The previous lesson ended with haemoglobin saturation sliding down its altitude ladder. This one names what waits at the bottom. Hypoxia is the shortage of oxygen in organs and tissues, and its aviation form arrives without pain, without breathlessness at first, and with the treacherous habit of dismantling the very judgement needed to recognise it. Its twin in the exam room is hyperventilation, which feels alarmingly similar while being, chemically, almost its opposite: not too little oxygen but too little carbon dioxide.
The two major forms of hypoxia
The syllabus defines two major forms by where the transport chain fails:
Hypoxic hypoxia — a reduced oxygen tension in the arterial blood. The flight-deck cause is the low partial pressure of inspired oxygen at altitude (hypobaric hypoxia), and it can also arise from hypoventilation or impaired gas exchange in the lungs. This is the aviator's hypoxia.
Anaemic hypoxia — a reduced oxygen-carrying capacity of the blood: too few red cells, too little haemoglobin, or haemoglobin that is abnormal or occupied, as after blood loss, in anaemia, or with carbon monoxide on board. The air can be perfect and the tissues still starve.
Medicine adds further varieties (stagnant circulation, poisoned tissues), but the two above are the forms the syllabus asks for, and the distinction to hold is the failure point: thin air in the first, thin blood in the second.
Symptoms: why hypoxia is dangerous
Hypoxia announces itself with symptoms that are easy to list and hard to notice from inside. Subjectively: breathlessness, headache, dizziness, nausea, a feeling of warmth about the face, dimming and blurring of vision, confusion or a misplaced exhilaration and euphoria, sleepiness and weakness. Objectively, an observer might see over-breathing, yawning, tremor, sweating, pallor and cyanosis, the blue lips and fingertips of desaturated blood, along with poor judgement, slurred speech and incoordination, ending in unconsciousness. The danger hides in the order: judgement and self-criticism degrade early, so the hypoxic pilot is typically the last person aboard to suspect hypoxia, and the euphoria actively argues against the diagnosis. Nothing hurts; that is the trap.
Compensation and the three thresholds
A healthy body fights back with faster breathing and a faster pulse, and up to about 10,000 to 12,000 ft it compensates well enough for ordinary purposes. The syllabus cuts the climb into three named thresholds:
Reaction threshold, 7,000 ft — the first measurable physiological reactions appear, though performance remains essentially intact; night vision is the classic early casualty, its decline beginning even lower, from about 5,000 ft.
Disturbance threshold, 10,000 to 12,000 ft — compensation no longer fully covers the deficit: complex mental work degrades, and from about 12,000 ft short-term memory begins to be affected, matching the steepening saturation curve of the previous lesson.
Critical threshold, 22,000 ft — rapid, severe impairment: consciousness is now a question of minutes, then seconds.
Time of useful consciousness
Above the critical threshold the clock becomes the whole story, and the syllabus gives it two names. Time of useful consciousness (TUC) is the time from the onset of hypoxia until purposeful activity, donning an oxygen mask, is lost; effective performance time (EPT) is the near-synonymous span during which the pilot can still perform duties effectively. TUC varies among individuals, but the approximate values for a person seated at rest are:
20,000 ft: about 30 minutes.
30,000 ft: 1 to 2 minutes.
35,000 ft: 30 to 90 seconds.
40,000 ft: 15 to 20 seconds.
Any activity shortens these times drastically: the same decompression that leaves a seated pilot half a minute at 35,000 ft leaves a walking cabin-crew member far less. The values are for the resting case, which is the syllabus's case.