Great Moments In Aviation

One of the greatest ironies currently starring in my life involves the coffee maker in the pilot's lounge. Now, I am not a coffee drinker and probably never will be. (I heard it stunts growth and I still harbor dreams of playing in the NBA) But the peculiarity of policy surrounding the making of coffee simply cannot be ignored any longer. Our flight school trusts us enough to fly $500,000 brand new aircraft all across the United States, completely unsupervised, to airports we've never been to, yet does not think we are capable enough to follow simple instructions from Mr. Coffee. What's unclear is the horrendous chain of events that may have led to this implementation-did an unsuspecting student perform incorrect methodology of brewing? Or maybe there is somehow lawsuit potential if a student scalds himself while making it? Who knows. What I do know is that I'd much rather have the flying privileges sans coffee making responsibility than the inverse of that.


I've just returned from an eleven day cross-country flying tour that was nothing short of incredible. The final numbers: fifty-one hours of piloting time, ten different states, 5,817 miles logged, and a multitude of stories to share. It was, by a long shot, the most enjoyable phase of my training so far. Having taken over 200 photos from the air, I spent an hour or so this afternoon sifting through in search of keepers. If you're interested, click here to view them. For those thirsting for a more detailed description of my adventures, let's go to the envelopes:

The Amelia Earhart Memorial 'Crap, I Think We're Screwed' Award
Easily the most traumatic experience in my young aviation career occurred on the third day, in Jacksonville, FL. One of the most confusing things about aviation is trying to discern appropriate taxiway systems at unfamiliar airports. Even though we were equipped with a folding map diagram of the airport, sometimes things don't always make sense-especially in the heat of the moment. For this particular airport, it was unclear to both myself and the other pilot where the best area to perform a pre-takeoff check would be. Since it was my leg to fly, my partner radioed up to the tower for guidance, but the best the controller had to offer was a muffled response to 'keep going', and we'd 'see one up ahead'. Being perfectly ambiguous, yet still fulfilling his obligations, we really learned nothing from that exchange. As I moved the airplane forward to where I thought I was in the clear, a transmission came over our headsets: 'Turn back and to the right, you've past the run-up area.' As I made efforts to whip the plane back around, my left engine suddenly began to sputter and gradually gave way to nothingness. Just like that, my first engine failure. Now we were in trouble. Frantically, I attempted to restart the engine, but got no response. I took over the radios and told tower we'd need to head back to the ramp due to a blown engine. Unfortunately, I'd never taxied before on one engine, so my rudder pedal skills were pretty shaky. Before I knew it, I'd maneuvered our plane out onto an inactive runway and couldn't get it turned around. With the sweat poring over my face and cascading down the control yoke, I told the tower we might need to come get a tow, as we were quickly running out of wiggle room. Finally, I gave the engine a final chance, and miraculously it started. Pulling a quick 180, I taxied the questionable plane back to maintenance and requested a different aircraft. After a quick phone call to the dispatch attempting to explain my incompetence, we pre-flighted a new aircraft and were on our way-but not before an apologetic phone call was placed to the tower. Despite the inconvenience, I found myself thankful the engine malfunctioned when it did-any later would have constituted a real emergency.

The Octave Chanute 'Man, This Is Way Better Than A Cubicle' Award
This one goes to the leg flown from Jacksonville, FL, to Raleigh, NC. With ample time to plan, my flying partner and I created a route specifically designed to maximize our time spent directly over the coastline. As we soared past prominent cities along the route, snapping pictures at seemingly thirty second intervals, I was reminded of one reason why I am striving so hard to make this pilot thing happen: flying an airplane provides incredible scenery. The photographs probably won't due it justice, but this leg was one great picture after another. At one point, I checked the GPS to estimate how far from shoreline we were. While it was only 10 miles, the feeling over being completely over the ocean is one I won't forget.

