I'd found myself in a situation where I was low and slow above the runway, having been picked up by an unusually strong burst of wind: low enough that the airplane could have dropped to the ground and I would have survived, but high enough that the airplane would likely have sustained some damage. My first thought was to add a bit of power and settle back to the runway, but I was starting to drift sideways despite a healthy wind correction angle. In an instant, my brain sequenced to the next option: go-around. It seemed like a no-brainer, I'd just accelerate in ground effect, climb out, then come back around and try again! But if you read my last post, you know that the outcome was not what I'd hoped for!

I was asked after the incident what I thought I could have done differently. With the benefit of hindsight, I can identify a couple things. But as I reflected on that whole episode, some things stood out to me. First of all, the mindset that "it's never wrong to go around" is dangerous, and led me to the assumption that go-arounds are always safe and successful. Secondly, I had practiced go-arounds many times (cramming the throttle and carb heat forward) but had never really practiced aborted takeoffs (quickly pulling back the throttle and braking from a high speed). Finally, it never occurred to me that I could accept the idea of a hard landing or even a departure into the grass beside the runway. I'll briefly elaborate on each of these thoughts.

First, get the idea out of your head that there is never a bad time to go around! That's what I thought and it got me into trouble. In my case, I'd already touched down on the mains. When the wind picked me up, I was barely moving fast enough to keep flying. If the gust had been sustained a couple more seconds I probably would have been okay, but when it quickly subsided I was unable to regain enough airspeed to stay airborne even under full power. There are definite times when a go-around is the best choice, but there are times when it's not! Don't assume that a go-around will be successful. That idea will taint your ability to make a sound decision.

Next, practice aborted takeoffs! Establish the muscle memory of closing the throttle quickly and braking aggressively if needed. There have been two times in my flying career when I should have done this. One time I was a student pilot with an instructor, and my airspeed indicator did not come alive on the takeoff roll. When I noted this aloud, the instructor took over and aborted the takeoff. But I should have done it; the response should have been immediate and automatic. The second time was last February. It all happened very fast, but there is a chance I could have stopped sooner and reduced the damage to the airplane if I would have chopped power and braked aggressively after the plane returned to the ground.

Lastly, if you find yourself in the worst of situations, you may have to accept the fact that some metal is going to get bent. Instead of trying to make a drastic or heroic maneuver to save the airplane, there may be a time when it's safer to accept a small amount of damage to the airplane or property. For example, departing the runway or striking an object during a full-power go-around attempt may be worse than hitting a taxiway light at 30 knots and coming to stop in the grass. Either way, your pride and pocketbook may take a hit, but at least you'll preserve the lives of yourself and your passengers.

In conclusion, go-arounds are sometimes necessary, and are generally safe under the right conditions. Keep practicing them! But don't underestimate the risk involved in this maneuver, and don't succumb to the belief that go-arounds are a "silver bullet" for any questionable landing situation. That idea just might get you into trouble some day.

It started as a routine training flight. I went out to do a few solo circuits in the traffic pattern. A check of the current weather and the forecast indicated that it was a great day for pattern work: wind 10-15 knots, generally aligned with the runway. The wind was strong enough that I would need to apply corrections in the traffic pattern, but the crosswind component for landing would be within my personal minimums. 

On the second time around the pattern, I checked the ASOS, and the reported wind had begun gusting to 20 knots, 40 degrees off runway heading (although I would find out later that this was not a true picture of the wind situation). I determined that I could safely land, but that this would be my last landing of the day. The landing began as a textbook crosswind landing: I approached the runway with a 5 knot gust factor and partial flaps. I flew a stabilized approach and rounded out, followed by the right main touching down, then the left main—then something happened that I didn't expect.

I've made over 700 landings in small airplanes, and have encountered thermals, wind gusts, floats, ballooning, and even a few bounces. But never before (or since) have I had an experience like I did that day. As the nose wheel was coming down, the airplane was abruptly lifted into the air. I was flying again! This was outside my realm of experience, and in a split second my mind started quickly processing potential courses of action (I would later find out that this is termed "automatic decision making", and is normal in this type of situation).

My first thought was to add a couple hundred RPM and ease the airplane back onto the runway. I had plenty of runway remaining. This is what I'd usually do to recover from a balloon or a bounce. But given the abrupt manner in which the airplane felt like it had been yanked off the runway, my concern was that I would be dropped back onto the asphalt hard enough to cause damage or loss of control. This entire thought process took less than a second, and this did not seem to be the best course of action.

In an instant, my mind went on to the next viable option: go around. With 20 degrees of flaps selected, I was already in a low-drag configuration. This seemed like the safe option. Much of the training I had received had ingrained the belief in me that "it's never wrong to go around" (a future post will deal with that!). I had practiced go-arounds many times, so muscle memory kicked in. I immediately applied full power and forward pressure on the yoke, with the intention of accelerating in ground effect and climbing out for another landing attempt. But things did not go as planned.

The next few seconds were a bit of a blur. Instead of accelerating and climbing, the airplane dropped back toward the runway. Anticipating a bounce, I double-checked that the throttle was fully opened, while applying left rudder to re-align the airplane with the runway. But there was no bounce. It all happened so fast that I can't remember the details. Within a few seconds, the airplane departed the runway, took out a taxi light, crossed a grassy area adjacent to the runway, spun 180 degrees, and went over an embankment. 

After everything stopped, I looked around to take in my surroundings. I was in a brier patch, the airplane facing the small hillside I'd just come down. The pilot's door had flung open and some of my belongings were on the ground outside. I checked myself for injuries; there were none. I did not smell fuel. That was good sign. I secured the airplane and started looking for my cell phone. After locating it on the floor, I made a phone call for help. 

That was only the beginning of a long, wearisome process. There were lots of conversations and forms to fill out. Everyone wanted to know what happened, including the FAA, the insurance company, and the NTSB. I even got to be reexamined by the FAA! I don't plan to go through the details of that process. What I'd rather focus on are some of the lessons I learned through the experience. Look for the next post in this series: It's Never Wrong to Go Around—Except When It Is.