There I was...

My flying career is still in its infancy, but I've had a couple of, well let's just say "interesting" moments, little episodes that to me, anyway, stand out as memorable. If you're a CFI, a freight dog or a commercial pilot with a big fat logbook, these will most likely seem mundane to you. But to me as a low time pilot, each was an important learning experience.
The first, and perhaps most memorable one, happened when I had a measely 25 hours of total time. I had just soloed for the first time a few weeks before and completed my three supervised flights alone in rapid succession. Now with an endorsement from my instructor in my logbook, I was free to go up alone almost any time I wanted. So on this beautiful Saturday morning I took to the skies to practice stalls, steep turns and ground reference maneuvers.
The short 15nm trip to the practice area was quite enjoyable. I flew about a thousand feet under a broken cumulus ceiling, admiring the majestic white formations above and wishing I could punch through them and skim their tops. Over the Wachuset Reservoir, I executed a couple of clearing turns, then practiced two power-off and two power-on stalls. I was pleased with my recovery of the latter, as I managed to minimize any sort of wing drop. Descending to 1,000 AGL, I began describing circles around a silo on the ground, then made S-turns over a railroad that runs paralel to the reservoir.
The day was just turning to be exceptional. My flying was good and I was having a hell of a time up there on my own.
As the end of the block approached, I headed back at to KBED at 3,000. Haphazard rays of sunlight broke through the blanket of clouds above and painted a curious pattern of bright emerald green patches on a darker shaded canvass of fields and forests. A thin veil of haze stuck to the horizon and wrapped itself around Boston in an eerily beautiful way just a few miles to my east.
I was in heaven.
A few miles out of Bedford, I began my descent to PTA. Then, out of the blue, the world around me began to shake violently. I uttered a brief expletive and realizing the engine was the culprit almost instinctively ran through the emergency checklist I'd practiced with my CFI so many times: fuel selector valve on both, mixture full rich, carb heat on, primer in and locked. Hmm, everything seemed ok, yet the engine would disagree. It ran so rough that I grew increasingly concerned about the vibration inflicting structural damage to the 172.
A magneto check revealed nothing wrong there either.
About 5 miles out of Bedford, I knew I could make the field but was still concerned about the terrible shaking and briefly considered killing the engine to avoid having it tear itself off the front of the plane. That would definitely not help.
I fiddled with the mixture in an attempt to sooth the engine, but it seemed to do nothing.
With all known options exhausted I resigned myself to call tower and explained the problem. I didn't declare an emergency but was hoping he would give me priority landing. I had two trainers ahead of me on downwind: one of them carrying my CFI, who was no doubt monitoring the situation.
Before I even released the mic switch, the vibration subsided and all went back to normal. Refusing to take any chances, I took the controller up on his offer for priority landing, put the aircraft down safely and brought it back to the ramp.
At no point during the flight had I felt scared, but I sat in the cockpit for a minute, relieved. My CFI, who had landed shortly after me, came running up to me with a smirk on his face.
"So what did you do?" he asked jokingly.
When I described what had happened, his jaw dropped and I could see in his eyes that this could have had a much more serious outcome. He had probably thought I'd forgotten to put the carb heat on after chopping power, or that perhaps I hadn't pushed the mixture back to full rich after leaning at altitude.
I reported the problem to dispatch but the maintenance crew was unable to replicate the problem. Two weeks later, during a checkride, a student and our DE declared an emergency when the same problem arose. The verdict, a couple of days later: cracked cylinder.
A little later on the day of that flight, I felt some belated fear. It suddenly dawned on me that had the problem arisen further out, or while I was low over the ground practicing GRMs, I might not have made the airport and our area offers precious few off-airport landing options because it is so densely wooded. The experience, however, also showed me my CFI's training was taking hold in that little brain of mine. The checklist came to me almost insintively and I didn't suffer from that deer-in-the-headlights reaction. Thanks Tyler!