The Neil Armstrong 'Hey Buzz, The Field's In Sight, Put It Down' Award
You probably won't believe this, but I was not a crewmember aboard Apollo 11 that landed on the moon. After a night flight with ceilings hovering around 800' at our destination, I can imagine the relief the astronauts must have felt when they finally landed. Coming back from Miami/Ft. Lauderdale last week, we encountered some questionable weather about twenty minutes out: poor visibility, fog, and light rain. Nothing terrible or flight threatening, but enough for us to select a precision ILS approach. In a precision approach, there is a listed decision altitude (DA) listed on the approach plate. Basically, this is a height that you cannot descend below unless certain specific criteria our met. In this case, DA was 1300'. Unfortunately, I was not the pilot flying this particular leg, meaning I was communicating with Air Traffic Control and doing the navigating. As I briefed the approach for my partner, I verbally confirmed with him that our DA was 1300' feet. He responded back, 'OK, 1300' feet, got it.' As the clouds enveloped our aircraft, I glanced at our altimeter, which showed us to be steady at 2000'. No airport in sight yet. We continued to descend, and I watched as we blew through 1600', then 1500', all the way down to 700' feet! My partner had just blown through our minimum altitude, and the airport was not in sight. Now, I've been lucky a few times in my life. The time my buddy Eric and I careened my car off an icy road, did a 720', skidded across the oncoming traffic lane, and buried it in a 4 foot snowbank only inches from the face of a jagged boulder certainly comes to mind. But this was different: I was watching as this unfolded. Calmly, yet forcefully, I announced that we needed to climb, and fast. Thankfully, the plate showed no towers or obstructions in the immediate vicinity. We were only 700' feet above the ground in an unfamiliar area. Just as my partner threw in the power to begin a climb, the airport lights appeared, and he made the decision to continue the approach and land. I've never been so excited to be on the ground as I was after that flight.

The Bessie Coleman 'Hey, These Chili Dogs Are Pretty Good' Award
It's always nice to get free food, in any context, but especially after a three hour flight in cramped quarters on an empty stomach. My vote for best airport goes to Meridian, Mississippi (KMEI), not just because of the massive array of military jets lining the tarmac, but because of the spectacular display of free junk food available to starving pilots like myself. Chili dogs, nacho cheese, an ice cream machine, and mountains of popcorn can cure even the sharpest of hunger pains. Well done, Mississippi, I enjoyed my time there.

The John Glenn 'We're Still Alive' Award
Selfishly, I'm giving myself and my flying partner for the past two weeks an award for surviving and thriving this far into the program. The XC phase was enjoyable, but now I'm ready for the next challenge. With one more rating to attain before the focus shifts to earning my Certified Flight Instructor license, you can bet I'll be putting in extra long hours until the very end. The next thirty days will be an insane sprint to the finish line, starting with commercial training tomorrow, followed by a trip back to Jacksonville for Instructor school. It does seem odd to me that something I've only just begun to do proficiently now enables me to teach other. While it might be a cheesy cliche, I really do feel like I just set foot in Texas last week. In many ways, I still have an inordinate amount of stuff to learn before I can call myself a good pilot. But at the very least, the last two weeks have reinforced my belief in myself, enough to the point that confidence is no longer a problem.

One more note: in our first week of training, way back in July, my instructor recommended a website to serve as a backup to our regular logbook. While it didn't seem like much at the time, I admit now it serves as a fascinating side hobby during my aviation training. One of the best features is a Google map option which shows, by way of red dots, every airport I've landed at. Because you are so keenly interested in this blog, I've posted it here for your enjoyment.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 122

A New Rating

4:45 AM, Unit #301, ATP Airport Housing Complex
This just in: the only people who should be allowed to be awake at this hour include hobos, fast food employees slogging their way through the night shift, and, on checkride days, pilots. My eyes are still glued shut as I meander towards the refrigerator, where an already-prepared PB&J sandwich serves as my breakfast. As I wolf down the all-to-familiar taste of strawberry jam, Skippy, and wheat bread, I lament briefly on the significance of today and attempt to calm myself before the storm. I am rested and eager to tackle the monumental challenge of proving myself worthy of an instrument rating.

4:57 AM, Unit #301, Kitchen, ATP Airport Housing Complex
All efforts to avoid waking my comatose roommate have been for naught as I unconsciously slam into a pre-arranged pile of dirty Tupperware, cups, eating utensils, and dishes, knocking them 4 feet downward, creating a series of loud crashes and causing him to groan like an agitated walrus. I love checkride days.

5:05 AM, Pilot's Lounge, ATP Housing Complex, ESPN.com
During the NFL season, no day should ever start without the obligatory check of the latest Enjoy Sack Lunch trade news, statistics update, and waiver wire transactions. Even on mornings when my time might be better spent elsewhere. It's only 10 minutes, right?

