By Henry Kisor
IDPA Newsletter Editor

A few weeks ago I was sauntering down the ramp past a row of airplanes at the airport in Burlington, Wis. As is my habit, every few yards I'd swivel in both directions, peering behind me like a runner taking a long lead off second base, making sure a fielder wasn't sneaking into position for the catcher's throw from home plate that would tag me out.

This odd movement sometimes makes other pilots laugh, and a good friend once likened it to a John Cleese "Ministry of Silly Walks" routine from the days of Monty Python.

But long ago I consciously developed this habit as a survival technique around airports, simply because I can't hear the engines swinging the propellers that might sneak up and cut me down. I'll bet most, if not all, deaf pilots do the same, or something very like it.

But that day a beautifully restored Ercoupe I hadn't seen before sat on the flight line, its shiny polished aluminum skin beckoning. I have a soft spot for those little airplanes, and as I walked by I began daydreaming about owning one. That must have taken only twenty seconds or so, but I kept walking and gazing and marveling over that lovely airplane. Suddenly something clicked in the back of my mind. I stopped and quickly looked to the left. Scarcely 20 yards away a Beech King Air trundled toward the taxiway intersection I was heading for, its massive triple blades scything fiercely in the sun. Ten more seconds and I would have been chopped liver.

When my stomach stopped churning and my heart rate returned to normal, I still stood stunned by disbelief. I am an older fellow, in my mind a careful and cautious person both in the air and on my feet. How could I ever have let myself come so close to a messy end?

Ordinary human forgetfulness, I realized. Life does not always present us with detailed checklists to follow, minimizing every danger we might encounter. But a constant and concentrated attention to one's environment can lessen the risk, and that near encounter of the worst kind set me to thinking about ways in which we deaf pilots can keep ourselves alive despite not being able to hear.

Some of these techniques are no-brainers:

• Since we can't raise Flight Service on the radio for a weather update while enroute, it's smart for us to land whenever weather conditions depart from the forecast and find out what's really going on.

• Since air traffic control can't talk us down through the clouds if we get caught on top of an overcast, it's smart to avoid VFR Over the Top.

• If we're flying airplanes with stall warning horns instead of lights, it's vital to keep an eye on the airspeed indicator while turning from base to final.

• And it makes sense to enter the downwind leg of the traffic pattern on a 45-degree angle, even if it's not an ironclad FAA requirement, just because it's such an old standard that other pilots in the pattern likely will be looking that way for traffic to see and avoid.

• See and avoid: Another way to keep ourselves alive is to stay alert, always obeying that commandment our instructors mercilessly beat into us. On the ground, we were all taught to do a 360-degree turn in the runup area just to see what traffic is in the air. How many of us remember to do that every time we go out to fly?

Mark Stern, our host for the '00 fly-in at San Martin, Calif., points out that at South County airport "it's not enough to look at the pattern. I also check the overflight routes. South County lies under a heavily used arrival corridor into San Jose International Airport, and if I'm doing a straight-out departure, I might rise up to meet the overflight traffic."

Upon arriving over an airport, we ought to carefully check it out. Most pilots "drag" an airport 500 to 1,000 feet above pattern altitude to check for the active runway, looking for the direction of the windsock and any traffic there might be on the runways.

But I try to arrive no fewer than 1,500 feet above pattern altitude, then fly a broad circle around the field, looking for traffic. Other airplanes might also have entered at that 500-to-1,000-foot-above-pattern height at the same time, their pilots trying to read the windsock rather than scanning the sky. Being above them helps me see them first, if they're around, and keep clear of them. Once I've checked out the lay of the land I can spiral down into a 45-degree entry into the pattern.

"When I fly the pattern," says Mark Stern, "I try to make a habit of checking the opposite, non-pattern side of the field, for bozos that don't belong there. Actually, some airports use the opposite pattern for helicopter ops, so it's worth bearing in mind."