The next couple of stories concern mid-air collisions, the potential of which is alarmingly high in this area on nice summer days because there's just so much darn traffic.
The first instance occured with my CFI on board. We had just taken off from 29 at KBED. At 500AGL, I began my turn on a left crosswind when I suddenly found myself only feet off the left wing of a 172 on an extremely close left downwind. I quickly ducked to the right while my instructor berated the pilot of the other '72. Turns out he'd reported himself northwest of the field instead of southwest and was therefore cleared by tower to enter the right downwind, NOT the left.
On the day of my 28th birthday, just weeks after I passed my checkride, I left work early to go for a leisurely cross country flight. I took off in somewhat hazy conditions, which are the norm here in the Northeast during the summer. I headed northeast toward the North Shore and stayed below Boston's Bravo. I skirted the beautiful New Hampshire and Maine shores, then headed inland direct Kennebunk VOR and hung a left turn on a long final to 25 at KSFM. After a touch and go, I called Boston Approach for flight following but the controller appeared busy. I decided to give him a few minutes and scanned the sky around to avoid any unpleasant encounters with other flying machines. Suddenly, a white flash caught my attention to the left. I turned my head to see a Piper Arrow pass just under me from my 5 o'clock position to my 11 o'clock. He was 100ft or less below me, giving me a hell of a scare. Whether he saw me or not remains a mystery. Seeing it was a low-wing, I doubt he could've missed me, but then again why would he have crossed my path so close?
I called Boston and got flight following in a jiffy.
My final story today is more amusing. A few months ago, I headed out west aimlessly on a great overcast day. I say great because the cloud cover provided smooth clean air, which made the flight extremely enjoyable. Near KGDM, I decided to land at the field, which I'd overflown many times before. I flew over the runway to check the windsock, then came around and entered the pattern. Made a decent landing and taxied back. A handful of plane watchers sat on the ramp and as I taxied by, a grandfather pointed me out to his grandchild. I waved back at them. Lined up with the runway, flashed my landing lights at the old man and the boy as they waved me off, then launched into the evening sky. Take off was interesting, as the terrain north of the field seems to rise at about the same rate my '72 was, so for a few seconds it seemd I really wasn't climbing at all! As I turned East toward home, I spotted a Piper probably 10 miles ahead of me seemingly going in the same direction and another above crossing my path about 4 miles ahead. A quick glance at the TIS onboard showed both planes on the screen.
I admired Mount Wachuset to my left (the delicious Wachuset Pale Ale is no doubt brewed close by... hmmm... beer... arrrrggghhh) and noticed the Piper ahead of me descending toward the small private field at Shirley. As I caught up with him, I watched the pilot enter the pattern and land, all the while keeping an eye out for other aircraft in the area. It seemed the sky was all mine on this Sunday evening and the TIS confirmed this. Over the Wachuset Reservoir I looked down to the incredibly calm and glassy water and saw my reflection on the surface. Suddenly the TIS yelled at me: "Traffic! Traffic! Traffic!" I peered outside, but saw no one around. The screen, however, strongly disagreed with me, superimposing the white icon representing me with a flashing yellow airplane, indicating a collission could be imminent. The altitude difference between the target and me on the screen read a big fat zero. Gulp.
I scanned the sky frantically, but couldn't see anybody else. How on earth had this plane crept up on me so fast? Perhaps he'd descended through the overcast and was above me, I thought. The computer voice kept yelling at me. "Traffic! Traffic! Traffic!" Still nothing in sight. Well, I thought, this could be it. Whoever this is could be either right above or right below me and all I can do is fly straight and level and hope he has me in sight and will do what it took to avoid a collission.
For about 5 seconds, as I tensed my muscles in macabre anticipation of what could happen, I honestly thought I would die.
Then the voice finally shut up and the yellow target on the screen vanished as quickly as it had appeared. I looked all around and found the skies empty of any other traffic. A few clearing turns confirmed that to me. Relieved, I head back to Bedford, where a CFI explained how the TIS could've been painting my own transponder return or that of a plane that had been there minutes earlier. We had a good laugh about it, but I won't soon forget that feeling I had when I thought I could be within seconds of certain death.
Each of these small incidents taught me something. I now try to include positions behind my aircraft in my traffic scan, whenever I can, and don't rely too much on the TIS, which while useful is not completely reliable. I also learned to keep my eyes open for traffic in the pattern at all times because a controller is just as likely to make a mistake as anyone else.
When friends or family heard these stories, some were baffled as to why I'd keep going up. I guess it's just that flying is so darn addictive and I just don't think I could do without it!

