Adapted from a banquet speech given in 1993 by Paul Niquette
to Professional Women in Aviation
    Thank you for the kind introduction. Which neglected to mention, however, that I hold three world records: 
    1. I have been turned down for two proposals of matrimony. In the same day.
    2. I have been bitten by a dog. Twice in the same day.
    3. I have been in two airplane crashes in the same day.

    Now, I can hear some of you saying, "Must have been a busy day!" 

    This month marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of that third world record.

Two in One Day

Two-Four Fox, the family plane, was due for its annual inspection. My favorite mechanic was at Orange County Airport; the plane was hangared at Torrance, 40 miles away. As with an automobile, you occasionally have to make arrangements for someone to drive you home from the repair shop. With an airplane, it's better to fly. I called Mike.

Ever meet a guy who knows everything? That's Mike. In his field, "systems software," there wasn't anybody at the time who knew more. He did some work for my company as a consultant. We talked flying. Rather, Mike talked; I listened. By his middle twenties, he knew everything about flying, too. Mike bought a 1968 Skylane, just like mine, only yellow. He flew out of Orange County. I had no contact with Mike, once his contract ran out. But that Saturday I needed a lift.

"Come glider flying with me," said Mike over the phone. "I'll drop you off on my way back from Crystalaire."

"Sure," I said without much heart. I had already taken one lesson in a sailplane and had little affection for the sport

In a glider, without one of those noisy things up front swinging paddles around, you can't really go anywhere. You have to keep one eye on your altimeter all the time, the other on the landing field.

Unless you are a malnourished midget, a few minutes in a glider fuselage can make you cranky. Sailplanes are noisy, too. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise. {Return}

"You're not a real pilot until you know how to fly without an engine," Mike advised.

We arranged to meet on the ramp in front of the maintenance hangar at Orange County. I persuaded my son to come with me. It was no big deal for Harv -- no bigger deal than for any other eleven-year-old being dragged along to drop off the family stationwagon for a lube job. Only the promise of a flight in a sailplane gained his assent.

At the appointed time, Mike taxied up. The yellow Skylane was altogether magnificent. I tried not to notice. Mike shut down the engine and stepped out.

"Just had it waxed," said he, backing toward me. I offered my hand. Mike never took his eyes off the plane. He bent forward to catch a glint. "You should wax yours, you know." He pulled a cotton cloth from his hip pocket and wiped gently at some imperfection on the engine cowling.

"Nice bird," said I, dropping my hand unshaken.

I introduced my son. Mike said he was glad to meet him. Harv had reason to doubt that. "Watch your feet getting in," Mike cautioned. "Don't kick the wheel fairings."

"We both took showers this morning," I said with a chuckle. Mike was not amused.

"You ever flown gliders?"

"At Tehachapi last summer," I said. "If I can find an instructor, this will make my second lesson."

"What about him?" asked Mike, cocking his head toward my son.

Harv chose to speak for himself. "Sailplanes, you mean. I've been up in sailplanes plenty."

Mike motioned for us to get into the plane. "We're missing some thermals," he said.

Flying sailplanes is a hobby best suited for people with airplanes. You have to go out into the boonies to do it. Crystalaire is in the high desert north of Los Angeles. Our trip in the yellow Skylane took more than an hour. In a car it would have required three.

Soon after landing, Mike ensconced himself in a blue single-seater with drooping wings and was towed aloft to play in the sky. We wouldn't see him again until the middle of the afternoon. I made arrangements for Harv to go for a ride.

Not untypically, there was a lot of waiting around for an available instructor. I bought a book entitled Gliding and sat down at a picnic table in the sun. Harv chased after a lizard. The book fell open to a chapter on wind gusts...

Gusts and Ungusts
There is a mighty difference between a puff and a huff. -- Proposed Aviation Saying
The only steady wind is calm air. Wind of any magnitude is never exactly steady. All airplanes are affected by this, sailplanes more so. During landing a varying wind can be especially perilous.

When the wind suddenly increases (gusts), the sailplane experiences a momentary boost in airspeed and lift. Then, depending on the duration of the gust, there's the inevitable return to the earlier airspeed. A moment later, as the gust subsides (ungusts), the sailplane, now with reduced momentum, suffers a deficit in airspeed.