We all know that in the pattern hearing pilots tend to let the radio lull them into indifference. If they can't hear anybody, they figure nobody's around, and don't bother to look for traffic other than a cursory glance out the window. (Sometimes there's so much chatter from airports on the same frequency that they tune out transmissions they really ought to catch.) It's up to us to spot the other guy in the air-and on the ground.

Not long ago I was on final for Runway 03 at Westosha, my home airport in Wisconsin, full flaps extended on my 1959 Cessna 150, when I saw a Cessna 152 running up on the ramp just a couple of hundred feet from the threshold. "A student pilot, I bet," I told myself. Calling my presence on final with the radio, I kept an eye on the other aircraft, remembering that when I had been a freshly minted private pilot I'd once pulled onto the runway without really looking for incoming traffic, right into the path of another plane. My instructor was aboard it. "Thanks for the go-round practice, Henry," was all he said later, through clenched teeth.

Sure enough, despite my radio call, that 152 pulled out on the runway just before I crossed the threshold-but I was ready for it, and ready for the ensuing experience of going around with everything hanging out. And when I finally landed and got back to the pilot lounge, I discovered that a CFI (not mine) had been in that airplane with a student.

It was not that close a call, just a good lesson in defensive flying: Always expect the other pilot to be careless, and be ready to deal with it. This is another way of saying, "Stay ahead of the airplane-the other one as well as your own."

On the ground, too. I learned that lesson one day in Jacksonville, Illinois, after a visit with Clyde Smith. On the way out to my plane I saw a middle-aged student pilot in a Piper Tomahawk consulting his chart, no doubt for a solo cross-country. I gave him a cheerful wave and he waved back at me.

The windsock was limp. That meant taking off on the published calm-wind runway, 31-and I noticed that the wind tee was pointing down 31 as well. After doing the runup near the threshold of 31, I noticed that the Piper was nowhere in sight, and assumed that the student pilot had already taken off ahead of me. I keyed the mike and announced my departure.

It so happens that at Jacksonville there is a hump in the center of Runway 13-31 where the cross turf runway, 14-22, bisects it. The hump is so pronounced that a pilot in an airplane at the threshold of 31 cannot see an airplane down at the other end of the runway, and vice versa. You guessed it-as soon as my airplane had lifted ten feet off 31, the Piper emerged at the other end of the runway, starting its takeoff roll on 13 right toward me.

I held my course, for I knew that I'd clear the other fellow by 75 feet or more while it was still rolling, long before its wheels left the runway. And just before my plane flashed over the Piper, the other pilot's eyes widened in horror and his jaw dropped as he spotted me, hit his brakes-hard-and fishtailed to a stop.

I'd done all the right things. I'd asked the FBO clerk which was the calm-wind runway, and broadcast my intentions on the radio before taking off. But I'd made two false assumptions-first, that the other pilot would follow normal no-wind practice and use Runway 31, and, second, that he would hear and understand my broadcast. What I should have done was ask the pilot while we were still on the ground what runway he planned to use-and kept a weather eye on him and all the other planes on the ground while I taxied out to the runway. I wasn't thinking ahead. I had been lucky.

By the way, neither the most commonly used airport diagrams of Jacksonville-those in Flight Guide and the AOPA Airport Directory-mention the hump in 13-31. Also, there's a typographical error in the text of current [Revision 93, November 1999] Flight Guide diagram, reproduced here, that could confuse anyone looking for the calm-wind runway. Take a look at it:

Can you spot the error in the text of this Flight Guide diagram of Jacksonville Airport?

This is why we are told to trust only official FAA sources, such as airport directories or Flight Service Station briefers.

What about those broadcasts on the radio? Deaf or hard of hearing pilots whose speech is reasonably intelligible can, if they wish, announce their intentions in the pattern. And even if their understandability is borderline, as mine is, it's not going to hurt anything and maybe will help. Sure, not everybody will understand, but some may-and those few could make the difference between a nice day in the air and a bad one.

Each time I enter the pattern I key the mike and say, "Westosha traffic, Cessna five eight five niner Echo entering downwind for Runway so-and-so. Pilot is hearing impaired, cannot receive. Westosha." I used to say "deaf," but the four distinct syllables of "hear-ing im-paired" are much more likely to catch the attention of other pilots than the soft single syllable of "deaf."

