tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52660565814126237562024-03-05T13:35:42.260-08:00Come Fly With MeMindless wanderings of an aspiring pilot...GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-43348013292118490332011-01-02T16:54:00.000-08:002011-01-04T17:39:33.242-08:00The DecisionIn the summer of 2010, one of the most celebrated athletes of our generation, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">LeBron</span> James, was faced with the biggest decision that any NBA free agent had faced in recent memory. Would he resign with his hometown Cleveland Cavaliers, or would he jump ship in hopes of more lucrative endorsement deals, and, hopefully, a better chance at winning a championship?<br /><br />What those who follow the NBA closely never saw coming was what ultimately unfolded: in a meticulously planned national television event, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">LeBron</span> James proclaimed his decision to unceremoniously ditch the Cavaliers and sign with the Miami Heat. Using despicable phraseology that would ultimately tarnish his reputation beyond reconciliation, James would later admit that the entire process could have been handled with more <a href="http://www.newyorkcool.com/archives/2007/May/Images/feature_grandiva7.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">grace</span></a>. Watching from my living room perch, I made a mental note to handle future big decisions just like <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">LeBron</span>, only the exact opposite.<br /><br />In my last post I spoke of the interview process as I began to transition from a flight instructing position in Atlanta to my first airline job. Despite getting an offer from the first company, I felt the need to continue the recruitment process and interview with another company, my hometown Pinnacle Airlines. After all, I love sports, and who doesn't love to pretend that they are a highly sought-after free agent like <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">LeBron</span> James? It was nice to be shown affection for my flying abilities and to be wooed by multiple companies, especially considering how poorly my flight instructing company treated me. The interview offers poured in: all together, I received letters from four companies seeking my piloting services, a humbling yet rewarding experience for how hard I labored throughout 2010.<br /><br />A few weeks after receiving American Eagle's offer, Pinnacle called with <em>their</em> offer, igniting what would become some of the most agonizing and flip-flopping few months of my life. I had a decision to make. For those who know me well, it's something I'm not very good at. Longtime readers of this blog may recall my favorite motto, <em>I guess we'll see what happens. </em>I've used that more times than I care to admit since November.<br /><br />I spent virtually all of the early winter months poring over the websites for each company. I asked friends, family, fellow pilots, even homeless people, what I should do. I solicited advice from those I respect the most, and each time came back to the same miserable conclusion: I had no idea what to do. I read <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">internet</span> forums and spent inordinate amounts of time daydreaming and visualizing myself flying for each company. Worse yet, I seemingly made final decisions on several <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">separate</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">occasions</span>, even going to far as to text friends that I'd finally made a decision and was really excited about it. I went back and forth, changed my mind, talked myself in and out of one company, then started the whole process over again. Overnight, I had become <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JV9oMZE1Qak&feature=related"><span style="color:#ff9900;">John Kerry</span></a>.<br /><br />I don't know what the big deal was. One of my worst characteristics is that I am a worrier. I think I was terrified to making the wrong decision. I would wake up in the middle of the night and stare at the ceiling for hours. Looking back now, it's ridiculous, right? After all it's not like I was Truman weighing the consequences of the atomic bomb. This was supposed to be a good thing: an airline job, something I'd dreamed about forever.<br /><br />I resigned my position at the old flight school, packed up my apartment and headed home to Minneapolis still not certain which job I'd take. I wanted to have the chance to talk to key people face to face. I wanted to benefit from another grueling cross country road trip where I'd have plenty of time to think. Mostly, though, I think I just wanted to procrastinate.<br /><br />There were certainly appealing aspects to each: with Pinnacle, I could potentially be based in my hometown, meaning a 5 minute drive to the airport each time I'd be scheduled to fly. With American Eagle came the opportunity to work for a well-respected and very successful company. I didn't know what to do. I wished I could have BOTH jobs.