To stay aloft -- and without an engine -- the pilot has no alternative but to push the nose down. Oh, right, toward the ground. 

About 1:00 PM, Harv got his turn with a young instructor named Jeff. I waved and watched as the tow-plane powered up and tugged away a venerable wood-and-fabric something-or-other with my son inside.

Sailplane N74675
                    Taking Off

Roped together, the two aircraft struggled in unison out of the dust and into the sky. I hoped Jeff, who couldn't have been older than twenty, was a competent pilot. I went back to my book. I wanted to learn about wind-shear...


Another form of varying wind is called 'wind-shear.' It results from the fact that, because of friction with the surface, air closer to the ground moves slower than air higher up.

In the landing approach, the sailplane descends through layers of air moving at diminishing speed. The effect is the same as a vanishing gust -- and so is the remedy: push forward, get some airspeed.

Wind-shear and its accomplice the "micro-burst" are atmospheric realities capable of bringing down the mighty as well as the meek. There have been at least five crashes, including two of the worst in history blamed on wind-shear.
  • On July 8, 1982, a Pan American jetliner taking off in New Orleans went down, killing 154 people. 
  • A Delta Air Lines Lockheed L-1011 jumbo jet crashed on approach to Dallas-Fort Worth, killing 137.
The term "wind-shear" has become a public dread. Twenty-five years ago, few people understood the phenomenon. Including some pilots.

The wind was picking up. I watched what turned out to be my son's glider being tossed about as it approached.

Harv called out to me from the open canopy. "Your turn."

We strapped ourselves in, with Jeff in back.

Sailplane N74675
                    with the author in the front seat.

The flight instruments were on a small panel in front of me. I remember wondering how Jeff would be able to see them. The tow-plane taxied by and a ground crew member hooked up the rope. Our sagging wings were already fidgeting in the wind.

"Your son told me this will be your second lesson," Jeff commented, as the line pulled taut. "Don't get sick, okay?"

Immediately after liftoff, we found ourselves being jerked around behind the tow-plane. Turbulence is endemic to glider flying. After all, you seek up-slope winds, lee waves, and thermals -- the very conditions most sensible pilots try to avoid. By the end of this lesson, I would have another reason not to recommend the sport.

As instructed, I pulled a lever to release the line at 4,000 feet. The tow-plane peeled off into a spiraling descent. Jeff had me trim for 50 knots. "One point three times stall speed, okay?"

With his coaching, I began making turns this way and that, handling controls badly, at times. Jeff must not have been able to see the turn-and-slip indicator or he would have corrected my technique. Just as likely, it was the turbulence and the flexing wings that concealed my clumsiness. Jeff and I had no luck finding "lift" so we jounced our way back across a desert valley into the landing pattern.

"See those little doors on top of the wings?" Jeff hollered. "They're called spoilers. I'll pull 'em about halfway up. That way if we start to overshoot our landing point, we just pull on the rest of the spoilers and down we go, like closing the throttle on your Cessna, okay?" From that day's experience and others, I've come to distrust sentences that end with "okay?"

The airspeed was the same as what we set up earlier for cruising, 50 knots. I asked Jeff about that. "I already explained. That's 30% over stall speed, okay?" We turned onto base leg perpendicular to the runway, crabbing askew through the air. I see dust clouds on the ground. That surface wind must be 30 knots or more. I decided to speak up.

"Uh, this book I was just reading says you should fly your approaches faster than minimum drag speed -- "

"Why would you want to do that?" Jeff interrupted. "It's only relative wind that matters, okay?" We turned final, still at 50 knots. I could feel the gusts.

"Well, if there are gusts or wind-shear -- "

"That's what I'm trying to show you with the spoilers, okay?" Jeff seemed to be in no mood for a lesson from his student. At a couple hundred feet above the ground, the wind was so strong, it nearly stopped our forward motion. We were undershooting badly. "Watch this," said Jeff. "I dump the spoilers, just like pushing in the throttle -- "

"Dumping the spoilers won't do it!" I interrupted as the airspeed started to fall. The last time I looked, the needle was swinging below 40 knots.

