Stupid Pilot Tricks – AVweb

Once again it’s time to review 365 days and sleepless nights of merriment and angst afforded the flying community by those who think “safety first” is the initial rehab step after crashing. 

Rules: Any documented goof is fair game, but we don’t shade the dead; might come back to haunt us. We lampoon 2021, the most recent year that NTSB (National Transportation Something Board) provides “completed” analysis of accidents from the year that brought us COVID, Prince Harry, and Megyn. 

Student pilots get a free pass, because they’re adorable skittering off runways in Loss of Directional Control (LODC) events that vex the best among us. 

Each new year arrives with hungover assumptions that the next solar lap will improve over the previous. But assumptions spiraled for this private pilot in a 1953 Bell 47D helicopter (think M.A.S.H) at Marana, Arizona, on 2021’s first day. 

While “hover taxing on the taxiway,” NTSB reports, “a Cessna airplane taxied onto the same taxiway. The helicopter pilot assumed that the Cessna would turn onto another taxiway … however the Cessna continued toward the helicopter.” Although taxiing toward operating helicopters is unwise, the Cessna escaped but not so the copter. With lateral options dwindling, the Bell 47D “went into a vertical lift. [But] due to low rotor RPM the helicopter [entered] a loss of control spin … landed hard, substantially damaging the fuselage.” ¡Feliz año nuevo! No mention if the Cessna pilot noticed.

Everyone loves a good western yarn, so imagine Sam Elliott spinning this here tale from Hachita, New Mexico, with accompanying guitar and gentle edits for brevity and local color. 

“The commercial pilot departed in his Robinson R22 named ‘Robi’ for a cattle roundup flight of a herd of cows and a single bull.” I’m roped in, Sam. “As he approached the herd, with the intention of driving the cattle into the corral, the bull departed and headed toward an area covered with heavy mesquite brush. The pilot circled … and stopped the bull under a large mesquite bush, however, (Mariachi music up) the dang bull made a move to go behind the gall-durn chopper (Look behind ya, Robi!), and the pilot maneuvered the helicopter aft and in so doin’ the tail rotor contacted a small mesquite limb…resultin’ in a catastrophic failure of the tail rotor system, which separated from the tailboom.” Sha-boom! Needless to say, but investigators said, “the copter was done fer, as that young bull moseyed toward admirin’ cows with luvin’ in their eyes.”

Fixed-wing pilots can feel smug for two more copter escapades, both in Robinson R44s. Picture cropland near West Liberty, Iowa, home of the Herbert Hoover Presidential Library and Museum. Don’t let Hoover’s glitz distract from the ag pilot who was “performing an aerial application pass when he felt a ‘big tug’ on the helicopter [and] realized he had struck a wire as the helicopter pitched up and started to slow.” Then, “the pilot felt another ‘huge jerk” on the rear of the helicopter. 

The helicopter started to spin and rotated two to three times before it impacted the ground and rolled over, coming to rest on its left side. The pilot “observed the wire wrapped around the helicopter. It had cut into the tail rotor gearbox, tearing it off the helicopter.” But the job isn’t finished until the paperwork is flushed: “The pilot did not submit NTSB Pilot/Operator Aircraft Accident/Incident Report Form 6120.1.” According to our attorney, Tom Hagen, “It’s like it never happened.”

Speaking of huge jerks in copters, a Florida man landed his helicopter “following a local sightseeing flight with three friends.” Unremarkable until “the helicopter began a rapid yaw to its left and rotated around the main rotor mast” like a Bada-Bing! pole dancer. “After one full revolution, the helicopter lifted rapidly from the ground and climbed immediately.” Invoking “rapidly” and “immediately” implies competitive stupidity in progress. The “low-time private pilot” had his hands full and head spinning as the R44 “continued to rotate rapidly around the main rotor mast. Seconds later, the main rotor disc severed the tailboom.”

Again, post-accident formalities proved awkward. Seems “the accident helicopter was the subject of a FAA Special Federal Aviation Regulation (SFAR), which specified academic, flight training, qualification, and currency requirements for pilots acting as pilot-in-command.” The pilot “had not received the proper endorsements for operating the helicopter … as a student pilot, nor had he complied with the annual requirements of the SFAR after receiving his private-pilot certificate.” Adding Reddi-wip to this gyro delight, “he did not meet the currency requirements specified by the SFAR for carrying passengers.” Plopping a cherry on top, “the pilot displayed a history of intentional noncompliance with regulations, including the SFAR and medical certificate requirements.” 

When faced with a stern talking-to, young man, the chastened sorta-pilot commented, “Everything went well. Just like the many other times that I’ve flown it.” Rimshot! Case closed.

