As you read the accident report that this story is tied to, try and accept the fact that a mere 22 years ago, pilots often did things that were questionable at best. To keep the job, get your foot in the door, or flat out conform to norms in your company, culture or god forsaken airstrip you’d been sent to, you’d succumb to things that, technically, may not have been on the up and up with the FARs. Even more wild? Usually these weren’t the things that bit you. It was plain old decision making, problem recognition or bad luck that conspired to make your day tough.
This post is about the day I stopped flying, sometime in 2001, when enough of my mentors had died that I thought, at a minimum, I could take some time to reflect. Take a good luck at my own suspect judgement, sub-par skill set and poor choices in equipment, destinations and jobs to fly.
When you first start flying airplanes, first as a private pilot and then sometimes not too long after as a flight instructor, you don’t really think of dying. At least I didn’t. I experienced close calls and stupid things – but they never struck me as lethal. Just terribly uncomfortable dry mouth and then … a sort of “awakening.”
“Ok…so… we’re not going to do that again… at least not in this airplane.
These moments made you better, theoretically. At least that is what I told myself as I piled on the hours along with new places, aircraft types and thrills.