The FAA Comes Calling
Part 2 of the The Day Boeing’s New Jet Blew Me Out of the Sky
…the heavy jet that overtook my plane on final approach was a completely new type of jet on its second flight ever. Its first flight was less than three weeks earlier, witnessed in person by 8,000 Boeing employees. This particular “Boeing Heavy” had the biggest wingspan ever for a Boeing jet — more than 77 yards wingtip to wingtip, seven yards wider than the longest ever completed NFL pass. _______________________________________________________________
A few days after the near-death incident at Boeing Field, I was at a networking dinner for a group of Bend newcomers. The previous summer, the twelve or so of us had all participated in an inaugural educational program about Bend sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce. The basic idea was to give newcomers with leadership experience a quick, but deep dive into how Bend works across civic and business sectors.
We were all catching up when I said, “I have a story to tell…” and then I told them about the incident at Boeing Field. One of the participants was an MD and entrepreneur from the Seattle area and we’d become friends.
“Oh my gosh,” he said, “I know the person who runs Boeing’s Flight Test Program for that jet. He’s a great guy…” Suddenly, one of the faceless, nameless people who had likely seen the near crash became a real person with friends I liked.
By that time, I’d learned that the heavy jet that overtook my plane on final approach was a completely new type of jet on its second flight ever. Its first flight was less than three weeks earlier, witnessed in person by 8,000 Boeing employees. This particular “Boeing Heavy” had the biggest wingspan ever for a Boeing jet — 78 yards wingtip to wingtip, seven yards wider than the longest ever completed NFL pass. Its commercial rollout would be several years out.
On the night of the dinner, I was still processing what had happened, but I fully expected there would be a big investigation. I’d shared details of the flight with a dear pilot friend who had previously flown commercially, and he told me that if my story were confirmed, changes needed to happen.
I wasn’t in possession of my plane that week as it was still up at Boeing Field, so my instructor went to the plane and retrieved the flight data card which records on a second-by-second basis all of the key details that can be gleaned from the engine and navigation data. He uploaded the data to Cirrus Reports, which made it available to his bosses, me, investigators, and whoever else might be interested in the details of the flight.
Within that first week, I’d reviewed the flight data, listened to the ATC tapes, and checked my notes. I’d even rerun the flight virtually by running the flight data available on Cirrus Reports through Google Earth. The tumbling sensation the virtual replay invoked was surreal.
I also reviewed the procedures for reporting a flight incident and decided that even though I’d talked to a senior air traffic controller, and believed an investigation was forthcoming I should submit a pilot report through the confidential Aviation Safety Reporting System. Compelling to me was the idea that I wanted people with power to effect change to learn from what had happened as soon as possible. Normally, the people who are reporting incidents through that system want to make sure that whatever gets reported doesn’t bounce back to hurt them. It’s a whistleblower system with the sole purpose of improving aviation safety.
But I knew I wasn’t going to stay anonymous. I’d already identified myself and committed to sharing as much as I could to whoever needed to know. I was also a pilot in recurrent training, I’d flown into and out of that airport hundreds of times under visual and instrument conditions, and I’d been given clearance to land. If my small plane could be blown out of the sky, others could too. I wanted to help. And yet. Home alone in my house, remembering the flight, I felt small and vulnerable, especially when I thought of what might happen in the context of a big Boeing jet that was also an economic engine. Would they take my license? Would they find I’d done something terribly wrong?
Two weeks after the incident, as Covid-19 was closing in, I attended a meeting at Boeing Field. There were about two dozen people at the meeting: representatives from Boeing (including my doctor friend’s friend), the FAA, ATC, and my flight instructor. Tension and goodwill sat side by side. I walked away feeling like it was the start of a good process, where everyone would be interviewed, and a public report completed that would result in changes.
For myself, after the meeting, I answered multiple questions from the FAA, after first reading and acknowledging the Pilot’s Bill of Rights. I also supplied a long-form narrative. I knew that the FAA had all of the flight data, access to weather data, and a recording of the radio calls.
