Air Safety — The Case of the Talkative Passenger

Our ETD Narrandera was a gentlemanly 1000 hours local time and with the distance to be flown an even 210nm (390km), my flight plan indicated that I should be setting my passengers down at Wollongong’s Albion Park airport just after 1130 hours.

The passengers, when I landed to pick them up after a positioning flight of a little over half an hour, proved to be typical, moderately prosperous, middle aged, country businessmen, obviously with plenty of get up and go. One of them seemed quite a character, an old school type of the sort not infrequently encountered in the pastoral areas of NSW – well groomed, neatly trimmed moustache, smart Harris tweed jacket with moleskins, and a clipped pukka accent to go with it all.

I suddenly became conscious of a twin-engined Cessna 402 almost directly in front of us, climbing through our altitude on an easterly (reciprocal) heading! It wasfrighteningly close and growing bigger by the split second!

He asked if he could occupy the right hand control seat, and sure enough, as I was preparing to start the engines, he informed me he held a private pilot licence! I had a spare headset in the aircraft which I offered to him, and he lost no time in putting it on and plugging into the jacks on his side of the aircraft. (In retrospect, I wonder if my consideration for his interest was wise!) A few minutes later, as we were taxying out, he went on to tell me he had logged some 200 hours in single engined aircraft.

After we had taken off and were climbing on track to cruising level, he asked me if he could borrow my WAC charts. I already had the Canberra and Sydney charts down by the side of my seat, so I handed them to him. Settling the relevant chart on his knee, he began to follow our progress avidly, alternately looking out of the aircraft, then checking the features on the chart to identify our position. As if to prove his navigational prowess too, he would frequently point out landmarks to me, commenting on various aspects of the flight and the country we were passing over.

In addition, as we continued eastwards over Cootamundra towards the Great Dividing Range, almost my every adjustment of the engine power settings or the directional gyro, every change in radio frequency or retuning of navaids, became an opportunity for further questions and discussion on the technique of flying twin engined aircraft in charter operations.

I certainly didn’t mind at first. The day was glorious, the winter landscape, with its vast carpet of green stretching to every horizon, was magnificent, and there was not a hint of turbulence to mar such perfect flying conditions. In fact I thought it pleasant to have informed and intelligent company on a flight over familiar country on a day which demanded so little in terms of concentration.

But after a time, my ‘copilot’s’ incessant, demanding talk became a little wearing, and I found it increasingly difficult to maintain my usual level of alertness and keep my mind on what I was doing. Fortunately there was little other traffic in the vicinity at our cruising level, and 70 minutes after departure, with Moss Vale now in sight ahead in the distance, we commenced a delightfully scenic descent into Wollongong, landing on Runway 34 right on 1140 hours.

My passengers had a car and driver waiting for them by the aero club, and left promptly for their appointment in Port Kembla, telling me just before they drove off that they would be back sometime in the afternoon, but were not sure when. There was no pressure – the Aztec was fully IFR and the weather forecast certainly held no terrors.

So I reconciled myself to a long wait on the ground at Albion Park – the occupational bane of most charter pilots, I suppose. I went for a stroll, bought a sandwich and ate it, and after lunch refuelled the aircraft and wiped down the engine cowlings. Then, settling myself as comfortably as I could in the aero club building, I reviewed my flight plan for the return flight, and refamiliarised myself with some recent AICs that I had brought with me in my flight bag.

In the event, my passengers turned up much earlier than I expected them – soon after 3pm. Apparently their negotiations had gone exceptionally well, for they were all in high spirits. Even with our slower ground speed because we would be punching into a headwind, it now meant that we should be back on the ground at Narrandera before dark – another ‘piece of cake’ as far as the flight was concerned.

We all boarded the Aztec again, my loquacious friend once more eagerly taking his place in the right hand seat and clamping on his headset, and by 1530 hours we were climbing smoothly above Macquarie Pass, on track for Moss Vale, Cootamundra, and in due course, Narrandera.

