Lighting up the Night.

The four engines hummed hypnotically through night night sky over the Pacific. While Honolulu lay only a matter of miles away, the passengers on board the Boeing 747 were blissfully unaware, curled up beneath their blankets in the darkened cabin. The cabin crew chatted in hushed tones behind the galley's heavy curtains, planning their shopping strategy when they arrived in San Francisco in a few hours time.

On the flight deck the tone was also hushed so as not to disturb the resting crew at the compartment's rear. The aircraft continued to track faultlessly along the magenta line on the instrument flight display as the 'Top of Descent'  indicator and San Francisco edged ever closer down the screen. I called up the latest weather reports through the aircraft's onboard system and shared them with my fellow pilot. It was set to be a beautiful day, but we ran through all of our available options and fuel status to ensure that all the bases were covered.

The first rays of the sun had not yet crept above the horizon but a portion of the upper atmosphere was revealing the first traces of the new day. A light, faint haze met the curved shadow of the earth's outline in an arc that spanned the horizon from left to right. The day was encroaching on the stratosphere, but not yet on the earth below.

The first indication that something special was taking place was not visual in nature. It was the chatter between American crews transiting the busy route to and between the mainland and Hawaii. “Can you see that?”, “What is it?” and “Is someone starting World War Three?” The exchanges peaked my interest, but gave no indication of the location or nature of the commotion. Then there was a hint. “There. On the horizon. Down low. It's brilliant!”

I leaned forward in my seat and peered into the darkness below. Nothing. Resting my arms on the top of the instrument panel, I cupped my eyes with my hands to keep the glow of the instrument panel to a minimum. Then I saw it. A tiny, bright intense light, like the tip of a white hot arc welder. Almost stationary, it was growing larger, ever so slightly. Seemingly in a matter of seconds it grew from a needle point to a distinct flame, growing both in mass and momentum at a rate that was difficult to comprehend.

“What is it?” the other pilot echoed my thoughts, equally astounded. Still it grew each and every second to a brighter and more impressive light, seemingly darting skyward. There was no perspective available to gauge distance or offer an idea of its size; just an ever-increasing intensity. Then someone identified the UFO that was captivating every crew aloft that night. “It's a launch out of Vandeneberg.”

A rocket launch from the US Air Force base on the west coast. Now everything made sense. It was hundreds of miles away, but so powerful that it was clearly seen by every aircraft in the flight levels and as it climbed it seemed to grow in speed as its trajectory could now be viewed in profile. Up through the darkness and onwards towards the illuminated upper atmosphere, the rocket would reach the daylight before the night's end for any of the citizens below. In an absolutely spectacular display of sheer energy, the projectile closed in on the arc between night and day, dark and light. One almost expected it to tear through some barrier between dawn like ripping fabric. And then it virtually did.

Just as its furious flightpath penetrated the arc.

Wooomf!

A flash of light that seemingly lit up the night for an instant before a mammoth expanding ring of vapour exploded across the sky. Like those TV documentaries that show the final burst  of light across the galaxy from a dying star, such was the scope of this amazing sight. In reality it was the rocket jettisoning a stage of its cylindrical being to leave the 'sharp end' to continue its journey into 'earth orbit'. Bound for space and relieved of much of its load, the remaining portion seemed to accelerate ever-faster and ever-higher. I craned my neck to look skyward and follow the lone beacon as it roared away and finally faded from my mere mortal sight.

Wow!

It had departed as quickly as it had emerged. All that remained was the ring across the horizon which was now merging with the moisture to develop into a cloud system of its own, like an atmospheric calling card. Its passage had been silent, but its impact was immense.

Over the years, I have been very fortunate to see many wonderful sights from this treasured vantage point in the sky, but that pre-dawn morning off the west coast of the United States will always rank very highly. In a matter of minutes, a simple light had transformed the sky and left everyone who had witnessed it breathless.

Meanwhile, the four engines of the 747 still continued to hum hypnotically and the cabin crew chatted while the passengers slept, blissfully unaware. But for this boy from Sydney, Australia, I would never look at the night sky quite the same again.

                               .........

This spectacular event was the night referred to in another very popular post 'Moments'. (Click Here)

Hi All,

As the numbers continue to soar on this blog and a new group of readers join us, I thought it would be worthwhile to re-visit five of the most popular aviation blogs thus far. Here they are.