At the end of March, I got an email from the FAA investigator with his perspective on the root causes, contributing causes, and comprehensive corrections.
He first identified the root causes:
· The close proximity of both runways (less than 300 feet) and the simultaneous parallel approaches that included heavy transport aircraft.
He went on to say, “From my experience and training, even if both aircraft are heavy aircraft, their wake turbulence would be a hazard to each other’s flight.”
He then identified the contributing causes as:
· Lack of situational awareness of the emerging wake turbulence hazard by Air Traffic Control, the heavy flight crew, and the Cirrus pilots;
· The hazard inherent in the proximity of the heavy aircraft plus the fact that the heavy aircraft would be above, overtaking, and adjacent to the small aircraft.
· Lack of corrective action to avoid the emerging wake turbulence hazard by Air Traffic Control, the heavy flight crew, and the Cirrus pilots
He went on to say that the Comprehensive Conclusions appeared to be:
· Establishing and/or maintaining situational awareness to include location, proximity, and closure, of all heavy aircraft
· Avoiding operations anywhere near heavy aircraft
· Separating from heavy aircraft by time and distance
I agreed with it all, though I didn’t know how specifically the corrections would be implemented.
What helped me throughout was the knowledge that I’d been encouraged to tell my story, specifically from someone at the FAA. He told me “Few people have survived a wake turbulence incident like that — we hope you’ll tell your story to help other pilots.”
I had the bad luck that day to be in a plane that got blown out of the sky. I had the good luck of having a remarkably talented pilot in the right seat who, in the best and most aviation-friendly way possible, took full responsibility for anything that could have been done better from a pilot perspective, and several eyewitnesses who saw what happened and who I believe were motivated to make things safer. I was especially grateful that the initial response was “We want to learn so it never happens again.”
It’s now been three and half years since the incident. I kept flying for another year or so, giving up my plane only when I realized that the “mission” type of flying I was used to didn’t make sense anymore. Returning to the pilot seat wasn’t scary. It felt good and peaceful. But when there’s a good day to fly in Bend, it’s also a great day for a lot of other outdoor things — hiking or tennis, or skiing, and especially during Covid, even a round of golf. I also knew that unless I fly a lot, my skills will atrophy, which doesn’t make sense for me or anyone else.
To my knowledge, there’s never been an “official” report of what took place and what should change. However, the year after the incident, the FAA published new visual flight approaches into Boeing Field. Essentially, the approaches create more predictability about how and where pilots flying visually approach Boeing Field, and they keep traffic approaching the parallel runways as separate as possible until very final approach. When they came out, my dear pilot friend sent them on to me, with a note saying, “Take a bow, darlin, take a bow.”
I don’t know what other fixes might have been implemented in a way I can’t see.
At Boeing Field, the pilots of both planes operate on separate radio frequencies once they’re on approach. In our case, and because of a quartering tailwind, the wake turbulence of the approaching jet floated forward and down, hitting us on final approach. My hope is that more training about the special concerns of quartering tailwinds gets incorporated into training for air traffic control. But honestly, I don’t know.
When I drive over Mount Hood, I’m sometimes gripped with fear related to the accident I was in decades ago. It’s a visceral fear I can’t shake because it’s burned into my brain, tied to a sight picture that feels too similar to what I saw years ago. My hope is that my brain is already convinced that a huge jet popping up just outside my window is simply not going to happen.
Do I feel good about how it all shook out? Yes and no. I’m happy about the new VFR approaches. I wonder if more was done to change any other aspects of Heavys flying in proximity to other aircraft and how that information was shared.
I don’t know how best to convey the dangers of wake turbulence floating in from behind, which is a concept that feels especially scary when you don’t have eyes in the back of your head.
The biggest lesson for me and perhaps for pilots everywhere is that the Heavy sits at the top of our food chain, and if its wake hits you, it can kill.
BTW, that friend I called on Valentine’s Day, three and a half years ago? He’s here at home now and we’re raising a dog. It’s serious.