Although the weather remained as fine and clear as in the morning, with the sun now in the western sky, the glare in our faces on our westerly heading would be making seeing conditions progressively less pleasant as the flight continued.

But this did not deter my ‘copilot’, and it wasn’t long before he resumed his spirited running commentary on the flight, with frequent further questions and remarks. As before, I answered in the same vein at first, but after a while I tired of continually having to respond to statements of the obvious, and was becoming increasingly irritated by his incessant stream of words.

Even so, all too conscious of the fact that he and his colleagues were customers, I did not want give offence. So as far as I could do so without being rude, I eventually adopted the ploy of merely nodding to acknowledge what he was saying, rather than answering him verbally. I also thought that he might finally take the hint that we had done enough talking for one day!

In this I was sadly mistaken, for my lack of response seemed not to make the slightest difference to his enthusiasm. Finally, by the time we’d passed Cootamundra, now with the westering sun blazing directly into my eyes, I’d had it with him, and it was only with great difficulty that I restrained myself from telling him in no uncertain terms to shut up.

Yet I knew this agitation and suppressed anger on my part would do nothing for my state of mind as pilot in command – and that I would have to be on my guard to ensure these emotions did not affect my concentration and judgement.

A few minutes after overflying Junee, I eased the Aztec into a shallow descent, calculated to bring us down to 2000ft on QNH over Narrandera for a normal circuit entry on crosswind leg and visual approach to Runway 32. The manoeuvre was of course the signal for a further stream of comment from my garrulous passenger in the right hand seat.

It is always my practice when approaching an airfield to maintain a listening watch and of course, a careful lookout. Whether it was my state of mind, my complacent familiarity with the area, the intense, blinding glare of the sun, now close to the western horizon, or the continual diverting interruptions of my ‘copilot’, I do not know – in retrospect it was probably a combination of all these factors.

Whatever the reason, I obviously missed a critical departure call from another aircraft. For as I was about to transmit my “all stations” inbound call on the CTAF frequency, now descending through 4500ft (1400m) about 10nm (19km) east of the field, ### I Suddenly Became Conscious Of A Twin-Engined Cessna 402 Almost Directly In Front Of Us, Climbing Through Our Altitude On An Easterly (Reciprocal) Heading! ###

It Was Frighteningly Close And Growing Bigger By The Split Second!

At once I wrenched the Aztec into a turn, and only seconds later we flashed past the 402 with a few wingspans to spare. Whether the pilot of the other aircraft sighted us too, I do not know, but the near miss and the unexpected violence of the emergency manoeuvre certainly had a dramatic effect in the Aztec’s cabin! For the few remaining minutes of the flight and the subsequent uneventful approach and landing, there was a stunned silence from all on board.

After we had taxied in and shut down, my ‘copilot’ remained suitably chastened. He had the wit and the experience to realise that the constant diversion of his chatter had set the stage for a potential accident, diverting the attention of us both to the extent that we completely missed the taxiing and departing calls of the Cessna 402 on the ground at Narrandera. As we unloaded the passengers’ gear from the aircraft’s luggage compartment, he was man enough to say that the fault had been his. He also confessed he had learnt a lesson he wouldn’t quickly forget (that went for me too!), and offered his apologies.

The whole development of the incident was strikingly similar to one that I read about in the former DoT Aviation Safety Digest some years earlier, involving the pilot of a Beech Baron taking a party on a charter flight to a mine site in the northwest of Western Australia.

In that report, the pilot of the Baron pointed out that bus drivers have a sign near them that reads: “Do not talk to the driver whilst the bus is in motion”. He went on to suggest that a similar directive should be attached to the pilot’s seat in charter aircraft. “After all,” the writer pointed out, “its occupant ‘drives’ a somewhat more complex ‘bus’ – particularly when that ‘bus’ happens to be a multi engined aircraft operating in busy airspace!”

Clearly, in some combinations of circumstances, even a slight relaxation of airmanship can have the potential for perilous results.