Around the Patch

It’s funny because it’s true. That little low-fuel light comes on and many of us keep driving past the gas station, convinced we’ve got another 10, 20, or even 50 miles before we’re on fumes.

It’s not so funny when you consider how many general aviation pilots run tanks dry and land short of an airport. The most recent Joseph T. Nall Report from the AOPA Air Safety Institute found that, in 2018—the latest year for which accident data is available—there were 56 accidents attributable to fuel mismanagement. Seven of these were fatal.

When it comes to aviation safety, I subscribe to a couple of theories. One is John and Martha King’s assertion that flight is inherently a risky activity, but those risks can be reduced if they’re managed. One of the ways I manage risk in flying is not flying at night. Many pilots love flying at night because of the smooth air and quiet radio frequencies. For me, it’s about poor night vision; the possibility of engine failure at night when suitable landing spots aren’t as easily spotted; and the remote yet distinct possibility of encountering clouds. The pleasures of night flying are just not worth the risk for me.

For fuel management, I belong to the “you only have too much fuel if you’re on fire” school of thought. The FAA requirement that you plan to land with at least 30 minutes fuel on board during daytime VFR is, to me, laughable. I make that reserve an hour, because you just never know. Filling up before every flight is a simple thing to remember during preflight, and it makes fuel management a non-issue if you don’t have to take weight and balance into account.

Still, I recall the one or two occasions when I thought I might have a fuel emergency. In one instance, I flew a friend to an Eastern Shore airport for lunch, intending to fill up at the destination. The airport did not normally sell fuel but, because a large group of pilots were expected, they promised to have some available. Guess what? They did not. The airplane I flew had enough to get us to another airport, but I sweated the whole time—and we were flying over water for much of it, which didn’t help. And I felt bad that I had put my friend—also a pilot—in that situation.

The sick feeling in my stomach, the fixation on the fuel gauges—these memories have stuck with me, and whenever I am even slightly tempted to make an assumption on the amount of fuel in the airplane’s tanks, I am drawn back to that day. And I head to the fuel pump or call up the FBO, because I never want to be in that situation again. Ever hear someone say, “How would it read in the NTSB report?” It’s like that.

Tankering fuel isn’t possible for everyone. In the Idaho backcountry, extra fuel is extra weight, and extra weight is a liability, particularly on a high density altitude day. Some flying clubs and partnerships request pilots not fill fuel tanks upon completing a flight, because the next person scheduled to fly the airplane might not want it at full gross weight.

If fuel remains a consideration—say you want to fly three friends for lunch, and you can’t fill up the tanks and make it work—consider flying those three friends to lunch at a nearby airport with a working fuel pump. (Check those notams!) Refill as you can.

You can know your car, and you can know your airplane. But until they start building avgas stations in the sky, please do yourself and everyone else a favor and tanker that fuel when possible.