1. Golden Days.

2. So You Want to be a Pilot?

3. The Fatal Stall.

4. A Glimpse of the 'Red Tails'.

5. The Big Bang Theory.......of aircraft engines.

For those of you new to this aviation blog, welcome aboard! And for those that are continuing to come back, thanks for your support and please enjoy the growing list of original content.

Cheers

Owen

In 1994 I was a very junior First Officer in the process of completing line training with the now ‘late’ Ansett Australia. To my left sat one of Ansett’s most experienced training Captain’s on the 737 who had been on the type since the earlier -200 model had been introduced. I was to be the pilot flying on the sector, a simple hop from Melbourne to Adelaide with clear skies and fair winds, ideal for a ‘bog rat’ like myself attempting to master my first RPT jet.

Cleared for take off on runway 27 I pressed the TOGA buttons to bring the aircraft to life. The autothrottles promptly advanced, hunted a moment for the correct N1 and then held steady. Through “80 knots”, “V1” and “Rotate”, the 737-300 eased into the sky with a minimum of effort. I called for gear up and seemingly no sooner than the undercarriage had nestled into their respective bays, we heard a ‘thump’. Wonderfully indistinctive, the sound was significant enough to be met with a mutual and instantaneous turn of our heads. This was followed by one of those dreaded flight deck phrases, “What was that?” We continued to be focused on the safe ‘clean up’ of the aeroplane and Mike scanned the dials for any sign of trouble. There only seemed to be one slight ‘anomaly’.

Sitting at the bottom of the engine instrument stack sat a pair of vibration gauges. The right hand guage spoke on behalf of the No. 2 engine and was flickering around a reading of ‘2’ units. Per our checklists, no action was required until a reading of ‘4’ was evident and all other engine indications were normal. We were all aware, and wary, of information provided solely on the basis of vibration gauges. They had been integral in the loss of a 737-400 at Kegworth in England five years earlier when an engine failure had been misidentified and the incorrect engine shut down. The vibration guage only indicates a level of vibration in the fan, or front, section of the engine so as I flew the aircraft, Mike set about further investigation. He delved into the touch screen on the centre console known as the ACARS (Aircraft Communication And Reporting System) to reveal further details of the engine’s operation. Within the ACARS, the various stages of the engine revealed their individual levels of vibration and again, nothing stood out. As reflected by the guage, there was only a very slightly elevated level of vibration on the fan of the No. 2 engine. We discussed the option of returning to Melbourne but there was no justifiable indication to do so.

As we topped out in the climb and rolled over into level flight, the thrust levers retarded to the cruise setting and all evidence of the vibration disappeared. The vibration guage now read zero. With all seemingly back to normal, we reviewed the event and had another look at the ACARS; still nothing of consequence. We spoke to Engineering and they had nothing further to offer. On such a short sector we continued to manage the flight and pay attention to the housekeeping duties as the marker for top of descent steadily rolled down the Nav Display. As we pitched in to descent and idle thrust was set, we scanned the engine instruments again. Nothing. Zilch. Ops normal. I decided to delay my head scratching and concentrate on the descent profile for runway 05 at Adelaide which called for a crossing of the coast at Port Stanvac and, hopefully, a smooth decelerating arc over the water to intercept final approach. At that time, Ansett procedures had a minimum ‘spool up’ height of 800’ AGL. In essence, the most efficient descent saw the Boeing glide with the thrust levers at idle until the final stage of approach when, by 800’, the thrust levers were set for power on approach. On this sector my training was bearing fruit and the descent went very close to plan.

On final, wings level, configured and coming through about 1200’ I ‘clicked out’ the autothrottle and manually eased the thrust levers up to an appropriate N1. At about this time it felt like some one had started taking to the aircraft with a sledge hammer. The No. 2 vibration flicked full circle and seemed to bounce off the stops. In a blink, Mike called “taking over” and began to retard the right hand thrust lever back with some resultant relief. The runway loomed large, too late for checklists and a go-around seemed far from prudent. We entered the flare and Mike smoothly closed the thrust levers. The shudder was gone and we touched down right on the money as the Captain pulled asymmetric reverse, not wanting to risk the starboard engine. Clear of the runway, all indications were again normal, though we taxied to the terminal without raising No.2 above idle, just in case.