6:30 AM, Instrument Training Classroom, ATP Training Center
Prior to the examiner's arrival, I spend a quick thirty minutes calculating my takeoff distance, estimated single-engine climb performance, and creating a weight/balance chart for today's flight. To make the numbers fit, I have to intentionally miscalculate my weight at 190. It's the grueling and monotonous kind of paperwork that's necessary to demonstrate that I am a competent planner in any weather condition. The CFI checks over my math and gives the stamp of approval, and now the waiting game begins. It'll be at least an hour before the FAA designated examiner shows up, giving me ample time to review everything I've been studying for the past month. More than anything else, however, this is really just an intense time of heightened anxiety and paranoia.

7:15 AM, Main Offices, ATP Training Center
Like a heavyweight boxer entering the ring, the examiner walks through the front door, briefcase in hand, ready for battle. I would have felt less intimidated if had left behind his executioner's axe, but oh well. My instructor greets him as I retreat out of sight, hoping to avoid his menacing stare for a few moments longer. He grabs my prepared folder of the necessary paperwork, identification forms, and heads to his office alcove to dissect what I've prepared. More waiting, more uneasiness.

7:30 AM, FAA Examiner's Office, ATP Training Center
The absence of a gorgeous nurse notwithstanding, the initial entry to the examiner's office has the exact same feel to visiting a doctor. You wait. You read magazines. Finally, the sound of a door opening is heard, your name is called, and the moment is upon you. Hoping to impress, I shake his hand Adrian Peterson-style, and begin to lay out the required materials: logbook, FAR-AIM, appropriate charts, passport, and, most importantly, four crisp, fresh-off-the-press $100 bills. It never fails: he always makes the standard joke about his wife needing 'to go shopping', but in reality, the sting of handing over such a tangible amount of cash never is easy. He inquiries as to the weather back in International Falls, spends a few moments looking over my records for accuracy, then begins lobbing verbal grenades at me: What are standard alternate minimums? What equipment is required for IFR flight? How do I determine if my aircraft as had the required inspections? When can I descend beyond my Minimum Descent Altitude? With each fastball thrown my way, I grow more relaxed and begin to settle in. A few minutes later, and he's out of ammo. The easy part is over.

8:20 AM, 2,500 feet, Dallas Executive Airport, ILS Approach
The unique aspect to this checkride, when compared the previous ones, is that for the entire duration, I will be wearing foggles, or what's better known as a view limiting device. The examiner will serve as my real life eyes, leaving me to navigate based solely on what the dashboard instrument panel indicates. I'm comforted in the fact that if we slam inadvertently into another aircraft, it'll be entirely his fault. Upon my initial climbout after takeoff, the examiner immediately vectors me east towards a nearby airport and tells me to expect the ILS approach into Runway 31. I know now what's coming, and almost immediately after notifying air traffic control of our plans, he reaches for the left throttle and closes it, simulating a failed engine. The Seminole yaws briefly to the left, but my reactions are swift, and I'm able to stay on the correct glideslope all the way down to minimums. The first hurdle has been cleared.

8:45 AM, 2,500 feet, Cockpit of N6816A
About halfway back from Dallas Executive Airport, the examiner tells me to put my head down, remove my feet from the rudder pedals, and close my eyes: it's time to demonstrate my ability to recover from unusual attitudes. I've done this before, and not just in my aviation career: in 7th grade Art class, my attitude towards ceramic sculpturing was deemed unusual, and I successfully recovered from that by posting a solid C-. As the examiner grabs the yoke and immediately slams the plane forward, my sense of balance and position are immediately thrown off-I have no idea what's going on. His next words to me command action: "Recover!" I have only an instant to determine my next move. Instinctively, I reach for the throttles and scale back to near idle, level my wings, and slowly begin to pitch up. Exhale. I don't think I took a single breath in the last 30 seconds.

