CHIEF WARRANT OFFICER 2 JARED LOOMIS
Virginia Army National Guard
We’ve all told stories that start with, “There I was …” This story, however, doesn’t begin like that. Whether you were right or left seat with 3,000 hours of experience or fresh out of Mother Rucker, most of us have been in this situation. At the very least, all of us have witnessed it. This time, the story starts with, “There you were ...”
Here’s the setup: A seasoned instructor pilot and a new pilot are signed up to fly. Maybe they’ve already met, maybe they haven’t. Maybe the PI has heard rumors about the IP; maybe the IP has heard rumors about the PI. Maybe you start off with a little table talk, or maybe you jump right in to the brief. At some point along the way, the IP asks a question and the PI doesn’t have a clue what the answer is. Maybe the IP gives the PI a little ribbing. But then there’s another question that stumps the PI. And another. And maybe even one more.
The two walk out to the flight line to preflight, during which the IP asks a few more questions that the PI can’t seem to answer. At this point, the PI may even know the answer but just can’t spit it out. The IP, on the other hand, is starting to get a little annoyed that this “qualified” PI doesn’t seem to have learned a thing in flight school. Both are starting to get frustrated — to say the least.
During the start-up sequence, the PI is a little slow finding certain switches or remembering his abort-start criteria. There may even be a crew chief listening to the whole thing. The IP is now starting to become impatient, and maybe even makes a few comments that frustrates the PI even more. The IP might go as far as asking the crew chief some of the questions the PI can’t answer. The crew chief might even show up the PI.
At some point in the process, the PI isn’t answering any of the questions any more. It’s not due to a lack of knowledge, but because he’s so frustrated at himself and the IP. They soon come to the conclusion that the less they talk, the sooner the whole ordeal will be over.
So there you were, an experienced aviator and a new pilot, sitting in a hostile cockpit, ready to take to the skies. Except you no longer have a PI; the PI has effectively transformed into the most dangerous clam in the world.
We are required to live and breathe aircrew coordination — if not by regulation, at least by this little thing called survival. We teach it, brief it and even require an annual refresher — a meeting at which we all sit around, listening and telling stories and nodding in agreement at how important effective crew coordination is in our occupation. I don’t think I’ve ever flown with an aviator that didn’t agree on, or stress the importance of, effective communication in the cockpit. But if that’s true, then how can the above scenario play out?
By no means am I suggesting IPs lighten up on PIs. We operate in a high-stress, dynamic environment. It would be a disservice to not apply some additional stress in training. Additionally, I’m not suggesting that new PIs need to find themselves a new career path if they find themselves in the above scenario. We all have our bad days and bad flights.
Might I suggest a middle ground? There may be times when we all need to take a step back, address the issues at hand and start over. Aircrew coordination is more than just a theory on how you could potentially have a cockpit full of butterflies and unicorns holding hands while singing “Kumbaya.” We preach a world where we live and die by effective aircrew coordination. My simple suggestion is less preaching and more living. So there you were. How is your story going to end?