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Part I: A Practical Exercise in Saying “Unable”
I earned my private pilot certificate in 1988, but for many years, my flying was sporadic. Like many other pilots, life pulled me in different directions—career, family, priorities that demanded more time on the ground than in the air. That changed in 2010 when a major life shift allowed me to return to the cockpit with a renewed sense of purpose. Over the next twelve years, I earned an instrument rating, a commercial certificate, and a multi-engine rating. I logged more than 1,200 hours in a variety of airplanes and started flying regularly again.
By 2022, I had become a fairly active pilot. I frequently crisscrossed the country, flying solo in my Cessna 182 for family events, volunteer projects, and personal travel. That year alone, I made more than 20 long cross-country trips. One of them, routine at first, turned into a defining moment for me—not because of what happened in the air, but because of a decision I made on the ground.
By 2022, I frequently crisscrossed the country, flying solo in my Cessna 182 for family events, volunteer projects, and personal travel.
The mission was straightforward: fly from Southern California to South Carolina for a family event. The outbound trip was smooth and efficient—tailwinds nudged me along, I stopped in Knoxville to see family, and I arrived at my destination feeling satisfied and grateful. The event itself was meaningful and uplifting. After a few days, I planned to retrace my steps—stop again in Knoxville, then continue west toward home.
The flight from South Carolina to Knoxville went off without a hitch. More tailwinds, a fuel stop in Georgia, and a calm arrival. That evening, I checked the weather for the next leg. That’s when the tone of the trip changed.
An approaching system threatened to bring widespread low ceilings, embedded thunderstorms, and wind shear across much of the southern U.S. by Monday.
An approaching system threatened to bring widespread low ceilings, embedded thunderstorms, and wind shear across much of the southern U.S. by Monday. Sunday, however, looked marginally better—a narrowing window of opportunity, but a window nonetheless. If I didn’t leave early Sunday and make meaningful westward progress, I could be grounded for days. The pressure began to mount.
Like most pilots, I don’t like being stuck. I had responsibilities waiting for me at home. There were meetings scheduled, tasks to complete, routines to return to. The familiar tug of get-there-itis started creeping in. I found myself calculating, recalculating. Could I make it as far as Arkansas? Would a dogleg into Texas give me better options? How much risk was I managing, and how much was I creating?
I went to bed late Saturday night still undecided, but with growing doubt in my mind. I woke up Sunday and made the call: I wasn’t going.
That may not sound like much, but in the moment, it was one of the hardest decisions I’ve made as a pilot. The forecast wasn’t terrible. In fact, I could have justified flying. I had an instrument rating, an equipped airplane, and enough hours to make me feel capable. But that’s exactly what made the decision so important. I could go. But I shouldn’t.
I called my wife, my colleagues, and anyone else expecting me back. I explained the delay. I recalibrated my schedule. I made peace with staying put. Sure enough, Monday brought a wall of weather that confirmed my decision. By Tuesday, things cleared out and I made the flight home safely.
Why is it so hard to say “unable”? Maybe because we don’t practice it enough. We rehearse engine failures, missed approaches, and emergencies—but not this. Not the quiet, anti-dramatic moment when we simply decide not to go. And yet, this may be the most essential maneuver of all.
Here’s an idea: make it part of your training. Pick a beautiful day. Plan a full trip—file a flight plan, brief your family, load your gear. Then cancel it. Call your spouse and say, “I’m staying another night.” Not because you have to—but because you can. Practice saying “unable,” so when it really counts, it won’t be foreign or fraught. It will be familiar. It will be yours.
Part II: Reliability, Reconsidered
After sharing my story about delaying a return flight due to marginal weather, I know many fellow pilot will make this argument: “If you really have to be somewhere, just fly commercial or drive.”
It’s not a bad suggestion. But it deserves a closer look.
The assumption is that airline travel is more reliable than general aviation—and in some ways, that’s true. Airlines have dispatchers, turbine engines, and the ability to cruise above the weather. They have procedures and infrastructure that allow them to operate in conditions most GA pilots would never consider.
But that doesn’t always make them more dependable.
Commercial air travel introduces an entire network of potential failure points: maintenance delays, crew timing out, missed connections, cascading weather disruptions in faraway cities. You might board on time and still sit on the ramp for two hours. Or worse, have your flight canceled because the aircraft never left its last destination. I’ve had it happen more than once.
Commercial air travel introduces an entire network of potential failure points: maintenance delays, crew timing out, missed connections, cascading weather disruptions in faraway cities.
