to fly the airplane, and one shot at teaching yourself how to land it. So it went.
Shortly thereafter, I had a dispatch to a fire above a small town at the base of a mountain. Surface winds were gusting up to 50 knots in places, and it was extremely rough. Someone questioned my definition of extreme turbulence, and this was indeed extreme turbulence. The aircraft was not always under my control. It's not uncommon when working a fire, and unfortunately, the wind and the weather is what creates and drives the fire; when it's at it's worst, that's when you go to work.
As I maneuvered close to the hillside for the first look and size-up, the airplane began rolling left. I countered with full aileron and rudder, and it kept rolling left. I lifted the gaurd to arm the drop system, and engaged the turbo switch, that gives me an extra 4% power (removes the gaurd on the fuel controller). I applied full power. The airspeed rolled back to just above stall about the time the roll started, and I dumped the nose at the ground. It kept rolling and kept slowing. I started dumping in some flap to increase the stall margin while I worked for recovery.
I recovered shortly thereafter, but was fighting hard with the local rotors agains the mountain. Lots of turbulence. When all was said and done, my legs were shaking on the rudder pedals, and kept shaking for the next hour. My toes, both pressing hard on the bottom of the rudder pedals while I did my best Fred Astair, went numb. My mouth was dry; I couldn't talk well on the radio, and most of the time couldn't move my hand enough to engage the PTT switch. It turned out the turbulence had been rough enough I'd lifted the gaurd to arm the system, but missed the switch beneath it, and hadn't been albe to dump, anyway. After that, I didn't dare let go of the stick long enough to change hands to reach over the 12 inches and move the switch.
I couldn't maintain altitude, and ended up descending below the drop site while fighting the mountain winds. I did finally get up by working some ridge lift on an opposite face, and did get two drops into the fire. The bottom line was that there was no sense of bravado, no sense of stoicness, no sense of serenity. It was a disaster in motion, to which I was a paid participant who lacked the sufficient life insurance coverage to give up.
During the ensuing drops, on the first run, I was unable to recover as I passed the target. I put out half a load and applied power, but fell off to the stall and couldn't pull from the dive immediately; I took an exit over the target and at an angle and in a bank down a narrow finger canyon while I worked the recovery. There is an irony to running out of airspeed and altitude while going down hill...usually it's overspeed downhill, but not that time. The second one went better, but that is sometimes the break on a drop. Not by choice, but by conditions, which can be adverse.
The point to it is that coolness and collectiveness aren't always bedfellows to working the airplane, though that would be the preference. No panic, no excitement, but more of a sickening feeling that comes when bile rises in the back of your throat, your leg muscles burn and feel weak, and You have an impending sense that something bad is happening or could happen, and you don't have all the facts yet.
There are certainly times when it's worse, and there have been times when I knew what it was like to have knowledge of an impending death, and the starkness of that reality. That didn't happen, but I've been there enough that I know the feeling well; it sits between a halted internal scream, and the calm of surrender to the inevitable. It's balanced by resolving to do everything in your power to fight that inevitability until no more breath exists, and to date it's that balance that's kept me alive.
My regular job involves paying passengers and employment under an operating certificate, security, IFR, turbojet engines, and the normalcy of point to point flying. It's dull, it's boring, and it's okay. I shine my shoes, I smile at passengers and greet them, and I keep the airplane on the centerline at all times. I train, I work as a team and a crew, I follow proceedures. I also have discretion, and most of the time, I'm not going to declare an emergency for simple issues. In a part 25 airplane, this may includes engine failures, that can still leave the airplane with far more performance than God ever intended a body to have.
If I need to "declare" an emergency, I'll do it. If I don't, I won't. I will not capitulate to making such a declaration based on this or that, but on the circumstances at the time of the occurance. THe former scenario in which we tossed the engine at V1 would have been the same in any airplane, in any situation. There was nobody to talk to. It was an uncontrolled field; the best I could have done is conversed with a private pilot, and our hands were full. So it is in many cases.