<br /><br />Both companies wanted me to start training on January 17<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span>. Since I am not talented enough to be in two places at once, I finally had a deadline to make my decision. I would have to tell someone no, which is one of my least favorite things in the world to do. A few days after Christmas, while relaxing at home and finally spending some time NOT thinking about what to do, my cell phone rang: it was American Eagle, with an offer to begin training two weeks earlier than originally slated. In the airline world, seniority is everything, and the opportunity to move up 50 pilot slots was dangling in front of me. The words flew out of my mouth: "I'll take it!", I exclaimed, and in an instant, I was now the lowest number on the 2,900 strong American Eagle pilot list.<br /><br />Less than a week later, I sit in my Dallas hotel room trying to muster up the courage to dial up Pinnacle and inform them of my decision. I used to think that life was unfair, but this process has now shown me that life is in fact completely fair: I would have never made it as a great athlete, because I would have completely self-destructed during the college recruitment process.<br /><br />Throughout this blog I've been fairly candid and revealing in many of my posts. Hopefully, those still following this enjoyed that, but unfortunately, due to the nature of my position flying paying passengers around, and union restrictions being what they are, I'm going to be scaling this thing back a bit and generally share more of the boring and mundane aspects of my career. Also, regulations prevent me from saying anything about our company, so from this point I'll now refer to it as <a href="http://files.myopera.com/edwardpiercy/files/Big-Bird-1.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Big Bird</span> </a>airlines. Simple changes, but necessary ones if I want to keep writing. (quick note: anytime you have a chance to make up random names for companies involving Sesame Street characters, you really have to do it.)<br /><br />I started this wild ride back on July 6<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span>, 2009. Less than 18 months later, I'm sitting in ground school learning to fly a jet. My only regret through this whole process is that ESPN didn't televise my decision.<br /><br />See you all in few weeks!GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-8245386650302862182010-11-24T21:45:00.001-08:002010-11-24T21:45:42.301-08:00Turkey Day ThoughtsUnless you are bitter, ungrateful, and hate the idea of cornucopias, Thanksgiving has to rank as the most enjoyable holiday currently on our calender. I say currently as it's important to leave space for potential future holidays, because you never know what might come up. For example, before Christ was born, there was no Christmas. See? Glad I'm here to help. Thanksgiving holds special significance for our country because it's one of the few holidays not attached to specific religion. Ramadan might be great for some, but not everyone can participate. Thanksgiving isn't as discriminatory. I love Thanksgiving more than most simply because I can eat more than most. Being gluttonous is not only fun but it's encouraged at the Thanksgiving table, and I plan on doing my part again this year.<br /><br />But above all Thanksgiving is, well, a time to be thankful. Over the past 15 months of my life the common theme has really been one of inordinate blessing. Time and again hard work and dedication have paid off in ways I never could have envisioned. I can't help but sit here and feel blessed and fortunate to have landed in such a good situation less than two years after basically packing up shop and starting over in life. I'm now firmly entrenched in a career I love with plenty of exciting prospects on the horizon. I feel overwhelmingly thankful for the incredible amount of good fortune I've experienced, especially over the past few weeks. I'm thankful for a loving and supportive family who seemingly cheer on my every move. I'm thankful for the greatest collection of friends a guy could have. I'm thankful for a company that's provided me with endless opportunity. I'm not thankful for the return of McRib, but that's a whole other story.<br /><br />I'm especially thankful for the exciting career advancements that are just over the horizon: In my last post I previewed my interview with American Eagle. I originally intended to write a lengthy blog recapping the day, but with my schedule has been out of control since I returned from Dallas. At the time it seemed to be a monumental event in my life, but really it was just another day. The trip overall was an enormous success with the exception of me igniting a bag of popcorn in my hotel microwave and nearly causing complete evacuation. No one on the pilot interview committee said anything about my suit reeking of burnt popcorn, so that's really all that needs to be said about that. So to summarize: I can safely fly airplanes all over the country in some of the worst weather imaginable, but cannot be trusted to successfully prepare a microwavable snack. Important note: there are few smells worse than scorched popcorn, especially in a tightly confined area.