We parked at the bay and completed our shutdown checklists. The ground engineer plugged in his headsets with the accompanying eardrum rupturing ‘squawk’. Before we had an opportunity to say a word he opened up with, “You gotta see this.” The comment somewhat heightened our interest. After the passengers had disembarked we followed suit and made our way to the starboard nacelle. There was blood on the lip of the cowl indicating a bird strike, but further in a number of fan blades were badly bent. Three of them through almost 90 degrees so that they were pointing forward instead of running around the inner wall of the cowling. There was further biological evidence of the demise of a feathered being that, fortunately for us, had passed through the fan blades of the high-bypass engine but totally missed the engine’s core. This had been the ‘thump’ we had heard shortly after take off out of Melbourne.

Airframe and engine vibrations on board aircraft can be very difficult to diagnose. Their severity is often a combination of such things as airspeed, airflow angle, power settings, and the like. In the event of such vibration, many checklists call for a change in altitude, attitude and airspeed as a possible remedy. In our case, the approach configuration and body angle provided the correct mix for the vibration to fully manifest. Having said that, seeing the resultant damage also reflects the durability of modern jet engines, in this case the CFM56.
Perhaps one of the most valuable lessons that day lay in the nature of the engine problems. Prior to entering the airline world I had spent much of my time training pilots in engine failures of all descriptions. Single engine practice forced landings, engine failures after take off (EFATO) and asymmetric flight in all phases and corners of the envelope. The 737 conversion continued its engine failure emphasis with V1 cuts, engine fires, turbine seizures, failures in the cruise and so on. Almost exclusively, there was a distinct loss of power with resultant yaw. This was then followed by textbook procedures, resulting in a textbook outcome. The real world does not always throw up the standard scenario. It may be a partial loss of power, totally contradictory engine indications or any combination of conflicting information. Whatever the case, the first priority is to fly the aeroplane. Don’t rush in, take a breath and attempt to gather as much information as possible and then manage the situation. Many critical errors have been made in haste.

Until the final stage of the approach on our short journey from Melbourne to Adelaide, all we effectively experienced was a ‘bump’ and an ‘in tolerance’ vibration indication that subsequently disappeared. To see the fan blades of that starboard engine you would have expected far greater drama. We are all trained for when things go terribly wrong. We have drills, procedures and checklists in place to keep the most injured aeroplane aloft. Unfortunately reality doesn’t always fall within the guidelines of a syllabus. Be it the crippled DC10 at Sioux City or the more subtle confusion of Kegworth, neither were a ‘standard’ training scenario prior to the event. Certainly, on occasions emergencies are easily read and then again, sometimes it’s the little things.

On descent into Melbourne, Australia some time ago this interesting piece of weather lay ahead between two layers of cloud.

We in the aviation world are actually a little further ahead of the game. We don’t give ourselves enough credit, but while corporate entities strive to maintain a level of secrecy, aviation seeks to share its shortcomings. The dissemination of safety findings on a global scale in an effort to circumvent repeat occurrences is one of our industries greatest achievements. When faults are found with aircraft, or the way in which we may operate them, that information is freely broadcast. It is a level of operational maturity that has not been achieved overnight, but it is a work in progress we can all be proud of.

Air safety investigation has come a long way over the decades. Rather than simply attributing every smoking wreck to “pilot error”, our knowledge based has broadened to delve deeper. We recognise that the finality of an accident is the result of numerous factors slipping through the net before ultimately combining in a lethal cocktail. The pilot is the final line of defence and sometimes he is just not enough. Sure, there are still instances of rogue pilots blatantly contravening every rule of good sense, but fortunately they are in the vast minority.

From ICAO and the national regulators of aviation down to individual operators, the pursuit of safety is an ever developing challenge. At its very core, success lies in open, honest reporting. Everyone has the ability to observe and speak up and in its most basic form; this is one of the places where safety begins. It may be wrapped grandly in a formal reporting system, or bound in the pages of an official accident report, but fundamentally it is about being honest. Whether it involves reporting potential safety issues or dissecting a tragedy in hindsight, there is no room for cover-ups or misplaced silence. Well chosen words may save lives.

But the road is not paved with gold just yet. There are still companies and cultures that do not encourage ‘speaking up’; whether on the flight deck or on a written form. In these environments, the benefits of safety have still yet to take full hold. Only when aviation professionals feel comfortable reporting mistakes and transmitting ideas can the group work together to minimise risks. Generally referred to as a “Just Culture”, it is an environment that encourages open communication without fear of reprisal.

