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by Glenn Daly
As an instructor I’ve learned to love slow flight and delight in the stall. But I can still remember what it was like to feel differently, to be afraid—even though it seems a long, long time ago. And, because stalls usually came at the end of slow flight practice, I learned to fear slow flight, as well.
What compounded the fear, for me and many others, was our worries about the spin, that terrifying condition of flight that we knew nothing about because we weren’t allowed to practice them. With all that, it’s no wonder that slow flight, stalls and spins strike terror in our hearts.
Students often question why they have to practice stalls—a condition they should be trying to avoid. For most of us, a fear of stalls stems from the fear of falling—it’s a primal horror, one that, when we dream about it, often wakes us screaming or with the shakes. And whenever you perform a full stall, it always involves a fall, often with the nose pitched way down to exaggerate the effect. So, here are some tips to help you understand why we practice slow flight and stalls, and why you shouldn’t fear them—at least when you practice them at altitude. And, as we progress, we’ll make a case for learning how to recover from spins, too.
To begin with, why practice slow flight? Well, every flight you’ll ever make will always end in slow flight—else how ever would you land? Sure, you could fly to the airport at cruise airspeed and drive the airplane onto the runway (as I’ve seen many pilots do, especially Cherokee drivers). If the runway is long enough, if you don’t touch down too hard and bound back into the sky, and if your brakes are good and strong…heck, no problem. There are, of course, other possibilities: running out of runway and crashing into whatever lies at the end of it; braking too hard and skidding the tires flat; burning up the brakes and starting a fire; porpoising and causing a prop strike, which could stop the engine and result in HUGE maintenance bills—not to mention the unwanted attention you’d get from FAA enforcement people and the scorn of your fellow pilots.
Obviously, driving your airplane onto the ground, too fast, is not the way to go.
The reasons you land it slow are simple: you can land in a shorter distance; the airplane will tend to remain on the ground as opposed to bounding back into the sky (although I’ve seen many an airplane bound back into the sky when a student [or his instructor] drops it in from way too high—but that’s another problem); finally, it’s far easier on the airplane: the tires, the landing gear, the brakes. How can you learn to land it slow. Obviously, you learn slow flight at altitude, first, then you progress to doing your slow flight on approach to land.
Good, safe slow flight is the measure of a good, safe pilot. Years ago I asked a wizened old pro, Roger Nutter, what would be the measure of a good airplane checkout. He rubbed the grizzled whiskers on his aged face as though pondering an elusive thought, but he didn’t hesitate to answer. “Slow flight,” he said, his voice raspy with age and experience. “If a pilot can fly the airplane well, slow, he can probably fly it in any configuration.” Then he nodded off, as he usually does, after exerting himself.
The Practical Test Standards for Private and Commercial pilots used to define slow flight as 1.2 Vso. Now, it’s described as flying at an airspeed at which any further increase in angle of attack, increase in load factor or reduction in power would result in an immediate stall. How slow do you have to get in order to perform to the new standards? REAL SLOW.
If, for example, you’re learning to fly in a Cessna 172, the stalling speed in landing configuration, Vso, is somewhere around 40 knots indicated airspeed. Multiply that by 1.2 and you get a Vso of 48 knots. Under the new standards, there’s no set airspeed. The new standards mean that if you’re flying slow and you bank the airplane (increase load factor) without adding power, you’ll stall. They mean that if you pitch up without adding power, you’ll stall. They mean that if you reduce power and don’t change your attitude, you’ll stall.
Thus, it would appear that your friends at the FAA believe that slow flight is critically important. There really is nothing to fear, and it really is a lot of fun, once you get used to it. For one, it’s a whole lot quieter flying slow—the engine RPM’s are usually lots lower, there is far less noise from the airplane moving through the air—plus you traverse a whole lot less real estate in a turn, than when you’re at cruise. You can turn on a dime and even get change.
Part of the problem is that most instructors, especially newer ones, haven’t had enough experience flying slow—so they tend to get a tad nervous in slow flight practice. And, when the instructor is nervous, the student picks it up immediately…and gets twice as nervous. So there you are, two nervous people sitting in very close proximity exuding all kinds of nervous ticks, twitches, shakes and sweats, and, when the airplane comes close to stalling, EGAD, the two of them nearly jump out of their skins.
If you’ve found an instructor who breaks out in a sweat when slow flight starts, maybe you should ask if he or she has a more experienced instructor friend, or mentor, who can help you through the slow flight and stall practice. Either that, or tell the instructor that it’s all right, that you understand why you’re practicing slow flight and look forward to the opportunity and that, if anything scary starts to happen, you’ll take care of it. Then, maybe, you could give the instructor a pacifier or a blindfold until the slow flight is over.
Why practice stalls? Well, if the airplane gets too slow (actually, if the angle of attack gets too great), the airplane will stall. Where do most stalls occur? Close to the ground, oftentimes turning onto final from base—or on final while you’re trying to stretch a glide by pulling back, causing your instructor to pull his hair, gnash her teeth and lose all control of his or her temper, his or her nerves, or his or her bladder. Thus, you learn to stall the airplane at altitude. Why? So you’ll be able to recognize the indications of a stall, and to learn how to recover from a stall if you should ever inadvertently enter one.