<br /><br />Just one day after I flew back from Dallas, I hopped aboard another plane to interview in Memphis with an airline called Pinnacle. The whole idea with these interviews is to get as many in as you can and leave yourself plenty of options in case one company backs out. I don't have any manslaughter convictions in my past and my driving record's clean, so I'm fairly confident that my offer of employment from American Eagle will hold up, and that's where I'll end up. But just in case, it's good to have a Plan B. We're still waiting for official word from Pinnacle Headquarters, but I enter the holiday weekend with my mind already made up which airline I'll go with.<br /><br />Receiving an offer to work for either company is icing on the cake: I know I'm one of the luckiest people on the planet, and anything I'm able to do in aviation beyond this year is gravy for me. I have a bizarre habit of looking up aviation accident databases and trying to determine what went wrong in fatal crashes; sometimes I think it could easily have been me and one of my students. I guess we never really know when our number will be called, so in this time of indulging myself in turkey and mashed potatoes, I also am allowing myself to count my many, many blessings like never before.<br /><br />Blessed beyond measure: It's my mantra for this holiday season, and I hope and pray God continues to guide my path in the world of aviation. I'll be back with another post as I prepare to leave flight instructing and head towards the world of commercial airline transport. Happy Thanksgiving to all my readers, and see you again in a few weeks!GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-46326358564902202722010-10-01T10:23:00.000-07:002010-10-29T17:44:07.366-07:00A Hundred To Go<em>"Should I put the flaps in now?"</em><br /><br />Silence.<br /><br /><em>"You want me to add the flaps man?"</em><br /><br />More silence.<br /><br /><em>"Hey man, you AWAKE over there?!!"</em><br /><br />I snap out of my daydreaming and shoot a quick glance at my student, who's puzzled as to why I'm suddenly not paying much attention. I give him the nod of affirmation, and he continues with the before landing checklist. Moments later, he lands us squarely on the runway <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">centerline</span>, advances the throttle to full power, and we take off for yet another lap around Athens' airport.<br /><br />It's 3:30 on a blistering late August day, and I'm going on my sixth hour of instruction given for today, my twentieth hour this week alone, and for the fifth consecutive month, one hundred hours of flight time. I'd say I'm tired, but that would be like saying Chinese food contains a bit of sodium. Exhausted seems more accurate. So on a 95 degree day, just a few moments after I've plowed through my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">inflight</span> spaghetti lunch sans flight attendant, I steal a few minutes of gazing at the distant clouds while pretending to flight instruct. The left seat pilot, my student, doesn't mind too much-he's preparing for his first solo flight a few days later- and so he actually welcomes my apathetic and disconnected demeanor. Still not entirely certain of himself, he poses questions like these, almost, I wonder, just to see if I'm still paying attention. I am, but barely. With this heat, a full stomach, and a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">competent</span> student at the controls, staying awake in the cockpit should merit receiving nothing short of the Nobel Prize.<br /><br />As a student, I encountered burnt out instructors very early on in my training. I can still recall flying with a guy who, from the minute I cranked up the engine, plugged in his <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">iPod</span> and, like a homeless man riding the <a href="http://flaggedforfollowup.typepad.com/.a/6a00d8345201fa69e2010536e9cd7b970b-800wi"><span style="color:#ff9900;">city subway</span></a>, slumped over against the window, reclined the seat, and snoozed for entire two hour duration of the lesson. It's true, and ultimately what cost him his job and his just-beginning aviation career. So, for the sake of any company <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">VP's</span> who might have stumbled across this blog, let's just go ahead and throw it out there: I'm not burnt out. Just tired. But thanks for asking. I'm certain one day I'll look back at my time with this company and be glad I worked here, but the seven days-a-week, jam packed flying schedule has started to take its toll. And because of that, I feel ready to move on.