So what does that mean to a lone pilot sitting in his Beechcraft Baron on a dark, wet threshold about to open the throttles?

It means that you are not alone. Somewhere before, a pilot has executed the same manoeuvre and contributed to the pool of knowledge that better prepares the next pilot. On such a dark wet night there are many dangers lurking. Sensory illusions due to acceleration trick the mind and only the instruments can be trusted. What if an engine should fail? Am I able to return to land or is there an escape path? Nearly every scenario that can be conjured has happened before and whether it culminated in a fatal crash or a moment of cold sweat, there is a lesson to be learned. The facts may be discovered by sifting through the wreckage or analysing a flight data recorder. Happily, they may also be found through self-reporting by a sensible, living, breathing pilot.

By whichever means the facts should surface, pilots should grab them with both hands. Aviation is an ongoing process of education and this is never more applicable than when we have the opportunity to read or the near misses and misfortunes of others. To the outsider this may appear ghoulish, but to those in the field it is cherished knowledge. Often sobering, these tales of misadventure fill the accident report sections of journals across the world.

It is equally important that we remain impartial as we digest the cold, hard facts. For in the safety of our armchairs it is impossible to recreate the mindset of another, or to feel the pressures and distractions that may have led to some terrible omission or oversight. It is not our place to judge with the benefit of hindsight, rather we should glean every ounce of knowledge that can be stored away for use on our own dark, wet night. Often, the pilot will have paid the ultimate price for a perfectly human error and there is nothing to be gained from slurring the reputation of another. In fact, such talk infers a sense of superiority and a belief that the mistake was merely simple and stupid. Beware! There is no room for such complacency in aviation.

I once watched a filmed re-enactment of the final approach of an ill-fated airliner. As the final stages of the approach became more hurried and communication more confused, error after error began to surface with increasing frequency. But rather than sitting in judgement, the hair rose on the back of my neck and a doomed sense of empathy with the crew stirred in my guts. I sat in air-conditioned comfort, knowing the final outcome of this approach, but I equally recognised the conditions that had placed this aircraft and all onboard in harm’s way. I could see the lurking demons of weather, systems failures, commercial pressure and fatigue stalking the hapless crew and I wanted to warn them from my comfortable chair. But it was all to no avail.

Far from sitting in judgement, I tried to take something from the tragic outcome that would improve my own operational performance. And so should we all when presented with safety information or the findings of an accident report. As with 'The Fatal Stall', from time to time this blog will re-visit a range of aircraft accident and incidents in an attempt to enhance the safeguards in our own flying. There will be no judgement placed on those who have ‘stared down the barrel’ in the accidents we review, rather we will endeavour to draw some positives from an otherwise unfortunate outcome. Nor will there be any sense of complacency, for there but for the grace of God, go I.

 Chris Sperou doing what he does best.

Hi All,

The first full month at of this blog has come and gone.

When I launched the new website in December, I was venturing into the unknown. A little fish in a very big pond, I wasn't sure if anyone would actually find the website and blog. With so many commercial websites out there with online strategies and advertising, I accepted that I may just be a voice in the wilderness. You have all proven this to be very wrong. 

Over the last few weeks the response to the blog has been exceptional. I have made over 50 posts since its inception, but already there have been more than 5,000 unique visitors and well over 10,000 page views! Equally significant has been the messages, comments and subscriptions to the website that have been flooding in. Very kind words and worthwhile feedback; please keep it coming!

For it is my desire to share this wonderful world of aviation that drives me to put in the effort, but it is your interest that will ultimately determine the future of the blog. The fact that so many people are reading the articles inspires me to keep going and I thank you all for that.

So, with the first full month behind me and the future ahead, I maintain committed to producing more original content on a broad spectrum of aviation topics. So please continue to come back and visit, follow me on Facebook and Twitter and let me know what you think. This has been a big first step, but I can't wait for the rest of the journey.

Thank you.

