I go out of my way to keep from lying to anyone but, as she was walking away, I knew I'd done just that. Without meaning to, I applied my definition of danger - and the risk it implies - to another person's life, and I was wrong for doing that.
The concept of risk and how to define it is probably one of the world's most subjective subjects. First, there are many different kinds of risk, many different kinds of danger. Some risk, some danger, is part of the package we call life, and we do what we can to control it. We can't avoid crossing streets, so one of the very first phrases our tiny mouths learn to repeat is "look both ways before crossing the street." We learn thousands of such admonitions and cautions during our lives, and we weave them into a fabric we call survival.
We quickly learn not to touch things that are hot. We figure out how high is too high to jump. We become smarter, if we're lucky. Anthropologists (or some other equally erudite professional) might call this "developed instincts." They become our guidelines that, if followed, allow us enjoy a normal life span.
Then comes a simple question - "Is it dangerous?"
If I were to be honest with my customer, I'd have said, "Darn right it's dangerous, lady! We're going to be several thousand feet in the air, held there by an engine that has thousands of explosions per minute going on inside it. The wings are held on by wires and bolts that I hope have no flaws. The wooden spars held together for the last flight, but I don't know whether termites have gnawed just a little too far since then. Then to top it all off, the skin is nothing more than painted handkerchief material."
Even though the stated risks are hyperbole, they are based on fact, so how could I, in all honesty, say it's not dangerous? The very concept of aviation is dangerous. Its fundamental goal is to get us high enough off the ground to bust our fragile little behinds.
Subliminally, we know all that. Why then, do we do it? Why do we willingly do something we know can fold, spindle, and mutilate us?
The concept of danger is open to definition, which itself can be subjective. We're willing to fly because, in our minds, the element of risk isn't so high that we can't manage it. We can control the risk to the point that it's a valid trade-off for the myriad pleasures and utilities flying gives us.
Many "normal" people think we pilots are missing some part of our thought apparatus because we take the basic risk of aviation. These same people, however, go to a job every day where they make decisions that affect thousands of people, involve millions of dollars, and generate so much stress their health is at risk.
Or they get in their car every morning and dive into the stream with thousands of other bleary eyed commuters. It never occurs to them that every time a two-ton chunk of metal driven by a complete stranger of unknown competency passes them going the other direction, they are no more than five feet from instant death.
Risk is very much like insanity - it's a matter of degree and definition.
What we've been hinting at here is an "acceptable level of risk" - something in life that we can manage down to minimum levels.
What then can be said of those who occasionally push the risk envelope? They drive too fast, fly too low, weave in and out of traffic, fly the canyons, and generally step outside the "accepted" level of risk.
When they endanger others on the ground or in the air, we call them idiots.
What we fail to call them is uncaring, inconsiderate, and so self-involved they have forgotten that all they are risking is their life. When it's gone, it's gone. What they are perfectly willing to ignore is that their life is not a free-standing existence. It doesn't hang out in space by itself, and then quietly disappear as darkness closes around it. Life isn't structured that way.
No life stands alone. Each one is part of a complex web of relationships, and those relationships are what make illogical risk-taking irresponsible. That kind of risk means a person might die, but dozens, hundreds of others will suffer, even to the far reaches of the relationship web.
Let's look at an example. You're a great pilot. One of the best. You know your airplane and what it will do. You're on a cross-country and home is only a hundred miles straight ahead. You know the territory, but the weather is getting worse - fast! You know a gossamer decision point to turn back hangs somewhere in front of you, but it's so vague that you probably won't know you've passed it until it's too late.
You take comfort from the road below. You know where it goes, so why not follow it? Why not? So you do. You've made the first decision. At that point you're mind is in the cockpit, staring at the map, checking it against the road. Yes, your hands are getting damp. Yes, your internal warning has gone off, but now home is only 80 miles away and getting closer.
The visibility drops and you crowd closer to the road. You're a good pilot. Your flying is superb. The ball is right in the middle. The road is a dark slash through the haze below. You know where you are. You think.
Home is only 60 miles away now. You've calculated all the possibilities. You just have to stay over the road. The weather gets worse. You fly lower. You know what you're doing.
Hey, wake up!
You have no idea what you're doing. Home is just ahead and you've completely forgotten what "home" means. You're so involved in the game of playing pilot that you've forgotten what's really at stake. You've made the ultimate, arrogant mistake of thinking that the only thing you're risking is your life. Well, partner, that's the cheapest, least valuable thing you're risking.