<br /><br /><br />I've recently surpassed 900 hours of flight time, a number that seven months ago, when I began instructing, seemed insurmountable. When I initially began my flight training getting to this point as an instructor was always on the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">backburner</span>; I stupidly envisioned myself instructing for just a few months, then immediately being picked up by my dream regional airline and strolling into that shiny jet cockpit with all the graybeard captains applauding my achievements and welcoming me into that exclusive fraternity. I don't how I could have been so naive. There's been a few nibbles of interest from the regional airlines, but nothing concrete. I've seen the airlines gobble up many of MY instructors, making hearing their stories of fast jets, great layovers, and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">gorgeous</span> flight attendants all the more excruciating. I want to be there with them. Adding insult to injury happens <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">everytime</span> I hear a rumor of an airline hiring someone with fewer hours than me. <em>Did it really happen? Who do I need to call? What's wrong with me</em>? But for every story of someone being hired, I see the other side of the coin as well: a few of my comrades around our Atlanta branch have well in excess of 1,500 hours, and are still waiting for that call. <em>Gulp</em>. That's another six months for me, easy. Could I make it that long?<br /><br /><br />For some of the crappier regional airlines, 1,000 seems to be the magical number. That's just less than one hundred hours from where I sit now. I'm watching the Hobbs meter closer than ever on my instructing flights, for with every tick gets me another fraction of an hour. While I'm eager to leave my current job and move on to the bigger, fast airplanes, I'm not in a hurry to live in some<span style="color:#ff9900;"> </span><a href="http://lebbeuswoods.files.wordpress.com/2008/01/slum-mumbai1.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Newark slum</span> </a><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">crashpad</span> apartment with eight dudes, one of who is going to inevitably be named Lenny and have horrible hygiene, eat PB&J sandwiches again three meals a day, and live off of $16,000 a year. I'll pass on that, and wait for a more <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">desirable</span> company to hire me. I've got my sights set on a few, and am furiously networking in hopes of landing that first big break. My resume is at their disposal and I fire them off a fresh copy every twenty hours I accumulate, Persistent much? Just enough to have them not become annoyed with me.<br /><br /><br />As I'm learning, there are no shortcuts to the airlines. It's a mantra I repeat <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">everytime</span> I step inside the Cessna for more pattern work with those rookie pilots. There's not much glamour to be found in flight instruction, and in those moments where I'm daydreaming about greater things, I'm reminded that my time here is not up yet. I've seen too many good pilots lose their jobs as they grow weary of the daily grind and the demands that are placed upon flight instructors. The good news, for me, is that my love for flying remains strong. <br /><br />********<br /><br />I started this post well in excess of a month ago. Actually, I forgot for awhile that I even have a blog. Like a barking dog that needs to be let outside to go to the bathroom, I need to be reminded. In the weeks that followed, I did the unthinkable and INCREASED my flying pace, pushing myself over the vaunted 1,000 hour mark and into realistic consideration for a First Officer position with a regional airline. Those hundred hours were some of the longest of my life, but I'd made it. <br /><br />And then, on a gloomy October morning, just when I had stopped furiously checking my cell phone every 5 minutes for potential HR pilot recruiters' calls, I got one: a prominent regional airline based in Dallas, not far from where I trained nine months ago:<br /><br /><em>"Hello, Gabe?"</em><br /><br />What do you say when the phone call you've dreamed about is actually happening? There's no manual for how to handle this, but I'm certain you're supposed to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">suppress</span> your excitement, at least momentarily. I could not. My mouth immediately went desert-dry, and I stammered out a quick-but-nearly-silent, "Yes, it's me." A soothing voice introduced herself as the head of HR for <a href="http://airlinergallery.nl/e145amer.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">American Eagle</span></a> airlines, and soon calmed my nerves by offering me an interview date of November 8<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span>, and soon the details were hammered out: I would be receiving a packet of paperwork via email in the next twenty minutes, and it needed to be filled out ASAP. All the minute details of my life, including driving record, education, complete employment history, and even the number of cavities I've had were to be faxed back to company headquarters prior to my interview. The amount of paperwork was overwhelming. Who knew that becoming a pilot would involve the decimation of several Costa <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">Rican</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">rain forests</span>? <br /><br />The days that followed became a frenzy of hunting and gathering: jobs that I forgot I'd had (Hello, <a href="http://blog.room34.com/wp-content/images/worms/menardsguy.