Owen

Over recent months tragic news seems to have become all too frequent for the aviation community. While on the other side of the Indian Ocean the loss of the two Albatross aircraft dealt a single massive blow, here a series of accidents in just a few days has further added to the count. The national broadcaster’s senior helicopter pilot and crew were lost, just as the news of an ill-fated mercy flight filtered down the wire. Only hours later, a senior sports pilot and his passenger went missing with a fatal outcome. The terrible loss of life in New Zealand when a hot air balloon was destroyed and only this week, a Tiger Moth crash saw the passing of John Fisher; a man who had once flown his Tiger from the UK to raise funds for charity. In the cruellest manner, it seemed we were all reminded that tragedy is the ever-present companion in the skies we seek to transit.

As the son of a fighter pilot who'd flown in combat, I had grown up around the potentially fatal nature of aviation. As I flicked enthusiastically through photo albums of fading photographs of fast jets, my father would answer my questions in an even tone. Often my enquiries with reference to individuals was met with, “He got clobbered by ground fire near Haeju”, or “I think he put a Mirage in off the coast during a training exercise”. Their young faces beneath flying helmets still stare back at me so many years later.

My own first encounter with the harsh lessons of aviation started as a student pilot. Still a paramedic by trade, I stood at the Royal Aero Club counter as the crash horn sounded and the ominous black, oily plume rose from beyond the runway’s end. Off duty, I drove my car the short distance around the airfield perimeter and entered the factory where the Cherokee Six had plunged vertically through the roof. One burnt survivor has been thrown onto the rooftop, while I dragged another from the smoke-filled building. Four remained in the wreck, still strapped into their seats; lifeless. Any complacency about aviation that youth may have been tempted to bestow on me was nullified at that very moment.

In the losses of recent times, as is so often the case, there are not necessarily any common themes. Each was in a different category of aircraft, with the weather varying from despicable to fine and clear. The pilots ranged vastly in experience and their operations covered the spectrum from private flying to commercial aviation. The only shared trait seemed to be the tragic outcome.

I flicked through the various news reports with a strong dose of suspicion, borne of decades reading of ill-informed, sensationalist reporting. Details seemed to change by the hour and rumours took on the status of fact until the next piece of hearsay could be generated in the public domain. What could not be disputed was life-altering impact of these accidents upon so many. To such a backdrop, one by one I recalled the faces of those that I had seen lost at the brutal edge of aviation. As I penned each name, the sobering truth was rammed home to me; no one is immune.

The list of names was far longer than I had anticipated. They ranged from pilots with whom I had shared a meal and conversation, to close friends and work colleagues. Nearly all of them were commercial pilots eking out a living in general aviation, though some had also been taken pursuing their passion just for the love of it. Some were just starting their journey, excited at their first gainful employment and some were experienced mentors in the service of the national aviation regulator.

One by one I recalled their faces. The ‘old hand’ Bill whose ultimate oversight in forty years of safe flying was not spotting the glider that sheared off his Bonanza’s tailplane. And Brinley, celebrating at the local restaurant at the news he’d secured a position with an airline only to perish nights later, circling into a black hole in rural Australia in the foulest of weather. Trevor, whose single-engined fish spotting aircraft had force landed at dusk into the frigid waters only to survive the impact, but not the swim to shore. Alan and Peter, who had been searching for another aeroplane when their Cessna’s had engine failed over inhospitable terrain. Fernando, who descended gently into the ground in the wee hours with a full load in his Beechcraft. My fellow freight pilots who had been lost within a couple of months in a bleak, wet winter of low cloud and icing levels. And my close friend who’d tried one too many hair-raising flying feats at too low an altitude, only to pancake into the rising terrain. On and on the list continued as face after face stared back at me.

Admittedly, there were those who had been sticking their neck out further than the rules and common sense would advise. But for most it was simply a case of the odds stacking up against them in a series a compounding smaller events; the classic ‘Swiss Cheese’ model of Dr. James Reason. For a few it was the simple bad luck scenario of wrong place-wrong time. Universally, however, they are all still with me; even though I had not thought of many in recent years. They are with me as I flight plan and as I retract the gear. They are with me as the day becomes night and as the weather turns dark and walls of water confront me. They are with me always.

They are not evil spectres awaiting my demise, they are those who have gone before and paid the ultimate price. They paid for their harsh lessons with their lives and I am now the benefactor of their loss. In many ways, I owe them for the joy I have experienced in the skies above. They may have gone before, but they have stayed behind to tell me when enough is enough and when danger is lurking. They are there when the hair stands up on the back of my neck. They level the playing field and stand on the kerb whenever the temptation to cut a corner may exist.

