Managing risk

Recently, I got to check that one off my lifetime to-do list, or so I initially thought. The lesson that day, it turned out later, was about risk management and aeronautical decision making, and not about an actual emergency like an engine failure.

I’d planned a day trip to an airport about an hour away. The outbound flight was beautiful; sun above, some puffy clouds below, smooth air, comfortable temperatures. I landed at my destination airfield with a 13-knot crosswind and patted myself on the back for my skill in putting it down. Lunch was lovely. But then things took a turn.

All seemed well during my runup, and I was relieved to see I’d be departing into a quartering headwind. I configured for a short-field takeoff and expected my sprightly Cessna Skyhawk to jump into the air well before the midpoint of the 3,300-foot-long runway.

The takeoff roll seemed long, perhaps because of the shifting conditions, but all engine parameters were in the green. I did not climb at the rate and speed I was accustomed to in this aircraft. I retracted the flaps earlier than I would have normally—to reduce drag and (I hoped) improve performance. But at full-throttle my speed dipped, and the tachometer showed just 2,200 rpm. That final data point convinced me to turn back toward the field I’d just left and land. All of this happened in the space of maybe 35 seconds.

I hesitated to call what I experienced a “partial engine failure.” But with what appeared to me as an engine not running optimally, I didn’t know how else to label it.

And, because I’m human, as soon as I landed, the second-guessing began.

I knew that a partial engine failure is insidious, and arguably even more dangerous than a total engine failure. Why? Because it messes with your confidence and makes you doubt your aeronautical decision making. When your engine quits completely, you know it, and you act accordingly. When something only “looks funny,” or “isn’t quite where it should be,” or “maybe not right,” the tendency is to say: “Hopefully it will sort itself out” and, “It will probably be OK.”

If you do make the choice to abandon the mission like I did, you’ll probably replay the sequence in your mind repeatedly. Was there really a problem? Did I see what I saw? Was it a wind thing? A broken sensor? A loose wire? What else could it have been? Am I overthinking this?

And the most psychologically corrosive question of all: If an inspection shows nothing wrong with the engine, will anyone believe me?

Far too many NTSB reports about aviation accidents read like thrillers. Often, in hindsight, a fatal event unfolds in an obvious way, leading one to wonder, “What was that pilot thinking?” Indications of a partial engine failure should be treated as an emergency. As a CFI friend reminded me afterward, “There have been plenty of GA accidents where the engine quit but when they reconstruct it, it runs fine.”

A mechanic went to look at the aircraft a few days later. Next to my “possible partial engine failure…?” note he wrote: “unable to verify issue.” He did say, however, that the tachometer might be inaccurate, and sent it for overhaul.

After discussing the incident with other pilots more experienced than I, we concluded that I had probably encountered low-level windshear (thus the speed anomaly) while climbing out of an unfamiliar airport (thus my desire to gain altitude quickly) and was surprised by a faulty tachometer (that, I found out later, already had a history). All of them told me that the choice I made—to land and ask for help—was sound. That’s risk management in action. It asks you to make a safe, conservative decision before you need to prove that something is truly wrong.

And how do you make that decision? Before takeoff, internalize what “normal” looks like for your airplane. That includes expected rpm, acceleration, climb rate, and airspeed. Brief yourself—say it out loud—on what you will do if the airplane does not perform as you expect. Treat partial power, questionable indications, or abnormal performance as seriously as a total, confirmed engine failure. And once you are safely on the ground, resist the urge to talk yourself into continuing simply because the problem—and therefore the possible answer—is unclear.

There is also a human-factors lesson here. Pilots do not just manage aircraft systems; we manage our pride, inconvenience, doubt, and the fear of overreacting. Those self-imposed pressures are real, and they can push us toward continuing when stopping would be the better choice. A precautionary landing, a call to maintenance, or an interrupted trip may feel frustrating in the moment, but those are far better outcomes than pressing on with an airplane you no longer trust.

It would have been way more convenient for everyone if this had happened at my home airport, and I still feel guilty for stranding the aircraft 100 miles away and raising an alarm on that beautiful Saturday. But flying back was just not a gamble I was willing to take at that moment.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” my friend said. “You did the right thing.”

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