Flying Adventures

How soon we forget

2010-01-07T08:48:00.000-08:00

Enough time must have passed since the crash of Colgan 3407 near Buffalo last winter.
It's been less than a year, but ample time, it appears for management at Colgan Air to take two steps back on the little progress they had made on the issue of fatigue.
The crash, which killed everyone on board the Bombardier Q400, stirred enough passion about pilot fatigue that even Congress became involved, passing legislation aimed among other things to curb fatigue.
Colgan management, however, seems to think the accident is behind them and feels it can now return to business as usual. In that spirit, the company is putting more stringent restrictions on when and how crew members can call in fatigued, a responsibility that is thrust into pilots' hands by the Federal Aviation Regulations.
From now on, Colgan pilots and flight attendants will not be allowed to call in fatigued if they have had 12 hours of rest and can no longer declare themselves unfit for future duty (i.e. calling tonight for tomorrow morning's flight). To make matters worst, those pilots who violate these new rules will now face disciplinary action.
In a recent article published in the Buffalo News, Dan Morgan, VP of safety and regulatory compliance for Colgan, said that "over the past two months, the instance of fatigue calls with no valid reason for fatigue have increased to the point where frivolous fatigue calls are now the majority."
Frankly, I find that hard to believe. There will always be in every profession a small group of people ready to abuse the rules out of sheer laziness. But to accuse the bulk of those who called in fatigued of lying is arrogant and in all likelihood a gross exaggeration.
It is also not management's role to determine what a "valid reason for fatigue" is. What they see on paper on a pilot's schedule does not necessarily reflect the actual level of fatigue one may experience.
The company might also be forgetting that a pilot who calls fatigued loses pay. So where's the incentive for already underpaid, struggling pilots?
Colgan's decision is outrageous, unsafe and simply another sign that the company aspires to nothing but scraping the bottom. I am talking here about management, not the pilot group, which counts among its members a great number of fine aviators.

I have written much about fatigue in previous posts, so I will not repeat myself.
Since then, however, I have had to call in fatigued once, my first such occurrence in my 3 years at this airline . It was a tough decision but one that was justified: I was just too tired to fly. At the same time, I felt less than pleased to leave the company one FO short and about losing pay. But everyone, from the scheduler who took my call to my chief pilot and the unions respected and never once questioned my decision. And that is how it should be.
As long as the FAA requires pilots to determine whether or not they are fit for duty, airlines should interfere only if blatant abuses of the rules occur.
Putting artificial numbers on what makes a fatigue call justified or not, such as Colgan's 12 hours of rest rule, is asinine. Just because a pilot's schedule shows 12 hours of rest does not mean that is what the pilot gets. Some hotels we stay in are less than quiet and personal issues can rob one of sleep even in such a long period of rest. Also, the nature of our schedules tends to interfere with our circadian rhythm, making it sometimes difficult to get meaningful rest during overnights.
It is not the company's determination and I hope the FAA sees this as an unacceptable affront to both crew members and passengers and a serious safety issue.
An airline should never intimidate its pilots into doing the wrong thing. This is what led to 3407's tragedy.
How soon we forget...

Indian Summer

2009-10-27T16:36:00.000-07:00

The early morning sky is still dark and the air slightly brisk as we roll down runway 20L in Nashville. My captain and I are both worn out and bleary-eyed after a long day and much too short of an overnight.
Over the horizon, a thin sliver of red and gold spreads as we fly toward it on our way to Washington. We gain altitude rapidly in the morning air and within only moments the sun appears ahead of us, bright and comforting, to light up the whole sky.
It soon bathes the countryside below in its warm golden embrace and softly caresses my cheek like a familiar hand. Lost in the breathtaking beauty of the sunrise, I suddenly notice that the mountains have gone from green to bright red and orange. As far as the eye can see, the rolling hills of Tennessee, West Virginia and Virginia appear to be ablaze.
In my side window, I catch a glimpse of my face smiling back at me. Those beautiful warm autumn days, those of the Indian summer, are upon us. And what better vantage point to admire their stunning beauty than my trusty jet-powered steed. I am truly one of the fortunate ones.
This is my very favorite time of year, pleasing to every sense. There are of course the stunning vistas of autumn, endless aerial palettes of hundreds of gradations of greens, yellows, oranges and reds, neighborhoods dotted with explosions of warm colors, placid lakes that seem to be on fire as their gentle waters mirror the magic surrounding them.
All these shades bring to mind the comforting foods of fall, the apples and squash, the warm pies and roasts that are so welcomed on those cooler days.
Autumn also carries in its gentle breeze the comforting smells that transport me back to my childhood. The distinct sweet scent of maple leaves remind me of Forli, the small town in northern Italy where my grandmother lives. I remember cycling through its streets with my mother and brothers amid a sea of dried leaves. The familiar aroma of fires brings back cherished memories of school days in Europe and weekends spent helping my parents in the back yard or playing with my brothers and friends.
To some the season is gloomy, spelling the end of summer and especially in the Northeast the beginning of the short, dark and frigid days of winter. A symbol of death.
But as I watched my son play in the leaves after a walk in the woods a few days ago, his curious eyes completely mesmerized by the unique beauty of each leaf he brought to me, I couldn't think of it as anything but a stunning season of renewal.
A few days after that crisp morning flight, we returned to Nashville. As we crossed into West Virginia, the red mountain tops were covered in a dusting of snow. It was early in the morning and I knew that once the rising sun had a chance to warm the hilltops, the white coat would retreat and allow the brilliant colors below to resplend. It did. On our way back to Washington a few hours later, the ground below us was once again an endless field of fiery colors.
The days of the Indian Summer are short-lived. And like every year they fill me with the urge to enjoy each day to its fullest, to cherish every warm second before winter rolls its cold blanket on us.
Warm moments. Just like that beautiful autumn walk with Ollie...

Another Band-Aid

2009-10-21T17:21:00.000-07:00

Once again, fatigue rears its ugly head.
First, a Delta 767 mistakingly landed on a taxiway in Atlanta in the wee hours of the morning at the conclusion of a red eye flight from Brazil. Soon after, a Northwest Airlines (essentially Delta, now) overshot its destination by 150 miles. The Northwest crew told authorities they were distracted while arguing over airline policy but the National Transportation Safety Board is looking into whether or not the pilots might have fallen asleep at the controls.
Without attempting to draw conclusions on the Northwest incident, it would not be the first time an airliner missed its destination because the pilots were asleep. A simple Google search will bring up several such examples in recent years. It is very likely, also, that Delta's error was due to fatigue.
Both events were very timely, as the Federal Aviation Administration is now reportedly pushing to allow airline pilots to take controlled naps in the cockpit to curb the issue of fatigue, according to the Wall Street Journal. The article, which ran last week, noted that unions support this move, something that is unfathomable to me. Sleeping in the cockpit will simply not provide pilots meaningful rest and, most likely, will serve only to give airline management yet another tool the build impossibly long, inefficient and exhausting schedules. Whatever rest they will allow during a flight, they will take away from overnights and no doubt the Airline Transport Association and the Regional Airline Association are salivating over this possibility.
Once more, Washington is trying to slap a Band-Aid on what is a deep systemic problem that needs to be addressed seriously and reformed in a meaningful way. The Air Line Pilots Association lauded the recent passage of H.R. 3371, a bill calling among other things for higher entry requirements to the airlines and changes in duty and rest times, as "momentous."
The bill, a result of the crash of Colgan 3407 in February, may be a good first step as far as addressing qualifications but I could not find in its text anything concrete regarding what changes are proposed to curb pilot fatigue.
Instead, in my understanding, the bill gives the FAA 180 days to submit proposed rule changes, which are to be enacted no later than one year after the passage of the bill. In the context of this rulemaking, Congress is mandating the FAA to look into matters ranging from the number of take-offs and landing a day, number of time zones to be crossed to rest requirement and rest environment.
As an ALPA member, I would like to share my union's enthusiasm for the Airline Safety and Pilot Training Improvement Act but am also dispirited to hear of such idiotic initiatives as controlled naps, which sadly might just pass.
What truly needs to be done goes far beyond. Minimum rest should be raised to a firm 10 hours (i.e. a number the airlines can"t reduce), the legal duty day should be shortened from 16 to 14 hours (especially when the FAA limits a dispatcher's duty day to 10 hours) and airlines should be mandated to provide their pilots with two paid fatigue calls a year (any additional fatigue calls could remain unpaid).
Under the current system, it is said that we do not get disciplined or penalized for calling in fatigued, which is untrue. A first officer earning $20,000 a year cannot part with any amount of his pay and like it or not this is a serious deterrent to declaring oneself fatigued. I have also heard from colleagues who were told by crew scheduling when you can and cannot fatigue. For instance, a friend who has a very young baby at home was recently up all night with his child the day before a trip. Utterly drained, he called in fatigue only to be told that "you cannot fatigue from home."
We, the pilots, take fatigue seriously. Management simply does not. Their lobbies in Washington do not.
Like many others, I had hoped that Colgan 3407 would be a wake-up call for an industry that has hardly reformed itself in the past half-century. With every passing year benefits erode, schedules worsen and the relations between pilots and management grow increasingly bitter. As a result, many experienced colleagues have left the industry, never to come back, and fewer might be interested in joining our ranks, which will make it very hard to attract applicants with an Airline Transport Pilot certificate, as Congress now wants to mandate.
For a short while, Capt. "Sully" Sullenberger, captured the imagination of the general public and showed that airline pilots carry a tremendous amount of responsibility every time they step into that cockpit. He also showed what pilots can do when pitted against very unfavorable odds. What most of his non-pilot admirers do not know is that Sully lost his retirement and seniority when the overall more junior America West bought U.S. Airways and that after decades in the business he was tossed around by management like a rag doll.
I had wished for the death of those Colgan crewmembers and passengers to mean something and bring about badly-needed change to make our profession safer and fairer. But initiatives such as controlled naps only dash those hopes and make me worry that as long as the airlines and their lobbies are allowed to wield their influence inside the halls of Congress, the true scope of change will be very limited.
Perhaps the time for re-regulation has come.

A great loss

2009-08-26T18:53:00.000-07:00

The day began with the news that Ted Kennedy had died.
While not completely unexpected in light of his health condition, the news saddened me. My wife actually came home from work this morning with tears in her eyes.
We both held Kennedy in the highest regard, even if he has been the subject of so much polemic. Any objective observer could agree that he had what very few on Capitol Hill have: an utterly sincere drive to protect and advocate for the people of this country, the every day men and women as opposed to the corporations and interest groups.
Many vignettes illustrating that came out today. There was the lady who called his office to complain about the deteriorating quality of her mail delivery service. A week later, as if by magic, the problem was resolved. Or the group of Massachusetts servicemen on their way home from Iraq. The government flew them to their base in Indiana and provided them with bus tickets home and the agony of an 18-hour ride in order to save money. Some hero's welcome. Kennedy intervened and, rightfully, the men were flown home to Devens Air Force Base.
But more importantly to the country there was his unrelenting fight for fairness in the realm of social issues. A member of the powerful and wealthy Kennedy dynasty, his interests may have laid elsewhere than in universal healthcare, quality education for all and civil rights. Like so many others who were blessed with money and social status, he could have basked in the glory of his brothers and enjoyed a comfortable, unproductive life. Instead he devoted 47 years to the people of this country, almost five decades spent fighting for what he believed was right and just. What personal interest did he have in universal healthcare other than knowing that a responsible government should take care of its citizens? How would he benefit from children receiving proper education or an increase in minimum wage?
Sadly, many people I've spoken to only remember him for what happened in Chappaquiddick many years ago and his affection for the bottle. There was so much more to Ted Kennedy than that. I always regarded him as a good man filled with empathy for others and a strong desire to give back for the fortunes that he was blessed with. As many of his former opponents have noted, Kennedy was able to reach across party lines and was close friends with some of the highest-ranking Republicans. He had a knack for pushing his issue as far as he could and compromise just enough to get an acceptable bill out.
Unlike so many others, he boasted a political spine. Kennedy was his own man. Back in October of 2002, for instance, he voted against Resolution 114, which granted President George W. Bush war powers against Iraq. He was one of only 23 to vote against it. Hilary Clinton and John Kerry, who would later on campaign against the war, sadly did not, for political safety.
I had the pleasure to meet him several times in my previous career and like Clinton and only a handful of others in Washington, he came across as genuine.

SHAME ON FOX
While National Public Radio ran a day-long tribute to Kennedy, interviewing many Republican leaders such as Sen. Orrin Hatch who spoke emotionally about the good friend and colleague they had lost, Fox News went on something of a rampage.
Out of what could perhaps be better described as morbid curiosity, I flicked my TV to Fox News to see how they were covering the story. On came O'Reilly, speaking with a blonde contributor whose name escapes me.
You would expect even Fox to show a level of decorum following the death of such a prominent figure. But no. Asked about whether he had done anything positive, the contributor replied "Well, he did push through quite a few liberal ideas, some of them successfully," emphasis on "liberal." Fighting for disabled Americans and children could hardly be construed as liberalism. Empathy, perhaps. And those "liberal" ideas today protect even disabled Republicans and the children of uninsured conservatives. We all know Kennedy was the most liberal member of Congress, but coming out of Fox News, the word has an insulting connotation.
She later went on to question his true political legacy and to brand him as uncompromising, which according to even the higher ranks of the Republican congressional leadership is blatantly wrong.
Have we reached a point in television "news" (note the quotemarks) where it is acceptable to, pardon the expression, piss on someone's grave in this way?
I wonder how O'Reilly, Hannity and the rest of the Fox team would react to a commentator on the day of Dick Cheney's death calling the former vice president a liar, a manipulator and a self-agrandiser. Wait... that is actually factually correct...
No matter what side of the aisle you stand on, I believe Kennedy should be celebrated as the driving force of many good initiatives, a major figure in American history and the final chapter in a line of extraordinary leaders and the closest thing this country has had to a royal family.
He was also a flawed man who himself admitted in the early 1990s that he had led a questionable personal life and that those issues were his to confront.
However, I do not believe one can achieve greatness without first being flawed. Kennedy certainly overcame those shortcomings and this country has lost a truly great man.

The new reality?

2009-07-29T08:39:00.000-07:00

LAX parking lot is home away from home for airline workers

Buffeted by their industry's turbulence, airline employees save money by living part time in a motor home colony at LAX.

By Dan Weikel

July 20, 2009

For about 15 days a month, Alaska Airlines pilot Jim Lancaster lives in a motor home in Parking Lot B near the southernmost runway at Los Angeles International Airport.

Every four minutes, a jetliner or turboprop roars in -- 500 feet above his front door -- for a landing. The noise is so loud it forces Lancaster to pause during conversations. But he doesn't mind. Lancaster puts up with the smell of jet fuel and screaming engines to save time and money.

The 60-year-old aviator's primary residence is a cottage he shares with his wife overlooking a quiet bay off Puget Sound in Washington state. Living in Lot B while he's on duty means he doesn't have to rent a Los Angeles apartment with other pilots or spend 12 hours a day commuting to and from the Seattle area.

"As kids we used to ask our parents to take us to the airport to see the planes," Lancaster quipped. "Now I get to live at the airport."

He isn't the only one. Lancaster's 2001 Tradewinds sits among 100 trailers and motor homes that form a colony of pilots, mechanics and other airline workers at LAX, the third-busiest airport in the nation. They are citizens of one of the most unusual communities in the United States.

Their turf, just east of the Proud Bird restaurant off Aviation Boulevard, is less than 3,500 feet from the south runway. It is a drab expanse of crumbling gray asphalt, approach lights, chain-link fencing and rows of beige and white RVs -- some battered, others grand. A splash of color comes from the red and white blooms of about a dozen rose bushes along the colony's northern edge.

Many of the residents are separated from spouses, children and significant others for days -- even weeks -- at a time in order to keep their jobs or move up the pyramid of the airline industry.

"This is the cost of being a pilot today," said Todd Swenson, 40, a first officer with Alaska Airlines. His wife, Amanda, and 2-year-old son, Noah, live in Fresno, a six-hour commute by car. "I've wanted to be a pilot all my life. It can be awful here. But I have to provide for my family, and I love flying airplanes."

Swenson, who earns about $70,000 a year, lives across from Lancaster in a 1973 Coachman trailer that belonged to his father. If Lancaster's 38-foot rig with leather furniture is Park Place, Swenson's is Mediterranean Avenue. The 23-foot metal box is as cramped as economy class, with just enough space for a double bed, a television and a La-Z-Boy recliner. There is a galley kitchen and a bathroom about the size of an airliner lavatory.

The trailer's windows are blacked out with foil and brown paper bags so Swenson can sleep during the day. To muffle the constant din of aircraft, he bought a white-noise machine -- a small tape player with a recording that sounds like a washing machine. Swenson works out at a nearby 24-Hour Fitness, where he showers to conserve his trailer's limited water supply.

Inside the Coachman, the wood paneling and storage cabinets are covered with photos of Amanda and Noah, whom Swenson returns to about 11 days a month. He keeps in touch via a computer webcam.

"When my tires leave the driveway of my house in Fresno," Swenson said, "the only thing I can think about is getting back to my family."

For several years, clusters of RVs were scattered around the airport's parking lots until LAX officials decided to consolidate them in Lot B. Now operating as an organized camp overseen by the airport, it has an unofficial mayor, a code of conduct and residency requirements, including background checks, regular vehicle inspections and proof of employment at an air carrier.

"There might be a few other places like this nationally, but I think this is rather unique," said Michael Biagi, who heads the land-use division at Los Angeles World Airports.

Today, the colony has more than 100 residents -- mostly men -- from around the country, including captains, first officers, mechanics, flight attendants, support staff and employees of air cargo companies. There are at least two married couples, who work as flight attendants. About 10 people are on a waiting list.

Lot B's attractiveness is partly the result of the decade-long decline in air travel brought about by the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, the outbreak of SARS -- severe acute respiratory syndrome -- in 2003 and the deepest recession since World War II.

Salaries for pilots, mechanics and other airline workers have plummeted. Captains like Lancaster have been demoted to first officer, losing hard-earned seniority and forcing them out of plum assignments at airports close to home. Lancaster, who came to LAX from Seattle about 18 months ago, estimates that his reduction in rank cost him about $30,000 a year, roughly 20% of his pay.

Rather than quit their jobs or uproot their families for what could be a temporary stint in Los Angeles, workers have settled in Lot B, where the rent is only $60 a month.

"They'd probably be out of a job otherwise," said Doug Rogers, a 62-year-old United Airlines mechanic from Utah, who is the colony's acting mayor. "You can't maintain a household elsewhere and afford a home here in this economic climate. The airline industry is fragile right now. You just don't know what is going to happen."

Rogers has lived at LAX for about seven years in a 26-foot camper built on a Ford truck chassis. He and his wife own a house in Stansbury Park, a semi-rural community of 2,500 just north of Salt Lake City.

Rogers' living situation is the product of years of financial difficulties at United, which has gone in and out of bankruptcy proceedings. He lost his assignment at Salt Lake City International Airport, where United closed its maintenance facility a few months after the Sept. 11 attacks.

A $5 pay cut to $30 an hour, along with the airline's still tenuous future, led to his decision to keep his Stansbury Park house and rent a spot in Lot B, he said. He now works four 10-hour days a week and gets at least three days off to go back to Utah.

There's another advantage to not commuting -- whether by plane or car -- when on duty: Pilots and mechanics can get more rest, mitigating a problem that has plagued airline workers for decades.

An ongoing federal investigation indicates that fatigue could have been a factor in the crash of a Colgan Air turboprop that killed 50 people in Buffalo, N.Y., on Feb. 12. The pilot was commuting from Tampa, Fla., to Colgan's base in New Jersey. The copilot had regularly traveled from Seattle.

According to the National Transportation Safety Board, 93 of Colgan's 137 New Jersey-based pilots considered themselves commuters, including 49 who traveled more than 400 miles and 29 who lived more than 1,000 miles away.

If not for Lot B or other temporary quarters, the residents would be commuting from Anchorage, Seattle, Indianapolis, Memphis, Minneapolis and Hawaii. Others live in California, but hundreds of miles from LAX.

Rogers said life in the colony has been uneventful except for a period in 2005 when scores of non-airline workers moved in from a camping area at nearby Dockweiler State Beach, which was undergoing renovation. At the time, the airport did not screen potential residents.

The new arrivals brought in lawn gnomes, garden furniture and barbecues, which created a party atmosphere and the potential for public disturbances on airport property. A few dumped garbage and human waste on the pavement. Two prostitutes moved in as well, including one in her late 60s with a taste for tight skirts and silver high heels, residents say.

Responding to complaints from parking lot tenants and patrons, airport police swept into the eastern area of Lot B, where the RVs are located. They removed the prostitutes and towed about a dozen motor homes and campers with expired registrations. Officials stopped short of closing the site by establishing strict qualifications for residency and prohibiting lawn furniture, outdoor barbecues and parties.

"We try to keep a real low profile," said Steve Young, 52, a United Airlines mechanic whose family lives in Twentynine Palms.

"We consider living here a privilege."

Since the expulsion of the outsiders, Lot B has been quiet. Most people pass their free time reading, watching movies, shopping for supplies or servicing their RVs. Occasionally, there are bike rides to Dockweiler, about four miles away, or visits to the El Segundo Air Force base hosted by Lancaster, a retired lieutenant colonel.

Because tenants' work schedules vary widely, social gatherings are small and infrequent. It is typical for a few people to organize an impromptu happy hour in one of the larger rigs, such as Lancaster's coach, which is known as the Chateau. It has satellite TV, plush carpeting and walnut-stained cabinetry.

Lancaster's wife, a teacher in Seattle, likes the Chateau as well and occasionally flies down on Friday nights to explore Los Angeles over the weekend. "It's great fun and adventurous," Marlene Lancaster said.

But other tenants, like Rogers, can't wait for their days off to escape their cramped RVs, the din of aircraft and the tedium of Lot B.

"When I go home," Rogers said, "people sometimes ask me if I'd like to go camping. I tell them no. I already do that."

The Regional Truth - Part 2

2009-06-25T08:04:00.000-07:00

This post was going to touch on the way regional airline pilots are treated and my company stepped right in to provide me with the perfect story on this past trip. We had a wheels up time to New York because of weather. After an hour-and-a-half on the ramp, we returned to the gate to refuel and let passengers who were going to miss connections go. Two hours behind schedule, we took off and headed for JFK, where we would then work a flight back to Boston for the overnight. In range, however, we realized our flight had been given to another crew that departed a mere 15 minutes before we reached the gate, something of a common tactic from crew scheduling as of late to avoid cancelations that would mandate them to give us a hotel room even in base.
So we were now stuck in New York. Because it is our base, eventhough no one in my crew lives there, the company will not provide a hotel. We still called scheduling to see whether they could put us up because we had a 13-hour day the following day. The answer was an unequivocal and resounding no. I told the scheduler that my captain and I refused to sleep in the crew room, or the terminal in this case since six pilots had already claimed the filthy glycol-stained sofas as their own, and were heading to Boston to look for a bed to sleep in, like normal people.
The scheduler put me on hold and returned a second later with a threat. If we missed our deadhead the next morning they would slap us with a missed assignment and a note to that effect was now on my file. They could have simply deadheaded us from Boston in the morning instead, which would have given us a few more hours of sleep, but obviously this particular scheduler chose the war path instead.
Undeterred, we got on a flight to Boston. We figured out what crews had made it to their overnight, and more importantly which hadn't and managed to score a couple of rooms for the night. At 2 a.m., I got into my room, completely wiped out, only to get up again at 6 a.m. to return to the airport and fight my way back to JFK.
Playing around wording in our contract, making threats and being generally uncooperative is sadly what we are faced with every day we have to talk to crew scheduling. Of course, some schedulers are very nice and will go the extra mile to help but they are few and far between.
I am fully aware of economic considerations the airlines face, especially these days, but how can a company refuse to put up its crewmembers in a hotel on the eve of a 13-hour day? The scheduler I talked to simply told me to get a crashpad, a bed in a house or apartment full of commuting pilots. As a lineholder, however, I should not have to shell out the extra $250/month for a bed I might only use once or twice a year. In any case, on my First Officer pay, a crashpad or a hotel room in New York are luxuries I simply cannot afford.
In the wake of Colgan's crash, airlines have to wake up to the fact that they too have a responsibility in keeping their crews well-rested. These scheduling games aimed at circumventing contractual agreements have to stop. Some I've shared this story with have suggested I should have simply gone home and called in fatigued the next day, as a retaliatory move. While it might have created a scheduling hiccup, I would have lost two days of pay, something I just cannot afford either.
The mood at my airline, and I suspect at many others recently, has been been very dark lately. It is as though we are in a constant tug or war with the company, a game it is obvious we will never win.
The problem at the regional airlines today isn't experience. The fact that we have 200-hour wonders flying around the system is something that can be dealt with easily by pairing these pilots with experienced captains. After all, major airlines have in the past used so-called ab initio programs to train pilots.
The true issue is how airlines treat their pilots, flight attendants, gate agents and ramp personel. All of us work hard, go the extra mile to help passengers and run a safe ship but all we get in return is disrespect.
It is time for the press to leave behind this issue of lack of experience and focus on this: your crew is tired, underpaid, overworked and pissed off.