I've used this example many times, but it's a good one. It involves a pilot flying an ag airplane to the field, south of where I was working years ago. He was carrying Parathion 8E; for those of you who know nerve agents such as VX, it's the same. His hopper burst. He was bathed in the chemical. A single drop on the tongue can kill or incapacitate. It's absorbed through the skin, the vapor is lethal. He was in a bad state.
He spied a dyke on which to land (the mass of earth pushed up, not the...). He set the airplane on the levee and got it stopped well enough. Water was in a ditch alongside the dyke, and if he could get into the water, he might have a chance. He cut away the canopy door, tossed his helmet, climbed down, and made a beeline for the water. He would have lived, if he hadn't run into the still-turning propeller. Speed kills, and sometimes there are issues bigger than the perceived "emergency." Stepping back and looking at the real picture may save a life. Maybe the emergency isn't such a big issue after all, maybe it is. One cannot make a blanket statement one way or the other; one must deal with each event as it occurs.
Bottom line? Deal with each event on it's own merits, according to the proceedures, training, and judgement that is in you. Beyond that, rely on God, and every other resource at your fingertips.
Anybody who has ever sat in the thunderous silence that surrounds Al Haynes when he speaks of his experience in a crippled DC-10 has heard a masterful presentation on the handling of an emergency. May none of us have to go through that, but thank God somebody did, and lived to share it with us. Just remember, no matter what is is that any one of us has experienced, it pales in comparison to that of others. All we can do is use the experience that is in us to make good judgements. Beyond that, it's God, and luck.
Thanks for your comments. I should clarify something. Several posters have commented on calmness and coolness as though I might approach each situation as though it were a ho-hum event. Not so. I don't want to give that impression, either. Sometimes that's certainly the case, and many of my engine shutdowns have been that way; proceedural and pretty much a non-event.
When I started the season this year, I had been out of it for two years. I had been out of a conventional gear (tailwheel) airplane for quite some time, and haven't had any single engine time in donkey's years. When I did the checkout in the single seat airplane, I got airborne and thought about all the foolish things I've done in my life, and added that to the list. Just like all single seat checkouts. Depart, and you have fifteen minutes to teach yourself to fly the airplane, and one shot at teaching yourself how to land it. So it went.
Shortly thereafter, I had a dispatch to a fire above a small town at the base of a mountain. Surface winds were gusting up to 50 knots in places, and it was extremely rough. Someone questioned my definition of extreme turbulence, and this was indeed extreme turbulence. The aircraft was not always under my control. It's not uncommon when working a fire, and unfortunately, the wind and the weather is what creates and drives the fire; when it's at it's worst, that's when you go to work.
As I maneuvered close to the hillside for the first look and size-up, the airplane began rolling left. I countered with full aileron and rudder, and it kept rolling left. I lifted the gaurd to arm the drop system, and engaged the turbo switch, that gives me an extra 4% power (removes the gaurd on the fuel controller). I applied full power. The airspeed rolled back to just above stall about the time the roll started, and I dumped the nose at the ground. It kept rolling and kept slowing. I started dumping in some flap to increase the stall margin while I worked for recovery.
I recovered shortly thereafter, but was fighting hard with the local rotors agains the mountain. Lots of turbulence. When all was said and done, my legs were shaking on the rudder pedals, and kept shaking for the next hour. My toes, both pressing hard on the bottom of the rudder pedals while I did my best Fred Astair, went numb. My mouth was dry; I couldn't talk well on the radio, and most of the time couldn't move my hand enough to engage the PTT switch. It turned out the turbulence had been rough enough I'd lifted the gaurd to arm the system, but missed the switch beneath it, and hadn't been albe to dump, anyway. After that, I didn't dare let go of the stick long enough to change hands to reach over the 12 inches and move the switch.