Of course, deaf pilots who choose to speak on the radio need to be sure they're not "stepping on" anyone else's transmission. This can be avoided by means of a battery-powered homemade radio level meter constructed with a few dollars' worth of Radio Shack parts. This little device can be stuck atop the glare shield and plugged into the headphone socket. If someone's speaking on the radio frequency, a light-emitting diode on the device will flash. When the diode is dark, the pilot can speak into the mike with assurance that the broadcast won't interfere with another. (A few years ago the IDPA Newsletter published plans and a parts list for such a device, and I'll be happy to send a copy of the plans to any deaf pilot who mails me a stamped, self-addressed legal size envelope.)

Is it really a good idea to let hearing aviators know-either by radio or in person-that a deaf pilot is in the vicinity? Yes, one of the "blessings" of deafness is that it's not readily visible to others. Keeping silent about it might avoid an unpleasant confrontation with an arrogant skygod who doesn't want to share his airspace with anybody who can't hear him on the radio. That has happened to me, but only a couple of times.

Far more often, in my experience, other pilots seem to be genuinely interested in the phenomenon of deaf aviators. Telling them about us often is a good way of breaking the ice at a new airport, especially with old-timers who take an interest in anything unusual. I've taken to carrying in my plane a few copies of "To Fly: An Initial Guide for Deaf Pilots and Their Instructors," a joint FAA/IDPA brochure published last year (they're available from Clyde Smith). I also carry a small stack of copies of Mark Stern's excellent Frequently Asked Questions article, "So, How Can You Fly? A FAQ List to Hand Out," published in the Summer 1999 IDPA Newsletter.

Handing these out while visiting new airports is not only a good way to give hearing pilots a heads-up that a deaf pilot is in the area, but also serves to carry the news of our organization to the outside world.

Several times, while leaving a busy fly-in at an uncontrolled airport, I've asked the unofficial "controllers" to announce on their radios that a deaf pilot is departing and that he cannot receive transmissions, just to alert other pilots in the vicinity. They're always happy to do so. I do the same before taking off from other airports where there's an unusual amount of traffic, stopping by the FBO to ask the clerk to announce my presence as a heads-up to the others. If you're shy about being identified as deaf or hard of hearing, you can always ask the FBO to announce simply that no-radio traffic is departing.

This trick is particularly useful at airports with cross runways-in the Midwest most small airports have at least a turf cross runway, used principally by classic taildraggers, and the bigger ones will have hard-surfaced cross runways. Those can be perilous if incoming and outgoing pilots aren't paying enough visual attention to traffic.

Finally, another good survival technique is to make our airplanes more visible to other pilots. While enroute, Mark Stern says, "when I see oncoming traffic in the air but not exactly converging on me (e.g., going up the valley while I'm going down the same), I rock my wings just to call attention, even though a collision course is not imminent. Sometimes they return the favor in acknowledgment."

Another way to make ourselves more visible is to use our landing lights, both while taxiing and, in the air, starting about five miles out from the pattern. Instead of doing gentle turns from downwind to base and base to final, we could keep our speed up a little and bank sharply so that our planes' broad wings will be visible on the ground and to other aircraft in the pattern. Airplanes are not easy to see from head on, especially if the sun is behind them.

In the pattern and on the ground, we can use our flashing beacons as well-but carefully. Many pilots consider the use of a strobe flasher while taxiing at dusk or at night an eye-dazzling breach of courtesy. "I've had my share of being blinded by adjacent aircraft that won't defer their strobe lights until they actually hold short for departure," Mark Stern says. That's a good point. But there may be occasions in which a quick flick of the strobe light switch may be appropriate to help another pilot on the ground know that you're around.

Soon my 150 will sport a device called a Pulselite to flash my landing and taxi lights alternately to make me even more visible (see the next article). Not only do I want to see, I want to be seen.

In the unforgettable words of that "Hill Street Blues" police sergeant, "Let's be careful out there."