The Regional Truth - Part 1

2009-06-11T11:30:00.000-07:00

Alan Levin wrote a story for USA Today earlier this week underlining the fact that Marvin Renslow, the captain of Colgan 3407 that crashed in February outside Buffalo, NY, had failed several checkrides in his time at the airline.
The article, copied below, was published weeks after the NTSB released copious amounts of documents during their hearings on the ill-fated Colgan flight, including training records, technical data recovered from the aicraft's data recorder and transcripts of the pilots' conversation during the flight.

Pilots in crashes had failed multiple tests
By Alan Levin, USA TODAY
In nearly every serious regional airline accident during the past 10 years, at least one of the pilots had failed tests of his or her skills multiple times, according to an analysis of federal accident records.
In eight of the nine accidents during that time, which killed 137 people, pilots had a history of failing two or more "check rides," tests by federal or airline inspectors of pilots' ability to fly and respond to emergencies. In the lone case in which pilots didn't have multiple failures since becoming licensed, the co-pilot was fired after the non-fatal crash for falsifying his job application.
Pilots on major airlines and large cargo haulers had failed the tests more than once in only one of the 10 serious accidents in this country over the past 10 years, according to a USA TODAY review of National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) accident reports.
At a time when fatal aviation accidents have become increasingly rare, regional carriers have had four since 2004, compared with one by a major airline. Regional airlines fly roughly half of all airline flights, carrying about 20% of passengers.
Pilot qualifications on regional carriers was at the center of an NTSB hearing last month into the February crash of a turboprop near Buffalo that killed 50 people. The pilot at the controls when the plane plunged had failed five checks, according to records revealed at the hearing.
Three of the accidents in which pilots had repeatedly failed tests involved a single airline conglomerate, Pinnacle Airlines. The crash near Buffalo was on Colgan Air, which is owned by Pinnacle. The captain on a Pinnacle jet that crashed in 2004 after accidentally killing both engines had failed seven checks.
Pinnacle spokesman Joe Williams said the airline was not aware of all the test failures.
"I'd say this is a symptom of a larger problem in selection and certification" of pilots, said Bill Voss, president of the independent Flight Safety Foundation. A shortage of pilots this decade, prompted in part by the lower numbers of former military pilots seeking airline jobs, prompted lower minimum qualifications, Voss said.
Failing a single check during a career means little, but failing multiple times "really sends up the red flags," said Patrick Veillette, a corporate jet pilot who has written extensively on safety issues.
Regional Airline Association President Roger Cohen defended the industry's safety practices. "All of our members are flying under the exact same standards as the mainline carriers," Cohen said.
The NTSB has voiced concern about a loophole in a law requiring airlines to check pilots' records when hiring. The 1996 Pilot Records Improvement Act orders airlines to check pilot records from previous employers, but that does not cover failures that occurred while a pilot was in flight school.
Airline pilots receive dozens of written and flying tests during a career.

The following day, a cartoon depicted a pilot in the right seat of an airliner holding a newspaper with the headline "Some pilots fail multiple tests yet still fly." He is talking to a cat sitting in the captain's seat and says "OK, as long as you're cleared to fly."
As a former journalist, I didn't find the article to be particularly fair, not even really warranted, but since I am now a regional airline pilot I realize that I am biased.
The cartoon, however, was completely out of place and insulted an entire profession.
A little context about the regional airlines is in order.

FLIGHT TESTS
Failing checkrides is not unusual and can happen because of many factors other than incompetence or inexperience. Consider the fact that many pilots travel long distances to reach their training departments and checkrides are administered around the clock, day and night. My last one, for instance, took place from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. and while I passed, the late hour did make it more challenging than previous proficiency checks.
Besides that, personal conflict with check airmen (some are very frustrated to be stuck in the sim), problems at home or a simple "bad day" can affect the outcome of a checkride even for the best of pilots.
In some cases, airlines simply do not prepare their pilots well enough.
Levin notes that of the last 10 major carrier crashes only one crewmember had several pink slips on his records. Clearly, this means that a perfect record does not ensure immunity from a crash. Measuring a pilot's ability by his performance on checkrides is therefore a flawed metric. I know of guys who have pink slipped rides but are top-notch captains. Others, who have a clean record, have no place being at the helm of an airliner.
So how can we evaluate airline pilots?

EXPERIENCE
The media seems to be hinting to the fact that regional pilots are inexperienced and probably unsafe. You'd therefore be much better off with a mainline crew.
That is absurd.
The captains I fly with have decades of experience in the cockpit. Many spent thousands of hours flight instructing and/or hauling cargo in rickety equipment and treacherous weather before coming to the airline. While I am low-time compared to them, I had about 1,000 hours as a flight instructor before joining the company. In that invaluable phase of my career I experienced icing, thunderstorms, engine failure and other mechanical issues that all prepared me for my current job.
A year after I was hired, regionals began lowering minimums dramatically. Before hiring halted in the spring of last year, a pilot with nothing but a multi-engine commercial license could find himself in the right seat at a regional.
These 200-hour wonders, as some call them, were right out of flight training. They had minimal Pilot In Command time in their logbooks, just enough to satisfy the FAA's requirement for a Commercial certificate, no instructor certificates, no professional experience flying airplanes. They most likely had to make very few decisions in their flying careers prior to the airlines, instead leaving those up to the instructor in the right seat.
Some see these green pilots as dangerous. But they forget that several times in the course of this business's history, pilots have gone through so-called ab initio programs: zero time to airline pilot. Some of them are now very experienced captains flying the heavy metal at some of the country's most respected airlines. This also happens to have been the way things worked in Europe and Asia, where 200-hour wonders were thrown not in the right seat of a turboprop or regional jet but an Airbus or a 747.
Many of the senior captains I've flown with have said the same thing: the 200-hour wonders were great at pushing buttons, some even flew very well. The common thread, however, was a lack of judgement.
And that, sadly, can't be taught at the training academy. It is something one develops over time, something garnered over many hours of flying and different types of flying.
Because they bypassed the generally accepted route to the airlines, they just need a little more help than those who came from instructing or freight. In the right circumstances, they aren't dangerous. They are just captains in training.
This is where the experience issue comes in. Levin paints the regional airline industry with a very wide brush, branding all of us inexperienced. That is plainly false.
Experience levels vary widely from company to company and because of stagnant seniority lists, some regionals, like Piedmont, American Eagle and Comair, have very experienced captains who, in many cases, are very good at priming their first officers for the left seat. These also happen to be the airlines with the "best" (or least worst) contracts. There are also plenty of unscrupulous companies out there, Mesa and Gulfstream to name but two, that attracted only the most inexperiencedy because they offered abysmal pay and horrible quality of life.
So the issue now becomes what airlines are offering. Journalists and passengers can clamor all they want about how inexperienced regional pilots are, but as long as those airlines pay rock-bottom wages, treat their employees like dirt and offer little to no advancement at all, only the very young and green will line up for work.

More about this in Part 2.

Back to reality

2009-04-23T07:22:00.000-07:00

I was at the airport in St Thomas, waiting for my flight home when the phone rang. It was the training department advising me that I had been removed from two days of my next trip because my captain had to give IOE, Initial Operating Experience, to another pilot.
Two extra paid days off! I was thrilled.
The shortened trip went without a hitch. Until the last leg, of course.
On our way into JFK, we are told to hold on three different occasions. While my captain flies, I run fuel numbers. Except for the delay, which means I'll miss my usual flight home, we're in good shape. We are soon vectored to the VOR 13L, my favorite approach into Kennedy. Over the CRI VOR, while still in the clouds, tower sends us around because of spacing with the aircraft ahead.
On a long downwind vector, I once again examine the fuel situation. We still have plenty but know that the way things have gone so far today it won't be a quick approach, so I ask the controller what his plan is for us.
"Yeah, I was going to turn you in a second," comes the curt reply.
"Just trying to think ahead and evaluate our fuel situation."
Moments later, we are back on the approach. As we get closer we hear several aircraft ahead going missed approach, meaning they have reached the point on the approach where they either have to see the runway or go around.
We cross CRI lower than usual, as assigned by ATC, then pick up the lead-in lights than run parallel to the highway. My captain points the aircraft's nose toward them while I search for the next set of lights to our right. Nothing.
We go missed, again.
Tower hands us over to approach. I declare minimum fuel and the controller gives us vectors back around.
In typical New York fashion, however, the headings look like they will take us far out and as the weather dips lower and lower my captain and I concur that we have very little leeway left.
"Flight 1234, we are declaring a fuel emergency."
The controller acknowledges our call, asks for the number of souls on board and gives us another vector around for the ILS 13L. On edge, we prepare for the third and what absolutely has to be the last approach.
Minutes later we break out of the clouds at about 700' to the very welcomed sight of runway 13L.
At the gate I weigh my flight options home . It looks like I can make the 5 p.m. flight that leaves from the terminal I am in. Because of the weather and its associated backlog, the aircraft is late getting into New York, so I call another airline to make a back-up plan. Their 7:50 p.m. flight has already cancelled, leaving only one more flight home at 11 p.m. I list for it, just in case.
I bump into the FO flying the 5 p.m. flight and chat with him for a while. We are soon joined by a captain trying to make that flight too. We all exchange stories, commiserate about the commute and try to help frantic passengers whose flights are cancelling or who have missed connections.
Once again, JFK is the center of many's unhappiness.
Two other Boston flights cancel but by 8 p.m. I'm on board the 5 p.m., on our way to 13R. I close my eyes for a second. It's been a long and hectic day, but in just a few hours I'll be home and I can already taste the rum punch I'll have to unwind.
DING.
Through the cockpit door comes the familiar sound of the single chime. It rouses me from my slumber, but it could be anything: the cross-feed might be on because of the single-engine taxi out to the runway or the FO might have changed to thrust setting for take-off. Nothing that would get in the way of my getting home. I lean my head back.
The aircraft suddenly makes a right turn, then another, heading away from the runway.
I turn around and the commuting captain and I exchange a look of concern. Guess we're not going after all.
A hydraulic problem ends up cancelling this flight too and I suddenly see my chances of making it home tonight dwindle. The 11 p.m. flight on the other airline is now delayed two hours and it looks like it'll probably end up cancelling altogether. This could mean having to sleep in the crew room.
An hour later, however, news comes that dispatch wants the crew of the 5 p.m. flight to reposition the aircraft to Boston when the hydraulic problem is fixed. This is my last chance for a ride home. So I wait with them.
Hours later we touch down in Boston. It's late. The airport is deserted and quiet. On the curb, the usual cacophony of buses and cars has been reduced to complete silence. I hop in a cab for the $80 ride to my car and pull into my driveway at 2 a.m.
Ten hours after my work day ended.
It's definitely back to reality...

Paradise

2009-04-11T10:41:00.000-07:00

As the 757's door opened, warm air rushed into cabin, carrying with it a hint of the sea and caressing my face softly. I smiled. Jen and I had finally arrived: St Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. A step closer to our own little corner of paradise for the next four days.

It had been too long since we had done something just the two of us. Years in fact. And with a new baby at home and hectic opposing schedules, stress and exhaustion had finally caught up with us. It was time, I had decided, for that long-overdue and long dreamed-about Caribbean holiday.

A fair amount of research and conversations with friends and colleagues familiar with the region led to the conclusion that St John was the place for us: a less touristy island of 20 square miles, 80 percent of which is protected as a National Park. By all accounts, the beaches were pristine and the people friendly. A true no-brainer.

Outside the open-air terminal, a lady offered travelers free shots of rum. All around us, happy faces wandered about, cold beers in hand. They too had reached paradise, it seemed.

A quick taxi ride later, we were sipping rum punch and pain killers (the drink, of course) on the patio of Tickles restaurant at the Crown Marina, while we waited for the ferry to St John. The lush mountains surrounding us and the bright turquoise waters all around transported us to a completely different world, far far away from the wintery muck of Boston, the diaper changes and the constant logistical headaches both at home and at work.

We missed Ollie very much but as we began to take this beautiful place in we were happy and began to relax.

The ferry ride was a pleasure, taking us past a slew of private islands that pepper the waters between St Thomas and St John. Less than an hour later, the hotel staff greeted us with yet more rum punch. We were in awe: the palm trees, the lush green lawns bordered by wild pineapple and other tropical plants, the white sand and enticing crystalline water of the Caribbean Sea. We swam, had dinner on the beach and sat in the warm evening, surrounded by tikki torches, gazing at solitary clouds floating high above the palm trees in the silvery hue of the moon light.

Pure bliss.

The following morning, we headed to Cruz Bay to rent a jeep and set out to explore the island, which is essentially an imposing mountain jutting from the sea. Driving on the left side of the road took no time to get used to. Negotiating the extremely steep hills, however, was a little more interesting. But reaching high ground was well worth it.

We were now islanders, so we sipped the obligatory mid-morning mango-banana smoothie while enjoying the view above. We (hmmm, well Jen, really...) decided to walk the almost 3-mile long Reef Bay trail, which snakes through the lush forest past the ruins of old Dutch sugar mills. Along the way, we detoured to see petroglyphs, mysterious carvings etched into rock at the bottom of a 40-foot waterfall in the middle of the forest. Sounded phenomenal on paper. While we did see the carvings, the waterfall was unfortunately completely dried up and the most exciting part of the side-trip was an encounter with one of the thousands of mongooses that inhabit the island. The Dutch brought the little guys from Jamaica to kill rats in the sugar plantations, which apparently failed since mongooses hunt by day and rats are nocturnal. They have since taken over the island.

The winding trail finally opened up to the completely secluded Reef Bay, accessible only by foot or boat, where the shallow and warm water is said to be a nursery for baby sharks. While we sadly did not get to see any, the beauty and calm of this remote beach was reward enough.

The walk back up to our Jeep was, well, brutal: steep, hot, rocky. Never ending. Generally unpleasant. But in hindsight, well-worth it.

Still in pain from the previous day's ascent, we enjoyed a relaxed breakfast on a small square by the harbor in Cruz Bay on Tuesday, where chickens and their chicks ran free in the street.

Cute. But being a chicken on St John can apparently be a hazardous occupation.

Our appetites satisfied, we hopped on one of the island's many safari taxis and headed for Trunk Bay, considered to be one of the world's most beautiful beaches. Along the way, we were treated to magnificent views of Honeymoon, Hawk's Nest and Caneel bays, where Laurence Rockerfeller opened his famous eco-friendly resort back in the early 1950s.

As we walked onto the beach at Trunk Bay, I immediately understood what all the fuss is about.

Paradise:

Aside from its breath-taking beauty, Trunk Bay is known for its excellent snorkeling trail. Wasting no time, Jen and I donned our gear and headed out to see what lay beneath those turquoise waters. We weren't disappointed.

Beautiful coral, a completely different world under the surface and home
to a multitude of multi-colored fish...

Such as the Parrot Fish below, whom I stalked all day long. If we held our breath we could hear him chomping away at the coral.

A sea turtle.

The Barracuda below appeared out of nowhere about two feet away from my face as I was scanning the coral for fish. He scared the crap out of me at first but seemed completely unfazed by my presence (or my deliciousness). I reached for the camera to steal a shot, but a wave carried me above the surface and ruined it. I swam after him for a bit to get a closer picture until it dawned on me that I was in hot pursuit of a carniverous fish. Reason prevailed and this is what I settled for:

After a full day of snorkeling, we found the perfect table in Cruz Bay to enjoy the sunset, dinner and a few deliciously refreshing rum drinks.

Sadly the next day was also our last on St John. We headed further up the coast to visit Cinnamon Bay, which was also breath-takingly beautiful.

While the snorkeling was disappointing compared to Trunk Bay, the weather gave us a perfect final day in paradise and I took the opportunity to sooth my badly sunburned back from the previous day's underwater explorations and relax on the warm sand. Soon enough we'd be back to reality, running around like mad people, rejoining the ranks of the everyday drones that we had pitied so much while lounging on the beach without a care in the world. Tomorrow we'd no longer be happy islanders fuelled by rum and sunshine. Tomorrow we'd be back to being suckers with stupid bosses and bills to pay.

But not before making a new friend. Jen named him Stewart.

Furloughs

2009-04-03T12:37:00.000-07:00

"At least they're not furloughing, unlike the rest of the industry."
I uttered these words a few days ago, in a nowadays very common company-bashing conversation with a captain. The following day, we heard the news that the company would furlough just under 100 pilots.
It's a tough time for airline pilots. Other bigger and much better airlines than mine have let pilots go, grounded airplanes, shut down bases and cut pay and benefits in recent months. A United Airlines captain riding in our jumpseat told me just the other day that 800 of his colleagues will soon be out on the street as the company has decided to ground all of its 737s.
Nobody is safe. This isn't a situation where the bottom of the regional airline pack is getting pinched. All the big boys, except perhaps for Southwest, are feeling the pressure.
My airline, which typically trails its competitors in terms of effecting changes (good or bad), closed my home base, forcing me and over 200 of my colleagues to commute to work by air. In the current climate, however, I considered myself lucky to still be in a job. The move was also widely viewed as a negotiating tactic gone sour rather than an actual financial necessity.
But now the downturn is at our doorstep. In just a few short weeks, colleagues will be sent to the street at a time when finding a job is tough enough and one flying airplanes almost completely impossible.
Again, I count myself fortunate to not be in that group. However, I can't help but think that this might only be the first wave. With a family to take care of, a mortgage to pay and debt accumulated in the past couple of years due to low pay as a flight instructor and a junior first officer, the prospect of being furloughed is terrifying.
The future remains terribly uncertain for the airlines. While oil prices have dropped to much more manageable levels, passengers aren't flying as much as they used to and as the economy continues its downward spiral, loads will probably continue to drop as well.
Having researched the industry before joining it, I know this is just another cycle (admittedly in the context of the greatest economic slump in decades) in what has to be one of the most volatile lines of work out there. Things will get better, I'm sure of it. One day the airlines will expand again, hiring will boom, upward movement will be restored and with any luck pay and benefits will improve and the battered airline industry will once more be a desirable place to work.
But until then, I fear it's going to be a very bumpy ride.

Anniversary

2009-03-19T06:54:00.000-07:00

I was driving home from the airport the other day, when I popped a CD into my car stereo that I hadn't listen to in a while. On it were a few Martin Sexton songs that brought back memories. Among them: my private pilot training, five years ago.
For a second I was transported back to those happy days in the spring of 2004 and could almost feel the slight knot in the stomach that preceded the early lessons, that mix of nervousness and eager anticipation. As I looked over my shoulder to change lanes, I caught a glimpse of one of my epaulettes and smiled. Never at the time would I have thought I'd one day be driving home to the same songs, having landed a jet just a few minutes before.
Today is my second anniversary at the airline and just like the other day, I am looking backwards, reminscing about those many adventures, the people I've met and most of all the fun and challenge that the last few years have been.
Of course, it hasn't all been easy or pleasant. But two years into my airline career, I am happy to report that the novelty hasn't worn off. I still get that giddy feeling when I settle into the cold, dark cockpit, my home away from home, a virgin canvas that in response to my moving knobs and pushing switches will soon come alive with lights and sounds. As I power the airplane up, the kid in me still gets excited to hear the APU slowly spool up then whine as it reaches 100%.
The concerto of voices on the radio, as we turn onto the taxiway, the taxi flows, the take-off briefing amid the aural chaos of today's busy airports, that phrase "Cleared for take-off," the noise and power when the throttles are advanced and down the runway we roll, the smoothness with which the jet cuts through the air, the pleasing feeling in the control column: It still makes me feel very alive.
And beyond the departure end of the runway, what awaits us? Ice? Thunderstorms? Low weather at our destination? Or simply breath-taking golden evening skies that will soon be set ablaze by a receding sun? Or maybe it's those crystalline night skies as we fly north to Halifax, when the darkness surrounding those secluded regions on out route allows us to see the stars and the Milky Way in a clarity unmatched anywhere else?
The challenges, the sheer beauty of the sky and the adrenaline-inducing machines we are fortunate enough to operate make this very simply the best job in the world.
Yes, the industry is in shambles. Yes, the pay is abysmal, for now anyway. Of course, the schedules can be horrible. But for me it is an irreversible calling and we can only hope that the airlines will one day decide to treat their pilot groups with the respect the job commands.
A few months ago, as my airline was going through a difficult period, I considered returning to a more stable line of work, which of course ruled out journalism, my orginial calling. I looked for openings, revamped my resume, labored over a cover letter. I even envisaged how life would be with more money and being home every night. But a few weeks into this I realized that only when I was on the ground did I seriously consider leaving behind the job I'd dreamed of for so long. As soon as those wheels left the runway pavement, the throughts completely vanished. "You must be mad," I'd realize. "Leave all of this behind?"
No way. I'm here to stay.

The Great New York Deicing Debacle

2008-12-07T15:30:00.000-08:00

My day started well: commuting to work went without a hitch. So it was with a spring in my step that I tackled the five-leg day, which started too early and would end at midnight, if all went according to plan.
A look at my schedule, however, showed out and backs between New York and Washington all day. Not good.
I got the airplane ready, without a captain in sight. Minutes before departure, he arrived and we were soon on our way.
I took off and banked to the south on our way to Washington. During the flight we noted a slight vibration but couldn't pinpoint its origin. We varied thrust settings and speeds to make note of when it manifested itself and at the conclusion of another very satisfying River Visual to 19, I landed uneventfully.
The captain wrote up the mechanical issue, causing the airplane to be grounded and our next leg to New to cancel. So we sat. For five long hours, until our next JFK turn.
A worried passenger on his way to Israel approached us. "Will I make my connection," he asked, having noticed the delay of the inbound aircraft. We promised to do our best.
We pulled into the gate in New York ahead of our revised arrival time. I think the Israel-bound man made his flight.
After our new passenger load had boarded, we called for de-icing. It had been snowing for an hour now and the airplane was covered in a dusting of the white stuff.
"I think both trucks are broken," an operations person radioed back.
I reminisced about the same situation last year, roughly around this time of year, ahead of the first forecast snow. Again, it seemed the company had managed to be taken by surprise by a completely expected need for the de-icing equipment to work.
After a half-an-hour, we finally pulled into the de-icing pad. The truck sprayed us with heated Type I fluid, then the longer-lasting Type IV. But seconds into the application of the second fluid, the driver informed us that the truck had once again broken down. Tired and frustrated passengers could do little more than watch the crew outside fiddling with the wounded machine.
It took so long that we were about to reach our holdover time, that point at which de-icing fluid loses its effectiveness.
After much back and forth and some huffing and puffing from us and a company aircraft waiting in line behind us to be sprayed, our rampies borrowed a truck from another airline and for the second time of the evening de-iced us from scratch. Two full hours after closing the aircraft door, we reached the runway and arrived at our gate in Washington at 1:30 a.m.
While we sat on the de-icing pad in New York, I couldn't help but feel terrible for our passengers. It's no fun sitting in cramped jet, exhausted, late at night with little ventilation (our air conditioning system has to be shut off during the de-icing process to avoid fumes from entering the cabin). We tried our best to keep them informed on what was happening, however embarassing it was, but knew they were angry at us.
I don't blame them.
What they might not have realized, however, is that we were angry too. Both my captain and I are commuters, so by the time we arrived at our hotel we had been up for close to 20 hours. We wanted to get going as badly as any passenger but could not believe the comedy of errors that unfolded before our eyes. Two hours to de-ice one airplane, admittedly twice, is simply unacceptable. The company should provide equipment in working condition both for the safety of the rampers operating it and for the overall efficiency of the operation. But especially these days money talks and corners are cut. God bless those rampers for working in such conditions. I admired their resolve to get us cleaned up, eventhough the weather was lifting, and their dedication to safety in the face of these daily challenges.
It should be an interesting winter.