They were acquaintances, colleagues and close friends who lived and breathed for aviation. I count myself as fortunate to have thus far safely encountered my way, but this is not an automatic right. It requires an ongoing commitment to safety and discipline in all circumstances and anything less is to dishonour those who have sacrificed so much. We call the skies our home and it is not a dangerous place to encounter. However, as those who have been lost recently and in the distant past can attest, that aviation can be very unforgiving.

The F2G Super Corsair No. 57 at rest in the Californian sun.

Being Prepared.

As with all emergencies, sound training before the event is vital. In the case of ditching, the training provided varies widely between operators. Often the degree of overwater operations will be a determining factor in the level of training provided. Whilst ditching training may be a core component of emergency training to off-shore helicopter operators, the same may not be true for those flying inland scenic flights.

It will always be impossible to train for absolutely every contingency in every emergency situation. Whilst budgets and time constraints may play a part, the varying scenarios of each emergency offer much too broad a spectrum to cover. Not to mention those events that our imaginations are still yet to conjure. As such, all emergency training is designed around regulatory requirements, training budgets and probability.

Airline training departments and aviation authorities design their syllabus to a background of risk management to assure that as wide a spectrum of non-normal situations as possible is covered. In turn, beyond the initial training, a recurrent program will provide ongoing training for the entire career of both flight and cabin crew.

The focus of training is linked to a factor of likelihood and by all accounts ditching falls into the ‘remote’ category for multi-engine jet transport operations. This is not purely a function aircraft engines’ ever-improving reliability or their safety in numbers. The regulations for over water operations are stringent and seek to ensure that the aircraft can at all times divert to an alternative airfield in the event of a critical systems failure.

Even so, it is a case of double jeopardy to lose ALL available engines and be forced to land on the water. The Hudson River case also proves that the aircraft doesn’t need to be over the middle of the Pacific Ocean to end up floating.

To this end, ditching training at airlines falls into a category of its own. The process of ditching is discussed at length in the manuals and crew training in emergency equipment, life rafts, evacuations and subsequent survival is ‘hands on’. Crews are scrutinised on these skills annually by both theoretical and practical examination. A failure to meet the regulatory body’s set standards results in the crew member receiving further training before they are allowed to return to line flying.

Yet in this stringent training environment, the training of pilots to fly the actual ditching manoeuvre in the simulator is not a mandated exercise by the FAA (US), UK CAA or CASA. That is not to say that individual operators do not include it in their syllabus of training, or that flight crews have not taken it upon themselves to rehearse for the eventuality during simulator training sessions. Simply, to date it has not been regulated. This may well stem from the risk assessment of the probability of ditching when compared to the incidence of other emergencies such as engine failure or depressurisation.

In a similar way, the thought of losing all four engines and their associated systems on a Boeing 747 was previously thought to be virtually impossible. Then in 1982, British Airways Flight 9 encountered volcanic ash over Indonesia with the subsequent loss of thrust on all engines. Again, the crew performed admirably in a situation beyond the scope of their training and manuals to ‘adapt, improvise and overcome’. Subsequently, the books were re-written, simulator training was updated and checklists modified. Today, pilot education of volcanic ash and its effects is routine.

This may well prove the case with ditching as well. Simulator exercises ‘reverse engineer’ the data from such incidents and use the lessons learnt to train pilots. With the data generated from US Airways Flight 1549, it is quite possible that a change in the training requirements in this area will be forthcoming.

Getting Out.

So many factors came in to play in the case of the Hudson River ditching, not the least of these being an experienced and well trained crew on both sides of the flight deck door. The two pilots had over 35,000 hours experience between them, while the three flight attendants had a total cumulative service in excess of 80 years!

For a successful outcome, the entire crew had to perform their designated roles to the best of their ability and, seemingly in this instance, at a level above. This was critical, not just in executing a successful ditching, but in safely evacuating 150 passengers.

Evacuations are generally described as prepared or unprepared, depending on whether the crew has had enough time to ready the cabin, its contents and passengers for the evacuation. It is also an opportunity to call for the donning of life jackets. The flight attendants would have had some advanced warning on Flight 1549, but it would have been minimal. Fortunately, as the aircraft had just lifted off, the catering carts and crew may well have still been secured away.