Jeff let out a cry. "What the -- !" He must have lost his presence of mind, for he yanked back on the stick. The glider didn't respond. With a shudder, the nose fell through and we plunged the last 50 feet. That's four stories, people.

There were three sounds. A cracking noise -- that was the hull absorbing the impact. I heard a zipping sound, and I felt each of my vertebrae yielding in sequence from the bottom up, while my face plummeted toward the control stick in my lap. Finally, I shall never forget the thud of Jeff's head striking the back of my seat.

I vaguely recall sitting up, surprised to see that we were still moving. We were rolling on gravel, drifting to the left. Instinctively, I jammed the right rudder pedal. Too much; we dug in the left wing and stopped at an angle.

Jeff came to, as the ground crew reached us. He moaned unintelligibly. Somebody lifted the canopy and released my seat belt. I crawled out of the cracked fuselage and stood part way up, arms akimbo. Everything on me that starts with the letter "b" hurt.

A member of the ground crew commented disapprovingly about the damaged wing. Jeff pressed a handkerchief against a cut above his hairline. He was laughing now, glad to be alive. My disposition reached a low point. I made uncomplimentary remarks to Jeff, Bernoulli, and God.

Son Harv strolled up, sheltering an ice cream bar from the wind using my new book on gliding. He gestured over his shoulder. "Your friend Mike wants to leave," he said. "We're supposed to meet him at the plane." He inspected the damaged glider. "Augured in," he mused.

"Gimme that book."

Jeff was limping toward the flight office. I trudged up beside him and started hollering above the sound of the wind and the ringing in my ears. I impolitely lectured the post-adolescent on the difference between a spoiler, which affects lift, and an engine-driven propeller, which provides thrust. Jeff tried in vain to reply.

Shoving the book into his hands, I suggested at the top of my voice that, before he ever presumed to go aloft again with the intention of being paid for his knowledge, he might study the chapter on wind-shear.

"You will find particularly edifying the passage about 'nose-down approach-stalls'." I stomped away with Harv at my side.

Mike was ready to start the engine. He watched warily as Harv finished his ice-cream bar before taking his seat in the yellow Skylane. I grimaced climbing aboard.

"What's wrong with you," asked Mike unsympathetically.

"Wind-shear," explained my son from the back seat.

Mike revved the engine and we taxied toward the run-up pad. "You mean 'down-draft', " he said.

"Harv's right," I interjected, rubbing my temples. "We got a bad dose of wind-shear on approach."

"Down-drafts," said Mike with finality. "I had 'em too on my last ride. What were you in?"

My son gave Mike the model number of the sailplane. "I flew it first," Harv said. "We had down-drafts a lot."

Mike taxied onto the gravel strip and powered up. "What happened to the sled?"

"It really got pranged," shouted Harv, pounding his fist into his open hand.

The choppy turbulence tormented my bludgeoned body after take-off. I waited until we reached smooth air before speaking. "Mike, we were too close to the runway to have a down-draft."

"You can get down-drafts anywhere."

"Not unless the ground is exceptionally porous," I countered.

Mike looked puzzled.

"Where's a down-draft supposed to go when it hits the surface?" I asked.

Mike leveled off at 8,500 for the trip to Torrance. I vainly sought comfort by reclining my seat.

"What airspeed were you carrying on final?" asked Mike.

"We flew 50 for the whole trip."

"That was your problem," he said.

"Yeah," agreed my son.

I wanted to speak, but not enough to put out the effort.

During the flight back to Torrance, Mike treated me to a tutorial on sailplane aerodynamics. By the time we began our descent over the Santa Monica Mountains, I had grown weary of the implication in front of my son that I utterly lacked the fundamentals of unpowered flight.

"The only way to deal with down-drafts," Mike concluded, "is to push the nose down and get more airspeed."

"You can't do that just by dumping spoilers," I said for my son's benefit. I raised my voice. "But Mike, I'm telling you it was wind-shear out there on final not a down-draft. It was wind-shear that stalled us out and gave me this pain where the sun don't shine."

Mike called Torrance Tower from over LAX. I started to cite the chapter in Gliding, but he cut me off. "You can't believe everything you read." We turned downwind at Torrance. I hurt too much to care.