Displaced

2008-12-05T07:35:00.001-08:00

A few months ago, my airline announced it would be closing its Boston base. All of the domicile's 240 pilots would have to find new homes throughout the system.
For me, New York's John F. Kennedy seemed like the best choice and I was awarded the new base effective this month. Tomorrow will be my first trip out of there and also my first time commuting to work by air.
Unlike many others in this line of work, I have been fortunate enough to drive to work for the past two years. What many outside of the profession do not know is that a large number of airline pilots fly great distances to get to work. I know of one pilot, for instance, who lives in the desert outside of Las Vegas and had to commute to Richmond, VA for many years. That included a long trek by car to Vegas or sometimes L.A., followed by two, or sometimes three flights to his base. After too many such trips to and from work, he was diagnosed with chronic fatigue and removed from flying for some time.
Another pilot I know flies all the way from Ireland and while I thought that was crazy, I met another guy who commutes from Germany to Newark to get to work.
While I have been bemoaning the new arrangement, it is not quite as bad for me although JFK can be a tricky airport to get in and out of because of congestion, heavy passenger loads and of course, the uncertainty of weather. It is also a major ding to an already questionable quality of life.
It will be a new and not necessarily pleasant experience, but it has shown me just how lucky I have been in the past two years to live a mere 45 minutes from the airport I flew out of. Life will be harder, the days longer and I fully expect to get caught in Kennedy on my way home and hardly relish the idea of spending a night in the crew lounge to await the first flight home the following day.
But unfortunately it comes with the job and is one of those many unsavory things we have to put up with to continue working in this job we love so much. I don't know of many other professions that require people to commute such long distances, never knowing whether you will make the flight to or from work.
While you may assume that riding my airline to work, especially on such a frequent route, shouldn't be too bad, think again. My airline would actually charge me for the service. Yes, I would have to pay my employer to get to a base I had never signed up for in the first place and that is just not acceptable to me since I can ride a couple of other carriers for free.
This really is a unique and messed up line of work. But the fact that so many would endure such difficulties every day of the week only goes to show that the job is fueled by passion.

The mighty Mammatus

2008-10-23T10:46:00.000-07:00

A look at my schedule the other day showed me flying my next trip with a great captain I had the pleasure of working with a few months ago in one of my (and apparently his) most memorable flights yet.
John and I sat in the cockpit in June in Nashville, readying for our second leg of the day. In a few hours, we'd be going home and we were in a jovial mood as the two-day trip had so far gone without a hitch. As the printer spat out the Washington National Airport ATIS, I noticed a mention of ACMAM, something I had never seen before.
"What is that?" I asked John.
Not a clue.
So I pulled out my phone and Googled it.
"Alto Cumulus, Mammatus clouds," I read.
A search for Mammatus clouds yielded intimidating photographs of the dark and menacing clouds.

"This ought to be interesting," I said.
It was John's leg. He took off and climbed in smooth air and beautiful clear skies to 37,000 feet. We wondered what lay ahead and checked the weather periodically. The ceiling in D.C. was dropping, rain and cumulonimbus clouds were reported in the vicinity and the wind was picking up steadily. But aside from the subsistent note MAM, it looked like the typical stormy summer day.
We pushed on in slightly choppier air. As we neared Washington on the Eldee Three arrival, the bumps grew more intense right around the Eldee intersection. Racing in and out of clouds, we tried to map the storms in the area both with the help of our radar and by visually spotting them.
John zigzagged to avoid a large cell directly over Dulles Airport and we soon made the right turn onto the downwind for Runway 1 at DCA.
Moments later, we were over the river, following a Delta Airlines MD-80 ahead of us. We ran through the approach checklist. Looked like we'd make it in, no problems at all.
The scenery outside the windshield was dramatic. The dark mammatus clouds kept the early afternoon sun from shining through the undercast and it looked like night-time. A dark mass sat just west of the airport, seemingly out of our way.
As we pressed on down the Potomac the bumps grew more violent. I watched the dark maelstrom to our left. It was moving, and moving fast. Right at DCA.
"Don't know if we'll beat it in," I said.
By the time we reached the Wilson Bridge, about 5 miles south of the airport, the dark storm had swallowed the field and the Delta ahead of us completely. The turbulence shook us so violently that reading the instruments became difficult at best.
We reached the edge of the storm, which was thundering toward us, threatening to gobble us in its fury any second now. Just as I was about to suggest we go around, John shoved the throttles forward.
"Flight 1234," a frazzled controller called, "make an immediate right turn, 180 heading, the tower is shaking." In the midst of the mess, I also heard the Delta going around, fighting in the middle of a very angry storm.
As we made the turn, the turbulence made the airplane roll so far that I thought we were about to go inverted. It was a harrowing climb back up through 1,000' but John fought valiantly against the turbulence while I cleaned the airplane up and ran through the appropriate checklists.
Then things got interesting.
"Potomac approach, Flight 1234 on the missed, through 1,500', heading 180."
Silence.
"Approach, Flight 1234 on the missed, 1,500 for 5,000, 180 heading."
Complete silence.
I flicked to another Potomac frequency I was familiar with for the area, but still nothing. Back on the original frequency I tried once more. No controller. Another airliner checked in, but like us received no reply.
Zipping through the clouds with nobody on the frequency was an eery feeling. I briefly spoke to the pilot of the other airliner, all the while calculating our fuel.
Finally a faint voice broke the silence.
The Potomac Approach controller was talking to us from a handheld radio. It seemed the storms had wreaked havoc with the facility's transmitters. He gave us a heading back to the localizer and instructions to hold. We complied, but discussed our options since fuel was now running low.
"We have enough for one approach but we have to land," I hinted at John.
In the hold, the bumps tossed the aircraft like a rag doll. This was too much of a gamble, we decided, and the people in the back had probably had enough. We diverted to Richmond and once again lost communication for a while.
A few minutes later we touched down at our alternate and John personally went to the back to explain our situation to the passengers: We'd have to wait out the weather. Delays, however, were the least of anyone's concerns. I truly believe our passengers were just happy to be down in one piece.
It took us a few more hours, but got them into D.C. later that night.

Papa Wilko

2008-09-04T17:37:00.000-07:00

Much has happened in the past few months. My schedule has improved tremendously, I broke the 1,000 hour mark of jet time and my airline, like most others, has had to impose cuts and recently announced that my home base will close in a few months. It has been a rollercoaster ride of fun (on the job), peppered with a fair dose of uncertainty and disillusionment over the way the company is treating our pilot group.

But most important of all, Oliver arrived.

Early on a June morning, the little guy made his appearance and has blessed our lives with his presence since.

Holding a brand new baby, only a few minutes old, was much like being presented with a complex new machine with no instructions. No panic. Bewilderment, perhaps. And a whirlpool of questions, including the one most asked by airline pilots: "Why's it doing that?"

I will never forget the thrill of that day. I could not believe that the frail little being all bundled in my arms was my son. It's hard to think that he will one day walk, talk, think and build a life and family of his own.

It has been a steep learning curve but every day, as hard as it might have been, has brought more fulfillment and rewards than I ever thought imagineable.

He's a funny little one who will often shoot us a knowing smile when, errr let's just say, he has left a big surprise for us in his diaper. Also, while obviously oblivious to our jokes, his timing is uncanny and he will laugh along with us. A very sweet laughter.

The days have been long and the nights short, (mostly for my wife, to be fair) but no words can describe the feeling of seeing your child smile back at you with complete and utter sincerity. He is an unspoiled wonder, a true little miracle who has rekindled in me a sense of wonder and innocence that the past few years in journalism and the airlines may have robbed me of. Or maybe it's being a grown-up, or at least posing as one, that tarnished that in me.

Welcome, Ollie. And thank you for warming my heart every day and allowing me to be a child too.

Timed out

2008-04-05T12:50:00.000-07:00

This is another one of those cascade of incidents story and I know there have been a few of those recently. So I'll preface this one with the fact that I love my job in spite of all that gets in the way of a smooth trip.
A few days ago, I signed-in for a two-day trip, excited to be gone for only a short while and to fly with a great captain. The trip was also very efficient, packing in just under 15 hours of flying in two days.
Our first leg that morning was to be a line check. My third so far this month but that's another story. I seem to be paired with every captain coming up on their annual check this year.
The flight is uneventful and we turn the airplane quickly back to Boston. The rest of the day goes just as smoothly and I even receive a few compliments from passengers on one of my landings. That always feels good.
At the overnight, I excitedly unpack my dinner. I'm starving and it's nice for once to enjoy the comfort of a home cooked meal.
The following morning we prepare for a very long day. We are planned for just under 14 hours on duty, at the conclusion of which we will be going home. Leg number one is long, but uneventful. The second flight of the day ends in my flying the VOR approach to 13L in JFK, one of my favorite approaches in our system. There's a little bit of a crosswind but my landing again lands me a compliment or two as passengers deplane. My captain, whose landings were consistently spotless, is dumbfounded as to why nobody will comment on his.
After sitting for a while in New York and later in Boston, we are readying for the last turn of the day, to Kennedy and back. A lady who suffered a panic attack is boarded first and reassured by our staff. She seems very nervous.
It's getting late and we're both now feeling the effects of the long day.
I lift off of runway 22R and bank the airplane to the southeast, over the water. In a little over two hours we'll back over this water on our way home, I think.
Then, suddenly, at about 4,000 feet a bang tears us from the comfortable routine. The unnerving sound is followed by loud gushing coming from my side window. We look at each other and remember the write-up a previous crew had entered into the logbook regarding a loud pack, part of the air conditioning and pressurization system. The captain recycles it but the sound subsides. I continue to fly the airplane as air traffic controls vectors us away from Logan and as we gain altitude the gushing grows louder.
While still troubleshooting the problem, the captain advises the controller that we might have to return to Boston. In the meantime, off headset, I narrow the origin of the sound to the forward portion of my side window. We conclude the seal must have blown.
I think of the nervous passenger in the back.
Too heavy to land right away, we receive vectors around the Boston area for a while, in order to burn fuel. About 40 minutes later, safely below maximum landing weight, we are on final to runway 27, listening to the tower controller advising the emergency crews of our arrival.
I tried to squeak the landing but it wasn't as smooth as I would have liked. A little dejected, we return to gate to find out that we've been swapped to a different aircraft.
The passengers on the jet bridge aren't happy. One of them accosts us and asks why we didn't just fly to New York since we were out there burning fuel for so long. We explain that at our low altitude we wouldn't have had enough fuel to make it into Kennedy. He seemed unimpressed by our explanation. Maybe I should visit him at his workplace and question his performance. And I wonder how he would have felt if the seal in his window had blown up. Would he have felt so comfortable making the trip down at 22,000 feet?
As we prepare the spare aircraft for the flight, it dawns on us that we are pushing the FAA's 16-hour duty day limit. We're definitely legal to go but it seems like it'll be tight coming back home tonight. Our dispatcher sends us an MOT time, the time by which we have to be airborne from JFK to be legal. If there are no hold-ups, we argue, we might just be able to make it. But at that time of the day holding in New York is almost guaranteed and any delay would throw our plans off.
Before we go, a mechanic stops by to tell us that we were right. The seal in my side window was shredded to bits. Good thing we didn't go.
Again, I fly the airplane down and fly it as fast as I can. It's busy in New York tonight. I set up for the VOR-DME 22L but ATC switches us to the VOR13L. Minutes later, they once again change it to 22L.
"All aircraft on frequency, there has been an accident on the runway at Kennedy," declares the approach controller. "The airport is closed and will remain so for a while so I suggest you advise me of your alternate."
It appears a private jet went off the runway. Details are scarce, however.
Again, I think of the nervous lady in the cabin. She picked the wrong day to fly.
A quick exchange with our dispatcher has us diverting to Newark and within minutes, we have reprogrammed the FMS and are on our way there. Then ATC calls again.
"Kennedy is re-opened, expect the VOR approach to 13R."
More shuffling inside the cockpit and speculating about our fate tonight.
"You know we're f*cked," my captain says, as I turn base to final.
In denial, I choose to ignore the comment and focus on getting us on the ground.
Minutes later, at our gate, quick math shows me the grim reality. We have only one hour to get off the ground. If we don't, then I won't be sleeping in my own bed tonight.
Already the line of airplanes is growing. Aircraft are lined up on every portion of real estate the humongous airport has to offer. On our taxi out, we see the private jet is still on the side of 13L near the intersection with 22R, perpendicular to the runway it landed on. But it's too far for us to see if it sustained any damage. Pilots on ground and tower frequencies ask for details but irritated and overworked controllers have only few to relay.
We join the snaking line about a mile from the only active runway tonight. We dare not ask for a sequence, but there are easily 60 or 70 aircraft ahead of us and the clock is ticking.
Reality finally sinks. We are not making it out tonight. My captain had tried to tell the dispatcher, who refused to listen to him. Board them up, he said. For what? Nothing at all. To sit in line for an hour, then return to the gate. Absolutely ridiculous. Why waste their time with a crew that is about to time out when they could have rebooked them?
Our MOT is up. We advise ground and start our taxi of shame back to the gate.
"You give them the bad news," the captain says, referring to the passengers.
More than 15 hours after starting my day, I stumble into my hotel room. Exhausted. In just a few hours, we'll reposition the aircraft to Boston. I'll be home in the morning.

The two-day from hell

2008-03-10T18:57:00.001-07:00

I was ecstatic when my line award came out a few weeks ago.
Finally, after months of pining after such schedules, I managed to hold a line with mostly two-day trips. While they tend to start early and finish quite late, they also afford me more nights in my own bed, which has become a luxury.
Saturday morning began the wrong way. For the first time in recent memory, I slept right through the alarm and had to make a mad dash to the airport to make my sign-in time. I met the captain at the airplane, walked around and set up my side for the quick flight to DCA. Except for a few bumps, rain, low ceilings and visibility on the way in, the flight went without a hitch. From there, I was supposed to deadhead to LaGuardia (i.e. fly as a passenger to my next flight), sit for a couple of hours and fly to Columbus, OH for the overnight.
Weather, however, would have it otherwise.
The New York area was completely socked in, so my LGA flight was delayed since the aircraft and the crew were stuck on the ground in JFK, pinned by almost 0/0 conditions. As the fog failed to dissipated, my schedule took a turn for the worst. For starters, my LGA to CMH flight canceled. Trying to speculate as to what my day would become (always a bad, bad, bad idea), I figured that the company might have me deadhead back to Boston, overnight and resume the trip from there the following day since my first leg of the day would take me through my hometown from CMH anyway.
No such luck. A couple of hours into the ordeal, a quick check of my schedule showed me deadheading to LGA, then deadheading again to BOS and finally, deadheading yet again to CMH that night.
Columbus was being pounded with snow, so I continued to hope that our schedulers would realize that that first flight from CMH to BOS the following day might very well not happen. A "free" night at home might not be so far-flung an idea after all.
A few hours after arriving in Washington, I'm finally on the aircraft bound to New York, sitting in the back with a group of very unhappy passengers. The flight is short, albeit violent as moderate turbulence paved our entire route of flight. After deplaning at LGA, I check the schedule again. Still showing me going to CMH tonight. Yet again, eternal hopeful that I am, I give crew scheduling the benefit of the doubt. They'd see the light eventually, and let me spend the night in Boston.
Tired, I board my second deadhead of the day. Again, it's a bumpy ride. A good friend of mine is also making his up to Boston and we spend the duration of the flight catching up. On the approach into Logan, we feel the airplane gain speed. Almost immediately, the engines grow quiet. A second later, they roar back to life as we feel a sinking feeling in our guts. Increase performance windshear, we conclude. Something I'd rather run into when I'm flying up front.
The flight's FO lands the airplane in true style in a complete downpour. We thank him on the way out and he serves me the bad news: looks like we're still going to CMH tonight.
I head into the terminal to check the schedule again. It's a few minutes after 7 p.m. and I've been at work for 12 hours already. Nothing has changed. I made a quick food run, jog down the jetbridge and at about 7:15 find my seat in the back for my third deadhead of the day.
It's a long flight to Columbus, made longer by a 15 minute wait on the ground to allow ground crews to move a mound of snow from our parking spot. My captain, who joined the trip in Boston two hours earlier, is red in the face when I catch up to him in the terminal.
"The bastards canceled Boston!"
As expected, the morning flight to Boston was scrubbed. To make matters worse, it was canceled at 7:10 p.m., while we were still at the gate in Boston, only a few hundred feet from my car and a short drive away from the comforts of my own home. A look at the computer screen shows the aircraft's door was closed at 7:25, giving schedulers ample time to pull us off the flight and send us home for the night.
Angry, we made our way out to the curb, hoping to find our hotel van, which of course isn't there. The air in Columbus that night was frigid. And we spent a full hour in it, waiting for a ride to the hotel.
The next morning, I deadheaded to LGA once more, for one leg back to Boston with a different captain.
After two hours of "airport appreciation" time, we bump into each other at the gate. I produce a print out of my schedule, which would express the ordeal of the previous day better than any words could.
"I'm flying this leg," I proclaimed.
"Yes you are," he smiled. "We're getting a line check."
It's always good to come home. But it was particularly sweet after this trip.

Oh Captain, my Captain

2008-02-03T18:29:00.000-08:00

My airline is chock full of wonderful people.
For the most part, the captains I have flown with have been nothing short of exceptional: exemplary leaders as well as patient and gifted instructors who made me feel right at home when the airplane was still foreign to me. From all of them I've learned a tremendous amount about flying, judgment and how to operate not as an individual but as a crew member.
Most have also been just plain great guys to share an admittedly small cockpit with.
Flying with so many different characters has also taught me that a large part of a first officer's job is to become a chameleon, to adapt to each captain's way of doing things, to each captain's quirks, likes and dislikes. Quirky, in some cases, is a very generous word.
Then there are the couple of bad apples. They are rare, very few and far between but flying with them can unfortunately stand out in a new first officer's mind more than the good experiences.
Recently, for instance, I was paired with a captain who struck me at first as a friendly, albeit arrogant, kind of guy. Not uncommon when you're dealing with former military pilots. But from our first leg together, I could tell this would be a difficult month. The man never shied away from berating other pilots on ground frequency for what he deemed to be improper taxi etiquette, nor did he refrain from clashing with a station manager at the conclusion of our very first leg.
As the days went by, I grew increasingly frustrated with his tendency to carry out my flows before doing his own -- something he made a point of doing every day -- and generally crossing beyond the established roles of non-flying and flying pilot. Other FOs can be very protective of "my side" of the cockpit. I am not. I understand that after all, this is his ship. He signs for it. However, his constant interference with my duties began to chip away at the otherwise well-orchestrated routine of the flight crew.
I like to think that I am a patient man. But after just two trips with him, I couldn't take any more. Confronting him, however, would not have been a wise option as I had gleaned from his stories that he is quick to hold a grudge. So I resigned myself to seeing out the month in silence and frustration.
Another character I had the misfortune of flying with a while ago is notorious among our pilot group. Of course, I was ignorant of that fact until after our time together. This one too was arrogant and typically critical of everyone he flew with or came in contact with.
On one particular flight, while it was my turn to fly, he picked a fight with a very busy controller over the heading she had given us. Looking at the radar, it seemed we would collide with an area of heavy precipitation. The controller, however, assured us we would find only light turbulence and moderate rain, information she had received from two aircraft that had just traversed the area.
Well, this wasn't good enough for the captain and to some extent I understood his position. Why take a chance? However, when she gave us the option of taking a vector that would take us many miles in the opposite direction of our planned route, he caved in unhappily and set the heading bug for me to the original heading assigned to us by ATC.
Sure enough, we encountered nothing more than what had been reported: light chop and moderate precipitation.
Hating to admit that he was wrong, however, the captain keyed the mic and angrily told ATC we had flown through moderate turbulence and heavy rain, therefore restricting access through that area to other aircraft behind, which like us had sat on the ground for almost four hours waiting for the weather to pass.
This behavior, in my book, is completely unacceptable.
Both of these men represent everything a captain should not be. I learned little from them, was thrown out of a routine the airline has established for a reason and felt like a lesser pilot because of their constant need to point out insignificant mistakes. Their pettiness and lust for confrontation ruined the time I spent with them.
Thankfully, out of the scores of captains I have flown with, these are the only two I really would rather never fly with again. Not everyone is peachy and pleasant at the conclusion of a 14-hour day, but promoting harmony in the cockpit, advancing constructive criticism and leading by example is what the pilot in command's job is.
I am fortunate to learn from some of the best captains in the industry. Unfortunately, their qualities make the flaws of the few bad captains we have that much more noticeable.

Back to school

2008-01-20T15:15:00.000-08:00

They say a private pilot certificate is a license to learn. Any rating really is a portal into further education and learning.
For weekend pilots, this can come through biennial flight reviews, instrument proficiency checks or new ratings. The more disciplined recreational fliers will also study to deepen their knowledge, take occasional instruction and make time to practice maneuvers and emergency procedures.
At the airlines, we are lucky to have recurrent training programs and proficiency checks that pilots attend once or twice a year, depending on whether they are first officers or captains. These are designed to knock the rust off the many things we don't get to practice every day on the line, refresh our systems and operational knowledge and generally ensure that we are proficient in all areas.
Such programs draw from thousands and thousands of flight hours, experiences of company pilots and those of others and other airlines and provide a great way for us to improve ourselves and do our jobs better.
It's been almost a year since I joined my airline, so I headed down to Dallas this week for three days of recurrent ground school and a checkride on day four.
While I first thought the time would have been better spent at home with my wife, especially in light of a very hectic recent schedule, training was a great experience and a good motivator to delve back into my manuals.
Day two, particularly, provided us with a thorough review of systems.
During initial training, my classmates and I crammed a lot of that knowledge into our brains through rote memorization. Because only few of us had ever flown jets, much of the material and logic behind the airplane's systems was new and had to be committed to memory in that way.
This time around, however, with short of a year in the airplane under my belt, I was better able to assimilate the finer details of the material we covered and garner a true understanding of why things work they way they do and why we do things a certain way.
The instructors did a fabulous job mixing events that happened on the line with the book material, giving us a true practical take on our procedures and encouraging some spirited discussion and the inevitable Monday morning quarterbacking.
I'd like to say I prepared well for training, but in reality I could have done a lot better. With only limited time on my hands, I reviewed aircraft limitations and systems and left some of the typically unused profiles to the night before my checkride.
While they did come back quite fast, I realized I wasn't learning them to pass a simulator ride. An engine failure could happen for real, as could a single-engine go-around. So I left Dallas with the resolve to not let such vital knowledge grow stale, no matter how unlikely it would be that I would need to use one of those procedures on the line.
Day four of my stay in Dallas was probably the most stressful. I awoke early to meet with the check airman and we proceeded, with little fanfare, to the oral portion of the checkride. No major hick-ups there. He stumped me on a couple of things and did a great job at instructing me on those points.
I took a break while the captain whom I would take the ride with took my place in the hot seat. As I walked down the hall in search of a fresh cup of coffee, another first officer I'd studied with told me he'd failed his oral. He was on his way home and would probably be back in a few days to give it another shot. I was floored, since this kid was sharp as a tack and knew the airplane very well.
My dismay continued when I returned to the briefing room. My captain told me he too had botched his oral and was done for the day. Rather than flying the sim with him, I'd just be me and the check airman.
Now the nerves really began to build.
The arrangement posed some interesting logistical problems since the examiner had to perform his duties as a non-flying pilot and run the simulator at the same time. It meant a few missed calls from the left seat, an increased workload for me and a little more time spent alone up front dealing with failures while he fiddled with buttons in the back, but the disruption made the emergencies feel a little more real.
In spite of it all, I somehow managed to pass the ride.
I never thought I'd say this, but my visit to the schoolhouse really was refreshing.

