Engine Failure After Take-Off, commonly referred to as EFATO, is one of the most frightening events that can happen to a pilot. A recent incident hit International headlines when US Airways flight 1549 landed in the Hudson after a sudden loss of engine power. Every pilot has been trained to deal with EFATO but the reality of the situation has little in common with the practice runs when you have a competent instructor at your side with his hand on the throttle.

I don’t actually want to have to experience that particular reality but I do want to be as prepared as I possibly can should I have to deal with an engine problem close to the ground. One way of doing this is to read the details of real failures and how the pilots dealt with getting their planes onto the ground.

Manny Peralta, a commercial pilot in Australia, wrote about his experience for AirCentre Australia with useful detail and a summary of lessons learnt. I found it particularly interesting to read about how he ended up fighting his own instincts.
Low Level Engine Failure After Takeoff:

For me, the most frightening thought just after an EFATO, is the overpowering urge to turn back despite the high risk of a stall and spin. It seems that fear and self-preservation, can overcome logical thinking and training. I only just managed to fight off the urge to turn back, by shouting to myself repeatedly over the intercom: “don’t turn back! For a split second, I also remembered a friend, who died when he apparently tried to turn back after an EFATO, from the same runway that I took off from that day. Being a young family man, a fiery death for me was definitely not an option!

The FLYER forums had a recent post about this emergency landing in which the pilot gives an emotional and honest description of writing off a plane and his recollections of the sequence of events.
A recount of my EFATO 4th November 2008:

The noise reverberates through every inch of my body; not a bang as such, but a metallic noise that I can most liken to a flak burst from a world war two movie: the chilling sound of an engine that has just died. Time seems to stop and yet accelerate tremendously all at once. The heavy whine as the engine drops from full power to nothing, the propeller windmilling uselessly in the airflow… No, no, bloody hell no! This cannot be happening! I glance in disbelief at the throttle and mixture levers, which I know that I am both holding fully forward anyway. Sheer terror grips me; my God we’re only at 200ft and we’re going to crash! I feel panic overwhelming me, then: Get a f*cking grip man!!!

This blog post about an EFATO in South Africa is not from the pilot’s perspective but nevertheless it is full of detail of the successful landing of a twin missing an engine.
Soaring: EFATO:

He then spoke to Nationwide who said to him we have an emergency. We have lost hydraulics and partial disintegration of our right engine. The traffic controller said it is not part disintegration. The whole engine is lying on the runway.

This article for dealing with an engine failure is aimed at twins but as a single engine pilot I still found it full of interesting details and important advice.
Pelican’s Perch #4:Engine Failure!:

Many GA pilots are confused over just how to handle an engine failure. What is most important? What to do first? What should the step-by-step procedure be? Every book written that I’ve seen is different, every CFI has her own variation, and when the unfortunate Applicant goes up for the Multi-Engine check ride, the Inspector/Examiner is very likely to say “No, no, no, that’s all wrong, here’s what I want to see,” and the poor Applicant learns yet another way to do it during the check ride. There are variations between instructors and check pilots within the same organizations, and very large differences between different companies, even when operating the same type of equipment.

Even highly-experienced pilots will get into heated arguments over this one. My two favorite ways to start a barfight are to ask “What makes lift?” and “What are the best memory items for an engine failure?” Then I sit back, listen quietly, and leave when it gets bloody. Of course, pilots no longer hang out in bars, so this is much less fun these days.

I also enjoyed reading this argument turned discussion of turning back after an EFATO and why it is so easy to get it wrong.
The Pilot’s Lounge #121: The Big Silence After Takeoff:

The horizon seems higher. The ground is nearer — dramatically so. In a turn, the ground is a powerfully close blur of color that is a stunningly integral part of your peripheral vision: It’s right there, bigger than life and, by gawd, it’s going by fast. That’s something one doesn’t experience in normal flight, even when maneuvering steeply at altitude. Up there, the ground is a more remote, abstract concept and it seems to be moving slowly. Down low, with the ground moving fast, and with the groundspeed increasing while the airplane holds a constant speed near the stall and turns from upwind to downwind, even a pilot with low-altitude experience feels the very powerful sensation of the groundspeed increase and tends to unconsciously pull back on the yoke to keep the speed under control (and, sadly, despite all training, to try to keep from going down). What makes it even worse is that, when the nose must be pushed down hard to accelerate to get speed for the flare, all the pilot sees is a windshield full of ground. It takes a lot of training to accept that visual picture long enough to get enough speed to avoid a stall. When experienced for the first time under the massive stress of an engine failure, it is no surprise that the end is almost preordained even for high-time pilots: a stall, with the future existence of the pilot and passengers telescoped to mere seconds.

