Pilot Confessions: Caught In a Nighttime Thunderstorm

There are 30,000-plus thunderstorms on the face of the earth every day. That is a shockingly large but factual number. Thunderstorms are easy to find on most of our planet. So, if you are a pilot, you’ll get to make some decisions about circumnavigating and avoiding them. If it hasn’t happened already, you will have to decide how close to get to a thunderstorm in the future.

Alarmingly, accident records show that pilots choose to fly into thunderstorms with far too much frequency, and many of those airplanes don’t come out the other side in one piece. A thunderstorm is a deadly cocktail with all the nasty ingredients required for a fatality, and any one of those ingredients can take you out of the sky.

Lightning, hail, wind shear, icing and convection exist in every thunderstorm.

So, how did I find myself in the throes of a large thunderstorm complex at night? How did a (then) 12,000-plus hour aviator, CFI, and examiner make such a decision? Well, I didn’t wake up that morning with suicidal thoughts, but I did wake up with a strong desire to get home. Usually, that is all that is needed to start the accident chain in aviation.

Get-Home-Itis
I woke up in Louisville, Kentucky, and started the day training with a client in his Piper Mirage. This was the last day of a five-day trip and I was ready to go home. So, when the proverbial quit-work whistle blew at 5 p.m., I already had the tie-down ropes off and the chocks removed from my Cessna 310. The problem was a huge weather system that stretched from the Great Lakes deep into the Gulf of Mexico. This was a cold front with a line of thunderstorms at the frontal boundary and a bunch of disorganized cells further ahead on the warm (east) side of the front.

I planned to fly as far southwest as possible, choose an airport to land, let the storm pass, and hope the front moved quickly so I could resume my flight back home that evening after the frontal passage. I flew around a bunch of unorganized and small storms on my first leg, landing in Memphis for fuel. Nighttime was beginning to overtake the day, and the vast storms out west blocked the setting sun.

I had no onboard radar, but I did have ADSB radar images on my iPad with a Garmin 345R transponder providing the Bluetooth signal. I continued southwest bound but began to be pushed further south by another line of thunderstorms. Here’s where my judgment failed me. The main line of storms associated with the cold front was well to my west, but several lines of cells formed all around. At this point, I should have landed at the next viable airport.

But I didn’t. I thought, “If I can just round that next cell, I’ll have a clear shot for another 200 nm.” So, I descended to 4,500 feet to ensure sight of the rain shafts and avoid any big cells. The gathering darkness was my enemy, but I still had enough light to avoid the convection. I felt safe, but that feeling was an illusion created by my best hopes. We all need hope, but hope is a poor plan.

Developing Problems
As I rounded the cell, the way west looked convection free on my iPad, but the darkness was growing. Soon, I was in total darkness and flying at 4,500 feet to stay clear of the clouds. The clouds at my altitude began to increase, and I descended further to remain VFR. I dared not go IFR because I could not risk an embedded thunderstorm, but now it was dark. Everything was effectively “embedded” because I could not see the rain shafts. I was talking with ATC, and they were doing their best to guide me to a rain-free area, but the storms were growing and rain-free areas were not present. I diverted right then left. I wanted to make it to Shreveport but soon determined that I could not make it there due to the growing cells.

Then, I lost the ability to talk with ATC. I was simply too low in too remote of an area. So, I made the only choice that I could after looking at ADSB weather images on my iPad. I guessed as to where the thunderstorms were the weakest. All I could do was guess.

In the old days, we would turn on the ADF to a low frequency and the needle would divert towards a lightning strike. I tried that, but it worked about as well as you would think. The needle was just jumping all over the place. Not able to talk to ATC, not able to see the weather, not able to do anything other than hope, I hit direct-to in the GPS to Many, Louisiana (3R4).

Now, I had done no prior planning and knew nothing about Many before diverting there. I did not know if they had a courtesy car, hotels, maintenance availability, or if I could even get in the front door of the FBO. I just knew there was a long hunk of asphalt and some runway lights, and that was good enough.