New Year's Eve...

2008-01-03T20:32:00.000-08:00

The plan sounded perfect.
My captain and I would join another captain with whom I'd flown before, take a cab into D.C. early in the afternoon and pub crawl. We'd visit all my old hangouts from when I had a real job there and get some real food for once. I was very excited about the early finish and the prospect for moderate celebrating. Being out on New Year's Eve would make me feel like I was part of the normal population for a few hours.
I fly weekends and holidays, whether it's the crack of dawn or the dead of night.
Our celebration would happen a few hours ahead of most people here, but it had to be midnight somewhere on the planet when we would raise our glasses to ring in the new year. Moscow maybe?
Airline Life Rule of Thumb Number 1: Never make a plan...
New Year's Eve.
The wake-up call cuts through the soothing silence right on time: 4:45 a.m. I'm tired and have no desire to get up, consider snoozing but know it'll be worse in a few minutes. So I get up. Groggy. I'd give anything for another hour of sleep.
Half an hour later, I'm in my uniform, getting ready to catch the van to the airport. The red light on my cell phone is blinking. Voicemail. It's crew scheduling advising me that our flight to LaGuardia has been canceled. Sweet! Maybe I'll score a few more hours of sleep.
I meet the captain in the hallway. He's received a call from scheduling too. They want us to call them back in a couple of hours to check on the status of our airplane, which is expecting a visit from maintenance.
I crawl back into bed, but can't seem to get back to sleep. An hour later, as I'm finally sinking into a warm and comfortable snooze, my phone rings.
"Could you fly a Nashville turn?"
Ugh.
If I don't, I'm told, another FO on ready reserve in Boston will have to and they might not be able to get him home tonight. It just so happens I know the guy and he's a friend of mine. The scheduler is also one of the nice ones and I feel compelled to help her out. She sounds frazzled and behind her I can hear commotion. The panic of schedulers with more flights than crews.
"Ok. Who's the captain?"
Ugh. Bad news. The one guy I never enjoyed flying with. The one who has a reputation.
"Fine. I'll do it."
I have another hour before my sign-in time but I decide to set off in search of coffee. When I return to my room, for the second time today, I slip into my uniform and prepare to head out to the airport.
Phone rings again.
"Your Nashville turn has been canceled. Do you want to do your original LaGuardia flight?"
I'm baffled. Why are they asking me? What choice do I really have?
"Sure."
I call my captain and he informs me that our update time from maintenance has been pushed back. It appears the mechanics are on their way from one of our hubs. It's now mid-morning and we're hungry, so we meet for a quick breakfast.
During the meal, we speculate on our fate.
We could still be canceled for the day and begin our celebrations early, I propose, enthusiastically. My innocence is only met with a frown from my captain, who has been doing this long enough to know that what suits us will likely be the last thing to happen.
We return to our rooms and I catch up with revisions and force myself to study for my upcoming checkride.
The room phone startles me.
"We should head to the airport."
It's my captain and he sounds impatient and frustrated.
"Scheduling has no idea what's going to happen and neither does dispatch. The tentative departure time is approaching so we should be at the airport."
Of course, nobody even knows whether maintenance has been aboard our broken plane at this point. The departure time is really a "decision time," but as my captain points out, the decision to go could be made precisely at that moment, especially if we're at the hotel. Sod's Law.
For the third time, I throw my uniform on, give the room a final glance to make sure I've left nothing behind and head down the by-now all-too familiar hallway to the elevator.
The doors slide open up to the lobby. My captain is on his cellphone. His face is red with anger.
"One hand isn't talking to the other," he quips.
A cascade of expletives follows.
I understand his frustration. We've now been up for 11 hours and know nothing more than we did when it was still dark outside. We're tired from the previous two days of the trip and this long, agonizing wait. It's impossible to rest when an update is expected at any minute.
A little after 3:30 p.m., the van pulls out of the driveway and we are on our way to the airport, still ignorant to as to what will happen. But I'm still hopeful. Foolish optimist.
Minutes later, we arrive at the gate. The agent is as baffled as we are. But yet another phone call clears some of the uncertainty: we're getting another airplane. Catch is, we have not one single passenger. The JFK flight, however, has no airplane and is in serious danger of departing late with a number of international connections.
"Give them our airplane," we argue, partially out of concern for those passengers, but also in hopes that our day will end right here right now and that we might salvage some of it to celebrate the new year.
No such luck.
At 5:15 p.m., exhausted and frustrated, we pull onto runway 19. We're completely empty and the aircraft lifts off easily as we fly south, then turn left to the northeast toward LaGuardia.
It's a short flight to New York. Upon arriving, we make our way to a hangar, as instructed. The bus picks us up shortly after 6:30 to drive us to the terminal. We're really tired now. It's been 14 hours since we've awoken, but to crew scheduling our duty day began only a few hours ago, making us perfectly legal for the flight back to D.C. and the very short overnight that will ensue.
We pile out of the airplane around 9 p.m., a little over 16 hours after getting up. I'm wiped out. Dispirited with the company's decisions and saddened by the fact that the rest of my New Year's Eve will consist of heading up to the hotel room, my stomach utterly empty, and getting into bed to try and recuperate before tomorrow's early start.
Midnight.
I'm still awake. Outside, fireworks are going off. People are cheering and screaming in the streets. It's a nice night in Washington. The weather is mild. My cellphone chimes. Text messages from friends across the country. All of them probably drunk off their asses. I think of my wife. She's at home. I can't hug her and wish her a happy new year.
I roll over. Hungry. Sad. Exhausted.
Four hours later, the wake-up call tears me from my slumber.
For some it's a new year. For us just another day of this infernal trip.
Happy New Year...

Into the abyss

2007-12-24T20:15:00.001-08:00

We crossed Providence at 11,000 feet and braced as we entered the clouds.
"Here we go," I muttered, exhausted and apprehensive of the next few minutes. My Captain, the non-flying pilot on this leg to Boston, remained silent.
All around us, in the murky night sky, moderate to severe turbulence awaited, mixed in with rain and ice.
Our day had started a little over 14 hours earlier. On the airport van, the Captain and I discussed the weather. All our destinations that day were looking bleak.
Of course, this was also the last day of our four-day sequence and getting home for Christmas was not a certainty.
The first leg went well. We encountered a little weather but nothing too significant. I preflighted and set up for our next leg to LaGuardia and surveyed the weather along the East Coast. The first wave of the bad stuff was now developing, spelling certain delays and more than likely cancellations.
As we neared New York, the Captain clicked the autopilot off and fought angry turbulence valiantly.
"You're cleared to land runway 22, wind 180 at 26 gusting 30. Previous aircraft reported a gain of airspeed of 20 knots at 800 feet," the controller advised us.
Sure enough, the aircraft jolted violently and rolled at that altitude.
Defiant and determined, The Boss landed beautifully.
As usual, we sat for a few hours at LaGuardia. The terminal was packed with holiday travelers, many of them stranded for now. Every seat in the house was taken and weary passengers filled every inch of available real estate. Against the backdrop of Christmas songs, exasperated children cried and moaned, the desperate argued hopelessly with overwhelmed gate agents while seasoned travelers sat in silence, resigned to the mess that are New York airports.
In fitting style, we learned our flight to Washington was canceled the same way our passengers did: through the gate agent's PA. Not completely surprised, the Captain and I began studying our options for the rest of the day, hoping to talk ourselves into flying an earlier flight home, perhaps even early enough for us to beat the thick of the weather.
But it was all to no avail and we were destined to sit.
Fast-forward five long, excruciating hours. We are 10 minutes from departure. The cockpit is all set up for our flight to Boston, our fuel looks good, passengers and bags are on board. All we are missing are our weight and balance numbers. Once they come in we'll punch our passenger load and cargo into the FMS, make sure the passenger distribution matches what our flight attendant has relayed to us. We'll then hand our paperwork to the gate agent, shut the door and get on our way home.
But it's almost Christmas and it's been a long four-day trip filled with weather encounters and nothing, absolutely nothing, can be easy this close from being home.
"Bad news," the frazzled gate agent tells me. "You're switching airplanes."
No way. Not with everything ready to go and now only a few minutes to an on-time departure. Not on our last leg of the trip. Not when this delay could cause us to time out and be stuck in LaGuardia, away from home for a fifth day. Not as weather in Boston is building, making our chances of making it in slimmer and slimmer with every wasted minute.
We fought it and won. Paperwork's gone, door's closed. Off we go.
It's my leg and I'm tired. Long day, long trip and only one day of rest since my previous trip. But I can do it. With the winds tonight it'll be a half-an-hour flight.
I lift off easily and made the turn to south on the Maspeth Climb. A few miles from the airport I roll the airplane the the left, a long sweeping turn that will point us Northwest, towards home. The heavy winds have cleared the air and the bright orange lights below us extend to infinity. We cut briskly through broken cumuli on our way to FL230. The grey clouds contrast sharply with the lights below and are bathed from above in the moon's cold silver light, a truly beautiful sight.
Ahead of me, build-ups rise menacingly in the dark sky. Inside these towering clouds, awaits mayhem, so I divert around them to avoid the bumps and keep this ride as smooth as possible. Nonetheless, we are pulled and shoved by the angry sky.
At 23,000 feet, I click the autopilot on to set up my instruments for our approach into Boston. With strong tailwinds, we are only in cruise for a few minutes before beginning our descent.
"Here we go."
As we enter the clouds over Providence, the aircraft becomes a bucking bronco. The autopilot is struggling as am I, pulling and pushing the throttles, trying desperately to maintain our assigned airspeed. The PLI -- an stall indicator of sorts -- pops up on my primary flight display then disappears. We call it the rake of death, because of its shape and the typically ominous conditions that cause it to rear its ugly head.
I'm tired. Very tired and this flight is draining every ounce of my mental energy.
As we begin the approach turbulence intensifies. I turn the autopilot off and intercept the localizer. Because of the bumps, the trend vector on my airspeed indicator is all over the place, up and down, up and down. But with all those throttle movements I'm still within a handful of knots of my assigned speed.
It's getting harder and harder though. My exhausted mind is about ready to check out. My eyelids feel heavy and the instruments seem to want to meld together in a confused maelstrom of lights.
"Flaps 9," I call.
Less than 10 miles to go. But every foot of this approach seems interminable.
"Glideslope's alive," says the Captain.
"Gear down, flaps 22, I'll configure later than usual."
The Boss nods, approvingly.
Five miles to go.
We're still stuck in this dark and unwelcoming abyss. I'm having to work harder and harder to focus, to keep it all together, to prepare for the heavy crosswinds on the surface. My eyes are racing between instruments, my hands fighting the bumps.
At 700 hundred feet, we break out of the clouds and the brightly lit runway appears before us.
"Visual," we both call out at the same time.
The wind continues to thrash the airplane around.
"Wind's 190 at 33, you're cleared to land."
Almost there, but not quite done yet. I have to keep fighting the bumps with significant thrust changes all the way to a few feet over the runway.
Throttles to idle, slip the aircraft to track the centerline. The mains are down. Immediately, I pull the throttles into reverse and the nose comes down. We've made it.
As the captain taxies us back to the gate I exhale. We're home.
Through the beam of the taxi light I notice that it's raining sideways.

Where's the Captain?

2007-12-02T14:52:00.000-08:00

A brand new First Officer generally has few things to worry about. Of course, in the beginning, there is always some stress involved in flying with an unknown captain, worries of being stuck with one that has little patience for the inevitable mistakes of the unseasoned and inexperienced FO. There is also the workload, which seems like a formidable mountain early on but soon erodes to a completely conquerable hill.
The junior FO, in his snug right seat, generally doesn't have to fret about maintenance issues, fuel, boarding and delays. While flying is a crew effort and decisions are discussed, the final call regarding those items is ultimately left to the captain. After all, he has to earn his pay.
When things don't go as planned, however, the lonely FO can be momentarily thrust from the comfortable position of number two man into a decision-making role, putting a whole new spin on the job.
I deadheaded to an outstation last night, where the flight attendant and I would meet up with our captain for a leg to JFK. For a silly reason better left untold, the captain informed me he would not be flying with us and promptly boarded a flight home.
Perplexed, I asked the gate agent what the plan was. A new captain was on his way, she said, but he'd be arriving after departure time. After further discussion, we decided to board the aircraft "on timish" so that we would be ready to go as soon as The Boss slid into the left seat.
Easy peasy, I thought. Setting the cockpit up for the now familiar flight would take only minutes and I looked forward to impressing the captain by having everything ready to go.
With my flows complete and the flight plan loaded into the FMS, I gave the flight attendant the green light to board our passengers. I rehearsed a reassuring PA and delivered the good news to our passengers, many with connections in New York, that the crew would soon be whole and we would be on our way shortly for a close to on-time arrival.
With time on my hands, I perused the release and noticed our fuel didn't match the numbers in the paperwork. While this can be acceptable under certain circumstances, our fuel load at the gate was awfully close to minimum takeoff fuel. Getting to the runway would take at most one or two minutes, but since we were going to New York on a less than perfect weather day an unexpected release time could mean more time on the ground at our departure station, hence more fuel being burned. Unwilling to run this by the captain and cause further delay, I called operations to request more fuel.
Minutes later, the gauges finally matched the numbers on our release and I breathed a sight of relief. I decided to double-check that everything was set up correctly since I had a few more minutes before the captain's arrival. And that is when I noticed a blue advisory message on our EICAS: AHRS 1 BASIC MODE.
What on earth did that mean?
Advisories are the lowest rung of the annunciation system in our airplane but I refused to shrug it off and pulled out my flight manual. "If on the ground, do NOT take off," the book said. Some of these problems can typically be solved by pulling a breaker. I struggled with the decision and opted not to attempt solving the problem myself. Again, unwilling to cause further delay I called maintenance.
When the mechanic told me we'd have to shut everything off, a glimpse of the disapproving captain berating me for not simply resetting a breaker passed through my mind. Sure enough, the fix caused us to be stuck at the gate for a few more minutes and as I powered everything down I could hear sighs throughout the cabin. My final PA explaining the problem to our now understandably impatient passengers did little to quiet their collective grunt of dissatisfaction.
When the captain finally arrived, I explained the situation and he seemed to approve of my decisions.
We made it to the gate in New York only 9 minutes behind schedule.
The following day brought snow and yet another crew problem. Our captain for the flight to Washington was on his way. Again, the decision was made to set everything up and board to get off the ground as close to on-time as possible. The hitch was that both of our de-icing trucks were out of commission and at 9 a.m., as I collected the release, the gate agent told me the 7 a.m. flight was still at the gate, waiting to be de-iced.
I joined other pilots in asking our operations to borrow a truck from our parent company and secured a place for us in a long line of planes to be sprayed.
Three hours later, with a boat full of angry passengers, we finally departed the ramp.
The decisions were very small in nature and would have been easier to make in conjunction with a captain. Being alone and sort of in charge suddenly made them appear much bigger in scope, especially when I could almost feel the unhappy breath of our passengers on my neck.
I guess captains don't have it quite so easy after all.

A new arrival

2007-11-27T13:00:00.000-08:00

But not of the aviation kind!
In just about six months, our family will grow a little when Oliver or Fiona arrives. In the meantime, he or she is known as Fioliver.

Since we found out a few weeks ago, things have been in overdrive. Renovation of our very old and decrepit house has occupied most of our recent days off and we hope to sell it after the holidays to move into a nicer and more baby-friendly house.
Also, Fioliver's journey to us has forced me to trade in my beloved and oh-so-fun black BMW Z4. I haven't done it yet, but it will only be a matter of weeks before I am behind the wheel of a Camry or something similar, which won't hug curves with as much grace or accelerate with such ease and power but will be able to accommodate a baby seat.
The greatest change of all, however, is that of becoming a father. While Fioliver measures only 6 centimeters right now, I can't help but think of him (or her) as a little person. The idea that Jen and I have made a person and will be responsible for his (or her...) safety, health and well-being is intimidating but also so awesome that the smaller, petty things in life have all but vanished.
I can't wait to take him (or her...) flying.

Meeting the airplane

2007-10-09T18:04:00.000-07:00

"No one should be sweating at 5 in the morning," I thought, waiting for the shuttle outside the hotel.
It might have been the incredibly muggy Dallas morning, or probably just the nerves. Perhaps both.
On this memorable morning in May, for the first time and after six weeks trying to learn all about it, I'd meet the Embraer 145 I'd fly for the next few years.
The uniform blazer felt too heavy for this weather and my hat was bothering me as beads of sweat collected underneath it. Plus it made my already oversized head look far too big. The luggage and heavy flight kit I had to drag along with me were also growing increasingly bothersome.
Damn Texas weather, I cursed.
To my utter dismay, it was just as muggy and oppressive inside the terminal and while I desperately needed the caffeine I had no choice but to jettison my barely touched cup of steaming coffee.
A half an hour before the flight, the Captain finally showed up and unceremoniously introduced himself. Minutes later, I performed the walkaround. It felt strange. I'd never flown on an Embraer before, not even seen one up close, and while I had dissected the aircraft's innards in great detail during my oral just a few days ago, the beast seemed like a complete stranger to me.
While excited to fly it, I felt no connection whatsoever with the airplane.
Checklists were run, paperwork completed and we were soon under way, finding our way through the maze that is DFW. I fell behind from the get-go.
They teach you a lot of useful things in training: how to fly single engine, what to do if you encounter a microburst or severe windshear, how to diagnose and deal with all those unnerving chimes and flashing red and orange lights when events just conspire to make your day a headache.
What they don't teach you though, is how to handle the extremely busy ground portion of a flight.
Of course, the Captain was just one piece of a well-orchestrated ballet of gate agents, flight attendants and rampers. I, on the other hand, felt no wiser than anyone sitting in the back.
My PAs were horrible and, most likely, left the passengers wondering why on earth the pilot sounded so nervous.
I snapped out of it, however, as we lined up with the runway.
"Your aircraft," the Captain called out.
Back in familiar territory, I squeezed the brakes with my toes, grabbed the yoke and positioned my slightly sweaty left palm on the throttles.
"Cleared for take-off, lights are on, before take-off checklist is complete," said the Captain.
For the first time that day, I smiled.
And the smile grew bigger as the N1 increased and the engine slowly spooled up to produce their 7,000lbs of thrust with that incredible sound that only a jet could produce.
"Set thrust," I called out, prompting the Captain to check that all engine parameters were in the green.
"Thrust set... 80 knots... V1... rotate," he called out.
In spite of the sticky heat, the aircraft lifted off with graceful ease. In awe, I might have forgotten a call-out or two. But the Captain patiently went about his non-flying pilot duties, letting me enjoy a feeling that will forever live up there with that of my first solo.
The first leg was short and jet speed made it all a blur.
My descent planning was far from stellar and the Captain gave me room to mess it up. Even the controller seemed in on it as she gave us a series of vectors to widen my pattern and allow for more room to descend.
With guidance from the left seat, I touched down in Shreveport and was completely elated.
Later that day, our itinerary took us to Mexico on a long almost three-hour leg, which the Captain flew. The last flight of the day, back to DFW would be mine.
Minutes after take-off a triple chime and the red Master Warning snapped me from my reverie. I called for the emergency procedures checklist, which the Captain promptly ran through. We agreed that the warning was most likely due to a sensor problem and elected to push on back to Dallas. I was impressed that the Captain would seek my opinion on the matter since I had only a handful of hours in the aircraft, but I now realize that being fresh out of the schoolhouse makes you valuable to another pilot who has been out of training for a while.
On the way back to Dallas, the Captain left the cockpit a few times. Flying the jet alone was absolutely exhilarating. Until Center called to ask that I cross a fix at a certain altitude and airspeed. After punching in the parameters into the Flight Management System, I chopped the throttles and started down, monitoring the vertical speed required to meet the crossing restriction.
As we flew closer, however, that vertical speed required began to increase. With nobody to confer with, I stared blankly at the arrival plate, trying to crunch numbers in my head the old-fashioned way. It became obvious that 2,500 feet per minute down at this point would not work. I deployed the speed brakes and threw down 9 degrees of flaps to keep the speed in check as I increased our descent rate to almost 4,000 feet per minute, feeling horrible for the poor passengers in the back who had no idea they were mere guinea pigs.
I crossed the fix at the assigned altitude and speed in just the nick of time.
When the Captain re-entered the cockpit, I was short of breath and a little frazzled. He just smiled.
"I wondered when you'd put out the boards," he laughed, referring to the speedbrakes. "They always descend us late on this arrival."
A horribly botched landing later, we were back at the gate and done for the day.
My first day at an airline had been everything I'd imagined and more: humbling, stressful, intimidating and most of all a whole lot of fun.

Life is good...

2007-08-31T21:22:00.001-07:00

Wow, so March 11 was my last time here. Hard to figure out where to start...
Soon after that last post, I headed to Dallas to begin six weeks of training. Getting there was a true adventure thanks to a combination of weather and Spring Break travel. A drive from Boston to Newark and an overnight in Cincinatti later, I made it to the training center for week one: Indoc.
The hardest part of this phase of training was to remain awake in spite of our instructor's best efforts to jazz up the material. Week two marked the beginning of our systems phase, which lasted a little over three weeks. For eight hours a day, we dissected the systems of the Embraer 145 and spent much of our nights in study groups, poring through the myriad pages of our manuals.
Our instructor was excellent and while I became overwhelmed with some of the material early on, I soon got in the groove of training and made it through the oral quite easily. The fact the check airman played with a knife during the oral did help keep my answers on the straight and narrow...
The last two weeks of training were spent in the simulator, trying to learn to fly the darn airplane while every possible emergency was thrown at us. But with some help from my fantastic sim partner -- a transitioning Saab Captain -- I passed the checkride and was unceremoniously ushered to Initial Operating Experience, during which a newhire flies with a seasoned captain who serves as an instructor to ensure a safe transition from the sim to the line.
The experience was exhilerating, but more on that later.
I completed IOE in May and have been learning the ins and outs of airline flying since then, contently flying the line. Getting used to the airplane was reasonably painless. In fact, the most challenging aspect of the past few months has been to figure out how to deal with our schedulers and making my life as easy as they try to make it hard.
I've spent three months on reserve, far less than I had expected, and had a tremendous month of August with only six overnights and many day trips. Today, I kicked off a composite line for September, a hybrid between a hard line and reserve, which will unfortunately mean more time away from home but a little more money at the end of the month.
The past few months have been a true rollercoaster and a tremendous learning experience on all fronts.
It has also been a sobering and eye-opening adventure to the world of airline flying, which has both beautiful and ugly moments.
Overall, I'm very pleased with the career change and happy that it all happened so quickly and smoothly. As I settle into the airline life, I must now find a good balance between work and family as Jen and I are talking about having a baby and starting a new life in a new house. I'm very excited about the present and the future.
Life is good...

Airline pilot... almost

2007-03-11T20:13:00.000-07:00

The Saab behaved beautifully all the way down the localizer and we broke out of the clouds at minimums, only seconds before a decent touchdown. I moved the power levers into beta range and the deceleration pinned me to the harness as the airplane soon came to a stop.
"Don't forget to fast for your medical tomorrow," said Bill, the simulator instructor.
Elated, I left the amazing full-motion sim and made my way back to the hotel shuttle through the maze that is the American Airlines flight academy in Dallas.
A week later, the call finally came.
After clearing the six-hour "astronaut medical", a captains' board and a government background check American Eagle offered me a job as a First Officer on the Embraer regional jet out of Boston's Logan Airport.
Words can hardly describe the feeling of having achieved a boyhood dream, something that I hadn't ever thought possible until a year ago.
Today was my last day instructing and as my student and I made our way back from the Connecticut shore on his dual cross-country, I secretely hoped for headwinds.
Bidding goodbye to the little piston airplanes that have occupied the bulk of my life in the past 9 months was a little sadder than I had expected. The last year has been tough. First it was the three months away from home as I worked to earn my certificates. Then came the challenge of learning my job as a flight instructor and with it the paucity of the profession. But it has been an incredible journey and as I turned to look at the line of aircraft on my way home tonight I smiled with a mix of elation and melancholy.
The late afternoon flight from Connecticut was pleasant and my student graciously allowed me to take the controls in the setting sun for one last landing. I savored every precious second of it and it wasn't even a good one!
"Left at Golf, contact ground point seven and have fun Mark," said the controller.
Anyone who's been around me in the past weeks will attest to the fact that I can't wait to get my hands on the funky-looking ERJ control wheel but I have to admit: I'll miss the Cessnas, Seminoles and Arrows that have taught me so much.
When I launched into this last winter, one fear persisted. What if making a living out of it saps my passion for flying? While I'm only a year into the new profession, I'm glad to report that I love flying just as much as I did stepping out of the airplane on that cold February day in 2004 following a discovery flight.
I just can't believe I won't be flying for six weeks!!!