The Road to the Vineyard

Last week was dominated by one thought and one thought alone: Saturday's flight to Martha's Vineyard.
My cousin Carol and her flatmate were visiting from Atlanta and they both wanted to visit the island. Carol's friend, however, was a little nervous about flying so the plan was that they would head down the long way by car and ferry, while Jen and I would meet them for lunch after a quick flight across the water since we had a plane all booked up anyway.
When I awoke on Saturday morning, I was pleased to find mild temperatures and crystal clear skies. Perfect VFR. Once my coffee was brewed I sat down to check the weather and NOTAMs (Notice To AirMen) and plotted the familiar route to KMVY. The plan was simple: KBED direct PVD, direct KMVY.
At 1030 the phone rang. Mark, we have a problem, Carol said. There were no buses to the ferry in Falmouth until noon, which would put them on the island mid-afternoon. That's no good. Determined to make it to the Vineyard on such a fantastic day, however, Stacey resolved herself to fly.
A brief interlude is in order here to explain what a great experience this particular flight was. My cousin Carol, also from Ireland, got into a bad accident as a teenager and has spent the past 22 years in a wheelchair. In that time she has also scubadived, skiied, parachuted out of airplanes, fenced for the U.S. Paralympics Team and learned to fly both planes and gliders.
I remember one day very vividly, many years ago. I was about 14 and my brothers and I paid a visit to Carol in the hospital in Dublin. She knew of the passion my younger brother Stephen and I harbored for flying and had in fact fueled that fire by sending us months before a copy of Microsoft Flight Simulator 4.1. When we entered the room she presented us with some of her flight gear: a chart, a POH and most confusing of all her flight computer. She explained how to do fuel and time problems using the strange contraption, most of which escaped me.
"So, are you going to learn how to fly," she asked.
I wanted to, I really did. But it was expensive and most of all I doubted I had it in me to become a pilot.
"Listen," she replied in a an oddly stern tone of voice. "If I can do it, you can."
She had a point.
So 13 years later, I did it and looked forward to the day I would take her up for a flight.
Hence my excitement on Saturday.
After preflighting 9ME, I lifted Carol into the co-pilot seat and secured her dismantled wheelchair next to Stacey on the backseat. Within minutes we were off in one of the clearest New England skies I have ever seen. After maneuvering to avoid incoming traffic, I checked on Stacey who was doing just fine. A quick glance over at Carol reveals a beaming smile on her face. Sweet!
Called up Boston Approach for flight following and was surprised when the controller immediately cleared us into Bravo at 5,500, which would give us a margin to return to land were my engine to quit over the Atlantic.
Running a little tight on time (long story... we left late!) I amended our route to fly direct KMVY. We got a nice view of Boston, Gillette Stadium, the Cape and the estuary at Providence. We crossed Buzzards Bay and had the airport in sight 30 miles out.
"9ME, is that you over Naushon Station?"
Hmm... well I know where I am, I just don't know what it's called.
"Is that the strip of land between you guys and the mainland?" I replied.
"Affirmative."
"Then that's us, 9ME."
We chuckled and came in for a nice crosswind landing. A quick cab ride later, we were sitting on the patio of an Edgartown restaurant, enjoying a cold drink while watching the boats come and go. After a stroll around the harbor we raced back to the airport since we had to return the plane by 1730 and I knew we'd be facing moderate headwinds on the way home.
Wheels off at 1625, open our flight plan, pick up flight following from Cape Approach and make a beeline for the coast. On the way back, I just know Boston won't clear us into Bravo because traffic picks up at that time of the days and they were using the 4s at Logan. Too bad, because we could do with a straight line home.
As we cross the water I can't help but marvel at the sun glare on the crystal blue surface. It's all so tranquil up here, so pristine, so grandiose and I don't have to put up with all the bullshit I usually have to at work.
It's now 1645 and a quick check of our groundspeed indicates between 98kts and 104kts. Not good. As we approached the outer shelf of Bravo, I keep more power I usually would on the descent and manage to push that number to about 125kts. Better.
Carol helped me spot traffic and as we crossed below the approach path to KBOS's 4s, we could spot lines of airliners inbound for landing. What an awesome sight!
Our return route took us lower and closer to Boston, which I thought was great for my passengers. I slowed the plane down a little so they could enjoy the scenery, then brought it in to land. Touchdown time: 1720. I handed the keys over at 1728. Nice!:)
It had been three atrociously long weeks since I'd flown and I couldn't have asked for a better experience. Well, perhaps the same flight alone with Jen!

The Discovery Flight

Every flight I've embarked on remains memorable to me, partly because I only have just over 130 hours total time but mostly because I love flying in a way that no words could explain. Some were scary, especially in the early days, some just absolutely beautiful and every single one of them was a learning experience. There was the near engine failure, which I might write about more at a later time, the close call with another plane over coastal Maine, racing the weather all the way home on my first trip alone and the time I thought I was going to die when the onboard traffic warning system showed me within milliseconds of colliding with another aircraft I just could not see.
For now, however, I will jot down a little more about why I fell in love with flying, and quote as an introduction one of history's great pilots and writers Antoine de St Exupery, or St Ex.

I fly because it releases my mind from the tyranny of petty things

As a child, the mere sound of an airplane, large or small, overflying our house drew me outside, where I invariably lost myself in fantasies of soaring among the clouds, seeing the patchwork of fields, forests, lakes and rivers from the most beautiful vantage point and bathing in the orange fluid of the evening sky. Growing up, I spent time at the local airfield, watching light planes take off and land from a rudimentary grass strip, envious of the happiness that flying induced in those fortunate enough to do it.

