The fatal accident involving Remington and Tanner in their Velocity V-Twin experimental aircraft near Appleton, Wisconsin, on February 16, 2021, underscores a recurring theme in general aviation safety: high time and even multi-engine, airline-level experience do not automatically translate into competency on unfamiliar airframes, particularly unconventional or experimental designs. Both pilots on that flight were accomplished by conventional metrics—Remington held commercial and CFI certificates with 840 hours, all in single-engine aircraft, while Tanner brought 1,800 hours including regional jet experience at Air Wisconsin and a background as an incoming A-10 pilot. Yet neither pilot had deep experience in the Velocity V-Twin, a canard-configured pusher-twin kit aircraft with flight characteristics markedly different from the Cessnas and jets that made up the bulk of their logbooks. Tanner had logged roughly 65 hours in type over five months, with his most recent 10 hours the month prior to the accident. On paper, that appears reasonable for a rated instructor pilot; in practice, transition training in unique experimental designs often requires more than a superficial number of hours to build the systems knowledge and handling proficiency needed to manage an in-flight emergency.
For working pilots, this case reinforces why "hours" as a standalone metric can be dangerously misleading, especially when evaluating pilot-in-command qualification for unfamiliar equipment. A pilot with thousands of hours in a Cessna 172 or a regional jet does not automatically possess the systems depth, emergency-procedure recall, or aerodynamic feel needed in a radically different airframe like a canard pusher-twin. This is a critical lesson for flight departments, insurance underwriters, and individual owners who fly experimental or homebuilt aircraft: transition training needs to be scenario-based, emphasizing abnormal and emergency procedures specific to the aircraft's unique systems (in the Velocity's case, things like fuel management, engine-out handling in a pusher configuration, and canard stall characteristics), not just pattern work and landings until a CFI signs off "proficient."
The article's earlier emphasis on Remington's PBS-recounted forced landing at age 19—when a fuel selector malfunction left her seconds to find a field—is instructive framing for what likely follows in the full investigation: emergency response under compressed time, and whether trained habits (aviate, navigate, communicate) held up when the crew radioed "returning to the field" moments after departure but never made it back. That detail suggests an in-flight emergency shortly after takeoff, a phase of flight with minimal altitude and time margin for troubleshooting, especially in an unfamiliar aircraft type. For CFIs and check airmen, the case is a reminder that recurrent emergency procedure rehearsal—verbalized, chair-flown, and drilled to the point of reflex—matters more than raw hours when seconds determine survivability.
More broadly, this accident sits within a well-documented NTSB and FAA concern about experimental and amateur-built aircraft accident rates, which remain disproportionately higher than certified GA aircraft, often tied to transition training gaps, unfamiliar systems, and builder/owner-pilot risk tolerance. It also echoes a broader industry conversation about cross-crew qualification: a two-pilot crew with strong individual resumes (one airline-bound, one CFI) does not necessarily produce a synergistic, risk-mitigated cockpit if neither pilot has deep command experience in the specific aircraft type being flown that day. For Part 91 operators, flight schools signing off transition training, and pilots ferrying aircraft for maintenance (as this flight was), the case reinforces the value of formal type-specific training programs, conservative currency requirements before solo command of unique aircraft, and honest risk assessment before launching a cross-country leg in a machine with which total in-type time remains comparatively low.