The Spaniard, the engine failure and the Seminole

2006-12-02T17:29:00.000-08:00

While filling in my application for a new FAA medical yesterday, my eyes caught a glimpse of the form I'd filled in last year.
"Time in last 6 mos: 15 hours."
I smiled, scribbling the number 400 in the same box on this year's form.
It has been a long time since my last update, back to my fourth week of instruction. Five hectic months have gone by and I'm happy to report that I still very much love instructing. Some of you noted that the rush to the airlines was not a good trait in any CFI and, while that dream of flying something much bigger and much faster is drawing nearer, I agree.
Much has happened since my last entry. For the most part, I've learned a heck of a lot about flying and, on most days at least, I still report to work with the same tingly feeling in my gut, the one most flyers get as they ready to commune with the blue, blue ether.
The summer came and went, all too fast, as did the fall.
I spent too much time at the airport and very little at home with Jen. Hours have been long and my one day off every week is never enough to fully rest, but I've fallen into the busy groove.
The daily routine, however, was shaken on a summer's evening as I slid down final with my last student of the day. It had been a long and humid day, and as we neared the field for a full-stop my mind lost itself in the reflection of the orange sunset in a meandering river. I was already thinking of my evening with Jen and looking forward to a few hours of badly-needed sleep.
The engine's droning only made my grogginess worse.
The deafening silence that ensued, however, woke me right up.
On very short final, as my student pulled the throttle to idle, the Lycoming gave in. I promptly took the controls, landed and pulled off the runway. After a deep breath, and a few tries, I managed to get it restarted and we taxied back to the ramp.
The idle, which we had meticulously checked prior to take-off, seems to have been the problem. I counted my blessings for not doing maneuvers that required pulling the throttle that day.

As the hot days turned milder and shorter, yet more excitement came my way.
The school I teach for offers a fast-track instrument program, under which a student can earn his ticket in 10 days or 20 half days. I'd seen such courses advertised before and remember thinking that it would be folly for me to tackle such a monumental task in so little time. Little did I know at the time that I would be teaching such a program.
I'm sure every CFI has at least one very memorable student. The kind that, through either good or bad performance or unforgettable quirkiness, will always stick in the teacher's memory. My first fast track student was just that. Memorable.
A native of Spain, he is one of a dozen pilots racing Extras and Edges in a worldwide series sponsored by a certain energy drink.
Surprise was my first reaction when my boss briefed me on the said student, who shall henceforth be known as The Spaniard. How could I, a vastly inexperienced CFI with just a few hundered hours under his belt, teach a pilot who twice cheated death after spectacular crashes, bailed out of an out-of-control Sukhoi and over the years accrued several thousand hours of aerobatics at the sport's highest levels?
"Oh, and he's shooting to complete his instrument, commercial and multi in three weeks," was the concluding note of the briefing.
I met The Spaniard a few days later. Seemed like a nice enough guy, with a bigger-than-life boisterous personality, but the task was almost suffocating.
We hit the ground running, somewhat formally at first. In no time, however, we both joked around and with the knowledge that we'd get along I slowly came to believe we might just be able to get this done. While he recognized his stick and rudder skills, he fully admitted that instrument flying would be a novel challenge.
The first two days were dominated by ground and basic instrument flying, to which The Spaniard took quite quickly.
"What kinds of unusual attitudes can I give this guy," I wondered, of the pilot who probably spent more time inverted than upright.
Straight and level did the trick. I chuckled.
We soon moved on to holds and DME arcs and in a matter of days to approaches.
Fourteen-hour days were the norm in those couple of weeks, as I tried to juggle my other students and The Spaniard. While I flew with others, he spent hours studying. A quick smoke and a laugh later, we'd be taxiing out on our way to yet more practice.
As he grew into a very capable instrument pilot, we began working on commercial maneuvers. He demonstrated his version of lazy eights (your garden variety crazy eights) and while they were fun, I reined him to conform with the FAA's standards.
In the process, he gave me a lot of great stick and rudder pointers and I can say with confidence that I'm a much smoother pilot as a result of his instruction. His dissection of aerodynamics and the angle of attack, obviously a huge part of his type of flying, were also particularly illuminating to me.
Before we knew it, it was checkride time.
His confident demeanor couldn't fully hide the natural stress that comes with an impending examination. Two days later, however, he was a commercial pilot single and multi-engine with an instrument rating. He achieved his goal with flying colors and the thrill was probably greater for me than it was for him.
The Spaniard's success boosted both my confidence and my profile. I'm currently teaching a couple of CFII candidates as well as more fast track students and have also been enlisted to teach on our G1000 172s and 182s.
It's fun and very educational for me. I'm learning more now than I ever did cramming for those checkrides!
Guess it does pay to be a CFI...

A few days ago, I reunited with an old friend.
Hadn't seen her in what seems like an eternity but our time together was magical. Sure, it was awkward at first, as our routine had rusted a little over our months of estrangement but that didn't last long.
As I popped the door to preflight, I caught her forgotten smell, the same I'd grown so accustomed to when we spent all those hours together months ago. What a thrill it was to fly her again and to dash through inclement skies for some very exciting approaches the next day.
How I've missed the Seminole.

Living the life of a CFI

2006-07-30T20:26:00.000-07:00

It's been ages since I've updated this blog so here I am for a few minutes.
After starting to instruct a few weeks ago, Jen and I left on a belated honeymoon. Because we eloped, we had a party in Lake Como, Italy with my family. It was nothing but magical. After some initial stress, we both thoroughly enjoyed a celebration at a beautiful villa on the lake with her family and mine as well as a group of close friends.
We then escaped for a badly-needed few days together in Le Midi, France's beautiful Provence.
After our return, which involed a hellish trip home on Alitalia, a truly mismanaged airline, I got back to teaching.
It's been only 4 weeks of instructing, but I love my job. I've met many different people and have been trying my best to adapt to my students' various personalities. In that short time I've logged about 100 hours and learned a lot.
The highlight of my experience so far has to be the day I soloed my first student. I'll write more about that experience but the inexperienced and sweaty CFI marching across the ramp nervously with a handheld safely glued to his ear came out a different person from the experience, as did the student. In many ways, that day was more special than my own first solo. Those few minutes were intense, stressful and very rewarding when it all ended well.
Teaching what I love is amazing. Financially, it has pretty much only drawbacks. But I'm learning more from flying through it than I ever thought imaginable and the payoff in helping others realize their dream of becoming pilots cannot be quantified.
So it is with a perpetual smile on my face that I bid you all good night in search of some badly needed sleep. I'll write more very soon.
Flying rocks. Teaching others does too.
I am a very happy and fortunate man.

First lesson

2006-06-10T10:24:00.000-07:00

While the horrible weather has forced me to cancel flights in the past couple of days, I taught my very first lesson a few days ago. It was an incredible experience.
The student, pre-solo with about 30 hours of flight time, is a very nice guy, about 20 years my senior, funny as all heck and smooth at the controls. After a chat about his training so far, his strengths and weakenesses and the plan for the day we headed out to the practice area.
We began with steep turns. He was a little shallow bank-wise and lost about 300ft. I let him finish the turn then demonstrated one while he looked outside to take a mental snapshot of the sight picture. After all, I explained, this is a visual maneuver. His next steep turn was much better and within PTS.
Next came slow flight, of which he had done very little. I decided to let him get used to the feel of the controls in slow flight and only burdened him with holding altitude at first and keeping the plane coordinated. He did pretty well so I asked him to make a 90 degree turn to the left.
"You can turn in slow flight," came the amazed reply.
Sheepishly, he banked the aircraft and in no time at all became very comfortable turning.
So it was now time to bang out a few stalls. While he was a little timid pitching up, a common trait among students as I understand it, he did well. His recoveries were a little dramatic, however, so I explained to him the purpose of the maneuver and the fact that if this happened on approach pitching down so much would not be wise because of the proximity to the ground. It seemed that a little light bulb went off in his head at that moment, as he understood why we practice stalls. His subsequent attempts were good, although we'll need to do more.
On the way back to the airport he became slightly confused about our pattern entry instruction but eventually figured that out and flew an amazingly smooth and stabilized approach.
"This is going to be a nice landing," I told him.
Sure enough, following an almost flawless approach with proper speed, glide slope and configuration, he set the aircraft down very softly, smack on centerline.
It was an awesome experience! I wondered how much I'd be able to let a student screw up before taking over or stopping him, and in this particular case it wasn't too hard. I only handled the controls to demonstrate maneuvers and was able to let him see his mistakes.
I'm glad to have him as one of my 5 students so far. He's a true pleasure to fly with.
Next lesson: tomorrow if this weather ever decides to pack up and leave the area.

Flying for a living, at last

2006-05-20T19:41:00.000-07:00

I landed my first flying job a few hours ago.
This week has been busy and couldn't have possibly ended better.
On a high from being home with my wife, I interviewed for a CFI job on Tuesday at the flight school I trained for my private pilot certificate in 2004. The meeting went well and they invited me the next day to come back for a test flight. Before doing that, however, I had to take my single-engine CFI add-on on Thursday, which also went well. But more about that later.
Earlier this afternoon, I strapped myself into the right seat of a spanking new Cessna 172 equipped with the very impressive Garmin 1000. The glass cockpit is absolutely amazing. I won't even try to describe its capabilities since John over at Freight Dog Tales has done a brilliant job at it in various installments.
The purpose of the flight was for me to demonstrate that I could fly maneuvers and teach them at the same time. It would, however, also double as an introduction to the G1000, in which I'll get to instruct.
Ed, the chief instructor, and I took off into windy and bumpy skies. I talked him through the take-off and discussed collision avoidance techniques during the climb-out. Once at altitude, I taught slow flight, stalls and engine-out procedures. After about an hour in the air, we headed back for a couple of decent crosswind landings.
"How did he do?" another instructor involved in the hiring process asked him after our return.
"He managed not embarass himself too much," Ed replied with a grin.
And with that, they offered me a position as a flight instructor.
While I don't think it has quite sunk in yet, the feeling is amazing. To think that in two short weeks I'll be teaching students to become pilots! It's incredible. I only hope I'll manage to instill the same passion for flying that my instructors cultivated in me.

Thursday was also a very special day.
Since weather rolled into Virginia last week, I decided to take my last checkride back here at home in Massachusetts so as to not delay my return home.
I had the pleasure of flying with Ray Collins, the examiner who gave me my private certificate back in September of 2004.
A little after noon on a beautiful sunny, albeit bumpy day, he handed me a new instructor certificate, adding single-engine privileges to previously-earned multi and instrument ratings.
Being the romantic that I am, I found it significant that my "final" checkride (for now anyway) should take place with the examiner who first granted me the right to fly as a private pilot.
As expected, Ray taught me a lot and couldn't have been a more pleasant person to traverse the ordeal of a checkride with.
The oral focused mainly on judgement, a trait of Ray's rides. He touched on wake turbulence, land and hold short procedures, runway incursions, systems-induced emergencies, short- and soft-field landings and take-offs, spin awareness and recovery and a few more items.
The flight went well, in spite of the bumps and winds that graced the Boston area in the wake of 10 days of heavy rain.
We started off with a soft-field take-off to a soft-field landing, which I taught reasonably well but frankly could've flown better. Next came a short-field take-off to a no-flaps landing.
It was then on to the practice area for maneuvers. First in line was slow flight. After discussing the region of reverse command and maneuvering in slow flight, I demonstrated a power-off stall. Ray then took the controls to perform a botched (on purpose, of course) power-on stall. My job was to critique it, so I noted the obvious lack of right rudder, which resulted in uncoordinated flight. The perfect recipe for a spin.
We moved on to steep turns, chandelles and engine-out procedures, which were all uneventful. Ray once again took the controls and flew an S across a road. Again, I had to critique what he had done wrong.
"Frankly, I think you did a very good job," he said after I shut the plane down.
However, he noted that I allowed the bumps to affect my altitude too much in the pattern during the opening stages of the ride. That of course, would set a bad example for students and I completely acknowledged my lack of discipline during those first few minutes of the test. Nerves, of course, played a role but I should've been on top of that. As the ride progressed, I grew comfortable and flew more precisely.
Flying with Ray was an absolute pleasure. He is friendly, extremely knowledgeable and it was evident that he wanted to pass on tricks he had accumulated over the years.
I look forward to dealing with him from the other side of the fence once I recommend students to him.

Memories from the road: Jasper, Alabama

2006-05-14T20:14:00.000-07:00

Johnny Cash's rendition of I've Been Everywhere could be a good soundtrack for the cross-country phase of my training at ATP. While I don't even come close to having visited half the towns he rattles off in the song, those trips took me to a few places I probably would never have seen otherwise.
Among those is Jasper.
Ron, my flight partner (not the angry Red Sox-hating jet pilot), and I were dispatched out to the quaint Alabama town from Atlanta. The flight there was awesome as we found ourselves once more playing among towers of puffy cumulus clouds.
After landing, dispatch told us the aircraft was to be used for a checkride, so we had the afternoon pretty much open. Now, at this point in our training we were both eager to get home to our wives so the news initially irritated us. We walked into the shack that is the FBO and were greeted by two nice gentlemen, one of whom was the examiner for the checkride in question. He was also a warm and engaging person, FedEx Captain, former F-4 pilot and owner of this majestic military trainer.

With time to kill and empty stomachs, Ron and I inquired about local eateries and were kindly shown to the airport's crew car: a 1980s Cadillac stretch limo, seen here behind a Super Decathlon that flew in for the afternoon's air show.

Eager to return before the show, we hopped in our pimpin' ride to cruise to downtown Jasper. As we passed a few local pilots, they waved and with obvious amusement warned us about the car's many shortcomings. A couple of miles from the airport a roadside restaurant promised the best food in town. Good enough, so we pulled over. Parking a limo is fun.
Minutes later, I was in heaven with a giant plate of pulled smoked pork and homemade barbecue sauce and a bucket of ice-cold sweet tea, which I rapidly grew very fond of during those two weeks in the south.
Full of food, we headed back to the airfield for the show. As we pulled in, two Pitts crossed a mere few feet above the runway before coming back to land. Dang, we missed it.
The next hour was spent paying for such a big lunch. All that food combined with the heat and waiting around made us groggy. So I ventured outside in search of something to do and stumbled upon this: an old decrepit British jet trainer behind the main hangar.

My food-induced coma was, however, short-lived. While sniffing around the old jet, the Pitts pilots readied for another demonstration of their extraordinary skills.

Within minutes, they were airborne. I stood by the side of the runway, completely enthralled by the aerial ballet they performed.

The performance was followed by an equally breath-taking series of stunts by another pilot in a Super Decathlon. Much of his routine, however, took him only a few feet above the runway. With every pass, I was sure he'd smack the aircraft into the ground. My sentiment was echoed by the Pitts pilots. Hammerheads 500 feet off the deck just don't seem like a good idea but they're sure fun to watch.

As the sun set and the air cooled, we took off to return to Atlanta.
While waiting around for a whole afternoon wasn't what I had hoped for, the day in Jasper turned out to be pleasant. We met great pilots with a lot of good advice and enjoyed an amazing display of piloting skills. More importantly, it was nice to be away from the large fancy FBOs with sparkling new crew cars, sprawling sofas, plasma screen TVs and the inevitable couple of bragging corporate pilots.
The people in Jasper were genuine and true aviation nuts, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants pilots with amazing stories and the talent to back them up.
The Pitts drivers were down to earth guys who were out to have fun, not show off. What they did that day truly inspired me.
Maybe one day, I'll be fortunate enough to have the skills to take a little red biplane up for a similar ride.

Homeward bound

2006-05-10T20:05:00.001-07:00

While packing for my final trip home, I found heavy sweaters and fleece, which seemed oddly out of place in the warm spring weather. They reminded me that it was bitterly cold and snowy when I first moved down here to Virginia to begin flight training. Now the trees are full of leaves, my skin is tanned and I feel like an entirely different person.
In the morning, I'll set off in my car for an 8-hour ride back home, where I'll resume normal life with Jen and Emily.
I'm happy. And tired.
Shortly before 2 a.m., I stumbled exhausted into my apartment after passing my CFII (instrument flight instructor) checkride. The 17-hour day had begun at 8 a.m. After some ground instruction and a training flight, it was time to complete paperwork ahead of the checkride, work on a lesson plan and generally brush up on knowledge areas I deemed weak. Around 8:30 p.m., the examiner pitched up after a retest that apparently didn't go so well.
I taught him a single-engine partial-panel non-precision approach, compass and timed turns on a procedure turn and a DME arc on the white board and answered questions until it was time to go fly around 10:30 p.m. Since I'd done my instrument rating with him, he flew the aircraft. My job was to teach him, the person who through several checkrides taught me so much. It felt odd at first, but I soon got in the groove of it.
We headed out to Martinsburg to shoot the full ILS and the full missed, then set up for the GPS-A into Winchester. Eight miles out, I pulled an engine and in short order "failed" the vacuum system by covering up his artificial horizon and directional gyro, all the while talking him through how to shoot the approach. Not surpisingly, he did a stellar job.
From there, we headed to the Linden VOR where I taught him a DME arc and had a blast setting up for unusual attitudes.
We landed back in Manassas at 1 a.m. I was now a CFII. A tired, worn out one.
The past three months seem like an eternity, yet they flashed by me. I came here a private pilot and am leaving a multi- and single-engine commercial pilot with multi-engine and instrument instructor ratings and a whole lot to learn. I think the most important thing I learned during the program is what I don't know.
The weather will unfortunately deter me from taking my single-engine CFI checkride as planned tomorrow, but I've already scheduled for next week with the examiner who gave me my private ticket in Massachusetts almost two years ago.

The flying has been awesome.
I love the Seminole. It's taken me safely everywhere I've needed to be and I'll miss the airplane very much. While putting it to bed for the last time last night after my CFII ride, a hint of sadness suddenly overcame me. So I sat in the cockpit for a few minutes enjoying the memories that rushed back, from clumsy training flights to that white-knuckle trip in icy clouds over the Smokey Mountains and many many more. They all made me smile.
I've also made many good friends, from Ron and Eric, my first two instructors here, to flight partners and other fellow students along the way. We were all bound together by the hectic pace of the course and I'm sure they will all turn out to be excellent pilots wherever they choose to go.
As for me, my first order of business is to return to my wife. From there, I'll begin to learn as an instructor, do my best to teach well, pay my dues and make my way to bigger and faster airplanes.
I don't know where I'm going yet, but I'm getting there.

Playing the in the flight levels

2006-05-07T12:57:00.000-07:00

One of the first things one notices when reading about the career pilot program I'm about to complete is a ride in a Citation 525. While mainly a means to earn high-altitude and high-performance endorsements, the flight is intended as a bit of a break for students and a chance to taste what could one day be: being at the controls of a jet.
After passing my initial, I flew myself from Fort Lauderdale to Jacksonville for the ride, but ended up frustrated and grounded for three days waiting for scheduling matters to be resolved.
On Friday, however, dispatch gave me the green light and I boarded the Citation with much excitement and anticipation.

My flight partner went first, and flew the jet to Naples, FL, where we did a beautiful visual approach over the Gulf.

On the ground, I hopped into the right seat and under the patient and careful supervision of ATP's VP Jim prepared for an exhilerating experience.

On the runway, I held the brakes and advanced the throttles to 60% of N1, the fan stage of the engine. With all gauges in the green, Jim took the throttles to set take-off power while I released the brakes and kept the aircraft on centerline. Unlike other planes I've flown, the jet required only minor rudder input to remain centered. Jim called out V1, the speed at which we'd be committed to take-off no matter what, then Vr, at which point I pulled back on the yoke and followed the flight director's instructions.
We left the earth like a rocket ship and maintaining the correct pitch took a little getting used to, since an attitude like that would most likely stall the Seminole.
Jim called 400AGL and I replied by asking for flaps up, climb power and the after take-off checklist. A few thousand feet up, I engaged the autopilot to guide us up to FL220. On the way, Jim taught us about descent planning, which is essential to the proper and efficient operation of any aircraft but more particularly Jet-A guzzling jets.
The view from up there was amazing and the plane behaved superbly.
I set up for the LOC BC 25 at Orlando Executive and shot a pretty decent approach, especially baring in mind that this was my first time doing a back course. It was just another instrument approach with everything happening just a whole lot faster. It ended in a nice landing, with Jim helping me out on the controls.
From Orlando, I flew the Citation to Cecil. After take-off, I opted to handfly the plane instead of engaging the autopilot right away. We talked about high-altitude operations and too soon found ourselves close to Cecil where I did a visual.
It was sad to give up the right seat, but the experience will remain vividly etched in my memories.
Good times!

Hang a left at the gator

2006-05-03T06:23:00.000-07:00

I was sweating bullets in the stuffy Seminole cockpit 4,000ft above the Everglades trying to pinpoint my position over the sprawling swamp. Next to me, in the left seat, was the examiner responsible for deciding my fate as an instructor candidate. And with precious few landmarks around us, I could feel that pink slip draw closer and closer.
There's something to be said for uncluttered landscapes where features stand out more. In this case, however, all I had were two highways running east and west, both with a reasonably similar bend in about the same spot. It took a couple of minutes, but I finally found our position and headed back in for short-field and single-engine landings.
In the past hour, I'd taught the examiner turns about a point, steep turns, stalls, a Vmc demo, slow flight, a full engine shutdown and an emergency descent. Except for the first series of steep turns, all went reasonably well and I still held hope of being an instructor upon our return to Fort Lauderdale.
My short-field landing was spot on the numbers, but far from soft. Up we went again and at 500AGL I failed the left engine and ran my "student" through the emergency drill before putting in a little power to simulate a feathered prop. Came around and made a decent landing. The examiner took the controls and I had to critique his take off and landing.
Minutes later, having flown a passable but far from perfect checkride, I was a multi-engine instructor.
Strangely enough, joy wasn't the first feeling I experienced. Rather, a soothing sense of relief came over me as I tied the Seminole down. The initial CFI checkride is said to be one of the toughest, if not the toughest checkride in a pilot's career and with only one incredibly intense week of studying in CFI school and little flying I felt utterly unprepared for the the big day.
Spin training a few days before made for a fun break. I love spins!
Monday morning came and I flew myself from Atlanta to Fort Lauderdale, a pleasant flight with some actual, a nice view of the Daytona Speedway and the Kennedy Space Center. After landing, I rushed to the hotel to study more as time inoxerably rushed by me. Even after a week of prep, I wasn't sure where to start. Stability? The drag charts? Perhaps a final review of my lesson plans? Oh, crap, how about weather? And those regs could use a little more brushing up on.
At 5:30 a.m. yesterday morning, after only a handful of hours of sleep, I awoke feeling overwhelmed.
"Who am I kidding, I'm not ready, I can't do this," I thought.
Exhaustion had caught up with me and the monumental task ahead seemed insurmountable.
I arrived at the airport at 6:30 and loaded up on caffeine before starting the oral half and hour later.
The examiner seemed friendly, greeting me with a pleasant smile. We chatted for a bit and as the questions came my way I grew more and more comfortable. A lot of the knowledge sprung out from dark recesses in my brain, odds and ends I'd forgotten I'd stored there.
All in all it was a great experience and the examiner couldn't have been nicer. He also taught me a few good tricks to help my students along.
I should be going for my CFII checkride in the next couple of days, then on to the single-engine add-on. I'll then head home to reunite with my wife and teach.
It's definitely been a trip. A long one.
The last three months feel like a year.