This Airbum article includes sensible points about making the decision whether to abort a take-off to avoid that low-level engine failure altogether.
Aborts, Go-Arounds And Other Common Sense:

Unfortunately, there are no hard and fast rules here because every situation is going to be different. However, a couple of concepts do apply. For instance, it’s better to run off the end of the runway with brakes locked and the tires smoking at 20 mph or slide off the end with a curled prop and the gear up than it is to stagger off the end at 100 feet and have the engine quite completely. Yeah, it’s expensive to land and run off the end of the runway but it is almost never fatal. Come down from even 100 feet and chances are, at the very least, you’ll be injured. If you abort and run off the end there will always be the nagging question, “would it have kept running?” If it quits at 100 feet, the question may be “will I ever walk again and did my passengers survive?”

And if that fails, then I’ll be glad if I can remember the points in their article about controlling an unplanned collision with the ground.
Crash Survivability:

Many injuries are the result of getting the airplane too slow while still too far off the ground. The airplane didn’t stall, but the nose was brought up while the airplane was too high and the vertical rate of descent had plenty of time to skyrocket. There is a lot of structure in an airplane to absorb forward impact, but very little that works in the vertical direction.

Rule one in crashing: Fight the urge to pull. Maintain best glide speed until flaring just before impact. Try to make the landing as nearly normal as possible.

And finally, a short clip showing a Tigermoth landing in a field directly after take-off and running into a common field hazard:

Shortly after takeoff, when at approximately 200 ft above ground level, the engine speed dropped to idle. The pilot lowered the nose of the aircraft to maintain flying speed and turned right to land in a suitable field. The aircraft cleared a sturdy barbed wire fence but, as the aircraft touched down, a cow ran under and struck the left wing. The cow was apparently uninjured. Investigation of the aircraft by a local engineer found corrosion debris in the carburettor

Mark Twain said: “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.” Sometimes, reading travel blogs on the web, it seems like the converse is true.

If I see one more article about how obnoxious holiday makers are and how popular resorts are ruining travel for real adventurers who want to truly experience foreign countries, I might scream. The online definition of true experience varies but the overall litany is the same: tourists who are not travelling the way I am are wasting their time, should just stay at home, are to be pitied. I understand that as visitors to a foreign place, we’d like to feel special, as if we have a special connection. But honestly, a tourist is a tourist is a tourist – there is no special brand of travel that is somehow elevated from the rest.

And yet, the litany continues that somehow other people are not experiencing the trip the way that they should. Somehow, they are doing it wrong.

I’ve been tempted to comment on these travel pieces, pointing out that the only “real” way to experience authentic travel is to fly yourself. If you’ve flown commercial, you’ve had a layer of red tape between you and the people who live and work in your destination. Herded from one building to the next without the chance to walking around the plane or seeing the details of the airport, limited by a schedule devised by business men in starched suits who have probably never even made the journey.

And then I take a deep breath and reach for my blood pressure pills.

I live in a resort town – we have beaches and mountains and ancient cities and Moorish forts. We have had a huge influx of tourism over the years and there are times when I shake my head in sadness at the loss of the village that I knew. At the same time, I recognise that the same instinct which drove me here is driving the other tourists: I am not somehow special nor more deserving of the delights of this place. Arriving early isn’t clever, it’s simply presaging the changes to come.

I do understand the frustration of watching people close themselves off from the local experience and ask for home delights, telling locals what they think should be there. We have the Irish pub and a fish-and-chip shop and an Indian restaurant and, most recently, kebab to take away. The Andalucians, eager for an income, have always tried to deliver what the tourists expect. In recent years, the tourists themselves have become residents, the ex-pat population swelling and providing for itself. Slowly, my favourite comida casera disappears in favour of fake tapas and international cuisine, my dusky shops are replaced with beach gear and flamenco skirts in toddler sizes.

