You’ve felt it. I’ve felt it. We all have. You’ve got somewhere to be, people waiting on you, and maybe you’re already behind schedule. The airplane is fueled up, you’re holding short, and there’s that little voice saying, “It’ll be fine. Let’s just get going.”
That’s get-there-itis talking. And it’s sneaky. It creeps in when you least expect it, and if you’re not careful, it can talk you right into making some very bad decisions.
Get-there-itis is the dangerous urge to complete a flight—no matter what. It makes you minimize risks, justify cutting corners, and ignore red flags. It’s the internal pressure that whispers, “Just this once,” and convinces you that pushing forward is better than turning back.
And when you read accident reports, you see it time and time again: good pilots making bad calls because they just wanted to get there.
Take the case of a private pilot flying a Cessna 150 on a personal trip to Laconia, New Hampshire (NTSB Report ERA23FA384). He had about 675 hours—respectable time for a private pilot—but there were gaps in his experience. He hadn’t flown at night in years. He wasn’t instrument-rated, and there was no logged instrument time in his recent history.
Before the flight, his instructor friend told him, “The weather’s going to get tricky up there tonight. You might want to wait.” But the pilot was ready to be home. He’d already been delayed a couple of times, and his girlfriend was waiting at the airport to pick him up. They had dinner plans.
Sound familiar? Are the hairs beginning to rise on the back of your neck? That’s a clue.
Regardless, he went.
We’ve all seen days when the forecast says one thing, but the real-world weather is very different—and sometimes worse. The weather report at Laconia wasn’t terrible on paper: Five miles of visibility in haze, calm winds, and clear skies. Technically VFR.
But out over Lake Winnipesaukee, where he was flying his downwind leg, it was a very different story. Smoke from wildfires had drifted into the area, turning the sky dark and hazy. The full moon was completely blocked. People on the ground described it as pitch black. No city lights, no shoreline lighting, no visible horizon.
He was flying in what were essentially instrument conditions without realizing it—and he wasn’t trained or current for that. Nobody is, unless they’ve trained for it and are proficient.
The last moments of the flight tell the story. He extended his downwind leg out over the lake, probably trying to set up for a base turn. But in the dark haze, with no outside visual references, spatial disorientation can occur almost instantly.
Surveillance video showed the airplane enter low clouds or haze… then a few seconds later, emerge in a steep, spiraling dive before crashing into the lake. Witnesses reported the engine was at full power on impact.
The NTSB determined he likely lost control due to spatial disorientation—but the real cause started long before that. It was the decision to go flying in conditions he wasn’t prepared to handle. Yet another pilot became a victim of get-there-itis.
This pilot wasn't reckless. He wasn’t careless. He was just like most of us:
The problem is, once you’re in the air, it gets harder to say “stop.” If you launch thinking “I’ll see how it goes,” you’re already on the wrong track. It’s a lot easier to cancel on the ground than it is to divert in the air—especially when the weather closes in, and your options start shrinking.
Decide before the flight what will make you cancel or divert—and write it down. Example: Clouds below 1,000 feet? Divert. Visibility under 5 miles? Land early.
Say it up front: “If the weather’s not good, I’m not flying.” A few minutes of disappointment beats every possible alternative.
If you hear yourself thinking, “I just need to get there,” that is your red flag. That’s the moment to stop, re-evaluate, and make the safer call.
This pilot had 675 hours, but had not flown at night in years and had no instrument currency at all. Be real about where you’re current, where you're proficient—and where you're not.
The accident described in this article was 100% preventable. It wasn’t weather or equipment that killed this pilot—it was the decision to go in the first place, and the belief that “it’ll be fine.”
His instructor friend even warned him before the flight. And upon closer inspection of the report, that same friend tried again—via text during the flight—to warn him that the weather at the destination was now IFR.
The best pilots I know have canceled flights that people were counting on. They have disappointed passengers. They have changed plans at the last minute. And they are still here to tell the story.
Be that pilot. Live to tell the story.