Commercial pilot

2006-04-26T16:58:00.000-07:00

Became a multi- and single-engine commercial pilot last week, before rushing home for a couple of days with my wife at home. I'm now swamped in Atlanta, trudging my way through CFI school. Lots of work. My initial CFI checkride, or MEI in this case, is scheduled in Fort Lauderdale this coming Tuesday and should be followed shortly by the CFII and single CFI add-on.
Started the week off a little overwhelmed but am slowly gaining confidence. It won't be easy but definitely feasible.
Back to the books...

Rest and fire clouds

2006-04-15T21:16:00.000-07:00

The past three days were very welcomed indeed.
After completing the 75-hour cross-country phase of the course, I raced to Baltimore to catch the last flight home to Boston and made it home utterly shattered around 1 a.m. where the soothing presence of my wife and heavenly sleep awaited.
Jen and I had a chance to spend some time together and we took Emily bowling on Thursday evening, when I got to show off my hitherto undiscovered talents as a bowler. Scenes from Kingpin rushed through my mind...
Being home was a nice change of pace after about two weeks of constant uncertainty about my schedule and what state, city or bed I'd get to sleep in.
The cross-countries were fun but tough, especially on a newly-married couple. While we knew it'd be hard to see each other, Jen and I attempted to make plans to get together on a couple of occasions, only to have my schedule, dictated by our dispathers, foil them with invariable consistency.
Those 75 hours of cross-country flying were, however, very beneficial. I flew in icing conditions, logged a lot more IMC time than I'd expected, flew over the cold Smoky mountains and in Florida's warm and performance-hindering weather, dealt with the gear issue after a very long day of flying, caught a leak in the exhaust manifold before dispatch had a chance to send us back out in that plane and flew from the right seat.
Dealing with dispatch was also a big lesson. While mostly pleasant and easy, some of our experiences with them forced us to be more assertive and act as pilot in command rather than submissive students. Flying on a schedule was also a new and very educational experience.
The cross-country phase of the training is also designed to allow students to practice CRM, or cockpit crew management, where one pilot flies the aircraft while the other works the radios, navigates and handles checklists. I admit that before launching into the cross-countries, I was more excited about the flying part than the monitoring role. But after 75 hours of it, I realize the benefits of CRM and of being equally dedicated to the pilot monitoring duties as to flying the aircraft.
I flew most of the cross-countries with a fellow student, Ron. Inevitably, we fell into a CRM groove and developed a good system. A few days ago, however, dispatch sent him off to Atlanta while I was told to overnight in Jacksonville, Florida. The next morning, I was assigned to fly to Atlanta with another student and wondered how it would be to fly with a new pilot. I was surprised when everything happened the same way as it did with Ron. Within minutes, the new guy and I fell into a groove and both legs that day were completely uneventful and as smooth as if we'd flown together for weeks.
In the past two weeks I've also seen parts of the country I'd never been too: Knoxville, TN, Jacksonville, FL, Wilmington, NC, Jasper, AL, Atlanta and Trenton, NJ. While most stop-overs didn't give me a chance to see the cities, our trip to Alabama gave us a few hours to sit around the backwater airport and talk with great people including a couple of former Navy pilots who showed off their skills in two awesome Pitts and a local examiner who also flies as a Captain for FedEx. I'll post pictures from that day soon.
Three days at home wasn't quite enough, but it sure was a nice break and the perfect way to recharge my batteries. I boarded the AirTran flight back to the D.C. area today with my heart just a little heavy and my stomach gripped by sadness. But with my single- and multi-engine commercial checkrides coming up this week and CFI school the following week I'll be home soon.
As we approached BWI, I looked outside at the darkening sky and shimmering lights on the ground. A muted flash of light suddenly caught my eye off our left wing. As I turned my eyes in that direction, I noticed lightening inside a large isolated cumulonimbus. The flash was followed by another one in a different part of the cloud, and then another and so on. The strikes varied in intensity but some were strong enough to light up the entire cloud with a strange yellowish light making it seem like it was on fire. It was quite an enthralling sight.
Even after so much flying in the past two weeks, the perspective on the world from up there is unrivaled.

100 hours!

2006-04-06T20:43:00.000-07:00

Somewhere between Trenton, NJ and Manassas today, I broke my first hundred hours of multi-engine time. Totaling my logbook tonight revealed a total 101.3 hours of multi and 230+ total time.
A large chunk of that came from the recent flurry of cross-countries. More important than the numbers, I've really grown comfortable in the Seminole, improving my flying skills of course but also getting better at seemingly smaller chores such as synching the props, efficiently leaning the mixtures, better cross-referencing engine gauges during flight, flying the IFR system and talking to air traffic control.
With yet an infinity of things to learn, I truly feel that I am a much more confident and capable pilot than I was 10 days ago. In that period I've learned first-hand about icing, mountain wave, logged many hours of flying in the clouds, dealt with an emergency gear extension and an exhaust manifold leak (also a story for another time).
There's more I have to document about the past few days, such as the afternoon spent in a backwater Alabama airport chatting with geezers and drooling as a handful of aerobatics pilots showed off their skills a few feet above the runway, but that'll have to wait since badly needed sleep awaits.
After flying 6.8 hours today, dispatch said my flight partner will go with another student tomorrow, hinting to the end of my cross-country phase for now and the beginning of commercial training ahead of CFI school in a very short while.
It's exciting to think that if all goes well, I'll be a commercial pilot this time next week. But it also means tons more studying. Before that, I'll need a few hours of sleep... perhaps 100 will do.

The Carolinas, Florida and Georgia

2006-04-01T19:46:00.000-08:00

After a late flight to Wilmington, NC, last night, Ron and I took off for Jacksonville, Fla. this morning. Rain and clouds swept through North Carolina and we left in grey and hazy skies. As we pushed south, however, the clouds lifted a little but the haze remained.

Notice the little spot on the windshield in the picture above. While flying at 6,000 feet something smashed against the plexiglas. After taking a closer look, I noticed a little blood and what looked like a piece from the shattered carcass of a bee. Of course, I didn't expect bees to fly that high and thought that it might be from the digested remains of a bee via the backside of a bird. My wife looked it up when I told her about this and it turns out that some bees do in fact soar many thousands of feet in the sky in something of a hibernating state. They supposedly just float around in the wind and awake when they hit warmer temperatures. So I guess this one really did go in its sleep.

Here is the coast of Florida, a few miles north of Jacksonville, where we were greeted by 90 degree temperatures.

After a very quick turn in Jacksonville, and a switch of seats, we took off and headed for Atlanta. I filed for 8,000 feet. After a brief while in the clouds, we punched through the deck and discovered crystal clear skies above and enthralling cloud formations. Unfortunately the most beautiful sights weren't recorded on film -- or digital sensor in this case -- because they occured very briefly as we broke out between big cloud formations.
We zipped through narrow canyons of clouds and were at times dwarfed by monumental columns of cumuls clouds that stuck out of the sky like plumes from explosions.
Below are just some shots taken when I wasn't wrestling today's aircraft, 1CK, which earned the infamous nickname "Chicken Killer" because it's a piece of junk. For instance, the throttles were impossible to synch and when I got them anywhere near they would quickly get out of synch. Also, the aircraft had a nasty rolling tendency. To test it, I let go of the controls and within 8 seconds it was in a 30 degree bank.
The flight was, nonethless, very enjoyable and stunning.

Is it me, or is that cloud below giving me the finger?

After about two hours, ATC dropped us below the clouds and we were once again in a thick haze that enveloped Atlanta's skyline.

Another shot, while on the GPS 26 into Fullton County airport. About a minute after this photograph was taken, we had a great up-close view of the city but I was too busy flying the approach to take a picture.

When it rains...

2006-03-30T22:01:00.000-08:00

I thought that flying into ice-filled and turbulent clouds over the mountains was enough excitement for one week, but obviously not.
After 8 hours of flying, which took us from Manassas to Raleigh, Atlanta and back, there was more. At night, of course.
On a right base for runway 16L at KHEF, we failed to see the three greens that usually illuminate upon activating the gear lever in the down position. In other words, our wheels may not be down, which obviously presents a problem. I immediately called tower to ask if we could circle while troubleshooting the issue.
Ron, my flight partner, cycled the gear a few times, while I shone my flashlight outside the window in a futile attempt to see the reflection of the nosegear in the engine nacelle-mounted mirror. Nothing. Or at least nothing that I could discern in the dead of night.
After glancing over at the landing gear indicator light circuit breaker, I told Ron to bring the power back to see if the horn would sound. The annoying sound usually acts as a reminder to forgetful pilots to lower the gear. Sure enough, it blared at us as the "gear unsafe" light failed to go off.
We definitely had a problem: the gear was stuck in the wheel wells. Not the end of the world though, since we could use the emergency gear extension.
In the Seminole, hydraulic pressure holds the landing gear in the up position. The gear lever, when it works, lowers the gear out of its wells into the locked position. Failing that, the pilot could just flush that pressure by pulling the red knob, which allows the wheels to freefall and lock into position. However, the procedure has to be done below 100 knots, or the gear may not lock properly. So we had to do this right.
I told Ron to slow to below the prescribed speed and told him to expect a bang but not to worry. As he pulled the knob, the reassuring thud sounded. Being cautious, I called tower and told the controller we'd like to overfly the runway in hopes that he could confirm that our gear was in fact down.
"It appears to be," he said as we whizzed by the tower.
On downwind, I briefed Ron about what we'd do if the gear wasn't in fact locked and we ran through the before landing checklist again. As we turned onto final, I ran him through the landing: nice and slow, hold it off as much as possible to touch down softly, but not quite enough to plump it down on the tarmac.
He did a nice job and put the aircraft down gently, without further excitement.
This, of course, happened at night, after a long 8 hours of flying.
Luck, however, was on our side as the controller shut the tower down for the day as we parked the aircraft. At least we had someone to help us down.
Something new every day...

Pushing it

2006-03-28T20:07:00.000-08:00

I like to consider myself to be safe and conservative when it comes to making a go or no-go decision and certainly know how to recognize my limits. Yet, today's flight really pushed the limits and turned into an true education in weather and instrument flying.
Dispatch slotted us to fly from Manassas to Knoxville, TN, where we'd fuel up before heading down to Atlanta. Ron, my new flight partner, and I met at the airport in the morning and found the weather to be questionable. A low pressure system promised overcasts and icing along our route and what got us concerned was the slim margin between the freezing level and some of the MEAs (Minimum En Route Altitudes) along the way. We didn't want to sandwich ourselves between ice and mountains.
Since I was the pilot flying, Ron deferred to my judgement and I informed dispatch that we weren't comfortable taking the flight. A few hours later, they called and told us the weather had cleared. After a weather check of our own, we still felt unsure eventhough there were no more PIREPs for icing but considered various escape routes and briefed options if things were to turn bad.
Soon after take-off, we were in the clouds at 8,000 feet with no signs of ice and a smooth ride. But it wasn't to last.
Half an hour into the trip, we began picking up light rime ice. We were in and out of clouds and the accumulation was slow so we maintained our altitude. But as we progressed to the south west, more ice collected on the wings so we asked for a lower altitude, which approach promptly granted. A few minutes later we traversed an area of air slightly above freezing, 1 degree Celsius to be precise, and the accumulation melted off.
The true critical leg of our flight was now a few miles ahead of us, starting at Bluefield (KBLF), where the MEA increases to 6,600. We remained at 7,000 feet to stay out of the ice and considered diverting to BLF if necessary. In solid IMC, we crossed the VOR and as luck would have it things started going south. We'd been in light to moderate turbulence for a while with bumps that caused my head to hit the ceiling of the plane. The bumps, however, were now growing stronger and the mountains below created up- and downdrafts that made handling the plane quite a hanful. Ron minded the radios, checked for ice on the wings and watched my back as I wrestled the Seminole through the rough air. To make matters worse, we were now in an area of strong precipitation and ligthening with little altitude to spare below and good chances of icing above. Just the scenario I'd told dispatch I was concerned about.
I knew we had a valley behind us that we could fly to if things got bad and Bluefield wasn't far in case we needed to divert. The atmosphere in the cockpit was tensed, for sure, but we worked well together and got through the area as smoothly as we believe we could.
As we rode the heavier bumps, I experienced the leans, or a false feeling of banking. In this case, my body was telling me the aircraft was in a constant turn to the right, when in fact it was doing the opposite. I focused on the instruments and soon overcame the sensation but learned just how hard it is to ignore your body's instincts.
For the next hour, we were mostly in IMC, occasionally popping in and out of clouds, only to see mountains all around. Big ones, too. The sight was both awe-inspiring and unnerving and we continued to be mindful of escape routes.
After a little under 3.5 hours, we were on the GPS24L approach into Knoxville, landed safely and taxied to the ramp.
Dispatch had plans for us to fly to Atlanta, but Ron and I had resolved to not let anyone influence our decision to scrub a flight if we felt it was the right decision. After a bite to eat and a weather brief, we agreed that overnighting in Tennessee would be best since the rough flight took it out of us. More mountains and IMC paved the way to Atlanta and we were just too tired to take on the challenge safely.
So it's off for badly-needed sleep for now, looking forward to a long day of flying tomorrow. Hopefully a little less eventful.
I've learned a lot about flying today, and a lot about myself.

Stuck, Part 2

2006-03-26T19:03:00.000-08:00

I may have gotten a little ahead of myself last night in thinking that our wait in Wilmington was over after dispatch released us for the flight back to Manassas.
After packing up the plane and rolling out to the runway we started a run-up and found out we had a dead magneto on the right engine. The magnetos, two per engine, provide ignition and are independent from the electrical system and from each other to create redundancy. With only one functioning mag on the right engine, not only weren't we safe to go fly but we were also unairworthy.
So back to the ramp it was. A few calls to dispatch and maintenance confirmed my suspicions about the mag and we booked ourselves into a hotel for the night. A couple of pitchers of beer later, we found some respite in well-deserved sleep.
Around noon today, another plane was ferried to us and we lifted off to Manassas in it, again flying mostly in IMC and at times skimming the tops of majestic puffy cumulus clouds. The sights were awesome and only reiterated my desire to get a decent camera so that I can illustrate these posts with pictures.
After landing in Manassas I was told to pick up another student and head down to Raleigh, where we'd overnight. Catch was that my lovely wife had flown down this morning in hopes of spending a few hours together. Instead, we made a quick run to my apartment to get clothes, then pondered what to do. In her admirable devotion and bravery, she decided to drive to Raleigh while Ron, my new flight partner, and I shot a straight line down here in the Seminole.
She'll be here in about half and hour! Exciting stuff.

The past three days have been an amazing learning experience and a testament to ATP's training approach. I flew more IMC since Friday than I had before I came here, encountered ice on two occasions and had to deal with mechanical problems away from base.
Our icing encounter yesterday was a good lesson. We obviously did not fly into known icing conditions, but when it began I made a PIREP. It seemed to stabilize so we pushed on at our altitude, with but a dusting on the leading edges. Quickly, however, rime ice began collecting at a faster rate so we asked ATC for a lower altitude and got 4,000 feet, which was supposed to be clear. Approaching 4,000, however, it was clear to us that we wouldn't be out of the clouds and we were now getting a mix of snow and ice. I immediately notified ATC and we were cleared to 3,000 feet, where we broke out and were finally in above freezing temperatures, by a slim margin.
I kept a close eye on the leading edges and could see slow melting. Then we flew through virga and that helped tremendously in melting the ice right off of the wings. The whole episode was only minutes long, but we worked fast and hard to get out of the ice as safely as we could and were satisfied with our CRM.
Also during the flight, ATC asked us for help in relaying a message to a Bonanza. I tried getting in touch with the plane's pilot, but to no avail so in case he could hear me but not broadcast to us I relayed approach's message a couple of times and advised the controller.
Because this happened after we picked up ice, the mood in the cockpit was somber as we both hoped the aircraft in question had not fallen prey to the moist and cold clouds.

Stuck

2006-03-25T16:56:00.000-08:00

At this writing, my flight partner and I are stuck in Wilmington, NC and I just awoke from a power nap on the terminal's couch.
We took off earlier today from Manassas and soon got into IMC for pretty much the entire route. The first hour of the trip was fine and I closely monitored the OAT and the wings so that ice wouldn't sneak on us. Then Peter told me the plane felt weird and sluggish and that he had to pitch up to maintain altitude. Our airspeed dropped about 40kts and we began troubleshooting. No ice on the wings.
"Carb ice," Peter wondered.
I agreed and we engaged the carb heat, which soon returned our airspeed to normal.
That, however, wasn't the end of the excitement.As we journeyed on south, I began to notice slight accumulation of rime ice. With just a dusting on the leading edge, I filed a PIREP (pilot report) with ATC and Peter and I decided to keep a close eye on the situation while remaining at our altitude for now. A pilot in our vicinity reported breaking out on top at 10,000 feet, 2,000 feet above us so that was a possible escape route. We also knew that ceilings below were at about 4,000 feet.

Ah ha! Dispatch just called. Our wait is over (at 8:15 p.m.) so this shall be continued later...

Playing in the clouds

2006-03-24T20:18:00.000-08:00

As a kid, I often wondered what it'd be like to touch a cloud. Like probably many others, I thought of them as monuments fashioned from cottonwool or cotton candy and fantasized about playing and sleeping in their inviting canyons closer to where airplanes lived.
That little kid was reawakened today during a thrilling flight from Manassas to Raleigh, most of it (1.6 hours) in IMC. The trip also marked my first (benign) ice encounter.
My school's program includes a couple of weeks of cross-country flights -- pilot speak for trips to other airports -- during which two students fly together as a crew. Just like at an airline, a dispatcher assigns us a destination. Unlike at the airlines, however, dispatch doesn't flight plan for us. Once we've surveyed our route and checked the weather, we file IFR and advise dispatch, who then release us if they deem the conditions acceptable.
The students act as a crew and practice CRM, or cockpit resource management. One will fly one leg while the "pilot monitoring" reads checklists, tunes radios, talks to ATC and provides a second pair of eyes to ensure a safe flight.
Today was my first of many such trips to come in the next two or so weeks and I was lucky to be paired with a very competent, responsible, professional and safe pilot who just happened to share my interests for food, beer and wine.
After planning the flight, we agreed I'd fly the first leg to Raleigh.
We set off on this maiden voyage mid-afternoon. I knew we'd spend some time in the clouds and we had resolved to keep a close eye on icing, for which the weather briefer told me there was potential along our route. We flew the Arsenal 1 Departure to the Gordonsville transition and found ourselves in the clouds within minutes of take-off.
(As a sidenote, our flight plan basically consisted of flying a departure procedure the transition of which was also the first point of our destination's STAR! Kinda cool I thought.)
As we neared that first cloud I asked Peter whether he had much experience in actual.
"About one hour," he said.
I had a meager 4.4 hours of actual, the last 1.2 of which I flew in July.
We popped into the white mass and my eyes turned to the instruments, instinctively scanning the panel to gather information to keep the plane upright, at our assigned altitude and on track. No biggie, things went well and I quickly relaxed. By the way, the twin we fly has no autopilot so being lazy was not an option.
Closer to Manassas, the clouds were stacked close together so we popped in and out of puffy cumulus clouds that rose above us like small monuments. At times, we broke out for a few seconds and found ourselves flying in valleys of clouds, only to quickly re-enter the white mass. Occasionally, as the layer would thin out a little bit, we skimmed the tops and caught a glimpse of blue sky in the mist above before promptly returning into the vast ocean of white.
As we made our way south, the broken clouds gave way to solid IMC. I told Peter that we should remain vigilent for icing and we discussed our options if ice were to stick to our aircraft and complicate matters by robbing us of performance. The outside air temperature was in the vicinity of -10C so we'd have to be on our toes.
Nearer to Raleigh, after a relaxed and very satisfying flight in IMC, the inside of the clouds turned a little darker and I suspected more moisture was hanging in the air. I shared my hunch with Peter and we again checked for ice.
"I see some accumulation over here, how is it on your side," he asked.
I glanced at the wing's leading edge and could see light rime ice gathering.
Hmm. There wasn't much so I decided to wait a few seconds and see how much more would accumulate. Still not a lot, but I'm inexperienced in IMC and new to this whole icing thing, so let's take no chance. We advised ATC and asked if we could get a lower altitude. A minute later we began a descent to 3,000 ft and broke out into drier air.
The small amount of ice melted reasonably rapidly and whatever had accumulated on the right engine's propeller was thrown against the windshield.
Approach vectored us to the ILS 5L at RDU and minutes later we were enjoying surpisingly good coffee from a fancy and, I'm told, very expensive machine boasting the logo of an ubiquitous chain of coffee shops.
Dispatch told us we were to fly to Atlanta from Raleigh, but soon called back and instead instructed us to return to Manassas since bad weather is forecast for the next two days.
Peter flew smoothly all the way home in marginal VFR conditions and shot a nice GPS approach into Manassas.
The flight was nothing short of awesome. The first post-checkride IMC flight is a true test for an instrument pilot, especially one who had none or little experience in the clouds during training and had to instead slap on those annoying foggles or other view-limiting devices go simulate them.
I feel that I did well and had a lot of fun. Thankfully, there was only little turbulence in those clouds and icing was very limited. But to a green instrument pilot, who wondered whether he'd be even able to keep the plane's proper side up in a cloud, it was a big step forward.
With any luck, temperatures will be warmer than forecast tomorrow and we'll spend some more time playing among the clouds.

Damn it's cold...

2006-03-21T20:45:00.000-08:00

I had a great first-hand demonstration of the lapse rate last night.
Around 11 p.m. I took off for a quick in and out to Shenandoah. Colder air had pushed into the area during the day, promising snow and a wintery mix today but reasonably clear skies prevailed for the quick flight. It was cold on the surface and obviously significantly chillier at my cruising altitude.
Since the tower controllers had packed up and gone for the day, I raised Potomac Approach on the phone to get my clearance and release. Within minutes I was off in moonless and frigid skies.
The Seminole has a very rudimentary heating system, which operates pretty much either full on or off. Still, it gets the job done. A little care is however required in operating it. The POH notes that if the heater, which burns fuel to produce heat, is used during ground operations, the fan should be activated for a full two minutes after shutting the heat off in order to cool the system. In the air, all it takes is to let air cycle through for 15 seconds. Failing to do so will result in a heater overheat light appearing on the annunciator panel and the system going offline until a reset switch is accessed in the nose section. The reason, obviously, is to physically have someone go in there and check for any damage.
The aircraft in question last night had been recently used on a checkride with a somewhat spaced-out examiner who cranked up the heat during the flight and failed to follow proper cooling procedures.
As a result, I inherited a flying ice box.
With temperatures around -15C at 8,000 ft, the cabin got fairly chilly in a hurry, even though I'd planned ahead and flew all bundled up in my coat. It wouldn't have been so bad, however, if I'd properly shut the door, which came slightly open after take-off, allowing a stream of accelerated frigid air inside. I elected to fly the plane and fix the problem on the ground in Shenandoah, which made the return flight just a little more bearable.
In spite of the cold it was a pleasant flight, conducted from the right seat, which took some getting used to, especially in the dark. For the first time, I flew over mountains at night and realized just how featureless terrain is in the darkness.
On the way back, around 1 a.m., a lonely approach control showed a friendly side generally foreign to many of his day shift colleagues, again underlining how different night flying is.
I also thought of the freight dogs up there at that time of night. Wouldn't mind giving that a try some day.