Consider the Airbus first officer (FO) who tried to satisfy ATC’s request to “increase their descent (rate),” so he “engaged ‘open descent’ mode.” When the FO “saw the airspeed increasing towards red line…he pulled back on the stick and the autopilot disengaged.” The captain “took control … and applied aft stick pressure to return the airplane to a normal descent pitch attitude to prevent an overspeed.” But not before “two flight attendants (FA) in the aft galley, were thrown into the air and onto the floor” where injury attorneys awaited.

Airlines of all flags have shared woes recently. Not another doorless-Boeing story, because it involved a Bombardier (fun to say in a Québécois French accent) CRJ-700. Upon arrival at Los Angeles International Airport “a flight attendant (FA), new to the aircraft, fell out of the airplane when opening the main cabin door (MCD),” expecting, perhaps, to find airstairs in place. Not so, and the newly certified FA stepped into emptiness and hit the ramp. 

But! Dedicated employee that she was, she climbed the stairs to retake her door-side post – “Thank you, goodbye…” only to fall a second time. Ramp personnel intervened and learned that “prior to landing, she hit her head on an open galley compartment door and felt disoriented, dizzy, and nauseated.” That’s FA tenacity. 

Business aircraft operate like quasi-airlines, blazing creative trails to folly. Somewhere over Pennsylvania a Cessna 208B Caravan with “two pilots and the three passengers [was] going to a business meeting in the float-equipped airplane when they encountered clouds and turbulence.” The flight descended—because it’s scary to fly inside clouds—“and flew along a riverbed, at times … below the surrounding trees and terrain.” Not scared? Okay: “The pilot stated that he next planned on doing a touch-and-go on the river to ‘entertain the passengers’.” 

Inflight entertainment was interrupted when the Caravan maneuvered to avoid a bridge, carelessly spanning the river. Phew! On the cusp of stupidity, “the pilots were following a sharp bend in the river while looking for a place to conduct a touch-and-go landing, [when] the airplane’s right wing stuck a power line.”

Inconvenienced but unstoppable, “the airplane’s right wing and aileron were substantially damaged, though the damage did not prohibit the airplane from being able to fly,” despite the airplane feeling “out of trim and a little heavier on one side.” 

Nearing their destination, pilots and passengers decided to blow off the biz meeting and “return to their departure airport, about 45 minutes away.” There, “the airplane landed without further incident.” Sidenote: “The pilot elected not to perform a precautionary landing at a nearby airport nor declare an emergency because the airplane appeared to be performing well.” In its defense, the corporate operator “did not have any guidance or policies relating to low-altitude maneuvering with passengers onboard.” Perhaps it does now. 

Riverbeds draw fun-loving pilots like flies to Christmas pudding, as on December 25, 2021 near Rainbow, Texas, when a Boeing—again, not one of those—instead, this was a WWII-vintage Stearman PT17 open-cockpit, biplane built by the old Boeing that understood structural integrity. No doors, no problem. Lose a wing, there’s a spare. The private pilot was entertaining a passenger by “flying about 30 feet above ground level in an open riverbed area. Having spread enough holiday cheer, he “elected to climb the airplane out of the area and impacted unmarked wires that crossed the river.” And crashed. Inverted. In the water. On Christmas Day. Ho-Ho-Humbugging, “Where’s the Tylenol?”

Gear-up landings are so 1987, since almost everyone nowadays flies Cirrus with the wheels bolted down or however they’re attached. Still, pilots in retracts periodically forget to extend wheels with predictable if unnewsworthy results. Except, consider the private pilot at Brigham City, Utah, earning his multi-ticket in a Diamond DA42 Twin Star. A beautiful airplane until the landing rollout when the pilot-learning (‘student’ in 1980s-speak) reached for what he thought was the flap handle …. 

Let’s divert to 1980 when I was receiving dual in a Cessna 210 from an old instructor named Chuck. After landing, but before stopping, I reached for the flap handle for some stupid reason. I bear the claw marks from where Chuck nearly severed my right hand while growling, “Never retract flaps while moving, because you might—and given your personality—probably will inadvertently retract the gear!” 

Back to 2021 Utah: The Twin Star “student” operated the gear lever, thinking (or not) that he was raising the flap lever from the down to the up position. Before the instructor could react, the left gear partially retracted, and the entire airplane ignominiously swerved off the runway, invoking Chuck’s ghost to howl, “Oooo, I give up…” 

Given their popularity, Van’s Aircraft experimental RVs glean multiple entries in NTSB funny papers. Near Palouse, Washington, a pilot in an RV-6A (two-seat, tricycle) was completing an IPC (Instrument Proficiency Check), when he rejected his first landing attempt and went around. “During the second landing attempt,” NTSB notes, “the airplane touched down and bounced…multiple times as it continued down the runway and subsequently nosed over.” Tip: Bounce once, you might salvage the landing. Bounce twice, go around, because you’re doing something wrong. No mention of IPC results.

