I have a secret.

Well, like secrets in a Congressional Intelligence subcommittee, this one is probably known by several hundred people. But I haven’t written about it. Until now.

But first, the lead in. A few days ago on the last day at the Cordele nationals, I dropped a wing on takeoff. The ballast tanks were half full so although the tip didn’t go down hard, the water sloshed in that direction and the wing stayed down. My ASW 24 started to swing off to the right. I wasted no time in pulling the tow release. The glider continued to swing and I braked as I rolled off the asphalt runway into the grass and stopped.

No big deal. I’ve had a rule for many years that if the wing goes down early with ballast, I release. It's almost impossible to get the tip up again (more later). I’ve done it twice before--both times on grass--and it’s slightly embarrassing but uneventful except for blocking the launch. This time I actually rolled out of the way. Not much more than five minutes later, I had been retrieved with a golf cart, put back on the launch line, and was away without ever having to climb out of the cockpit.

There was a bit of a tailwind (under 5 kts.). But the biggest contributor was a slightly heavy right wing caused by the water not being evenly distributed. I had checked it on the grid but I noticed the girl who (very competently) balanced the wings while the glider launched ahead of me held the right wingtip a bit higher than normal. Just before takeoff, though, she passed it to a young man who actually ran it. In the hurried exchange, it’s possible he leveled the wings, thereby allowing the water to shift in that direction. With partial tanks, any imbalance is quickly magnified although I’ve only touched a wingtip once before in 25 years of flying the ‘24.

Speaking of which, now for my “secret.” Almost exactly a year ago at last year’s Nephi nationals, I had full ballast, a 10 kts.. tailwind, high density altitude, and (I’m told) a very young, inexperienced wing runner. My impression was that the tow pilot stood on the brakes as he ran the engine up, then released them. The rope stretched and we popped off the line impressively, then seemed to sag as the stretch came out of the rope before accelerating again, in somewhat more leisurely fashion.

The initial surge surprised the young wing runner and he held onto the tip briefly, swinging me to the right, before dropping it. The tip hit the ground almost immediately as we gathered speed. I was near the front and knew there was a lot of emphasis on keeping the launch going. This was the first contest day and launching 55 gliders had taken too much time on the practice days. So I felt (self-imposed) pressure to stay on tow. And I felt (again, self-imposed) pressure to recover from what I judged was my mistake.

The wide runway and gravel/grass on the right looked completely clear: I didn’t see spectators, vehicles, aircraft, or other obstructions. So I broke my rule of almost 40 years and held on. I remember thinking “I can do this!” As we accelerated, the glider continued straight at an angle to the runway centerline, drawing closer to the edge. My ship has a CG hitch so with the right wing still down, there was nothing to help straighten us out. With full left aileron and rudder, the right wing refused to come up. I knew the gravel on the edge of the runway and the scrubby grass beyond were smooth. So I held on as we rolled off onto the gravel.

By that time we were traveling fast enough that I really didn't want to release. And I could sense that the wing was just about to pop up. It did. I steered back onto the runway, put the dive brakes in (which I use on takeoff roll to improve aileron response), then lifted off, sliding back into position behind the towplane. My heartrate was a little higher but to be honest, I didn’t think it was that dramatic.

I flew the difficult task and landed back late that afternoon. As I rolled to a stop at the end of the runway, I was startled to see the operations director leap out of his car with a grim look on his face and start snapping photos of my right wing. Turns out I had hit a landing light on takeoff, slightly damaging the leading edge about 2/3 of the way out and punching a small hole in the underside of the aileron. I never heard or felt it! Thanks to the heroic efforts of York Zentner--and with assists from my brother, Mark, and poor weather the next day--I was back in the air in time not to miss any action.

But I was humbled. How could I have messed up so badly? One respected colleague offered that I had failed to have a contingency plan. But that’s not true. I had a plan; I just ignored it.

I could have blamed the tailwind and young wing runner, as another ground crew member did a few days later as we chatted on the line. His inexperience almost certainly triggered the incident. But the fault for the damage was all mine. I could have prevented it by pulling the release. Why didn’t I?

I think it came down to ego. I remembered thinking I had made a mistake in dropping the wing, a mistake I wanted to--and was convinced I could--correct. And I was sure, until I landed that night and even for a few hours afterward, that I had acted reasonably, that the landing light hidden in the high grass was just one of those things that can’t be controlled and that my decision to try to recover from a takeoff gone bad was justifiable. After all, I would have gotten away with it except for the light.

I was wrong. The correct decision was to pull the release immediately, the way I had several times in earlier years and the way I did two days ago. Some decisions are easy: we make them before we fly and all we have to do is execute. Are there times when we should modify our contingency plans due to circumstances? Sure, but we need a better reason than trying not to look stupid or saving a few minutes on the launch grid.

Chip Bearden
“JB”