The collection

Every essay — page 23

Page 23 of 39, continuing through the fields in the same order.

Flows and fields Ideal flow Circulation and lift Viscosity Regimes and numbers Compressible flow Transition and turbulence Fluids at work What is taught wrongly Series Concepts Regimes Refutations Search

What is taught wrongly

Equal transit time, Bernoulli misapplied, and the rest. Each stated fairly, then tested against a solved flow and found false.

Every curved streamline has a pressure gradient across it. Twelve points in the flow past a cylinder, with the arrow at each showing the pressure gradient across the streamline. It points away from the centre of curvature everywhere, and its size is ρq²κ: the fluid is being pushed round a bend, and something has to do the pushing. Both sides are computed here and they share no arithmetic — one is Bernoulli's pressure differenced across the flow, the other is the turning rate of the velocity direction along it — and they agree to 6.7e-5. This is the whole content of the effect usually named after Coandă, and it is happening on every curved streamline of every flow.

The effect that explains nothing

A jet follows a curved wall and the wall feels a suction. Both are real, both are famous, and naming them after Coandă explains neither — what is happening is the normal component of Euler's equation, and it holds on every curved streamline in every flow.

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The bath is ten thousand times too small. The Rossby number — the ratio of the inertial term to the Coriolis term in the momentum equation — for eight flows at 45 degrees, on a logarithmic axis. Above one, rotation is a correction; below one, it is the physics. A draining bath sits at 3.2e+3 and a mid-latitude depression at 1.9e-1. The Coriolis term is not absent from the bath: it is present, computable, and four orders of magnitude smaller than the terms that decide what happens. Saying so is not the same as saying it is zero.

The bath does not know the hemisphere

The Coriolis term in a draining bath is not absent. It is present, computable, and about four hundred times smaller than what a hand left in the water an hour ago is still doing — which is a ratio rather than an opinion, and it is the same kind of argument as a Reynolds number.

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Two heights, and only one of them is in the answer. A siphon, with the two heights that get confused. The drop from the source surface to the outlet is what drives the flow: the exit speed is √(2gΔz) = 4.43 m/s and nothing else enters it. The rise to the crown decides the pressure at the top — 72.0 kPa absolute here, against an atmosphere of 101.3 — and therefore whether the column holds together at all. A siphon over a high wall and one over a kerb, draining to the same place, flow at exactly the same rate.

The siphon that does not need the air

A siphon is explained everywhere by the atmosphere pushing the liquid over the hump. The flow rate says otherwise, in the flattest way available — the height of the hump does not appear in it at all. What the atmosphere does is hold the column together, which is a different job with a different limit.

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There is a constriction, and it is a consequence rather than a cause. A cambered section at 5 degrees, with one streamtube traced above it and one below. The tube above narrows by 16 per cent at mid-chord and the tube below by -112 per cent, so the venturi story's premise is true: the flow over the top really is squeezed more than the flow underneath. The difficulty is that the tube's upper boundary is a streamline, not a wall. Nothing put it there but the solution of the whole flow — the same solution that already contains the lift — so the narrowing is a way of describing the answer rather than a reason for it.

Not half a venturi

The air above a wing really is squeezed into a narrower channel, it really does speed up, and the pressure really does fall. Every step of the story is true and the whole is still not an explanation, because the channel's upper wall is a streamline — and where a streamline went is part of the answer, not part of the question.

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The left wall is not a speed, it is an angle drawn in speed coordinates. The V–n diagram: every combination of speed and load factor the aircraft can reach. The curved left boundary is the wing at its stalling angle — n = ½ρV²S C_Lmax /W, a parabola — and it is the same limit at every point along it. The flat top and bottom are the structure. Where the two meet is the corner speed, 56.6 metres per second here: the slowest speed at which the aircraft can reach its limit load factor, and therefore the speed at which it turns hardest. Above it the wing can pull more than the structure allows — at the never-exceed speed it could reach 9.6g before stalling — and the pilot's limit stops being the air.

An angle, not a speed

The number is printed in the handbook, marked in white on the airspeed indicator and used in every briefing, and the wing has no way of knowing it. A wing stalls at an angle. The speed at which an aeroplane reaches that angle is an answer with four other variables in it, and every one of them moves.

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One calculation is about the animal; the other is about how fast it happens to be going. The mean lift coefficient required of each animal's wings, computed two ways, on a log scale. Treating the wings as fixed and flying them at the animal's forward speed gives answers spanning a factor of 29 — from 0.88 to 26 — because the number is governed by a speed that has nothing to do with how the animal makes its lift. Doing the flapping arithmetic gives answers spanning a factor of 1.90. And in a hover the fixed-wing calculation has no answer at all: there is no dynamic pressure, and no coefficient however large will do. That is the version of the famous claim that is actually true, and it is a statement about the calculation rather than about the bee.