8:55 AM, Grand Prairie Municipal Airport, GPS Approach
My hand is firmly grasping the yoke now as my brain tells me to ready for what's coming: at any minute, the examiner is going to cover half of my instrument panel, simulating a real life vacuum pump failure. This was the exact scenario that, a mere three weeks ago, caused me to nearly destroy the flight simulator with a deadly crash. Moreover, the last two instrument rating applicants busted at this precise interval. Today, I negotiate the strong tailwind by reducing throttles drastically, allowing myself more time to focus on the GPS readout. I carefully correct my course to the west, note my position, and make the proper radio calls. Since I've practiced this exact approach countless times in the past week, everything seems like it's in slow motion. When I hit the missed approach point, my hand automatically pushes the throttles full forward while the other applies back pressure, and sooner than I can even think, I'm already through the hardest part of the checkride. The examiner gives me instructions on where he'd like me to enter a holding pattern, and as I brief the hold aloud, I remind myself to stay focused and finish what I've started.

9:20AM, 5 miles from BROUZ, VOR Approach to Arlington Municipal Airport
One of the weirdest things about aviation are the names of GPS waypoints and intersections found on our Low-Altitude En Route charts. While they look bizarre on paper, the are extremely fun to say over the radios. In a different world, I would have been the one to name these points. One can only imagine the logic behind some of the decisions that were made. Apparently the only prerequisite is that each 'place' must have 5 letters and be only marginally coherent. So while I may have never been to the DUMPY, SEXXY, or RDNEK junctions, I have spent plenty of time hanging out near BROUZ. BROUZ is the final approach fix on the VOR approach back into Arlington, and today, it serves as my final potential pitfall for the checkride. Descending even a foot below 2,000 prior to reaching BROUZ means automatic failure. With the two previous approaches and holds behind me, my confidence is like a tidal wave now, and before extending my landing gear and adding flaps, I make a mental note to keep enough power in to keep my altitude. As I clear BROUZ and make my final inbound communication, a feeling of relief sets in: if the examiner hasn't said anything to the contrary by now, I'm the proud owner of an instrument rating. A few seconds later, he tells me to remove me view limiting device, and as my wheels touch down on the runway, I can hardly contain my smile. It's over.

10:00 AM, Pilot's Counge, ATP Housing Complex
Because I was scheduled for the early checkride today, I'm forced to wait until the examiner returns from his 2nd flight of the day. But in reality, this waiting is substantially more pleasurable now that the exam is over. For the first time in several days, I relax on the couch and read non-aviation material. While I'm reasonably certain of the outcome, I decide to hold off on the phone calls until I have the actual instrument rating in hand.

11:45 AM, FAA Examiner's Office, ATP Training Center
The moment of truth. Once again, my name is called, and I knock gently on his door. It's just a formality, but he requests to see my logbook again, and this time endorses his name with the desired 'Satisfactory' label next to his name. It's official: I am an instrument pilot. He hands me my temporary certificate, shakes my hand, and offers congratulations. I'll be seeing him again in three weeks, and believe me, I'm sure he's already looking forward to the $400.

1:45 PM, Unit #301, ATP Housing Complex
The CFI comes ambling into the room to offer congratulations, and for the first time I now feel equal to him. He shares in my pride today, as me passing is a positive reflection on him as well. Knowing he's no longer my instructor is a relief: I've never dealt with as much relentless negativity as he brought to the table, not as a college athlete, not in any of my restaurant jobs, nothing. But I must admit: through it all, he's made me a better pilot. The red-eye simulator sessions, his Stalin-esque standards of preflighting, and the endless assigning of navigation logs have all served a purpose. Motivation comes from many different directions, but for awhile I thank him genuinely for his efforts, patience, and wish him good luck with his next batch of students. For him, the instrument process starts all over with two new students. As I lament the past month, one thing stands out above all: I never once gave up.

The next three weeks are chock-full of flying for me. Starting tomorrow, my training partner and I are unleashed, flying on assignment to pre-determined locations throughout the country. Each morning, we'll call company headquarters in Jacksonville, FL, and receive our flight destination. With no CFI on board, it will be a good litmus test of everything we've learned so far. Designed to simulate airline life, it should be a fun adventure no matter how many times they try to send us to San Angelo. Past students claim this is by far the most enjoyable and rewarding phase of the program. My goal is to build up enough goodwill with dispatch so that they'll trust us enough for a lengthy cross-country trip to Florida. Our first assignment: flying to Houston. I'll try to post as many updates as possible over the next few weeks, including the occasional picture from our trips, so stay tuned.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 112

Progress

Much of the definition of success is based on the concept of progress. Are we making progress? Are we developing the way we should be? Could we be better? Heck, even a car insurance companies choose names based on this. The majority of humans are always striving for the next big thing. Here in flight school, progress is a funny thing. I crave it most in moments it seems farthest away. My hunger for it is greatest when I'm working the hardest. Last week, progress proved to be impervious despite my best efforts, but it's slowly starting to seep in, much in the same way the recent rainwaters have flooded my basement apartment: at first, you're unaware it's happening, but slowly, over a period of days, there are subtle hints that something has happened.