I sympathise with the people who arrive only to discover this display of tourist kitsch. They complain, “I want to see the real Spain.” My response varies based on mood: “if you want to go there, you shouldn’t be starting from here, your real Spain is not where the cheap flights go.” But really, what, exactly, is fake about this place? Do you mean you want to see what it was like before people like you arrived? It was wasteland with a few fishermen trying to scratch a living. The Spaniards who live here welcomed the tourists for a reason and funnily enough they aren’t interested in staying poor for your viewing pleasure.

I’m not usually that bitchy. I do understand the dilemma and usually I’ll offer an alternative: – come with me inland. Lets go to one of the white villages off the coast, in the farming area, and get something to eat and I’ll show you a different Spain. But these authentic restaurants, they may leave something to be desired.

“It’s so loud in here,” is the most common complaint – a good Spanish restaurant is one full of people shouting across the table at each other. Not one for passive gestures and gentle smiles, you can spot the “real” Andalucian restaurants by the level of ambient noise. If it is quiet, perhaps with gentle music in the background, then you have gone astray.

“Is there a vegetarian option?” This area is built on agriculture: the Andalucians love their olives and aubergines and firm salad tomatoes and green peppers. They also love their cured ham and sardines in vinegar and deep-fried delicacies of the sea. You can have a salad if you wish (you may have to ask them to leave off the tuna) but if you have a restricted diet, then a land based on subsistence farming is perhaps not the place for you.

Sometimes it seems that adventurous travellers looking for authenticity are most likely to try to bend local cuisine around their personal dietary requirements. I respect the social decisions that people have made to reduce their impact on the world. And if you have a special diet, your requests will certainly be catered to … but this is not the “real” Andalucia you are tasting, any more than the burger and chips that you sneered at.

And then there’s the accommodation snobbery: staying in a campground is a completely different experience from staying at a four-star hotel but neither is traditional. I have a soft soft for the Paradores, hotels situated in interesting old buildings, castles and monasteries, but they’ve been rebuilt with central heating and en-suite toilets, with restaurants featuring top-quality dishes from all over the country. Life was never like this in the ancient buildings until tourism arrived with a healthy cash infusion. None of this is really Spain.

I have to remind myself that this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. At the local market, I wince with embarrassment at the things people say (at full volume, as if the locals couldn’t possibly understand English) but then I look at the stall owners, smiling patiently, cracking jokes to one another, always happy for a chat. They greet me, offer me almonds to taste. The toy-stall owners shout at my son like an old friend, “Tío! Come look at this.” They are selling junk, plastic guns and knock-off laser lights but my boy loves the attention, enjoys feeling a valued customer – a feeling he never gets at Toys-R-Us.

And I realise I’m wrong to get wound up at the friendly Spaniards at the market – who am I to tell them not to pander to the tourists? That’s the same implication: that they aren’t being real Spaniards, this is some fake version of their home. What the hell? This is their life.

An authentic destination is like Schroedinger’s Cat, once you’ve arrived, it probably no longer exists. But it’s not a stage set, pulled down as soon as you have boarded your flight and filed away your passport until next year. They are still there, standing at the market, living their life. It’s not just for show.

I like to camp, my best friend likes sheets and a double bed. If staying at a hostel makes him miserable, who am I to tell him what his experience should be? This is a man who talks to everyone, who will get the chef out of the kitchen for a chat and a drink. He’s as happy to talk to the farmer in the hills as the owner of a restaurant chain all along the coast. And not one of them think he’s a fraud for staying at a hotel. His views of comfort don’t interfere with his experience of a place. His refusal to view a particular aspect of a country as “authentic” is much more telling.

This month, the National Air Traffic Controllers Association in the U.S. announced their winners for the fifth annual Archie League Award.

Archie League Medal of Safety Awards

The ability to think quickly and remain calm under pressure while maintaining a situational awareness are all unique qualities that air traffic controllers possess. Without their willingness to jump right in to resolve complex situations, offer a reassuring voice to those on the frequency and coordinate their efforts with other controllers, this group of dedicated professionals wouldn’t be as successful as they are today at maintaining the safety of the National Airspace System.