Many students, and some instructors, think that the stall happens in an instant, and for no apparent reason. There you are flying along all fat, dumb and happy, when, all of a sudden and out of the blue…WHAM…your nose is pointed down and you’re hurtling out of the sky in the throes of a stall.
Contrary to what some of you might believe, it’s not that way. The airplane offers you all kinds of helpful hints, gentle reminders, sweet suggestions and, finally, tugs on the yoke before it allows you to stall. Since you’re probably in slow flight, already, you’ll note that it’s a whole lot quieter inside the cabin. “Ahh,” you say, “I can finally hear myself think.” Then, the flight controls—the ailerons and elevators—start to feel “mushy”.
Anyway, after the mushy controls (or sometimes just before), the airplane gives you another, more annoying, hint, the dreaded stall warning indicator, that hideous bleating sound that usually scares the bejesus out of the already nervous student (and, possibly, the already nervous instructor). Finally, as the airflow starts to separate from the wing near the wing root (the part closest to the fuselage) and burbles aft, it buffets the elevator, which transmits the wing’s near-stalled condition to you, the fearless pilot, as the infamous tugs on the yoke. That’s your final hint that a stall is imminent.
If you’re like most pilots, when you feel the yoke tugging at your paws (and you’ve been listening the stall warner braying in your ears), you immediately slam the yoke forward, jam on the power and begin to pray to whatever god you worship that, if you survive, you’ll never, ever, not once, covet your neighbor’s wife, again.
Again, I believe the real reason for all this terror over the stall starts with the instructor. Instead of explaining what’s actually going on before the session, and what’s about to happen just before the maneuver, many instructors dismiss the stall, or, worse, describe the horrors of what might happen if you stall on final, possibly because they’re scared, too. Before I became an instructor, I was terrified of stalls. Of course, I learned in Grumman Yankees and AA-1A’s and B’s. While the stall/spin characteristics of the Yankee were pretty scary, Grumman fixed the problem with the AA-1A and B. Nevertheless, there was a legion of instructors who were petrified of the Grumman because of some early accidents, and their fear was instantly transmitted to timid, new students—like me.
If, as instructors, we could simply explain stalls dispassionately, our students would be so much better off. And, if we could share some of the fun of stalls—describing them as e-ticket roller-coastery rides—we might not have to babysit our students when comes time to practice them. Sure, every student needs to know that stalls are dangerous, often fatal, close to the ground, but so are a lot of other maneuvers. We need to do a better job as instructors, educating our students into the wonder of stalls.
Then, we come to spins. I think the FAA did a disservice to flight training when it removed spin training from the private pilot curriculum. If a potentially frightening thing can only be described, it has the potential to strike terror in the heart of a student. I always offer my primary students spin training because, like many, I was terrified of the concept before I ever got to spin. And, even then, I only did it because it was required for my flight instructor certificate. It took me a few more attempts (and a bit of stomach lining) before I became comfortable with spins—and some more training from a couple of aerobatics instructors before I felt confident enough to teach them.
Since many of us don’t have access to airplanes that we can spin—at least, airplanes that we can spin without damaging the gyroscopic instruments—here’s a maneuver that I use to demonstrate “spin awareness” to my students. Set your airplane up as though you were making a departure stall. In a typical Cessna 172, set the airspeed around 65 or 70 in a climb configuration. Then, apply full power, but don’t add right rudder. What you’re looking for is the yawing moment that always happens with power on and the nose pitched up. It becomes readily apparent to the student that the airplane’s nose is turning to the left (in American built airplanes, of course), and the left wing is starting to drop. Explain, before the stall break and ensuing spin, that this is what happens just prior to the spin.
One or two such demonstrations will provide dramatic evidence why you always need right rudder with the nose pitched up, especially with lots of power. Your students will be more acutely aware of the potential results, and, perhaps, they won’t be quite as frightened at the prospects of disaster.
Finally, if you have a chance, or access to a spinnable airplane, you really ought to experience spins. Nearly all of my primary students have opted for a session of spin training, and only one of them has ever said, “Thanks. I don’t ever want to do that again.” After the initial nervous bits, the strapping on of the parachutes, the trip to the practice area, the climb to altitude, the clearing for traffic, nearly every single one has said, “Wow. That was cool. Can we do it again? And Again?” By the end of the session, I’m usually the one who’s looking for the lunch review bag. If you don't have access to a spinnable airplane, or don't want to suffer spins again - and you live near Southern California - give me a call. I’ve got access to a Decathlon that comes complete with parachutes. I’d love to take you for a spin.
Is spin training for everyone? I believe so. Sure, there are students who don’t like roller coasters, who hate steep turns—but most of them love the experience. And the training helps explode the myth that spins will kill you—unless, of course, you do them close to the ground. Should spin training be part of the private and commercial curricula. Of course it should.
I hope that some of this makes sense. None of us has to fear slow flight, stalls or spins—we just need to be better prepared for them, recognize the reasons for them, and, then, start enjoying them. If you’re an instructor and you’re afraid of the maneuvers, then you need to practice them until the fear grows into understanding. If you’re a student and your instructor exhibits that fear, ask him if he can recommend someone who isn’t afraid. We’ll all be a lot better off if we remove the terror from slow flight, stalls and spins—and, understanding them will help make us all safer pilots.
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