Food, wine and good times at home

2006-03-18T19:13:00.000-08:00

The instrument checkride and all of its intensity seems like it happened ages ago.
A decent night's sleep after the ride, I began studying for writtens. First in line was the Fundamentals of Instructing exam, which I took without any major problems on Friday of last week, the day after the instrument ride. With that done, the next three days were packed with intensive studying for the FIA (Flight Instructor Airplane) and AGI (Advanced Ground Instructor), which also went well.
My head hurt for a day or two after, however.
On Wednesday, thrilled with the idea of officially being an advanced ground instructor, I boarded a JetBlue flight home to see my wife and get some badly-needed rest. Hours after my return, we found ourselves sitting at a nearby Italian restaurant, sipping an awesome red Dolcetto, which greatly complemented the delicious polpette, and were once again a couple.
I'd missed that tremendously.
I also got back into other passions outside of flying, such as strumming my guitars and cooking. My schedule in Manassas all but eradicated those from my everyday life, hobbies which in my prior professional incarnation had sustained my mental sanity and will to avoid going postal.
Last night, for instance, my friend and Cape Air captain Ffloyd and I cooked for our wives, murdered way too many bottles of wine and traded flying stories on Cape Cod.
So with a belly constantly full of good food and wine and a heart soothed by the kind attentions of my better half, I'm a happy man. I've accomplished a lot in the past few weeks, in reasonably difficult conditions because of the forced separation from home and I feel proud.
The process, in many ways, feels like that of growing up. I'm more confident, more proficient and mature as a pilot and look forward to the growth ahead. With about six weeks to go in my training, including five checkrides and a ride on the Citation 525, I'm pumped.
And today was made a little more special by an hour spent in the windy skies of Massachusetts with Jen. My constant babbling on flying has obviously rubbed off on her and she told me a few weeks ago that she might go for her private. Of course, I greeted the news with great excitement and decided to take her up for a bit of an intro flight.
With admirable patience, she's been up with me many times before but never touched the controls in spite of my ongoing offer to do so. This afternoon, however, she described circles over the Wachuset Reservoir for about an hour, learning the basics and most of all having fun.
No words would do justice to how great it felt to see her fly that plane and have fun, so I'll keep that for myself. She did very well, slowly learning how to point the airplane's nose where she wanted it. After all that patience listening to my monologues about it, she was doing it herself. She was flying!!!
I couldn't think of a better prelude to my impending career as an instructor and while all we visited today were turns and straight and level flight, I feel like I've learned from it.
The word of the examiner I did my instrument ride with came back to me: "I didn't start learning until I began to instruct."

Good Thursday

2006-03-11T09:46:00.000-08:00

Good news all around for what was a miserably windy day: Ron got hired as a First Officer at ExpressJet and I became an instrument pilot.
I arrived at the airport in the morning, ready for a last prep flight and was filled with anticipation and a little angst induced by my pink slipping the last checkride I took. Eric, the instructor I flew with, had only reassuring words and positive comments about our two-hour excursion in the skies of Virginia.
After a quick bite, H-Hour arrived and I sat down with the examiner, whom I’d first met during my multi-engine retest.
He quizzed me about regulations and asked me what I and the aircraft needed to be legal for IFR. Easy enough. Then it was on to questions about the low en-route chart. Again, no problems there.
We then discussed the flight plan he’d asked me to prepare, a short hop from Manassas to Cumberland, MD. The route was straightforward enough and I’d spent time surveying it and the area to make sure there were no traps. I also considered escape routes along the path of flight and briefed the only approach I’d be able to shoot based on the weather conditions he gave me.
We finger flew the flight plan. Over the Casanova VOR, my first checkpoint, approach calls me and says “Seminole 1234AB, climb and maintain 8,000, proceed on course as filed.”
A few minutes later, the DE explained, the radios appear to be awfully silent. What should I do? After calling approach for a radio check I get nothing but silence. So, I said, I’d check the volume knob on the radio, the headset, the jacks and so on. Nothing. Complete communications failure.
Since approach had cleared me as filed, I explained, I’d proceed to the next checkpoint and fly the flight plan all the way to Cumberland. Once there, the weather worsened so I showed him how I would fly the published missed approach and how I would enter the hold. After a second attempt, still no luck so I’d divert to my alternate, Martinsburg, which I picked because it has an ILS approach, is away from the mountains to the west of Cumberland and might therefore have slightly different weather conditions and is convenient to get to since the hold for the missed approach is on the Victor airway that leads directly to Martinsburg.
Satisfied with that, he probed me a little bit about the Visual Descent Point, minimum altitudes and had me read him a prognostic chart, which showed 8 or 9 low pressure systems moving east and tightly-packed isobars west of us, which would of course explain the strong winds.
After pre-flighting, and some amount of dismay on my part about the winds in the area, which were gusting in the mid-20s, we were off for the practical portion of the test. I flew west direct to CSN VFR to leave the ADIZ. On the way, since I had an idle moment, I decided to identify Casanova even though I was navigating there using the GPS. I figured that if he failed the GPS or assigned me the VOR-A at Culpeper (which begins at CSN) this would save me some work. This was only met with disapproval on his part, which I didn’t have time to question. As I mentioned in a previous post, this particular examiner can be somewhat gruff, although I do enjoy flying with him and learned a lot on Thursday’s checkride. The point, I think, was to stress me out or test my confidence.
He soon gave me vectors to shoot the ILS at Martinsburg, WV. Unfortunately, the tower there was too busy handling a C-130 and a Cessna 172 on the ILS so we were told to try a little later. I scrambled to set up the GPS-A into Winchester and shot the approach single-engine partial panel. Combine that with the checkride stress and the gusty winds and I was working hard. Since he failed my HSI, I could use two options to fly the approach: the CDI page on the GPS to get guidance to the runway, or the number 2 VOR tuned for the VOR-A. The latter is what he preferred, so I obliged. But it became obvious that the instrument was a little out of whack, showing me to be right of course when the moving map showed us well left of the approach path. I checked the frequency, the OBS but everything looked good. Even he was baffled, but instructed me to continue flying the approach that way. I personally would have preferred at this point to rely on the CDI page because the VOR could very well fly us into a mountain.
At the MDA, the examiner told me to go visual and asked me which way I’d circle to land on 14. I looked down at the approach plate and immediately replied that I would turn right to join a left downwind. While my answer was correct, my having to check led to a well-deserved scolding. I really should’ve had that figured out when I got the weather earlier on during the approach but was distracted by the engine and vacuum failures and the whacky VOR. Lesson well learned.
After landing at Winchester, he vectored me for a second, and this time successful, attempt at the VOR26 at Martinsburg. I got on with approach, who steered us to the final approach course, and flew a nice and tidy ILS all the way down. While on a long downwind, we heard the pilot of the C130 on the approach calling tower at the final approach fix.
“Who do you think has the easier job, him or you,” the examiner asked.
I was sweating bullets, doing my best to make sure everything was set up correctly and fighting the bumps so without thinking I replied the C130 pilot probably had a harder job, what with his aircraft being so much heavier, faster and complex.
“Are you kidding? He has a crew to help him with charts, radios and calling out altitudes. You are doing all that on your own and you have an SOB in the right seat yelling at you.”
Hmm. I smiled.
“If you look at it that way then I have the harder job!”
Did a nice landing in a direct 90 degree crosswind then took off and departed to the south and headed direct to Linden VOR, where the examiner told me I’d fly a 5DME arc to the left to join the 160 radial and depart eastbound. The stiff headwind bought me some time in trying to figure out how to enter this thing. The stress induced by his badgering was really getting to me even though I knew that was precisely the point of it. He likes to instill a stressful atmosphere in the cockpit to see how much you can handle, which I think is genius. Not pleasant, but great training and proof that a check ride really is a learning experience.
I was flying to LDN on the 030 radial, so I’d make a 90 degree turn to the left at about 5.5 miles out, accounting for the strong headwind. I’d arc to the right, then turn left to intercept the 160 radial outbound. We were still a few miles out so I took the chart out and finger flew the arc ahead of time to make absolutely sure my entry was correct, which it was.
After battling the wind on the initial turn, I was established on the 5DME arc and to my surprise flew it very nicely, hardly leaving the intended path at all. An arc so close to the VOR requires finesse and the way the winds were howling I knew I had my work cut out for me! Once on the outbound radial, the examiner vectored me to CSN for the VOR-A into Culpeper. On the way, he deplored that all he could see outside was lightening and dark clouds. Was he hinting to something? Was I missing something? Everything seemed to be set up correctly so I continued to wonder what he was getting to.
“Seminole 1234AB, you are cleared for the VOR-A to Culpeper, you can cancel IFR with me in the air or FSS on the ground.”
Aaaaaah. Now I get it. We’re never going to break out here, the weather’s so bad we’ll have to go missed.
“Cleared for the VOR-A Culpeper and we’d like to cancel on the ground.”
Resounding silence from the right seat. Sweet!
I flew a nice approach all the way to the missed approach point then executed the published missed: climbing left turn to 2,900 then direct to CSN and hold.
“Mark, all you have to do now is enter the hold,” he told me.
Don’t screw this up, was the message.
Upon reaching 2,900, I slowed the plane down and confirmed the hold entry to be parallel. Reached CSN, turned the outbound heading, started the time, twisted the CDI to the inbound, corrected for the wind out of my left so I wouldn’t be blown too far. A minute later, I turned right and smiled as my wind correction was spot on. I intercepted the inbound and flew back to the VOR, where he took the plane for a couple of quick and problem-free unusual attitudes.
“My airplane,” he said when I was done with those. “Take your foggles . Congratulations, you can relax now.”
Wow! Instrument pilot! I did it. The checkride was a work-out but what a feeling of accomplishment!
It’s apparently sort of a tradition of his to fly back home, so I took in the scenery and relaxed. The dark skies allowed just a sliver of bright incandescent red light frfom the setting sun to bleed out of the base of the clouds near the mountains. What a perfect sight after a couple of hours under the hood!
The next day I studied for the Fundamentals Of Instructing written, which I took without problems. Over the next couple of days I’ll be cramming to take the Flight Instructor Airplane and Advanced Ground Instructor writtens on Monday, then head home for a few days on Tuesday. I could use some rest and am looking forward to some time with my wife.

The long-awaited trip

2006-03-04T22:06:00.001-08:00

I lost count of how many attempts we made for this particular flight, but after weather and mechanical delays (a broken starter on the left engine) it finally happened: a 5.8 hour cross-country wrapping up requirements for both the instrument and commercial ratings.
The first part of it would consist of an IFR flight with landings at three airports using three different types of approaches and the second was a VFR 300nm night trip required for the commercial rating.
We took off from Manassas around 1600 local and headed to Charlottesville, VA to shoot the ILS3. As the controller gave me a final vector to intercept the localizer, Ron pulled the left engine. This happened at the precise moment ATC called back to clear us for the approach. I made sure we were at blue line or better (blue line provides the best rate of climb on both one or two engines in the Seminole) and at or above the minimum altitude for that portion of the approach. I then called the controller back to acknowledge his instructions and went through the emergency checklist before calling tower to inform them we were inbound on the ILS.
A lot going on at once!
The approach itself was little trouble and we soon went missed and were on our way to Lynchburg, VA for the second part of the IFR flight. It was a real shame to have been stuck wearing those wretched foggles because the scenery in that area is beautiful. Ron graciously allowed me to take a quick peak, which revealed chains of mountains below us. Stunning.
As we neared Lynchburg for the VOR4, it appeared that our vacuum system stopped functioning (for practice purposes of course, otherwise this would've been a bad day, especially after that earlier "engine failure") and I was therefore faced with the task of shooting this unfamiliar approach using partial panel techniques that we had not yet practiced since our sim only has an HSI, which is typically failed for this exercise.
I flew to the LYH VOR for the procedure turn and fell a little behind because I fixated on the VOR and ended up paying little attention to the magnetic compass. But within a few seconds I was back on track and my eyes went from one to the other, stopping on the way on the turn coordinator, altimeter, airspeed indicator and the clock. The instrument scan on such a partial panel approach has to be lightening fast and it'll take me a little more practice to get up to speed with it, but the approach went reasonably well. The mind also has to be a step ahead, making calculations for timed turns, factoring in wind correction and anticipating the next portion of the approach as well as flying the current one.
After going missed at Lynchburg, we headed southeast to Wilmington, NC. Favorable winds gave us good groundspeeds, clocking in as high as 200kts at one point. This part of the flight was the longest and turned out to be quite uneventful and pleasant. Along the way we spoke to a few controllers, many of whom were very friendly and kindly accomodated our request to divert from the original flight plan and fly direct to Wilmington.
A few miles out I looked out to our right to see a fiery red sun slowly recede behind a hazy horizon. It almost seemed to be melting away as the perfectly round bright red sphere slowly turned oval in its own golden fluid before vanishing for the day.
Back under the hood I set up for the GPS35 and flew a tidy approach to a nice night landing.
We parked the plane and headed a couple of miles from the airport for BBQ.
A couple of hours later, we were back in the air fighting stiff headwinds on our long way home. The flight, nonethless, was very enjoyable and smooth. I've said it before, but night flying is amazing. It's quite striking what a few lights can do to spruce up things such as commercial complexes, which during the day are quite ugly.
Near Richmond we heard an American Eagle flight talking to ATC. Its callsign was followed by "Lifeguard." Ron explained to me that if an aircraft is carrying a passenger who suddenly becomes ill, they will tag that on the end of the callsign.
Since Manassas tower was closed when we arrived for the GPS34R approach, I got click the runway lights from the cockpit, which is always a really cool thing to do! Small things, huh?
More flying tomorrow morning: partial panel VORs, perhaps a GPS approach thrown in and then home to Boston for the night to see my wife. Come to think of it, this is the true long-awaited trip...

More foggle time

2006-03-02T21:52:00.000-08:00

Two days of awesome flying and two very different experiences.
Yesterday was hazy, sunny and very smooth. Ron and I headed out in the afternoon for practice approaches at Charlottesville, VA. I'd love to describe the area, which I gather is quite picturesque, but I was stuck under the hood for the duration of the flight, save a few precious minutes. The flight over was uneventful and within half-an-hour after leaving Manassas we got vectors to shoot the ILS3 circle to 21.
Since the air was smooth as glass, flying the approach was quite easy and I lifted the hood at circling minimums to join a left downwind to 21. (The hood, or foggles in this case, is a inhumane device intended to limit the instrument student's view beyond the instrument panel, thereby simulating flying in the clouds. I can't wait to burn the damn thing!)
I flew the pattern as a regional jet took off and went missed. As we climbed out I tried to enjoy the view for a second, knowing I'd be back in "the clouds" shortly.
KCHO seems like a nice destination surrounded by mountains. It had a bucolic feeling with fields, forests and even a hot air balloon floating peacefuly in the distant haze.
Approach gave us missed approach instructions and we came back around to shoot the ILS a second time.
"For some reason these airplanes don't like this approach," Ron told me.
Busy fiddling with knobs and reviewing the approach plate I wondered what the heck he was talking about.
"Sometimes they just shut down one engine because they hate it so much," he continued.
Oh, I get it now...
As I received my final vector to intercept the localizer, the plane yawed suddenly as my left engine "died." Ran through the memory emergency checklist and continued the approach. Again, since there was no wind to speak of, it was pretty easy and after a nice clean ILS I lifted the hood to see the runway right in front of me. No matter how easy the conditions are, it's always a nice feeling! Went missed again, the the full published missed this time.
I managed to screw up the hold at Gordonsville VOR a little. The entry was fine although winds aloft pushed us a little out so intercepting the inbound took a little longer than expected.
From there we headed back to Manassas for the ILS16L on one engine. Again, nonexistant winds really helped me out and I greased the landing.
Fast forward to today...
It took us a while to decide whether to fly or not. The temperature at the field was in the 40s, while airports between 20 and 50 miles away showed temperatures in the 70s. Perfect conditions for Ron to show me a warm front. He was concerned, however, that a low pressure system to our west would push colder air into the area and create temperature inversions, which could bring icing.
As the afternoon went on, however, the clouds remained high and Ron decided it was safe to go.
We took off minutes later in pretty bumpy skies, but hey we got to go fly, right?!
As we neared the mountains around Charlottesville, however, the bumps got bigger and we were getting seriously thrown around. The course reversal for the GPS21 was interesting since it was right over the mountains. I fought the plane all the way in. As I went visual I had to crab 30 degrees or more into the wind and still couldn't hold centerline as the capricious wind forced the Seminole to yaw left and right. Wind shear of +/- 15kts was also wreaking havoc with what I'd hoped would be the perfect approach.
I went missed and took a breather on the way up. My palms were sweaty and I felt I'd flown the approach badly. The bumps obviously didn't help but in my efforts to tame the plane and remain on heading and altitude on the way down I tended to fixate, one of the instrument pilot's worst enemies, or forget details.
In the short time since we'd gone missed, the wind turned almost 180 degrees, so we received vectors for the ILS3 for our second run.
Again, the bumps and gusts made the approach difficult and while it wasn't necessarily graceful I flew it OK. Not great, but it wasn't a complete disaster. As we reached the DH, Ron and I agreed we were happy we didn't have to land there! It was a workout but great experience.
Published missed to the hold, where I picked up our clearance home and back to Manassas for the GPS34R, which went well. Our ground speed to the FAF was up to around 170kts, I believe. As we turned onto the final approach course, it dipped as low as 50kts and never exceeded 70kts.
The winds are back...

March winds

2006-02-28T19:14:00.000-08:00

The high from earning my multi-engine private last week was somewhat muted by being stuck on the ground for the following days.
Strong winds moved into the area last Thursday, gusting well into the 30s, and we had little choice but to wait them out. Problem is, they seemed to have their mind set on staying around here.
March winds were a little early this year and made for blustering conditions but I found solace in time spent with my wife and stepdaughter, Emily, who came to visit from Boston last week. We spent time at the air and space museum in Washington, D.C. on Thursday, where Emily and I took a fun ride in a full-motion F-18 simulator. Before we took our positions in the pod, she assigned me to flying the aircraft while she would destroy everything around us with missiles. I aknowledged her orders and prepared for the flight.
The ride was short, but exhilerating. We made low passes over tanks and war ships, played chicken with tracers and when all hell broke lose from Emily's precise and unrelenting gunmanship I'd apply full power and perform barrel rolls and loops to confuse the enemy.
She totally kicked their asses.
When Jen and Em left a couple of days later, I sadly remained grounded as the weather continued to play tricks on us.
Then came Monday and with it the enticing plan to fly IFR to Charlottesville, VA, Lynchburg, VA and Wilmington, NC, stop for food and return to Manassas at night. Route surveyed, kneeboard and approach plates neatly organized and flight plans filed: ready to go! I braved the cold winds to go and preflight the Seminole while Ron, my trusted instructor, enjoyed the heat of the terminal for just a few minutes longer. When he finally joined me on the ramp we hopped in, shut the door and ran through the start-up procedures.
The winds outside were howling at about 30 knots, but I didn't care and neither did Ron. We just wanted to go flying and in spite of the breeziness the sky was beautifully clear and inviting and conditions calmer at our various destinations.
After priming the left engine and pumping the throttle twice I hit the starter, eagerly awaiting it to cough and sputter to life. Nothing. Just the high-pitched sound of the starter spinning in vain. Dead.
Even after repositioning the prop nothing will do and even if it had, Ron noted he didn't want to get stuck in Wilmington.
He makes an escape plan so that we can secure the airplane as fast as possible and avoid the bone-chilling wind and minutes later we find ourselves brooding over the situation in the terminal, two very unhappy and frustrated pilots once again defeated in their plans to take to the skies.
This morning arrived and I awoke with low expectations. No way was I going to get all pumped up about going flying only to be disappointed again. Yet, when I caught a glimpse of the sky through the shades it appeared to be clear. Compelled by a rekindled optimism, I dashed outside to confirm what I had seen. Sure enough the sky was blue, peppered here and there by high cirrus clouds and the tree branches, hitherto battered by the wind, stood reasonably still in the chilly morning.
The weather held up and in fact got nicer as clouds to our west cleared as the day advanced. Hours later we were finally taxiing out to runway 34R for my first IFR flight here outside of the sim.
In mildly turbulent skies, we headed northwest to Winchester to shoot the ILS 32. The ATIS, however, noted that the glide slope was out of service so I quickly briefed the stepdowns and higher minimums for the localizer 32 and began the approach. In spite of a few bumps here and there it went well and since the good people at Potomac Approach declined our request for a full missed approach to the hold and back for a second flight in, I pointed the nose of our trusted craft toward Casanova VOR where we could begin the VOR A into Culpeper.
This approach went well too, although I lowered flaps to 25 degrees, which we don't do on a circling approach unless landing is assured. Spotted the airport at the missed approach point, circled to a left downwind for 22 and went missed. Climbed and turned left to 2,900 direct to CSN, entered the hold and shot the approach a second time, without a hitch, then back on the missed and re-entered the hold from where Ron called approach to get the ILS into KHEF or at least the GPS34R.
But again, our good friends at Potomac declined our request, in spite of light traffic, so Ron vectored me to a left base for 34R, where I made a nice landing as the sun began to set.
The flight was straightforward and while I didn't get to enjoy the view from up there (which Ron later informed me was spectacular) I had a blast. It was just nice to get off the ground and go fly around for a bit.
With any luck this clement weather will continue and we'll be able to go up every day from now on. Clouds and rain are supposed to roll in later this week but since they'll be bringing warmer temperatures with them I'm looking forward to some good actual time.

Multi-engine pilot

2006-02-22T16:17:00.000-08:00

He wasn't particularly friendly and his reputation as a bit of a gruff examiner had me quite nervous. But after our brief encounter yesterday he shook my hand and congratulated me on becoming a multi-engine pilot.
I sat in the Seminole for a minute as he headed inside to complete the paperwork and breathed a deep sigh of relief.
The retest went well and I performed the maneuvers within standards. The examiner also threw in a few surprises of his own. On a 4 mile right base to 16L into KHEF, for instance, I began the gear down/before landing checklist, a six-item memory list. The very first one is "gear down--three greens." Well, no greens at all.
First unsure about whether the sunlight made it impossible to see the lights indicating that the landing gear is down and locked, I hit the dimmer switch, which is used at night since the three greens are quite bright.
Nothing.
I knew I could then run through a number of items to troubleshoot the problem, including pulling the power back to under 15'' MP or dumping 25 degrees of flaps or more to see if the gear horn would sound, thus indicating the gear were still in the wells, but since we were close to the airport I went for the quick way out.
I leaned over the examiner to examine the three rows of circuit breakers. The four at the very right side of the first row are linked to the landing gear system. Number one of those four was the one I was particularly interested in: "Gear lights." Sure enough it stuck out. I promptly pushed it back in and, quite satisfied, resumed the checklist and landed safely.
The experience was sort of anti-climactic since it was a retest and failure was definitely not an option. Also, as mentioned above, this particular examiner has a reputation and many students have had insults and objects of various kinds tossed at them. No such thing happened during my ride, eventhough he was a little gruff at times.
In spite of this, I enjoyed flying with him thoroughly. In fact, I look forward to taking more checkrides with him because he loves to teach. He doesn't do it in a necessarily friendly way, but his goal, more than pocketing a handsome examiner's fee, is to make the candidate a better pilot. He cares, in his own way, and that I find to be a very important trait in any examiner or instructor.
So, I'm committing myself to yet more fear and nervousness and will probably trigger him to scream at me once or twice, but I know I'll get something out of it and if he can help me become the best and safest pilot I can possibly be then I'll take a few loud moments in the cockpit.
He knows what people say about him. As he handed me my temporary certificate, he said: "We'll be spending a lot of quality time together," then shot me a grin that both amused me and terrified me all at once.

Serenity now!

