Ask the pilot

Should New York's famous East and Hudson River flyways be closed to small aircraft?

By Patrick Smith

Read more: Technology & Business, Business, P. Smith, Ask the Pilot

Photo by Patrick Smith

Oct. 20, 2006 | As you may have learned after the crash of New York Yankees pitcher Cory Lidle's private plane, the island of Manhattan is bracketed by an unusual pair of low-altitude flyways. These north-to-south "corridors," as they are known colloquially, trace the contours of the Hudson and East rivers. They are highly popular with recreational fliers, helicopters and other small aircraft, and rightly so, for they provide what is possibly the most spectacular view to be seen from an airplane anywhere on earth. The corridors aren't quite the free-for-all described by the media and certain politicians in recent days -- they are subject to speed restrictions and right-of-way protocols that keep traffic flowing smoothly and safely -- but indeed they are flown exclusively under Visual Flight Rules, meaning there is no requirement for radar tracking, flight plans or even radio contact with air traffic control.

The Hudson River route is the more relaxing of the two. It's a broad, mostly straight course along Manhattan's west side. The East River corridor is more challenging -- a snaking, hemmed-in sliver that dead-ends into LaGuardia Airport airspace near the northern end of Roosevelt Island. Here, unless you have transit permission from La Guardia's tower, there's scant choice but to U-turn. Most pilots will reverse course early, south of Roosevelt, where the river is still wide. Further up, it's a very tight turn, with restricted sky on one side and the skyscrapers of Manhattan on the other. Botch that turn, and you could find yourself in trouble, trapped in a virtual box canyon.

Enter Cory Lidle and his flight instructor, killed when their four-seat Cirrus SR20 slammed into a 42-story condominium complex while attempting an East River course reversal. Reportedly, they'd gone well north, into the slimmest confines of the corridor. There's little room for error here. Even a mild crosswind can displace that U-turn enough to set up disaster. Thus, one very plausible scenario has the two pilots misjudging their turn radius. Suddenly the skyline looms ahead, and they dramatically steepen their bank to avoid colliding. But the sharper your bank, the higher your stall speed. Inexperienced, and perhaps out of their league in a high-performance model like the Cirrus, they stall and lose control, crashing into the Belaire at the 31st floor, about 300 feet from the ground.

Media reports have emphasized that it's unknown whether Lidle or the instructor was "at the controls" during the crash. But in the Cirrus, as in virtually all general aviation craft, either front seat occupant has the ability to adjust power, pitch and bank. For all intents and purposes both pilots were at the controls. And unfortunately, the fact that Lidle was accompanied by an instructor does not negate the possibility of gross, inexcusable error. Not to belittle the knowledge and skills of the many hardworking CFIs out there (that's certificated flight instructor, in Federal Aviation Administration parlance), some of whom have devoted their careers to the job, but teaching is itself a learning process, and many instructors are low-time, novice aviators. I was a CFI at age 21, making $140 a week giving lessons to businessmen and wealthy retirees. For many, it's a way of building time, with an eye toward the airlines later on. Lidle had fewer than 100 hours in his logbook; his instructor, 26-year-old Tyler Stanger, flew mostly in the American West. Unfamiliar with the rigors of Manhattan corridor operations, they were attempting a difficult maneuver at the airway's most harrowing point.

In the early 1990s, finally putting all those CFI hours to good use as a captain for a Boston-based regional airline, I would sometimes treat paying passengers to the thrill of corridor flying on routes into and out of Newark, N.J. We played the game slightly differently -- we flew higher than most of the sightseers, and were always in touch with air traffic control -- but it was always exhilarating, as you might gather from this photograph, snapped by yours truly from the cockpit of a 15-seater. Or this eerily prescient shot, taken a few years later.

In this space in 2003, on the second anniversary of Sept. 11, the latter photo accompanied a column on the thrills and challenges of corridor flying. I was pleased, and somewhat surprised, to report that the FAA had kept the flyways open even after the destruction of the World Trade Center, when many were concerned about the city's vulnerability to future attacks from the air.

The deaths of Lidle and Stanger have people fuming again, and this time the FAA has responded by restricting access along the East River. Pilots must now receive permission from air traffic control before proceeding north of Governors Island, near the southern tip of Manhattan, and into the corridor proper. Some, such as New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg, a licensed pilot familiar with corridor operations, have lauded the new measures. Others are decrying them as sorely inadequate.

Many people were shocked to learn that, until now, corridor traffic was exempt from the need to be in touch with ATC. But that's much of the beauty of flying under Visual Flight Rules, and the system worked pretty well. Thousands of private aircraft and helicopters ply the river patterns annually, and Cory Lidle's was the first to hit a building.

Next page: How does a requirement for radio contact prevent pilots from smashing into buildings?