I turned the Cessna 310 to Many, held as close to 2,500 feet as I could, and flew as straight a line as possible. Rain pelted the airplane and lightning struck all around me. It was remarkably smooth, but I had no doubts that incredible turbulence awaited me if I were to bumble into a column of convection that surely lurked in the darkness. I felt like the only fool in the zoo, with all the cages left open and all the animals present. I slowed to about 10 knots below Va and said the “prayer of resignation.”

I’ve heard it said, “There are no atheists in a foxhole,” and I was certainly no atheist at this point. I had made a complete mess of things and gotten to the point of resignation. The prayer of resignation is the nondescript prayer made by the fool who finds himself in a situation that could be deadly but for which they have no control. Fate, luck or divine intervention is the decider of the outcome, not skill or experience. Resignation comes when you decide you got where you are because of your own decisions, and you simply cannot do anything else to steer your fate. You turn over everything to someone else.

If I flew into convection, I’d probably perish. If I flew into a microburst or downdraft, I’d probably not be able to outclimb the downdraft. The night was pitch-dark except for the house lights and occasional road light. This was rural Louisiana. Below me was assuredly nothing but super tall pine trees. I’d lost control of the situation. Whether I hit convection or not was out of my control. I could only keep the nose pointed at Many and hope.

Glorious Lights
I was hunkering in the cockpit; my core muscles were tight, and my grasp on the yoke was tighter. I was bracing for the worst. But, the worst did not happen. After about 10 minutes of flying through the driving rain, I saw the rain-dimmed, blurry and glorious lights of the city of Many and hoped the runway lights would soon come into view. The runway lights did come into view, and I made one of the happiest landings I’ve ever made. I was on the ground with no bent metal.

I taxied to the tie-down spots and paused for a short while before opening the door to sideways, heavy rain. Within seconds I was completely drenched. The tie-down ropes were gone (of course), and no chocks to be found. So, I jumped back in the Cessna 310 and set the parking brake. I grabbed my suitcase and ran to the FBO. Lightning flashed all around, and I used the light from the lightning to find my way to the FBO door across the pitch-dark ramp.

Thankfully, the door was unlocked, and I began the process of realizing how wet I was in a dry place. I called hotels, rental car options and taxi services. There were no hotels with availability, no rental car options and no taxi services. And, you guessed it, Uber was not available. So, I looked to the couch against the wall and realized that would be my “home” for the night.

I watched the radar app on my phone throughout the evening, and there was no break in the weather. It rained hard for the next six hours with no letup at all. I bet Many got 4 to 6 inches of rain that night, and the lightning show was incredible. I sat on the couch, laid on it, and then tossed and turned all night with broken springs and lumps galore.

But, I had survived the flight and survived the night. While the amenities of the airport are few, the simple fact that they have an airport and an unlocked building was marvelous. I have much appreciation for the Many Airport.

The Takeaways
We have a law in the military called “the law of the 6 P’s.” It is no actual law but rather a guideline, strong advice or just wisdom. But, it is totally applicable to my situation. The Law of the 6 P’s is “Piss Poor Planning Produces Poor Performance.” My planning on this trip qualified. Not only was my planning poor, but my decision-making was too. I should have stopped for the night in Memphis and gone to see the ducks at the Peabody Hotel. But, no – I had to get home. I had to push the limits. I had to fly until I had “no outs.” No outs is what flying in an area of convection will provide you.

The FAA has produced really good wisdom concerning flying near thunderstorms. The FAA’s advice is “avoid a thunderstorm by 20 miles.” That’s about as succint advice as could be given. You can avoid a thunderstorm by 20 miles if you simply decide you’ll never get closer. If you are a pilot with a regular case of “get-home-itis,” you have to set limits.

Decide today that you will not fly within 20 miles of a thunderstorm. Decide today that you will not get to a place where you have no outs nor where you are not the master of your airplane. I hope my confession helps you decide NOT to choose the path I chose. I dodged a bullet. Not because I was a good pilot, but because I was a lucky and blessed one.