2006-02-19T19:43:00.000-08:00

Today brought a nice change of pace.
After weeks of maneuvers and all sorts of emergencies in the airplane and the simulator, my instructor and I headed from Manassas to Raleigh-Durham.
Since my multi-engine private retest is scheduled for this Tuesday, we departed the ADIZ and practiced a few steep turns and power-on stalls, which went well. Minutes later I called up Potomac Approach to pick up our IFR clearance and we were on our way.
Sadly, haze masked much of the countryside around us and therefore made picture-taking a somewhat futile excercise.
To our west, however, the haze hung as a mesmerizing veil over a ridge of mountains and took on the orange tint of the declining sun. It was nice to once again taste the peaceful feeling of being aloft and I savored the tranquility and sense of well-being and complete serenity. As my eyes followed a winding river at the foot of the mountains, which appeared to be on fire because of the evening light's reflection in its calm waters, my instructor told me how much he loved flying, and I could only echo the feeling.
Half way between the Gordonsville and South Boston VORs (which reminded me of home) on the South Boston FourArrival, the radios were quiet so I asked the controller if we could go direct to ALDAN intersection, which would take us away from the headwind.
"Proceed direct Raleigh," he said.
Even better!
As we neared our destination, I briefed the ILS 5R at KRDU, which I loaded in the GPS, ran through the approach checklist and followed approach's vectors, which took us about 2 miles inside the FAF. Chopped the power to catch the glideslope and slipped down along it all the way to the runway for a nice landing.
Taxiing past the terminal where Delta, Continental, Southwest and Northwest airliners awaited or disembarked their loads of passengers was awesome and gave me a taste of what may be one day soon.
After checking the weather to keep track of bad weather coming in from the west, we decided to hop in the crew car and have a bite to eat at a pizza parlor run by an annoying gold-chain sporting character with the worst fake New York City accent in the world. I wouldn't be surprised if the kitchen there serves as a "processing" spot for the local mob. He certainly fit the mould.
A little over an hour later, bellies full of mediocre pizza and soda, we were on our way to 5R again, where a Delta Connections CRJ was preparing to take off. The Seminole lifted off easily and we cut through the still and calm night sky effortlessly all the way up to 9,000ft for an uneventful ride home.
Night flying is gorgeous and while my experience there remains limited, I look forward to more.
Shortly before 9 p.m., I finally picked out the airport beacon out of the sea of lights surrounding it and made a visual approach for 34R.
My landing sucked. After the round out I felt we were higher than it appeared (a typical night illusion) and bounced the aircraft. Not enough to ruin a great 4 hours of flying though.
Tonight was what this whole flying thing is about. What a breath of fresh air! Just what I needed before the multi-private retest Tuesday and the instrument ride probably the following week.

When things go bump in the clouds

2006-02-15T19:54:00.000-08:00

The past few days are a bit of a blur!
After busting my multi private, it was unclear for a while what would happen because the examiner was not immediately reinstated. I spoke with him today and it looks like that won't happen any time soon so we will schedule a new complete checkride with another examiner tomorrow (shooting for Friday if the weather cooperates, which it might not.) The idea of going through a full checkride a second time is less than appealing, but it'll be a chance to do all the maneuvers again so I do get something out of it.
In the meantime we've moved on to instrument training, which is moving along smoothly. Before coming here I'd completed most of my instrument curriculum on the 172 back home so nothing is brand new at this point. We shot a few normal approaches in the sim a few days ago to see how rusty I was. Not too much was the conclusion and so we began partial panel and single engine approaches.
The former kicked my butt big time. Our sim is quite touchy so without failing the airplane would get away from me while I covered up the artificial horizon and HSI. I'd then wrestle with it and the VSI needle took on the appearance of a relentless windshield wiper. But with practice I slowly managed to get the beast under control and do reasonably well.
Single engine approaches have not been too much trouble at this point, so my instructor threw me a partial panel, single engine approach today, which actually went pretty well. While I shouldn't expect such an approach on my checkride, I thought it was good to give it a go in the sim. Since both vaccum pumps are engine driven and one could legally launch into IMC with one inoperative, the potential for such a bad scenario does exist.
I personally would be reticent to go in the clouds without both pumps working, especially at this level of experience, but the situation is certainly not unsurmountable as I found out.
During these approaches, my instructor also failed my landing gear, flashed random annunciator lights, threw in turbulence and icing to distract me. While I wouldn't say this if it was in real life: It's a lot of fun!

In spite of the pink slip last week, I'm having a lot of fun and am thoroughly enjoying training and learning so much about flying. On an educational point of view, the experience is different than my private training because I look at this in the broader context and longer-term view of making a living from it. Everything I'm learning now I'll teach in a few months, and I want to be as good as the two instructors here.
Both are excellent at what they do, each with their own style, and are inspiring me to do the very best I can and go the extra mile to learn more than is required. It has actually assuaged one of my main fears in coming here, that the the school preps you to pass checkrides instead of teaching to fly professionally.
I'm sure the quality of instruction varies from location to location, but I have not one single complaint about these two guys. They've been excellent at teaching me systems, aerodynamics and procedures and since I was catching on reasonably well they actually had me teach a couple of students to see if I could explain all of this clearly.
Of course, my performance wasn't anywhere near theirs, but it was a great experience that led me to explore areas that I might have otherwise overlooked and made some details a lot clearer.
So it's true: the best way to learn is to teach. I'm excited to continue doing the latter and can't wait do the former.

Pink slipped

2006-02-10T12:31:00.000-08:00

I reluctantly accepted the pink slip from the examiner's hand the other day, and stuck it in my log book next to the white sleep I kept from my private checkride a couple of years ago.
This was definitely not the way I'd envisaged the multi checkride going and certainly not a good way to start this program. Every pratice flight, save one, went well last week and today and even during the worst of the lot my performance was always better than that prescribed by the Practical Test Standards. I never got complacent, but I certainly didn't expect to get pink slipped today.
For the most part, the checkride went very well, even with the FAA examiner in the back, whose job it was to recertify my examiner. My Vmc demo and emergency descent were probably the best and cleanest to date. Stalls and slow flight as well as short-fields went very well also. But I screwed up my steep turn to the left, typically the easiest one. It's a hard bullet to bite because I never, even in my PPL days, have trouble with steep turns. Plus, my turn to the right was spot on, with almost no altitude change at all. I'm not sure what happened, but there were some downdrafts today. Nerves might've played a role too.
In addition, the examiner thought I was too low on a single-engine approach to land. We'd transitioned from an emergency descent over Culpeper from 4,500 ft to TPA (1,300). I joined on a left downwind. Abeam the landing point gear and flaps came down, as I checked that the fuel selectors were on. Mixture and props full forward, fuel pumps on and begin a gentle descent.
Half way on base, at about 700 AGL, the examiner told me I was too low and gave me my "failed" engine back for a normal landing. I knew that wasn't a good sign and stupidly didn't ask him to at least let me continue the approach.
I know we would've made it to the runway safely. Because of today's chilly temperatures, the operating engine was giving me great performance and I could hold altitude with it set for 65-70 percent, so a climb, if needed, would've been feasible.
When I queried the examiner after the ride, he told me that yes, all was working fine today but on a hot and humid day I might not have made it to the airport. Probably true. On a hot and humid day, however, I would have flown that pattern differently, staying closer in and as high as I could hold until final.
I just wish he'd let me continue the approach. Had we rolled out on final with 4 reds on the PAPI, then sure, fail me unless I correct it by at least holding altitude until on a proper glideslope. Ending the maneuver on base with 700 ft below us and no obstacles taller than 50ft on final, I think the decision was too harsh.
If the examiner is recertified by the FAA, we'll go up tomorrow and redo steep turns and the single-engine approach to land.
It's a terrible feeling to have failed, especially after having done so well with my instructor and after having worked so hard and learned so much. If anything, I will probably learn a thing or two on the retest from a guy with 21,000 hours.
He wasn't immediately reinstated, but we decided to do the retest with him when he does, in the next 10 days or so. The day after the checkride he came into the office to debrief my CFI and told him I'd done very well on most of the maneuvers and that if I had a few more total hours he'd trust me to fly his Aztec. The instructor got a feeling that had the FAA inspector not been there I would've easily past.
Somewhere inside me I believe that too, although I don't want to make excuses. While the single-engine approach to land deal was debatable (and the next day it surfaced he had an issue with the school's checklist more than my performance) I did blow the steep turn to the left and deserve the pink slip.
For now, we've put this behind us and started instrument training, which is going very well. Once the examiner is recertified, I'll go up and do steep turns, power on stalls and single engine approaches again and take the retest.
I'm sure it'll go well. It's just a bummer since none of us expected this outcome.
Life goes on, and so does training and with it a heap load of fun.

Going multi -- Days 5 and 6

2006-02-04T13:06:00.000-08:00

Yesterday afternoon we fired up the Seminole, got our ADIZ clearance and set off to Culpepper for a little engine failure practice. I did a decent short-field landing on 22 and taxied back. Normal take off, power set. Within seconds the aircraft points left. Engine failure. I retard the throttles and maintain directional control.
After a normal take off, at about 500 AGL, the Seminole yawed and rolled left again. Here is where I'm supposed to pitch for blue line (88 KIAS in this case), maintain directional control and run through the memory items (mixtures, props, throttles full forward, flaps/gear up, identify the engine out with dead foot, verify by closing the throttle, feather and cut off the mixture), declare an emergency and circle back to land.
I'd chair flown the flows over and over again and thought I'd be ready to demonstrate them in the plane. Instead, on the first engine out on take-off, I fell behind. For starters, the gear horn sounded a lot like the stall warning, which led me to pitch down too much. Caught that and returned to blue line but while I expected the memorized checklist to come out, my brain was a mess while I was trying to run through the steps and make sure I had the right engine identified.
With a little verbal help from my instructor, I got things done and was on downwind, my forehead drenched in sweat. In my defense, it was pretty warm in the Seminole yesterday.
Landing on one engine didn't trouble me too much, although I found that pulling the power out quickly over the runway WILL send the nose yawing like crazy! I resolved to pulling the throttle with a little more finesse next time.
After two circuits, my engine failure checklist was coming out more comfortably and I was executing the procedure well. My landings improved too as I managed to balance the amount of rudder correction vs. power reduction or increase, therefore keeping the aircraft pointing forward and putting it down on centerline.
We ran through engine outs for about an hour and a half, and with my instructor satisfied, headed back to Manassas.
On our way home, I took a minute to look outside, something I haven't had the luxury to do yet during our flights. A few build-ups hovered lazily over a mountain ridge to our northwest, tainted in pink by the setting sun. The sky was a mix of blues, purples and pinks and smooth as silk, giving us a pleasant evening cruise back to Manassas.
On downwind, I heard a student pilot telling the tower controler he was about to drop his instructor off and return to the runway for his first solo. My instructor and I keyed our mics and wished him good luck with a quick "woohoo." Seconds later I did a nice short-field landing and returned to the ramp in time to see the student pilot take off in the cool and peaceful evening sky.
I stood by the Seminole and watched him lift off, then turn crosswind. I smiled a little, wondering how he felt up there. As he turned downwind, I remembered my own first solo, which took place on a similar evening almost two years ago. It's a day I'll never forget for as long as I live, a moment that radically changed my life forever and one of my very fondest memories.
The student pilot turned base, then final and made a nice and stabilized approach to 16R. With no winds and little traffic on that runway, he made a nice landing, bouncing just a tad but bringing the 172 back to the ground in one piece. I smiled again and the slight tension that had inhabited my muscles as he approached the runway left me. One day soon, I might be sending someone off to fly alone for the first time. What an amazing feeling it must be, and what a tremendous responsibility...
Witnessing this solo was a special moment. I don't know the student pilot, but it made me very happy to see him fly a neat pattern and land safely. He must be over the moon. Whoever you are, congratulations! You will always remember this day: Friday Feb. 3rd, 2006.

* * *

Today, Saturday, was socked in so we went through everything for the oral portion of Monday's checkride. I'm quite comfortable with systems, aerodynamics and so on so it shouldn't be too much of a problem, even with the FSDO inspector present.
Two instructors and I also went through the inner workings of turbo props, turbo jets and turbo fans, learning about axial flow compressors and their centrigufal brethren. Obviously, this is of no use to me now but it was very interesting nonetheless and I guess it's just never to early to learn about it!
Back to studying. More flying tomorrow and Monday before the checkride.
I may take the evening off though. That'll be sweet.

Me and Mrs. Nole -- days 3 and 4

2006-02-02T14:22:00.000-08:00

It's been busy as all heck and it seems I can't get WiFi at the apartment anymore, so couldn't update the blog yesterday.
We went up in the Seminole yesterday for the first time and went through all the maneuvers: steep turns, stalls, Vmc demo, inflight engine failure (shutdown, troubleshoot, secure and air start, which is pretty damn cool to see!), emergency descents, slow flight and a couple of landings. The plane is awesome, it handles well and as John noted is quite stable.
I was a little behind on the procedures yesterday, since my attention was diverted by an unfamiliar airplane but it was a good learning experience. We then headed to Culpeper (CJR) for a couple of landings. That went quite well. The Nole lands flatter than the Cessna and doesn't really flare, so a little adjustement was required.
Spent the evening yesterday running the flows and procedures through my head. It was pretty funny actually because I did that while fixing dinner, while using the bathroom, going out for a smoke break and again this morning in the shower. It worked!
Came in this morning and while my instructor was busy with another student, I hopped into the sim and banged out every maneuver twice. The procedures came to me much faster and I performed well.
Around 2 p.m. we headed out to the practice area and did them all for real. Since they all fell within PTS, we then headed back to CJR for short-field landings and take-offs. The first two were clumsy but sorta within PTS. My skills improved, however, after those and the remaining four were nice so we headed back to CSN VOR, picked up our ADIZ clearance and made a nice landing back at KHEF.
I love the Seminole. Just love it!
The multi-engine private checkride is scheduled for Monday morning at 1130. I probably won't get to fly between now and then because the weather looks pretty awful, but we're planning on going up early on Monday to make sure everything is up to snuff. The studying is also coming along OK and I should be ready for the oral.
Flying a twin isn't that much harder than a single, not the Seminole anyway since it's not super powerful. But the experience is so much different. I'll try and write more about that soon.
For now, I must go. More sim, more studying and more prepping for Monday.
Later, all.

Multi-engine training -- Day 2

2006-01-31T20:02:00.000-08:00

This morning was spent reviewing the Seminole's performance charts, which help the pilot calculate take-off and landing distances in various atmospheric and loading conditions as well as accelerate-stop distance in the event of an engine failure on the runway. We also discussed what to do if an engine were to quit at various times during flight operations.
After a quick weight and balance problem, it was on to simulator training.
Like many other sims, this one -- a Frasca -- is very twitchy and pitch sensitive and requires some finesse to control. It's not so much designed to teach a student how to fly the plane but rather to practice procedures and flows and get familiarized with the cockpit.
I was a little concerned about flying it but got a feel for it within minutes. Flying it in IMC will be a different story altogether, however.
After going through the engine start procedures, we began flight maneuvers with steep turns, which presented no problems. Then came slow flight, which while simple in the 172 proved a little trickier in the sim since I'd never flown a variable-pitch constant-speed propeller plane before. While the workload involved isn't much greater than that of flying a fixed-pitch aircraft, it takes some time to get adjusted to monitoring both an RPM and manifold pressure gauge and moving an extra set of levers to set the angle of the propeller blades. Oh, and of course because in addition to it the Seminole is a twin, I am now responsible for not one engine control lever (or two including the mixture) but four (two throttles, two prop controls) or six, including the mixture control.
But with time, I began to get the hang of moving the levers together and matching performance on both engines. We did a couple of stalls, which are simple maneuvers but had me fall behind on the list of procedures established by the school.
Next up was Vmc demo, which involves simulating an engine failure by pulling back the throttle and slowing the airplane to the speed at which directional control is lost. (Vmc is the minimum speed at which directional control is maintained with the critical engine failed). Again, the maneuver is in and of itself reasonably simple but while I wrestled the sim I found myself forgetting the various steps involved.
After three or four demos, I was doing ok. As mentioned above, the exercise consists of simulating a failure of the left engine by retarting the throttle. Right rudder must then be applied to counter left-turning forces and a gentle bank into the operating engine is called for to achieve a zero sideslip condition, thereby reducing drag from the fuselage flying cock-eyed into the relative wind.
Pitch is increased and as the airspeed drops, more rudder is needed to maintain heading and foiling the aircraft's nasty plans to roll into the dead engine. Quite interesting and definitely challenging. I wonder what it'll be like in the plane.
After that, the instructor let me fly straight and level for a while. When I asked what we were doing, he simply replied "We're cruisin'."
Something was amiss, for sure.
A second later, the plane rolled and yawed left. Engine failure.
Emergency checklist: maintain directional control, mixtures, props, throttles full forward, flaps and gear up, identify the failed engine, verify by pulling back the throttle (a change in performance would obviously indicate that the wrong engine is about to be shut down). Since we were above 3,000 AGL, I decided to troubleshoot the failure, but to no avail so opted to feather and secure the dead engine.
Once all the checklists were complete, we did an air restart and called it a day.
My slowness in flowing through the procedures for each maneuver frustrated me, so I'm memorizing those and running through the flows by "chair-flying" them in front of a poster of the Seminole's cockpit tonight. I also ran through the checklists from start-up to shutdown to become more familiar with them and my night will end with more reading from the aircraft's POH, which is turning out to be quite a fascinating book!

Tomorrow: Sim in the morning and finally, weather allowing, a couple of hours in the Seminole to practice maneuvers.
Woohoo!

Update: My multi-engine checkride, originally scheduled for next Tuesday, might be moved up to Saturday. And to add to the excitement there might be an FAA inspector in the back, who will be recertifying the examiner giving me the exam. I don't know what to think of that, although on the upside the checkride would be free...

Multi-engine training -- Day 1

2006-01-30T20:24:00.000-08:00

Busy is the word of the day.
Set off for the airport in the thickest fog I have seen in a while early this morning and after some paperwork it was time for ground school on critical engine, Vmc and the Piper Seminole's systems.
In a nutshell, the critical engine in a twin prop-driven airplane is the one which, were it to fail, would impact handling the most. While the Seminole has no critical engine because of its counter-rotating props, it typically is the left engine on other aircraft because of a variety of reasons (P-factor, accelerated slipstream, spiraling slipstream and torque). What that means, is that if the left engine were to quit the plane's tendency to roll and yaw into the dead engine would be worst than if the right one died.
Vmc, the second topic of today's study, is the minimum speed at which directional control of the aircraft can be maintained with the critical engine windmilling. Again, a whole panoply of factors come into play to determine Vmc and whether it's high or low. On the Seminole, it remains pretty low even in the worst of scenarios (in standard conditions at sea level with the inop engine windmilling, the least favorable weight and center of gravity, flaps and gear up, full power in the operating engine and in a zero-slip situation) but on more powerful twins like the Baron and King Air it can be a killer in a hurry.
In addition to learning to fly the Seminole, the multi-engine rating will focus heavily on emergencies, more particularly failed engines. The brief introduction to this reminded me of a friend of mine who had a close call in his checks flying days when the left engine on the beat up old Seneca died after take-off in the soup.
The weather was down to minimums and in the process of returning to the airport to land, he forgot to hit the suicide switch, which selects either GPS or radio navigation course guidance on the flight instruments. That meant that he wasn't where he thought he was on the approach.
There's a reason they call it the suicide switch...
He quickly caught his mistake, got back on the final approach course and landed safely, all on one engine. Luck was on his side as he couldn't maintain altitude and was surrounded by terrain.
I gained a lot of perspective today!
Much of this is new to me, although I've been studying the basics for a few months so it has been a fascinating and very rewarding day. After my instructor and I went over the basics, I came "home" to study those topics more and learn flows, checklists and procedures. There's A LOT of information in my brain right now and I feel it buzzing.
What a tremendous feeling.
Tomorrow: more ground and sim. Weather allowing, I should go up in the Seminole on Wednesday.
Now off to sleep...

Day 0

2006-01-29T19:27:00.000-08:00

After a busy week and a 9.5 hours drive, here I am in Virginia, a short night's sleep away from beginning training.
It's been a long week and a long few months spent planning this career change and studying. Now the journey is about to begin. In typical aviation style, tomorrow will begin with a stack of paperwork after which my instructor and I will start multi-engine training in preparation for the checkride tentatively scheduled for Feb. 7.
Before I pack it in for the night, I'll go over the Seminole's POH again and run through the school's flows and emergency procedures, which I'm expected to be more than familiar with.
Excitement is a weak word to describe how I feel. Ahead of me lay hours spent in that beautiful sky, a lot of learning and most likely good friendships. Already, I've met my roomate, a very nice young guy about to take his double I and commercial single add-on and one of the school's instructors, who also appears to be a first-class sorta fellow.
I'd be lying, though, if I didn't admit to feeling sad. Two hours ago, I dropped Jen off at BWI where she boarded a flight home and I miss her terribly already. She's been there every minute of my dreaming this new life, planning it and has shown nothing but excitement, enthusiasm and most importantly patience and support. Few women, I'm sure, would put up with as much aviation babble as I'm capable of spewing out, so she truly is one of a kind and I am a very lucky man (OK, man child.)
Not having her by my side for the next few months will be, without a doubt, the hardest part of my training.

* * *

The day before setting off for Virginia, I had the pleasure of meeting up with Scott and hitched a ride in Yellowbird, a beautiful 1974 Cessna Cardinal. The short flight was a true pleasure as the day cleared up perfectly and offered mostly smooth air and unlimited visibility. The company, of course was outstanding. Unfortunately while taxiing out to depart on his way home Scottie suffered a nose gear puncture. To make things worse, the wheelpant was cracked during the tire change. I hope Yellowbird feels her old self again very soon.
Again, thanks for a fantastic flight, Scottie.

Me, the Man Child

2006-01-25T19:14:00.000-08:00

I've always been quite disorganized so the way this week has shaped up has come with little surprise. Once more, I've tried to pack in five days more than they can actually handle and am having one of those weeks...

Monday: after a glorious morning spent shovelling heavy snow, have an interesting drive in pretty slippery roads to very rural Massachusetts, where I was told I'd find a friendly and more importantly cheap AME. After some maneuvering around snow-packed country roads, I find the mysterious man and, as promised, he turns out to be both. Respectable 73-year old doctor with a true passion for aviation and an outgoing demeanor.
Form and pee cup filled, so off to his office I go. He shakes my hand and proceeds to tell me that he is about to divorce this crazed woman with a violent penchant -- his third wife and Episcopalian priest -- who proclaims she hates him. Fair enough. The story goes on and is punctuated here and there with the actual examination. Half-an-hour later, as we head over to the eye test machine, he explains to me that he doesn't much care for substantial women but that his second wife has apparently lost quite a bit of weight and has been inquiring about him lately. This goes on for while, followed by his admission to being an anarchist and a rather lenghty discussion about how he considers himself a resident alien of the United States since, he says, the Constitution says the Federal Government has no jurisdiction over individual states. Right. Finally, after about an hour he hands me my First Class.
All in all, a very good experience and he is a brilliant guy but all this could've been done in 10 minutes.
On the way home, I of course manage to get lost and go 10 miles in the wrong direction, wasting more valuable time slotted to study for my Commercial written.

Tuesday: I actually get some studying in, but pay little attention to laundry, packing and general planning for Saturday's departure (and 8-hour drive to Manassas). Hey, I've got another couple of days, right? Like that's never cost me before. Dinner with Jen and my stepdaughter Emily at a nice Italian restaurant. Substantial amounts of food and a much too tasty San Giovese mean little work done in the evening. Get drowsy.

Wednesday: Rush to the Irish Consulate to pick up my new passport then race 30 miles away to one of two dentist appointments this week. Debilitating experience, spend much of the afternoon recovering. Study for a little bit. Realize I've just run out of checks. Good timing! Waste valuable time writing this...

Second dentist appointment is tomorrow, Thursday, followed by studying and dinner with Jen's family.

Friday: commercial written in the morning, followed by coffee and a flight with fellow blogger Scottie (Yellowbird) then a mad dash home to pack (Jesus, almost forgot about that!) before drinks with my bro in law and then on to a farewell dinner with friends. Should be an interesting day.

I really have got to grow up...

The final shutdown

2006-01-21T18:11:00.000-08:00

At about 17:30 yesterday, I logged off my work computer and left the building for the last time.
For the past year I've thought about that moment and wondered how it would feel. A certain sense of relief would no doubt be part of the cocktail of emotions as well as happiness and excitement about turning a new page.
And yet I found myself carrying just a hint of sadness in my heart. Not a single ounce of regret but certainly a little nostalgia, knowing that that was the last day of the past five and a half years of my life. The previous day had been spent printing a number of stories I wrote in that period, a lengthy process that brought back some very good memories indeed and made me feel good about my time at the company.
As Friday drew to a close, I hit the button on my keyboard, gathered my stuff, shook a few hands and headed out into the evening, where friends awaited at a nearby bar. The walk there afforded me a few minutes to ponder the moment and I found myself smiling. I felt like a kid with a whole bright new future ahead, opportunities and adventures that would take me far away from the darker days of my now previous career.
When that screen went dark and silent, it took with it the bad memories and locked them all away.
I pushed open the door to the pub and for the first time in a while had a head full of only the good times behind and anticipation for those ahead.
A week from today it'll be here. I'll miss my wife tremendously, it won't be easy but we're sure of this decision.
Here I go...