The great thing is that NATCA put up details and audio recordings for the event which led to the regional winners. I’d recommend having a read through all of them but the write-up that particularly caught my eye told the story of the dual winners for the Western Pacific Region.

On Nov. 2, 2008, the pilot of N40NL found herself in such a situation as rime ice accumulated on the windshield of her aircraft. The pilot checked on to frequency reporting the weather problem, as well as a loss of airspeed indicator. It was up to NCT controllers Tom Gallagher and Neil Irvin to take over as the middle men between the pilot’s uncertainty and the danger unfolding.

If you listen to the audio, you can hear the stress in the pilot’s voice but then the conversation takes an unexpected turn: the pilot says she isn’t sure if the plane has pitot heat. Lucikly an air traffic controller familiar with the type was in the next room and was able to step her through finding the pitot and getting the plane safe.

IRVIN: Yeah, that metal Bonanza, you should have pitot heat and also … you might also want to make sure, I know it’s fuel injected, but you should be able to have some heat source to … in case your pitot heat’s iced over.
PILOT: Roger. I agree with you. I’m just not finding it.
IRVIN: OK. Do you have a flashlight?
PILOT: I think I just found it. I just turned it on

Maybe it’s because I was trained where the weather is variable – I can imagine California pilots get used to temperate weather – but I was surprised to hear that she hadn’t dealt with the pitot heat. I was taught to put on the heat as soon as I was in doubt. Got icing? Pitot heat on. Airspeed dropping? Pitot heat on. Low temperatures? Might want to put on that pitot heat. There is only one circumstance that I can think of where using pitot heat to solve a problem is absolutely the wrong thing to do:

AOPA Online: Driven to distraction

Leaving the pitot tube cover on is more subtle. The little flag just flaps quietly under the wing. A commercial pilot student rejected the takeoff in a Cessna 150 and went off the end of the runway into some bushes. There was no major damage and when asked what happened, the pilot claimed that he had no airspeed and was afraid the aircraft would stall on liftoff. His instructor had failed to demonstrate that the aircraft will fly just fine with no indicated airspeed — it’s the real thing you need to stay aloft. By the way, turning on the pitot heat to burn off the cover is not recommended as the residue usually works its way back into the tube and will require far more technical support upon landing. It also doesn’t resolve the initial problem.

Generally, however, pitot heat can do no harm – it’s amazing to me that a pilot in icing conditions hadn’t instinctively put the pitot heat on and in fact the Bonanza pilot was flying over mountains without being sure if she had pitot heat at all or where the switch might be. She stated that she couldn’t see through the window but didn’t think to put the heat on until advised by Irvin. On the other hand, when asked what type of ice she was experiencing, she responded with “rime” without hesitation, and she was right!

This makes me wonder if perhaps she was suffering from hypoxia, which would explain the confusion. There is no mention of whether the plane has oxygen but at the start she mentions coming down from 16,000 feet so presumably she must have had access to some form of oxygen. Still, I can’t quite imagine flying at those heights over mountains and not being hyper-aware of strategies for dealing with ice.

My favourite part of the transcript is once the pilot has the situation under control.

PILOT: Well, my wings have cleared off now and my, I’ve got my lights on inside the cabin and it’s warm and I can see. So I just assume continue on if it’s alright.

ATC would like her to land at Mather, 9 miles to her left, both to check out the plane and sit out the rest of the storm. The pilot, however, wants to continue to her destination as that’s where her car is. Irvin tells her that it is her choice but then takes advantage of a pause in the conversation to inform her of what she is going to do:

IRVIN: And November, Four-zero November Lima, [Mather] have the runway lights turned up quite a bit for you. The airport should be to your right front still about three to four miles. You’re showing 90 knots on the ground.
PILOT: Roger. I see the runway. They do have the lights on.
IRVIN: OK. Four-zero November Lima. You are cleared visual approach Runway 22 left, the left side. If you want the right side, we’ll get you over to tower here shortly and you can request that.

