September 2014- I’m writing this at the very beginning of this year’s thunderstorm season while I’m conducting a pseudo-class on that very subject for a young pilot acquaintance. Today, we are having our classroom experience at the best possible place for dealing with thunderstorms: on the front porch of my Florida ranch. I have an adult beverage in one hand while I gesture with the other hand toward a line of thunderstorms approaching us from the southwest.
The young man wants to hear what I’ve learned about thunderstorms from all those years of flying—most of them occurring long before he was born. He also wants to hear about any personal thunderstorm experience that I might have had.
I smile, nod in agreement, and take a sip of my drink. After reminding my student that the only reasonable piloting technique is to ensure your complete and utter avoidance of anything resembling severe weather, I begin to tell a story.
On a hot Sunday afternoon 50-plus years ago, Henry and I were about to depart Syracuse, N.Y. (KSYR), bound for Newark, N.J. (KEWR). The tranquil morning air had already lost its early splendor. The sweltering heat and oppressive humidity were beginning to rise on the steps of convective currents.
Each leg we had flown since our initial midmorning departure had been bumpier than the previous one. Fifty-one passengers had boarded the Convair 440 piston-powered airliner. Henry, who was the captain, was at the controls. I was the copilot.
The term “thunderstorm” covers a broad range of atmospheric phenomena, from barely inconvenient rainshowers to murderous incorporations of violent air. There is no foolproof system for categorizing the various types, and some that might seem truly horrific can be hardly more than angry pussycats, while others that might not seem so bad can come directly from the devil’s toolbox.
These days, modern radars and other sensing devices can usually make a reasonably accurate guess as to what level of horror a particular beast might be, and it is always best to make your mistakes on the near side of caution. Pilots need to keep asking themselves this crucial question: does the condition up ahead seem close to my personal limits and/or those of the airplane?
The rising bubbles of heat had pocked the clear sky with a scattering of clouds, which then became vertical stacks. Ahead of us stood a solid wall of white.
“It’ll be pretty rotten out here a little later,” Henry said. We struggled through 5,000 feet, cleared up to 11,000. The Convair was heavy.
“How’s that look on the radar?” I asked, pointing toward the growing mass. Some stratus fragments floated above us, concealing the tops of the buildups.
“Well,” he said, peering at the radar screen and then concentrating on the view out the windshield. “It doesn’t seem too bad. Anyway, this looks like the softest route.” He moved his free hand back to play with the radar controls.
Thunderstorm flying is a much easier task during daylight hours. An experienced pilot will rely quite a bit on what is out the window in addition to what might be showing on the radar screen or what ATC has to say about the weather ahead.
What the eye sees can sometimes provide a more accurate portrayal of where the turbulence actually lies. Cloud shapes and densities, hues and colors, and hundreds of other minor clues sometimes tell more than radar.
The location of the maximum rain gradient (the only thing that radar actually sees) may or may not indicate the bumpiest path. Lots of heavy rain areas can provide silk-smooth flights, while sections that appear as the lightest precipitation areas on the radar can sometimes be the hellishly turbulent ones.
We continued our slow climb. The sky was getting bumpier. Jolts of turbulence rocked the airframe.
“I dunno….” Henry said aloud, mostly to himself. The clouds that surrounded us were changing color rapidly. Around us, it was dark, and then it lightened somewhat, then it grew dark again.
Henry banked the Convair to the left and moved his hand back to the radar console as soon as he could spare it. We were in a moderately banked, slowly climbing turn when we hit it.
There is no denying the usefulness of radar in thunderstorm flying, regardless of whether the information is coming from an onboard radar set or being beamed up via datalink from some ground source.
When dealing with airborne radar, more than one crew has penetrated a line of weather only to discover that the clear area they were expecting on the other side has become a really rotten place to be. Sometimes this happens when the weather system itself is changing rapidly, and sometimes it’s because the up-close weather has masked the returns from the bad stuff behind it—a big vote in favor of using both a ground source radar picture and the airborne images together to create the best plan.
For airborne radar work, the antenna tilt and gain controls require time, attention and a good measure of experience. An incorrectly positioned tilt control can paint a completely false image. Modern radars are far better at automatically providing a better image of what’s really out there, but that still requires the pilot to analyze and interpret the picture it gives.
The first few seconds were surprisingly calm, but Henry had been here before—I could see it in his eyes. We were in a massive rising current of air; the sensation of our lumbering Convair being propelled upward made me suddenly feel very, very small. Altimeters and rates of climb wound rapidly. We were, practically speaking, no longer in control.
Then we hit the concrete wall. An instant turn-on of violence. The noise from hail and sheets of rain was deafening. The panel was a blur of continuous impact shocks. A lightning flash. My gyro-horizon tumbled. Were we still flying right-side up?
Henry rode the big control wheel with both hands. His lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear a word. The calamitous sounds of hail against the cockpit’s thin aluminum skin filled my ears.
I did everything I could think of: props up, hydraulic bypass down, carb heat yanked on. Were the engines still running? The gauges were bouncing too wildly to see. We were insignificant creatures inside an insignificant vehicle, facing a limitless opponent.
Once the plan of action has been determined, it is best to select a particular heading/altitude/airspeed combination for penetration of the suspected area. Having everything in the cockpit set beforehand is definitely advisable. Flying level at the proper turbulence penetration speed with corresponding engine power already established has been strenuously recommended by all who have investigated the problem.
Once the decision to penetrate at a particular spot has been made and the airplane has been rigged for rough running, a few hard-and-fast rules can be voiced. Ride out the bumps straight ahead. Worry only about keeping the aircraft in a wings-level, pitch-level attitude. Disregard the airspeed and altimeter indications for the duration of the heavy turbulence.
We were inside the godforsaken province for an eternity, though it passed in a single sweep of the clock’s second hand. And then it was over. We were spit from the other side of the grayness as quickly as we had been engulfed. Suddenly the sun was shining, there was blue sky and a solid vertical wall of bubbling, teeming white behind us.
We were but a dot, a speck, a breath against that gale of strength. We had certainly guessed wrong, but, luckily, not entirely wrong. We had survived.
And we had learned something for the next time. And for the times after that.
Fifty years later that particular memory was still clear enough to propel me off the front porch when the first big drops of rain and the flashes of lightning got closer. We went inside the house, refreshed our drinks, then rode out the remainder of this storm in the living room while I continued with my stories about thunderstorms.
Editor-at-large Thomas Block has flown nearly 30,000 hours since his first hour of dual in 1959. In addition to his 36-year career as a U.S. Airways pilot, he has been an aviation magazine writer since 1969, and a best-selling novelist. Over the past 30 years he has owned more than a dozen personal airplanes of varying types. Send questions or comments to editor@www.piperflyer.com.