At Ocracoke, North Carolina, an RV-6 (tailwheel version of 6a) landed—technically—with a 90-degree crosswind. The pilot reported that he was “too high and fast crossing the threshold 70 feet above ground level (AGL) at 90 mph. Halfway down the runway the airplane was about 30 feet AGL at a speed of about 45 mph, and oscillating 20 degrees either side of center. The pilot believed he could “straighten the flight path and touch down in time to stop.’” Couldn’t and crashed. Still, ya gotta believe.

Pilots who cringe at vacuous calls on CTAF (e.g., “Traffic in the area, please advise,” or, “Last call”) know how distracting such verbal slop can be. Pity the private pilot attempting to land his Cessna 180 at Platte Valley, Colorado, where NTSB reported the runway condition as “Dry; Holes; Rough; Soft.” CTAF position reports distracted the pilot who admitted he “had spent too much time looking for traffic [and] lost situational awareness.” After touching on what to him “appeared to be his intended runway”—the dry rough one with holes—he “noticed that the airplane was difficult to control due to soft soil.” Soft runway conditions were known but not softer conditions on the “unimproved dirt road about 0.3 miles from the runway that ran parallel to the runway,” where the Cessna landed and flipped over. 

See if you can spot the weak links in this accident chain of fools involving a four-seat Piper PA-28-235 at Presidio, Texas. “The non-certificated pilot (hint) and five passengers (hint) intended to complete a personal flight.” You’re way ahead of the NTSB report, which continues. “After takeoff, the airplane impacted the ground about 600 yards from the end of the runway…” Although estimated takeoff weight was below maximum, the airplane was loaded with an aft CG (hint), which “would have reduced the longitudinal stability during the climb out.” Interviewing the occupants proved tricky because, “the non-certificated pilot fled the scene,” and all five passengers suffered amnesia. For collective and aggressive incompetence, they share Runner-up Stupid Pilot Trick of 2021.

Imagine taking a Falcon 900EX on a trip from Montgomery-Gibbs Executive Airport (KMYF), San Diego, California, to Ellison Onizuke Kona International at Keahole (PHKO), Kailua/Kona, Hawaii. Throttles up, and pilots, flight attendant, plus two passengers barreled down the runway, with the late Don Ho’s “Tiny Bubbles” coursing through their dream vacation arteries. All was Okay, Bra until rotation-ish speed when “the captain applied back pressure to the control yoke; however, the nose did not rotate to a takeoff attitude.” Odd. So, “the captain attempted to rotate the airplane once more by relaxing the yoke then pulling it back again, [but] with no change in the airplane’s attitude.” In a cacophony of thrust reversers and “maximum braking,” the Falcon “overran the end of the runway onto a gravel pad where the landing gear collapsed.” 

Post-almost-flight investigation proved embarrassing. NTSB says, “flight crew attempted to takeoff with the airplane 2975 pounds over the maximum takeoff weight (MTOW), a center of gravity (CG) close to the most forward limit, and an incorrect stabilizer trim setting.” Other than that, what? “The digital flight data recorder (DFDR) data indicated that the captain attempted takeoff at a rotation speed 23 knots slower than the calculated rotation speed…” Anything else? “The departure runway was 575 feet shorter than the distance required for takeoff at the airplane’s weight.” 

Curious mistakes for a well-trained crew. But “the captain, who was the pilot flying, did not hold any valid pilot certificates at the time of the accident because they had been revoked two years earlier due to his falsification of logbook entries and records. Additionally,” NTSB went on to add, “he had never held a type rating for the accident airplane and had started, but not completed, training in the accident airplane model before the accident.” The first officer “had accumulated about 16 hours of flight experience in the make and model … and was not authorized to operate as pilot-in-command.” The FA was apparently qualified to serve mimosas.

For team-effort to touch the face of aero boneheadedness, the Stupid Pilot Tricks’ coveted lead parachute award goes to anyone associated with this “flight.” Aloha….

Aviation’s past remains prologue to more folly, because stupid never takes a holiday. Somewhere there’s a pilot in an over-gross Ercoupe, lined up on a short runway high in the Rockies with sweaty hand on the throttle and head already in the clouds, thinking, “This’ll work.” Failure is an option, or as Forest Gump (Gas, Undercarriage, Mixture, Prop) said at his FAA Administrator confirmation hearing, “Stupid is as stupid does … again and again.”

And, yes, the M.A.S.H. Bell 47 was a 1954 G model, so don’t hit Send. “And that’s all I have to say about that.”