By convention, the pilot in command occupies the left seat and has authority over all aspects of flight. The person in the right seat may have delegated tasks, but otherwise enjoys no status. Unsolicited comments are decidedly unwelcome, often dangerous. A qualified pilot riding as a passenger must exercise utmost restraint. Such was the case on that downwind leg at Torrance.

First, I noticed that Mike had us at 800 feet. Fine for Orange County, but the pattern altitude at Torrance is 1,100 feet. Then too, there was the approach speed: Mike was trimmed for 65 knots, not the 70 that I always use. I didn't say anything, of course. Still plenty of margin, plenty of time to correct.

Mike acknowledged a radio call and hung up his mike.  We were number three to land. That means extending our landing pattern over the refinery at Lomita, a routine situation on weekends.

Those of us who fly out of Torrance know about that refinery and the heat it puts out.

    Sea breezes flow into Lomita and are warmed. We all know what warm air does. To be precise about it, though, warm air does not "rise"; it expands, becomes less dense. Unwarmed air moves in underneath and pushes up -- a distinction of more than an academic interest, as we shall see.

    Airplanes over Lomita on final for Torrance feel a momentary uplifting -- an exhilaration from this invisible column of rising air. Unfamiliar pilots misjudge the effect and reduce power to avoid overshooting the runway.

We come now to the bean field.
    A farmer-concessionaire raises beans on the Torrance Airport property. A sizable portion of his field lies between the refinery and the runway. He irrigates with huge rain-birds. Thus fountains of spray under the landing planes cool the air by several degrees.

    We all know what cold air does. It shrinks and sinks, of course, and on calm days some of the warm air in the updraft over the refinery gets drawn back down over the bean field. Yes, a down-draft.

I looked through the windshield as we approached the bean field. Sure enough, "Tss, tss, tss, ..." The rain-birds were in full operation.

Mike, ever the sailplane pilot, closed the throttle. "We don't need that noise anymore," said he confidently. Airspeed was just below 60. Exhilaration came and went as we glided over Lomita. Mike hung out full flaps. A little early for that, I thought to myself.

Airspeed now under 55 and Mike doesn't notice. He is gaping at the bean field coming up to meet us. His hand moves from the flap handle back to the throttle. Airspeed falling below 50. He can save it with the engine -- if his pride will let him. No way can we make the runway now without power. Mike's hand trembles.

Pride wins.

"What the -- !" Mike cries. The second time I've heard those words today.

We hit the bean field nose-high and sank. Green, wet stalks appeared above the cowling. The yellow Skylane's landing gear flexed and sprang back. We popped up for a glimpse of the runway, then down again. The propeller harvested some more beans. On the second bounce we caught the asphalt apron and rolled onto the runway. Instinctively, Mike applied heavy braking. We stopped on the numbers -- at the beginning of the runway.

My pains were as nothing. "Not bad," said I sincerely.

My son piped up in language unbecoming an eleven-year-old. "What the hell happened?"

"That's what I want to know," exclaimed Mike.

Torrance Tower called with instructions to expedite our taxi: "Forward to the first turn-off, please. Traffic on half-mile final."

For a long moment, we just sat there on the runway, Mike glowering straight ahead through the windshield. I could see bean stalks hanging off the wing strut. I determined not even to smile.

The plane behind us was waved off by the tower. Mike finally pushed in the throttle. Scraping sounds came from the main gear. We taxied to the ramp outside our hangar and Mike shut down the engine. I started to hurt again.

Mike paced around the plane at a distance of ten feet, frowning. His magnificent yellow bird had been baptized in beans and mud.

I offered Mike Two-Four Fox's hangar and an automobile ride back to Orange County. He said that his plane was flyable. Who was I to argue with him? He borrowed our hose to clean the mud out of the wheel fairings. My son and I got into the car.

"That," I called out to Mike, "was a down-draft."

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Mean-Spirited Memoir

More than thirty event-filled years went by after that adventure in the sky, and I always assumed Mike Busch had long since given up flying.  On the contrary, in 1999, I was astonished to discover his name prominently featured at "The Internet's Aviation Magazine and News Service" as Editor-in-Chief. 