I couldn't maintain altitude, and ended up descending below the drop site while fighting the mountain winds. I did finally get up by working some ridge lift on an opposite face, and did get two drops into the fire. The bottom line was that there was no sense of bravado, no sense of stoicness, no sense of serenity. It was a disaster in motion, to which I was a paid participant who lacked the sufficient life insurance coverage to give up.
During the ensuing drops, on the first run, I was unable to recover as I passed the target. I put out half a load and applied power, but fell off to the stall and couldn't pull from the dive immediately; I took an exit over the target and at an angle and in a bank down a narrow finger canyon while I worked the recovery. There is an irony to running out of airspeed and altitude while going down hill...usually it's overspeed downhill, but not that time. The second one went better, but that is sometimes the break on a drop. Not by choice, but by conditions, which can be adverse.
The point to it is that coolness and collectiveness aren't always bedfellows to working the airplane, though that would be the preference. No panic, no excitement, but more of a sickening feeling that comes when bile rises in the back of your throat, your leg muscles burn and feel weak, and You have an impending sense that something bad is happening or could happen, and you don't have all the facts yet.
There are certainly times when it's worse, and there have been times when I knew what it was like to have knowledge of an impending death, and the starkness of that reality. That didn't happen, but I've been there enough that I know the feeling well; it sits between a halted internal scream, and the calm of surrender to the inevitable. It's balanced by resolving to do everything in your power to fight that inevitability until no more breath exists, and to date it's that balance that's kept me alive.
My regular job involves paying passengers and employment under an operating certificate, security, IFR, turbojet engines, and the normalcy of point to point flying. It's dull, it's boring, and it's okay. I shine my shoes, I smile at passengers and greet them, and I keep the airplane on the centerline at all times. I train, I work as a team and a crew, I follow proceedures. I also have discretion, and most of the time, I'm not going to declare an emergency for simple issues. In a part 25 airplane, this may includes engine failures, that can still leave the airplane with far more performance than God ever intended a body to have.
If I need to "declare" an emergency, I'll do it. If I don't, I won't. I will not capitulate to making such a declaration based on this or that, but on the circumstances at the time of the occurance. THe former scenario in which we tossed the engine at V1 would have been the same in any airplane, in any situation. There was nobody to talk to. It was an uncontrolled field; the best I could have done is conversed with a private pilot, and our hands were full. So it is in many cases.
I've used this example many times, but it's a good one. It involves a pilot flying an ag airplane to the field, south of where I was working years ago. He was carrying Parathion 8E; for those of you who know nerve agents such as VX, it's the same. His hopper burst. He was bathed in the chemical. A single drop on the tongue can kill or incapacitate. It's absorbed through the skin, the vapor is lethal. He was in a bad state.
He spied a dyke on which to land (the mass of earth pushed up, not the...). He set the airplane on the levee and got it stopped well enough. Water was in a ditch alongside the dyke, and if he could get into the water, he might have a chance. He cut away the canopy door, tossed his helmet, climbed down, and made a beeline for the water. He would have lived, if he hadn't run into the still-turning propeller. Speed kills, and sometimes there are issues bigger than the perceived "emergency." Stepping back and looking at the real picture may save a life. Maybe the emergency isn't such a big issue after all, maybe it is. One cannot make a blanket statement one way or the other; one must deal with each event as it occurs.
Bottom line? Deal with each event on it's own merits, according to the proceedures, training, and judgement that is in you. Beyond that, rely on God, and every other resource at your fingertips.
Anybody who has ever sat in the thunderous silence that surrounds Al Haynes when he speaks of his experience in a crippled DC-10 has heard a masterful presentation on the handling of an emergency. May none of us have to go through that, but thank God somebody did, and lived to share it with us. Just remember, no matter what is is that any one of us has experienced, it pales in comparison to that of others. All we can do is use the experience that is in us to make good judgements. Beyond that, it's God, and luck.