Note she had not at any point agreed that she should land at Mather! I think Irvin’s handling of this is absolutely brilliant.

It’s become almost traditional for pilots to complain about the controllers in the tower making life difficult. I didn’t know about the Archie League Medal of Safety Awards before this year but I’ll be looking out for them in the future!

Joe is a pilot, sailor, former Marine (sniper) and an excellent story teller. He is 83 now and still going strong. He has neuropathy in his hands which means he can no longer use a typewriter normally. He doesn’t let that stop him, slowly typing out emails with two pencils so that he can tell friends about his adventures. I asked for his permission to share one with you.

I knew we might have some trouble. There is no VFR night flying in Mexican airspace and we were running late. I was flying a single engine airplane and although the sky was still bright, the sun had officially set. I confirmed to the controller that I intended to continue inbound to Mazatlan.

Mazatlan: Zero 8 Quebec report downwind
Pilot: Zero 8 Quebec turning downwind.

The runway was clear in the dusk but as we turned downwind, every light in the airport – it seemed like every light for miles around – flashed on. My passengers recoiled from the window as I continued the circuit, confirming to the controller that I required fuel upon our arrival.

Mazatlan: Zero 8 Quebec you are cleared to land.

As we touched down, he gave me further instructions.

Mazatlan: Exit your passengers at the administration building, have them wait for the guards, then proceed to the gas pit and they will direct you to parking.
Pilot: Roger, will debark passengers at the administration building and proceed to the gas pit.

I stopped the plane in front of the building where we were surrounded by rifle-bearing troops. The two couples were escorted to a small, stuffy room and told that they must stay there. After fueling up and parking, I was marched into a dusty little office in the main building.

A severe-looking mustached administrator sitting at a dented metal desk asked me for every piece of paper that he could think of: passport, clearance into Mexico, proof of ownership of the plane. He stared at my license for a few moments and then cleared his throat.

He handed me my paperwork piece by piece as he spoke. “Señor, the lights, they is very expensive.”

I breathed a sigh of relief now that I knew what was going to happen. “The least I could do is to help to pay for them,” I told him with a smile.

The man nodded. “Señor, more or less 2,500 pesos for the lights,” about U.S. $10 at the time. He paused and then spoke again. “And the guards, Señor, they must be paid also.”

“How much for the guards,” I said, pulling out my wallet.

“2,500 pesos. But also, Señor, the man upstairs. He is tough guy.” He pointed straight up. Did I need to bribe God as well? Or perhaps he just meant the controller.

I tried to look stern. “OK, how much for the guy upstairs?”

“Señor, 2,500 pesos.”

I peeled off the required amount and handed to the man who nodded seriously as he counted it. I grinned at him and he smiled back; we were friends now. “And for you, Señor,” I asked him. “How much for all your help?”

He gave me a shocked look and threw out his chest. “For me is nothing, Señor! Is my job!”

He ordered us a taxi and led me to the tiny waiting room where my passengers waited nervously, surrounded by the guards still clutching their rifles. I leant in close and whispered to the two couples that we were in serious trouble. I told them that I had failed to contact the American embassy and that we were probably going to have to spend the night in jail.

“They’ve arranged for a taxi to take us to the hotel, to pick up our personal belongings in case that we don’t get out tomorrow.” We drove to the hotel in silence, where I asked them to pack their cases and meet me in the bar in 20 minutes to wait for the taxi driver to pick us up and take us to the jail.

Once at the bar, I ordered a variety of snacks and a pitcher of margaritas: a final fling. The passengers returned from the rooms one by one, pale-faced and unhappy, and bolted down their margaritas. One of the women had tears in her eyes.

The taxi driver walked up to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Ready to go?”

The woman burst into sobs: “I don’t want to go to jail!”

The taxi driver looked stunned. “Jail? Oh no! Mr Joe fix everything good. You no going to jail, you going to dinner.”

That was the final straw: I started laughing and could not stop. No one else in my party seemed to think it was quite so funny.

• The Stories of an Adventurer
• The Last Flight
• Tipsy Nipper Crash Video
• How to Drown a Jet
• A Close Encounter with an Emu
• Unfit to Fly
• Cross Country Solo
• Drunk steals plane at airshow