In a congratulatory e-mail, I suggested that he might get a kick out of reading about himself in the Internet Version of Chapters in the Sky and invited AVweb to do a review.  Mike sent me a warm greeting in return ("been a long time...").  He seemed mellowed by three decades, but no review ever appeared in AVweb.

Two years later, I mentioned this oversight to a few aviation enthusiasts and sent Mike Busch a copy of my message.  Here are excerpts of his e-mail to a friend of mine. 

> Michael D. Busch wrote...

> I never read this rather mean-spirited writeup until five minutes ago.  I don't remember anyone named Paul Niquette, but if he says I did some consulting for his computer company 30+ years ago, I have no reason to doubt him.  I'll be the first to admit that I have a terrible memory for names and faces.

> Fortunately, I kept detailed logbooks of my flying.  I did own a Skylane (white with yellow and brown trim) based at Orange County (now John Wayne) between 1968 and 1972 registered as N42648.  I sold it in 1972, and as of 6 months ago it was still on the registry as belonging to an owner in Clovis, Calif.   I did fly gliders at Crystalaire between 1972 and 1975, but by that time I'd sold my Skylane and owned a Bellanca Super Viking, N93592.  So if indeed I did give Paul and his son a ride up to Crystalair and back (and that's certainly conceivable), it would have had to be in the Viking.  Conversely, if I did give Paul and his son a ride in my Skylane, it would have had to be somewhere other than Crystalaire. 

> In any event, I certainly never landed any aircraft (Skylane, Viking, or whatever) short of the runway at Torrance.  The "baptism in beans and mud" certainly adds to the entertainment value of Paul's piece, but it never happened.  I suppose one could verify this by contacting the owner of N42648 in Clovis and researching the maintenance logs.

Puzzled by Mike's forcible denials of events that he could not remember at all, I sent him a message of gratitude for his taking time to provide information from his detailed log books along with a few reminders, including...
Paul Niquette wrote...

Although you "don't remember anyone named Paul Niquette" (ouch), perhaps you will at least recognize the name Laszlo in Pattern Altitude for he was the person for whom you actually did the consulting (I was V.P. of Engineering).  Does that refresh your memory?

[Y]our postulation of the interval 1972 through 1975 is out of the question, along with the Bellanca Super Viking (which has its wings on the bottom, am I right?) since the Niquette family moved to Connecticut in 1971...

Please note in passing that the story took pains to point out that I was not "pilot in command," so it would not have been appropriate to record the beanfield incident in my logbook.

You are surely correct in noting that your maintenance logs for N42648 would contain no entry for the simple corrective actions you took at Torrance Airort, which I described in the story as follows: "He borrowed our hose to clean the mud out of the wheel fairings."

[M]y son's recollections of the beanfield incident ought to be quite reliable, don't you think?  By copy of this message, I invite him to speak for himself on the matters you have raised (in his mid-forties now, he goes by the name "Paul," but my son gave me permission to use his childhood name "Harv" when he edited the Internet Version of Chapters in the Sky for me some time ago).

As for your opinion ("mean-spirited writeup"), I think most readers will see the twinkle in my eye, especially considering the bemused treatment the author of Chapters in the Sky has given himself throughout the book.

Later I sent Mike a follow-up message that said, "As expected, my son called and corroborated the salients of the beanfield incident, although he did not remember your last name.  Accordingly, I have decided to draft an epilogue for Two in One Day." 

Six weeks later, I sent my last follow-up message to Mike Busch.  It is set forth in its entirety below.

Dear Mike, 

Your angry commentary, which characterized "Two in One Day" as a "rather mean-spirited writeup," invoked lapses in your own memory and missing logbook entries as instruments of denial.

Instead of admitting that you might have learned from your behavior aloft, you have tried to dismiss the account as fiction, even though my son was present and now serves as a credible witness to a life-threatening incident in which you participated as pilot in command. 

My good-natured queries for the epilogue have so far been unavailing.  Not one word.  Shall I assume that you have no intention of responding? 

Best regards, 

To which I received the following terse reply:
> Michael D. Busch wrote...

> Excellent assumption, Paul

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