THE TIN MAN GOETH

Soaring safely involves far more than proper operation of machinery. From the earliest days of seafaring, the term ‘pilot’ has implied an ability to make sound decisions – and willingness to make bold ones. Speculative thought and imaginative planning, essential in all complex activities, are especially so in soaring. Add the poise for timely response to the unforeseen, and now you've got a pilot.

The stiffest pilot I’ve known, I privately thought of as the Tin Man. (Sorry, but in this context calling him that seems more respectful than using his real name.) All pilots should understand that checklists are vital to success and safety, but Tin Man believed extra long checklists guaranteed it, somehow protecting him from the consequences of his own (in)actions. At crucial moments when the choice is between thorny options or doing nothing, even electing not to act is a kind of decision. Perhaps he knew unconsciously that his methods were dubious and sought to supplant quality with quantity… In any case, when unexpected challenges arose in flight his checklists could not provide viable solutions.

During a Flight Review the idea was to practice ridge soaring, and I suggested we fly closer to the hill for it to work. Tin Man said, “No, I want to be conservative.” I pointed out that real conservatism should include returning to the airport in flight, which would not be possible unless we put the glider in lift soon. Reluctantly, he let me show him and the remedy was safe and easy, but it made him very uncomfortable. In his debrief I emphasized that without mental flexibility and readiness to adapt he was vulnerable to a world of potentials he could never be fully prepared for. He insisted that not scaring him should top my list of priorities, to which I almost responded, “BOO!” In light of ensuing events I still regret not doing so.

The next year an unfamiliar tow pilot pulling him toward that same hill turned in an unexpected place, and that was all it took to throw the Tin Man off his game. Rather than simply remain on tow, he released. And though the same kind of lift was available within gliding range of the airport, minutes later he had his ship hanging in trees at the bottom of that hill. Even in lieu of flying smart and coming back, he could have at least reached several landable farm fields, but Tin Man had other ideas. (Actually he had no ideas worthy of their weight, just lots of useless checklist.)

Conservative? Yeah, like those who in the face of obvious climate change chant, “Drill baby, drill!”

The Tin Man’s checklists were twice as voluminous after that, but his mind grew only more rigid. When we insisted he take another check flight, he agreed on one condition: “I already know how to fly! Unless I do something dangerous, you sit back there and don’t say a word.” That queer demand and his acrimonious tone revealed two distinct facts. He was weary of criticism, and would not accept more instruction. With the first issue I had genuine sympathy, but for overt, willful pursuit of ignorance I had none whatever.

“You mean you want to not learn anything, is that right?”

“Yes.” He set his jaw, “Either I’m a pilot now or I’m not.”

For someone with my outlook, this was hard to swallow and I told him so, and told him why. One of the problems with obstinance is, because you’re always sure you’re right you can't recognize the many times you're wrong. Tin Man wouldn’t budge. Couldn’t, I suppose. So, after mutual consent to a arrangement neither of us liked, up we went.

He performed the basic operations by wrote and brought us back to the landing pattern at 1,000 feet AGL. There, I spoke for the first time, “Let’s not land yet. Fly across the airport so we can simulate arriving low and make an abbreviated approach.”

Monkey wrench!

The Tin Man ducked his head into his shoulders and grumbled across to the ‘wrong’ side of the airport, but then instead of improvising an approach from there, he turned and flew back to our previous position. By then we were down to four hundred feet, still ample height for an immediate approach with nothing to spare. But from there he turned to fly a ‘normal’ downwind leg. If I hadn’t stopped him he would have proceeded as if we were three times higher and crashed, this time within shouting distance of the airport.

Afterward, he said, “You tried to trick me!” and would not be dissuaded. In Tin Man’s mind, if I had allowed him to park it once more in treetops, that would have been because of my meanness, not his methods. I was out to get him, and any nonsense about responding to emergencies was only cover for my vicious humor. From now on, he declared, he’d fly where he was welcome!

Fair enough. That saved me having to feign compassion while discouraging him from flying again anywhere. My worst error lay in expecting that some instructor elsewhere would do the same...

Regrettably, he was unhappy for the wrong reasons, so his going away did no good. Later we heard that he'd crashed again in some other part of the country – and in wierd testament to some force of nature, walked away again uninjured.

The Tin Man was no more a victim of bad luck than of my imagined cruelty – unless we call luck the random genetic and cultural lotteries we're all products of. He made himself a victim of his own dubious virtues, rigidity and personal pride to the point of dangerous stupidity.