I began the pursuit of my instrument rating over three weeks ago. Knowing the difficulties it would present, I told myself I'd do whatever it took to succeed. At first, that simply meant plowing through every aviation textbook within a seven-county radius, taking meticulous notes during ground lessons, and throwing down flight simulator sessions with my roommate until our eyes glazed over like Aunt Jemima. This, as it turned out, was only a viable strategy for awhile, as burnout quickly ensued, culminating with last week's desperation phone call to my Mom. Should 26 year-olds need to dial home crying? Well, um, yes. There was a time, shortly after crashing the sim and being berated by the CFI, that I wondered if I had what it takes. That maybe I was in over my head, and had been too ambitious in my pursuit of a new career. I guess that's why the past few weeks were so tough.

Bottom line: instrument flying is one of the toughest things I've ever done. I spent the better part of two months learning to fly based on visual reference, and with the advent of instrument training, it was almost as though I had to start over. People always want to know: what's so hard about this, compared to what you've already learned? To put it into the best perspective that I can, everything seemingly happens at once: locating the prescribed approach, correctly briefing it and programming it into the GPS or localizer frequency, deciphering the airport charts while maintaining the proper ground track, wind correction angle, and airspeed, communicating with Air Traffic Control, working through the checklist flows, making small corrections to the control yoke, paying the requisite attention to the numerous gauges, dials, and radio frequencies, double checking to ensure that landing gear is down and stabilized, making the appropriate verbal announcements at the right times, altitudes, and locations, and finally, using every ounce of mental concentration required to keep from yelling at/strangling the CFI. It's truly the Olympics of multitasking. Fixate too much on one of the above areas and something else goes to potts. At first, it was as though the CFI's goal was to fluster, intimidate, confuse, and befuddle me to the point of no return. And for awhile, it worked, climaxing with the sim crash of doom that I wrote about last time. But now, I've learned to antipate things and stay ahead of the airplane, trying to reduce my workload as much as I can so that in the critical phase of flight, my attention won't be as divided. It's tough, and it hasn't been an easy process, but I'm getting there.

The ways I am able to see my progress vary, but for the most part, it boils down to a confidence thing, coupled with a greatly reduced number of mistakes. I've begun to believe in myself again, and it's showing during my flight lessons. Also, it's exciting to see just what the CFI can throw my way during the sim sessions. The other day he forced me to land with 1.5 inches of ice accumulated on the wings, a scenario in real life that should hopefully never happen. Icing of the wings results in a drastic reduction of lift and a tremendous decrease in velocity. The combination, if unremedied, could cause an aircraft to pitch down at high speeds, which, of course, is exactly what happened to me. I survived the CFI's test this time, and it'll be exciting to see what else is in his arsenal tomorrow.

The rewards of mastering this stuff are tangible: there are some 614,000 licensed pilots in the U.S., but roughly only a quarter of that group possess an instrument rating. It'll be exciting to join the ranks of such a tiny sliver of the population. I've always wanted to be part of such a small club, like the time I wore a green tights and catcher's gear around the house, pretending to be Donatello from the Ninja Turtles. I've come a long way since then. Now, one could argue that only a small percentage of working professionals are circus clowns, or are qualified to drive the ice-cream truck around, but I'm hoping that this is a more rewarding career path.

Random Flight School Anecdote of the Week: The other day, while partaking in a mandated 'Fox NFL Sunday' study break, a moment of panic set in when I was unable to instantaneously recall who the head coach of the 2008 Detroit Lions was. Previously, this is exactly the type of data that would have rolled off my tongue without hesitation. But now? My brain is flummoxed with the overflow of aviation knowledge and is having a hard time defragmenting the useless information that is no longer needed. So while I may have had to enlist the help of Wikipedia to learn that it was in fact Rod Marinelli, I did NOT have to look up the fuel requirements for IFR flight, which can be found in FAR 91.167. I think this is a good thing.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 99