Losing your life is an easy and, many times, painless thing to do. It's a cheap ending to a glorious book, and when it happens as the result of improperly managing risk, it's also incredibly stupid. Much more than that, it is criminally cruel.
While you've been pushing to get home, your spouse, your kids, your parents, your friends have all been going about their lives. Somewhere ahead in the klag, however, is a house with a kitchen. A phone hangs on that kitchen wall. That's the phone she'll probably answer after they strain your wallet out of what was left of your trousers and find a phone number. The barely readable card clearly states, "In emergency, please call......" So, they call.
And she answers.
That, my friend, is the risk you're taking. Every time you decide to buzz a friend's house, push the weather, or do anything that pushes the risk factor outside acceptable limits, you're risking The Phone Call.
The thing you must remember while you're out playing hero is that The Phone Call won't hurt you a bit. If you're dead, your pain is over. If not, if you've squeezed through to spend months in a hospital bed, you're going to see your pain multiplied in every loved one's face, when they come to visit what's left of you.
Either way, the result of your risk-taking will touch others for a lifetime. When the risk has a negative outcome, it's a giant boulder tossed in the middle of a glassy pond. The waves where it enters the water are so huge they capsize and upset entire lives. Many of them can't manage a swell that big so they drown emotionally, never to recover. The ripples grow because there's no shore to stop them. They touch every one you've ever known, leaving a smudge of needless emotion on those you've left behind, regardless how far removed.
While you're looking down on that barely visible road, trying hard to see the hazy outline of hills ahead, try to think of some of the details your survivors must deal with. Someone will have to pick out your coffin. Is that something you want your loved-one to do? Or maybe your best friend would enjoy it more. Or maybe your father.
Your loved one will ask what kind of suit they need for you. Oh, a suit isn't needed, someone says. For the rest of her life, the image of what they wouldn't let her see inside the closed coffin will haunt her.
Am I shocking you? Am I making you mad? Are you saying I shouldn't be saying such negative things about something we all love so much? Why, may you ask, am I being such a worry-wart and playing on the horrible aspect of aviation?
Because too many of us have lost too many friends and loved ones. More than that, I want to hear myself saying these things out loud so I won't be tempted to push the envelope too far.
But what's "too far?" What is "acceptable?" This is another totally subjective concept. Aerobatic champion and air show performer Patty Wagstaff is a good friend of mine. Yesterday we were talking about her getting her head back into the game for the new air show season. She was working at building up her G tolerance and becoming "...comfortable 10 feet off the ground inverted..."
Is that acceptable risk? To her it is because that's what she's trained to do. Is my falling at the runway at many thousands of feet per minute in a bi-winged hockey puck - with a student at the controls - acceptable risk? To me it is, because that's what I've trained to do.
I wouldn't do what Patty does for anything. I don't fly low aerobatics. That's not part of my managed-risk profile. That takes me outside my comfort zone, which is defined by having been there, wherever "there" may be, and practicing it over and over.
I'm not sure Patty would do what I do, the way I do it, for the same reason. It's not her thing. We recognize certain risks and accept them. More important than that, we are controlling our risks. We've eliminated as much of the unknown as humanly possible through training and practice.
In failing weather, there's an element of unknown risk that we can't manage. The same thing is true if a pilot, on the spur of the moment, decides to buzz a house, even though he's never flown below 500 feet except to take off or land. The unknown element is huge - the risk is commensurate.
Risk, however, is part of expanding the envelope, of getting better at what we do. But it should always be part of a plan, part of a gentle probing of the gray edges of unknown territory, and the path back to safety should always be close and open.
Almost without exception, risk skyrockets when it isn't part of a planned and managed program. In much of life, when we do something impulsive and it backfires, we can look back and say, "Gee, it looked like a good idea at the time." Aviation doesn't give us that option, and the pilot isn't the one paying the highest price.
The highest price for unnecessary, unplanned risk-taking is paid by those closest to emotional ground-zero - wives, husbands, kids, parents, friends. These are the ones who pay for a pilot's momentary lapse of judgment. They are the one's who carry the scars the longest. And they are the ones who don't deserve it.
So the next time you start to do something and you feel your pulse racing and your palms getting damp, listen to your subconscious. It knows when you're about to do something stupid - something outside your normal risk envelope.
Then think about the phone on the kitchen wall and picture your wife/husband/kid/mother/father/friend taking The Phone Call. Isn't it better to just make a 180-degree turn and wait out the weather or forego the buzz job? No one will ever call you stupid for doing the right thing.
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