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">Menards</span></span></a>!) suddenly became vital sources of employment data. References from what seemed like the Ice Age were contacted. A complete residence history. Birth Certificate. Worst of all, I had to request my collegiate transcripts. <em>Gulp</em>. Will they care that I could only muster a D in Biology?Regardless, I threw myself into the great search with reckless abandon, and soon, a mound of data had been stockpiled. Now, a week from my interview date, the process is nearly complete. Apparently, at the airlines, it's important to avoid hiring Al-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Queda</span> or other people with a propensity to be untrustworthy. Chances are good that if you're a) family, b) a close friend, or even c) a fast-food employee whom I've had minimal interaction with, you'll be contacted for your impressions of me and my ability to safely pilot paying passengers on a big, shiny jet. <br /><br />My nights now consist of pouring over my old textbooks and aviation charts, hoping to find any glaring weaknesses in my technical knowledge. A buddy and I have started grilling each other with mock interview questions, hoping to get out all the bad answers and polish ourselves up a bit. I bought a new suit. Got my haircut. And in the upset of the century, I'm even going to the dentist to make sure my pearly whites are who we thought they were.<br /><br />One week to go. In a blog post that started 100 hours from my goal, it's only fitting that I didn't finish it until now, just past 1,000 flight hours. I'll be back in a few weeks to recap the interview and maybe a flying story or two. But for now, it's back to the interview prep. In the words of Bud Light, Here We Go...GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-59084254906105117712010-06-29T06:03:00.000-07:002010-08-10T06:51:33.960-07:00Dog DaysIf you had 'Summer 2010' in the <em>When Will Gabe Cease Writing Asanine Blog Posts</em> pool, congratulations, you're today's big winner. I always knew in the back of my mind when I started writing this thing that one day I'd get so busy with other things, namely, flying airplanes, that the blog would the first thing to get neglected. What I didn't realize was just how quickly I'd actually forget I had one. It's true; without the help of a few key readers, we'd actually be attending this blog's funeral today instead of sinking out teeth into another 8-10 paragraphs of nonsense. In many ways, we might have been better off at the cemetery. We're almost 1/3 done with August, and I'm finally getting around to publishing a post I started in mid-June. I don't know how much more a blog can be dead without actually being dead.<br /><br />For people who still stumble towards this site, it's been some fairly routine time in the air with scant moments of terror or otherwise noteworthy events. I don't really have any great stories from a summer's worth of flying, and since I'm on salary I can no longer provide details of my sandwich consuming escapades. So in fairness to all parties-you, the disgruntled reader, me, the overworked and underpaid fledgling blogger, and of course<span style="color:#ff9900;"> </span><a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://pugetsoundblogs.com/bremertonbeat/files/2009/04/24oct9-kid-mullet.jpg&imgrefurl=http://pugetsoundblogs.com/bremertonbeat/category/random-stuff/&usg=__nVDqWAUrQ6iyDW5Ih4bmY8TgfaY=&h=353&w=500&sz=29&hl=en&start=7&tbnid=vsfFdtfXFkq7LM:&tbnh=92&tbnw=130&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dworlds%2Bbest%2Bmullets%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26rlz%3D1W1RNTM_en%26biw%3D1259%26bih%3D571%26tbs%3Disch:10%2C371&um=1&itbs=1&biw=1259&bih=571"><span style="color:#ff9900;">this kid</span></a>-let's recap the last few months and crank out another post and stave off the inevitable demise of this blog for at least another month. Everybody wins right? I won't make any promises, but check back in a few weeks and maybe I'll have something else here too.