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I earned my Navy Wings in December 1968 and was sent back to the training command as an instrument flight instructor in the T-28 at NAS Whiting Field. One day, I was on a training flight with a new student when we got a Return To Base (RTB) call due to bad weather moving in.
I earned my Navy Wings in December 1968 and was sent back to the training command as an instrument flight instructor in the T-28 at NAS Whiting Field.
I turned back and entered the holding pattern over the VOR where the approach to Whiting Field began. We were IFR, and my student was loving it—it was the first time he’d seen the inside of a cloud.
As each airplane ahead of me began their approach, I descended in the holding pattern. Two pilots landed successfully. The third one saw the runway but couldn’t land. The guy just ahead of me couldn’t get in either.
I crossed the VOR, turned to the final approach course, lowered the landing gear and flaps, adjusted power, prop, and mixture, started the clock, and began descending toward the MDA. That’s when the tower called: weather had dropped below minimums. I was cleared to continue, but the chances of getting in were slim.
I checked the course deviation indicator for the straight-in approach—but the needle didn’t make sense. I looked at the nav frequency: correct. Heading: correct. Why wasn’t it lining up?
Then it hit me—I had transferred control of the navigation radios to the rear cockpit during the previous flight. The switch was still set to the back seat. It was the last switch on the right console, about a foot behind me. I could’ve flipped it by feel, but for some reason I turned around to look at it before switching it back to the front seat. Problem solved. The needle centered. I was on course.
I still wasn’t optimistic. The previous pilot couldn’t see anything, and conditions weren’t improving. But I continued. As always, I glanced at the approach plate on my kneeboard to double-check the MDA and time to the missed approach point. But I couldn’t find it.
That was strange. I looked again. Still nothing—just fuzzy words. Not only could I not read the MDA, I couldn’t remember what it was. I looked at the altimeter: a round gauge, a needle moving counterclockwise, and unreadable numbers. Same with the airspeed indicator—just a blur of symbols. That’s when I felt it: a deep, unsettling panic.
Turning around to flip that switch must’ve triggered something. I remembered our flight physiology training—this had to be vertigo. But I’d never heard of vertigo causing everything to go fuzzy like this. I focused on the attitude gyro. Wings level. Thank God. At least that was steady. I looked at the engine instruments. Also blurry. The airspeed needle looked about right, but I couldn’t read the actual numbers.
I considered calling a missed approach. But how could I safely fly it? If the controller told me to climb to 8,000 feet and turn to 300°, how was I supposed to comply if I couldn’t read the altimeter or the RMI? I feared that turning aggressively might cause a complete loss of control. I thought about handing the controls to my student—but this was his first instrument training flight. He had maybe 20 minutes of hood time. I couldn’t expect him to fly a missed approach, and if he lost control, I probably couldn’t recover. Maybe I could ask him to read the approach plate and tell me when to level off? But this was basic instrument training. He wouldn’t even have the plate out.
I was trapped—panicked. Continuing the approach was extremely dangerous, but so was going missed. I was frozen between two bad choices.
Finally, I made the call: I had to climb out of there. I began adding power and preparing to go missed. That’s when the clouds started to darken. Earth was below me. Trees—wait, trees! I could see pinecones at my two o’clock. Then grass. And a second later—approach lights. Then the runway. Right in front of me. Beautiful. I was still at 120 knots. I dropped full flaps, extended the speed brake, and touched down halfway down the runway.
I had almost hit the trees. I had almost killed us both because I got disoriented—because I was panicked. And because I couldn’t read the instruments.
As I taxied in, everything returned to normal. I glanced at the airspeed indicator—it made sense again. So did the altimeter. So did everything else. My vision had cleared.
Thankfully, my student couldn’t see straight ahead from the back seat. We were at least 400 feet below the MDA. That’s how people die. I told him, as calmly as I could, “At the MDA, I could see straight ahead for some distance, like we were in a tunnel. The clouds were moving around a lot.”
It was partially true—I did see the grass and the runway.
Had we crashed, it would have been a textbook investigation: Pilot in command descended below minimums and impacted terrain. Both pilots suffered fatal injuries.
When ground control asked when I picked up the runway, I said, “Right at minimums. Got lucky—the fog parted.” What else could I say?
Standard vertigo can be managed. We’re trained for that. But when your eyes stop working—when you literally can’t read your instruments—that’s a whole different threat.
I thought about telling the flight surgeon. But what would they do? Take me offline? Send me to NAMI? Run every test they could think of?
In the end, I kept it to myself. I was apprehensive the next time I flew an approach. But it went fine. So did every one after that.
In 1974, he returned to his hometown of Fresno, California, and began a career in agricultural aviation. In 1987, he was hired by WestAir Airlines, flying the J-31 Jetstream, and nine years later joined SkyWest Airlines to fly the EMB-120 Brasilia. He also served as Flight Standards Manager at SkyWest headquarters and retired in 2018.
- I Almost Hit the Trees: A Lesson in IFR Vertigo - June 23, 2025
WHEW! THAT was a hair raising experience! I experienced something similar, but mine was on takeoff. I was leading a 4-ship of F-16s out of MacDill AFB going to the gunnery range. As we were carrying practice bombs, we took 20 second spacing between each aircraft (a safety procedure when carrying any ‘droppable’ weapons). At the departure end, I was turning right to our departure heading and still accelerating in full afterburner when I looked back to check the progress of my trailing flight members. That’s when I punched into the clouds, about 600-700 AGL I quickly turned my head back to the front to ‘get on the instruments’ and it felt like I had just done a backflip in my ejection seat — ‘heels over head!’ I checked that I was wings level, reached for the autopilot switch, and flipped it to ‘Attitude Hold’ so my jet would continue its climb in a wings-level attitude. After a terrifying few seconds (that seemed like minutes!), I punched out the top of the weather and my internal gyros instantly erected and I flipped off the autopilot. That was a terrifying few seconds, and I was grateful that the Air Force had seen fit to equip the F-16 with that autopilot switch.
Firstly, congratulations on surviving that incident.
That is really strange. It does not sound at all like a vestibular problem. I realize this was 60 years ago so the recollection of symptoms may not be completely accurate. But able to see things like the pointers but not read the numbers? It seems like it must have been some problem with the eye focusing.
You want a dose of vertigo,and not a whole lot of altitude nor time to recover, Night flying a chopper, black as can be, rotating beacon and little time to recover or hand off controls. Ya gotta kill the beacon quickly. Ask Michael Jordans last pilot. Anticipation of the issue, especially with two pilots, is highly recommended.