It was just too costly for me, and parents who raised me well decided against spoiling their elder son. So I just dreamed but knew that one day I would roam the open skies too.

High school came and went, as did college and I found myself working as a reporter in Washington, D.C., far away from my native Europe. The job was fun, my colleagues all great and talented people and I enjoyed the city and its many bars and restaurants. After a few years I moved up the ladder and took a job with the company in Boston.

With more money in my pocket, it was at last time to stop dreaming the childhood dream and live it. So on a frigid day in Feb. 2004, I paid a visit to a local flight school for a discovery flight in a beaten up old Cessna 172 Skyhawk with no heat. Bundled up like eskimos Mike, the instructor, and I hopped into N12944 and headed up in the crystal clear blue winter sky for a lifechanging 30 minutes.

Mike took off and soon gave me the controls, instructing me climb to 2,500 ft. Minutes later, he let me make turns to the left and right before heading back. The feeling of controlling a plane was beyond words. The thrill was like nothing I'd ever felt before.

I was hooked. And litte did I know at the time just what significance 12944 would play only months later.

Here's the old bird and her bare and well broken-in panel!

As I drove home on that winter day, I knew for sure that my passion for aviation was not one to be enjoyed on the ground. So it was agreed: once winter passed, I'd start learning to fly.

Show me the money...

Things are beginning to get very real and I would be lying if I didn't admit to a little fear setting in. The bank approved my loan application for the ATP course so barring any unforseen issues, the financing part of the big career change is taken care of! Well, the initial financing is. While the loan will cover course expenses I'm a tad bit concerned about repaying it for the next decade and a half while still pulling my own weight on the measely instructor and regional co-pilot salaries. I don't want to be a drag on Jen, but if I play my cards right I'm sure all will be well.
Exciting, exciting news! It's all just a couple of months away!

Why I Fly, Part 1.

Flying holds a magical dimension for many people. Just look around you next time you're on an airliner and you'll see many pairs of fascinated eyes scanning the plane, peeking into the cockpit and peering out the windows to observe the impressive ballet that takes place at airports around the world every single day. For some the appeal comes from the technology, for others it's just curiosity or amazement that gigantic machines such as the mighty 747 could ever lift their heavy bodies off the ground.
To me, flying evokes a profound element of freedom. Now, the Bushies have sort of raped the word, but as a young kid I read with amazement the stories of Antoine de Saint Exupery, Jean Mermoz, Charles Lindhberg and Amelia Earhart.
I would often daydream of strapping into an open-cockpit biplane -- you know one of those beautiful old birds from the 1920s and 1930s -- slapping an old-fashioned leather cap on my head and goggles over my eyes and flying low over rich countryside, skimming tree tops and diving low over golden corn fields. As the sun would set, I'd return to land on a small grass strip and put the plane to bed for the night.
Most of my flying experience is on the Cessna 172, a very nice and forgiving four-seat single engine aircraft, but my childhood fantasy sort of came true on what will probably remain the most special day of my life.
On June 4, 2005, Jen and I tied the knot at the East Chop Lighthouse on Martha's Vineyard. After a lovely ceremony, we headed out to explore the island, with no plan in head. While walking through Edgartown looking for a place to have lunch, Jen spotted a flyer advertising rides in a 1941 Waco UPF7 at the nearby Katama Airport.
The aircraft, similar to the one pictured here only bright red, was used to train Air Force pilots and features a beautiful 220 horsepower radial engine, which emits a rumbling sound akin to music for pilots.
After meeting our pilot, Paul, we strapped on parachutes and both climbed in the front seat, where we buckled in. The engine sputtered to life and we were soon in the air, flying low over South Beach, a stone's throw from the airfield.
Paul climbed us to 5,000 over the Nantucket Sound, which was one of a few rare spots spared by a dense blanket of advection fog.
"Are you ready for something else," he asked over the radio.
I looked at Jen who gave me a broad smile. She knew what was coming and while I knew she was nervous she seemed to be excited.
"Sure thing," I replied.
A few seconds later we entered a spin, spiralling toward the ocean. After recovering, Paul pitched the Waco's nose down to gather speed then pulled back to put us into a loop. We floated for an instant at the top of the loop and looked straight up at the ocean. Coming out of the maneuver, we pulled 4Gs, or four times normal gravity.
Out of the loop, Paul put the plane into a barrel roll and then into a hammerhead. He pointed the nose straight up and the Waco began to slow. Just as it stopped flying and seemed to be hanging from the propeller, the pilot kicked in left rudder and over the left wing we pivoted, now heading straight down at the ocean.
So there it was... my chilhood dream of flying in an open-cockpit aircraft, and all of this on my wedding day.
The flight was also symbolic of Jen's support of my passion for flying.