<br /><br />It's 8:15 A.M. and I have $23,000 in my pocket. Mine? Nope-if it were, I'd already be downing mai tais and basking in the Caribbean sun. The money in question is designated for flight training, given to me from a few students, and ultimately headed to my company, who by some crazy distortion of a job description, has entrusted me to transport said funds to the bank. I'm a pilot, but days like today my Silver Tauras is transformed into one of these <a href="http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/11/American_Armored_Car.jpg&imgrefurl=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:American_Armored_Car.jpg&usg=__whJWTjg856HZLEzt58gmSth52_Q=&h=480&w=640&sz=138&hl=en&start=18&tbnid=B5yno4GU2pj6MM:&tbnh=130&tbnw=178&prev=/images%3Fq%3Darmered%2Bcar%26hl%3Den%26biw%3D1276%26bih%3D571%26gbv%3D2%26tbs%3Disch:1&itbs=1&iact=rc&dur=469&ei=ZAFfTM7sDIT58Abot8y0DQ&oei=TQFfTMGrMMP88Aa_k7SyDQ&esq=2&page=2&ndsp=18&ved=1t:429,r:17,s:18&tx=139&ty=30"><span style="color:#ff9900;">babies</span> </a>for the 4 mile drive to Bank of America. It's one of the many duties that hardly pertain to flying airplanes, but yet are essential in order for me to continue cashing paychecks. Other tasks include, but definitely not limited to, emptying trash, mopping floors, scrubbing down sinks, and making sure I don't forget my glass slippers on the way out of the midnight ball.<br /><br />Even if my life were as simple as just flying airplanes; I'd still be overwhelmingly busy. As I totaled up my logbook last night, I came away with some staggering numbers: in the past four months I've flown 392 hours, more than doubling my time to where <a href="http://flightlogg.in/openiduser182/logbook-page-8.html"><span style="color:#ff9900;">it sits today</span> </a>at 730 flight hours. It's been a grueling pace and has taken its toll in ways too numerous to count. I honestly will never know or understand how I've been able to survive it. Countless days have been spent entirely at the airport, often arriving before 7AM and leaving well after midnight, resting in between each flight or ground lesson with barely enough time to eat a meal standing up, on the run, or, in the case of a few days, in the airplane. Any sembalance of a normal existence is long gone from my life; I said a year ago that I all I wanted to do was fly airplanes. Wish granted-it's all I ever do. Plenty of sacrifices have been made, and there's probably an infinite amount that I've yet to make. The good news is that I still absolutely love to fly airplanes. The same joy I felt on my first lesson is still the prevailing factor in why I do what I do. Even on the worst of days, when the temperature probe reads 105 degrees inside the airplane and I'm getting tossed around the air like a ball of Papa John's dough and my student is doing everything he can to try to kill me, there is simply nothing I'd rather be doing than flying airplanes. I still consider myself impossibly lucky to be a pilot.<br /><br />The bad news is that I've decided I hate writing about flying. It's also possible that I hate writing in general, but mostly I loathe trying to recreate the excitement and drama that comes with having a job as an instructor pilot. It would be far more interesting if I were to mount a video camera on the windshield aimed towards capturing my facial expressions If there's any billionaire television executives among my readership, please email me; we're sitting on a gold mine. Our first episode would feature me rolling my eyes in disgust as I sit through another excrutiatingly painful story about how great of a helicopter pilot my student claims to be while botching a routine maneuver. Later, during our debriefing session on the ground, a computer could record my brainwaves as I drift off towards thoughts of pizza and tacos instead of focusing on teaching him the Federal Aviation Regulations. And finally, as he boats to the other instructors in the office about how great his lesson went, I'll be just a few feet behind, making repeated throat-slash gestures, warning the other pilots NOT to fly with him. This would be entertaining TV.<br /><br />Please don't get the wrong idea: I am very fortunate to have the job I've got, and I especially enjoy the teaching aspect of it. There are, however, the occassional goons who sign up for our multi-engine training program and come in with a multitude of aviation experience, and thus, believe they are God's chosen gift to aviation. I've learned that it's the arrogant, cocky, and boastful pilots usually require my absolute full attention during their flights, as they prove to be among the weakest in terms of ability. My mantra from Day 1 as a student pilot was to be humble and teachable and soak up as much knowledge as I could from those willing to invest in me. The majority of my trainees are this way and it's a pleasure to bring them along in their aviation journey. But the others...make me almost not want to fly. Almost.<br /><br /><br />For now, I continue to plow ahead with my head down and focused on my goals. In a few months, I'll hit 1,000 hours, a milestone that most days still seems unbelievably far away. With my multi-engine experience, I should be in a decent position when the regional airlines start hiring again. While I don't want to get my hopes up, there are hints of an impending pilot shortage, talks of industry growth over the next few years, and a surprising optimism surrounding aviation that hasn't been around since well before I started flying. I reflect an awful lot, probably more than I should, but as I make the final rounds at the airport before heading home, emptying the trash and vacuuming the ground school classrooms, my prevailing feeling is just how happy I am to be established on the journey. And regardless of how it all turns out, vindication that I made a great decision.