The bee that cannot fly

The claim has a traceable origin and the calculation behind it was a real calculation done with the wrong velocity. Doing it with the right one gives a number an aerofoil might plausibly produce — and still leaves a gap, and the gap is what took another sixty years to close.

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What the ground actually gives a wing. Induced drag near the ground as a fraction of the same wing's in free air, against height in spans, at constant lift. The ground is a plane of symmetry, so the wake is joined by a mirrored wake of opposite circulation below it, and the upwash from that image is what takes the drag away. At a tenth of a span the wing keeps 0.516 of its induced drag — a saving of 48 per cent — and by a span and a half the effect is 1.3 per cent and going. The lift is held fixed all the way along this curve: what the ground gives here is not more lift, it is the same lift for less drag, and the two are different claims about a landing aeroplane.

The cushion that is not there

Ground effect is usually explained as air trapped under the wing and compressed into a cushion. At the heights an aeroplane actually flies at, the air under the wing is moving at four fifths of flight speed and most of what the ground gives is a drag saving the story never mentions.

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The air a wing carries along, and how little of it there is. The Blasius profile, in the wing's frame, with the free stream at one. No slip says the air at the surface is at rest relative to the surface, which in the ground's frame means it is moving with the wing — but only exactly at the wall. The deficit, integrated across the layer, is the displacement thickness: at a Reynolds number of 1e+6 and a metre of chord it is 1.72 millimetres of air moving at flight speed, which is the whole of what is 'carried'. The step drawn on the axis is that same deficit as a solid slab. A wing does not drag a blanket of air with it; it leaves a boundary layer behind it, and the layer is made of air that keeps being replaced.

The air a wing does not carry

No slip says the air touching a surface moves with it, and the usual reading is that a wing drags a blanket of air along. The blanket is 1.7 millimetres thick per metre of chord, it is different air every instant, and the drag it costs falls as it gets thicker.

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A millionth, doubling every three-quarters of a second. The separation of two trajectories started a millionth apart, on log axes against time. It grows as a straight line until it saturates at the size of the attractor, and the slope of that line is the largest Lyapunov exponent — measured here on the system by renormalising a nearby pair, not quoted. Sensitive dependence is what the straightness of the line means.

The randomness that is not in the equations

Turbulence is described in the language of statistics — means, variances, spectra, probability distributions — and none of that language appears in the equations it is a description of. The Navier–Stokes equations have no random term anywhere in them. What is random is the observer's ignorance of the initial data, and the flow's habit of amplifying it.

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An hour for every tenfold, for ever. How long a forecast lasts, against how well the initial state is known. The relation is T = ln(tolerance/error)/lambda — exactly logarithmic — so improving the measurement by a factor of ten buys exactly the same extra time every time: ln(10)/lambda, which for this flow is 24.5 time units. It does not get harder and it does not get easier.

An hour for every tenfold

Turbulence is deterministic and unpredictable, and the exchange rate between those two is exact: measuring the initial state ten times better buys the same extra forecast time every time, for ever. A constant, and it belongs to the flow rather than to the instrument.

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Three accounts of lift, one of them tuned to be exactly right at five degrees. Thin-aerofoil theory, which is the answer; Newtonian impact theory with its constant tuned so that it passes exactly through the truth at five degrees; and the equal-transit story, which has no free constant and sits along the bottom. At the tuning point the tuned model and the truth are indistinguishable, and no measurement there separates them.

A right total from a wrong picture

Newtonian impact theory has a free constant in it. Tuned at five degrees it reproduces a NACA 2412's lift exactly, and no measurement at five degrees can tell it from the truth. What separates them is the derivative — a lift-curve slope 2.8 times too steep — which is a second constraint rather than a better one.

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Where the suction on a cylinder is actually made. The share of the surface's pressure deficit generated within a given distance of it. Twelve per cent comes from the first twentieth of a radius, half from within a third, and a tenth of it from beyond one and a half radii. There is no thin layer doing the work: the suction is made by the curvature of the whole outer field.

The effect that is real, and where it stops

The Coandă effect has a genuine mechanism, and it is the same equation that makes the suction on a wing. What separates the two is where the integral comes from: a wall jet generates all of its pressure deficit inside a layer two per cent of the radius thick, and a cylinder in a stream needs a third of a radius for half of it.

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