On coming to rest, the cabin crew is now faced with assessing the available exits, launching the rafts or slide rafts and evacuating the passengers with a minimum of time and panic. It is a fine balance to maintain order in the cabin while they undertake their duties and voicing loud, concise commands are central to organising the potential chaos. These are the very scenarios and drills that cabin crew train for year after year throughout their career.

A water landing presents the additional challenge of available exits. Notwithstanding fire, damage and extreme aircraft attitudes, in a land evacuation most exits are generally available. This is not necessarily the case when the aircraft is afloat. The attitude with which an aircraft settles on the water may preclude the use of certain exits, particularly the rear doors if the aircraft sits tail low and the door sill lies below the water line.

To further aid in keeping the hull watertight, the A320 also has a “Ditching Pushbutton” on the overhead panel. When activated, the guarded switch automatically closes valves and inlet doors which will lie below the water line.

The A320 is certified so that all doors and overwing exits can be used in a ditching and accordingly are equipped with escape slides. Despite this certification, it is a primary task of the crew that the viability of the exit is assessed before opening the door, as a door below the water line will allow the water to come flooding in and further impede the stricken aircraft struggling for buoyancy. Preventing over-zealous passengers from cracking these doors open in haste is yet another duty for the crew.

Opening the door will result in differing scenarios based on the aircraft type. For some aircraft, the escape slides double as life rafts, while others call for the crew to manually launch rafts that are stowed elsewhere in the cabin. Similarly, distress beacons can be integral to the rafts, or launched independently.  The evacuation is only started at an exit when these rafts are inflated and ready to accept passengers. It is also imperative that the life jackets are only inflated when clear of the aircraft. Another tragedy associated with the Ethiopian Airlines 767 ditching was the death of passengers within the aircraft having survived the impact. With their jackets already inflated, they floated to the aircraft ceiling and were unable to escape via an exit.

With doors open and the slides or rafts inflated, the passengers are shepherded towards the exits in a speedy manner to clear the aircraft before it can submerge. The crew will check the cabin again to ensure that all of the passengers have evacuated before being the last to exit. Once clear, survival and rescue become the next priorities. Again, the crew have been trained for contingencies varying from desert survival and dehydration to arctic hypothermia. The crew of Flight 1549 fortunately ditched close to land with a readily available flotilla to ferry the passengers to safety. Facing any significant time in the sub-zero waters may well have resulted in a different outcome.

It is said that cabin crew are there to provide the passengers with life saving assistance in an emergency. When the emergencies are not taking place, they are available to provide cabin service. This is not only a truism, but a very healthy mindset for all those involved with air transport. The crew of Flight 1549 and their wealth of experience emphasised the critical role to be played by those in the cabin in case of emergency.

In the Wake.

Being confronted with a multiple engine failure is the dread of any flight crew. To be further confronted with ditching the aircraft with only minutes to react is the stuff of worst case scenarios.

Yet events such as US Airways 1549 and the British Airways 747 left powerless by volcanic ash have proven that ‘worst case’ can on occasions become reality. The investigators will seek out the facts, volumes will be written and procedures modified. As proactive as aviation safety endeavours to be, sometimes  lessons have to be learnt from experience. Undoubtedly this will be the case again in the wake of the Hudson River ditching.

Fortunately, landing a jet transport aircraft on water is a rare event. Despite the mass of variables that can confront a crew and the time constraints that may be imposed by fate, training, experience and measured, appropriate responses can make the seemingly impossible survivable. It is a credit to the entire US Airways crew that all of the passengers went home to their families.

Safety briefing cards in the seat pockets and preflight presentations are provided with the hope that the actions contained therein are never required. In the same way flight and cabin crew train for most conceivable eventualities year after year, crossing their fingers that simulations are as close as they get. Yet time and again when the unthinkable has occurred, training has kicked in and the crew prove that they are up to the task.

The ability for a crew to ably fulfill their roles when confronted with an emergency is a function of both thorough training and the correct mindset under pressure. The landing of US Airways Flight 1549 on the Hudson River is testimony to this. These are invisible intangibles to the passengers as they board yet another routine flight, yet are possibly the most valuable component of the ticket price.

Should the unthinkable occur and their aircraft is faced with ditching, it will be this training, preparation and mindset that dictates whether they sink or swim.

Title Image. edp24.co.uk