On a recent trip to Pittsburgh, my wife and I experienced this firsthand. Our return flight was canceled—not due to weather in Pittsburgh, but because of a system-wide delay upstream. We were rebooked, then delayed again. We spent the better part of 24 hours completing what should have been a 90-minute flight. I couldn’t help thinking: if we had flown our own airplane, we would’ve either made the trip or chosen not to go—but the decision would’ve been ours.
In my airplane, I am the source of reliability—or unreliability. The flight doesn’t leave without me. If I don’t like the weather, I don’t go.
That’s the difference. In my airplane, I am the source of reliability—or unreliability. The flight doesn’t leave without me. If I don’t like the weather, I don’t go. If I need to divert, I can. I choose my departure time. I build in margins. And most importantly, I have the authority—and practice—to say “no.”
It’s true that GA demands more of the pilot. You have to be proficient, honest, and disciplined. You have to know your limits and respect them. But when you do, GA offers a form of reliability rooted not in adherence to schedule, but in adaptability and control.
The irony is that the flexibility people often criticize in general aviation—the freedom to delay or divert or cancel—is exactly what makes it so dependable to me. It’s not about always getting there on time. It’s about never forcing a bad decision just to do so.
So when someone says, “You can’t count on general aviation,” I usually smile. I count on it precisely because I’ve learned to say “unable.” And because of that, I get where I’m going—not just safely, but confidently, and on my own terms.
- A Different Kind of Pilot Decision—Choosing Not to Fly - May 28, 2025
- Friday Photo: T-6 Low Pass at a Regional Fly-In - May 16, 2025
- Friday Photo: AirVenture Cup Race Fly-Over - April 18, 2025
Amen to everything you’ve described here. I try to go a bit further by cultivating a sense of feeling better about NOT proceeding, than actually doing the flight.
Thanks for the feedback. I just had a major change in flight plans yesterday. I’ve had major changes with all sorts of transportation. Just got to roll with the flow, and sometimes that just means stopping where you are.
While there is always a chance that a commercial flight will be delayed, the chance is far lower than a GA flight. One of the primary ways we avoid get-there-itis is to book a commercial flight for any planned GA flight with a hard date. For example, if I plan to fly our aircraft to get to a wedding I also book refundable tickets with the airline. If the weather looks iffy for a GA flight there’s no pressure to try–I already have tickets. If the commercial flight gets delayed then there really wasn’t anything I could have done about it anyway.
Thanks for the feedback. I wish I could say commercial travel was reliable for me. I must be a black cloud, but at least 50% of my airline flights have issues.
You learned the most important lesson by making the most important decision of all in having to do with aviation which is:
Knowing when to go and when it’s wiser not to. I was a flight instructor and one of the earliest things I would teach is “Flying is a fast way to get around IF you have the time.”
The most valuable survival tool you can carry is a credit card.
Well said! Thanks for saying it.
I always put life well ahead of any temporary goal. It’s far better to lose a moment in your life than to lose your life in a moment. If anyone is in a hurry to depart regardless, warn them about how a similar decision regardless of red flags has killed many a good flier and their passengers. If they persist, so be it. You’d have done what you had to. And the more you plan ahead the more you begin to perceive how things will look for you at making your go-no go decision.
Javier, thanks for the comment. While saving our life is always the most important, just the stress of trying to “force” something is uncomfortable. I’ve felt better emotionally after cancelling a flight, even if my “life” wouldn’t have been at risk.
Serrhel, I’ve come to your writing several times and always leave feeling kinship, and usually a little wiser. Peterson
Thanks for the feedback Peterson.
One of the first things my flight instructor told me when I started to fly–“Anyone can teach you to fly, I’m going to teach you when to stay on the ground.” That has stuck with me for 50 years.
Time to spare? Go by air!
Your statements are well founded, “GA offers a form of reliability rooted not in adherence to schedule, but in adaptability and control.” And, “The irony is that the flexibility people often criticize in general aviation—the freedom to delay or divert or cancel—is exactly what makes it so dependable to me.”
Go/no go weather (or possibilities of) often represents only a small geographic region located somewhere along the way on a cross country GA flight. Alternative plans to keep away from foul weather can be created while on the fly, in safe flight conditions.
Compared to long car trips, or using the scheduled airlines (includes driving to airport, parking, waiting at gate, possible delays, ground & flight times, destination transportation, etc.), all have potential for surprises, disappointments, and unplanned delay(s).
Flying yourself via GA towards the destination, landing shy of nasty weather, renting a car (or waiting), then finishing the trip after the foul weather moves on can often result in some interesting and unexpected fun related experiences.
GA flying, as you say, is “on my own terms”. Thanks for sharing.