<br /><br />One more random story from my life, and then we're done:<br /><br /><br />Sometime in May, we received notice of an upcoming meeting scheduled for early Friday morning. Begrudgingly we gathered at the airport and learned the bad news: our company had decided to close our downtown Atlanta location, meaning us flight instructors turned into professional movers, complete with U-Haul trucks, dollys, and standard issue moving clothes. It was possibly the last thing any of us instructor pilots wanted to do with our Friday. After spending the entire day hauling filing cabinets, desks, and even ferrying airplanes across the city to our newer location out in the suburbs, we were nearly finished as I grabbed two large glass picture frames in each hand, and proceeded to haul them across the hanger. A simple task, right? I reached the 3/4 mark point, and just as I looked down and noticed the sweat dripping down towards my right hand, one of the picture frames slipped from my grasp, and as I shuffled to try and prevent it from shattering on the ground, the <em>other</em> frame split open on my hand, gashing my thumb down the middle, spilling blood all over the freshly painted hangar floor. I was no longer a professional mover-I was now a professional idiot. My disdain for hospitals notwithstanding, I shrugged off the injury as needing only a Bandaid and I'd be good to go. After all I still had a flight to complete that night, and not even amputation would stop me from going. But in just a few minutes, it became clear the injury was more severe than I thought. By now the pool of blood on the floor was accumulating rapidly. Our Chief Pilot ran over and instructed another pilot to load me in his car and head for the ER immediately. What? Six hours later, I emerged victoriously from the Gwinnett County Medical Center, with 9 stitches and a bandage covering my entire right hand. I made my flight that night, but a few weeks later, when the injury hadn't healed properly, I earned a well-deserved week long vacation as my company implemented a forced rest period while the now-infected hand injury cleared up. Now, I've done some awfully crazy things so far in my career as a pilot. I've certainly flown through weather I shouldn't have, and without a doubt have been saved from a mid-air collision or two by mere seconds. Apparently neither of those things are as dangerous as helping your boss move a few boxes around. And so last month, when a few of the other instructors helped somebody move apartments, I was hardly surprised when a company memo surfaced, instructing me to sit this one out.GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-77145600771817902762010-05-24T07:51:00.000-07:002010-06-02T19:22:17.908-07:00Getting My RepsSo much of life is about reps: The more we do something, the better we become. Think knitting, public speaking, or even juggling chainsaws. I'd like to think that's the idea behind my life right now-fly airplanes as often as possible to become as safe and proficient of a pilot as possible. Most days, this works out fairly well: I wake up, wolf down a few bowls of Golden Crisp, then head to the airport for 12-14 hour duty days. Fly all over the Southeastern U.S., head home, plow through some food, and collapse my exhausted body onto the bed and repeat. Not that I've become some type of flying cyborg, but somewhere between today and four months ago, I lost track of time and realized I don't really do much else besides fly airplanes or talk about flying airplanes. It's a good thing, because I'm accumulating flight time faster than Lindsey <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lohan</span> racks up misdemeanors. Around the hangar I've become known as the flight snake-if there's an unscheduled flight, I'm usually the one who willingly takes the trip. The more reps, the better. Right?<br /><br />That's what I figured last week as I volunteered my services for a trip up to Bowling Green, KY. My student and I waited around for most of the day, hoping a line of thunderstorms southeast of Nashville would dissipate. As one can probably imagine, thunderstorms combine all the greatest possible threats to flying safely, especially in our little multi engine airplane: hail, severe turbulence, intense winds, and the possibility of a lightning strike. The overall rule is to avoid active thunderstorm cells by at least twenty miles, however, it may surprise you that lightning strikes in large jetliners are actually a relatively common <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">occurrence</span>. Although it's not recommended to request this to the pilots next time you fly commercially, if it does happen, expect a loud, explosive type noise and maybe to be jostled in your seat momentarily. Scour the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">internet</span> for this and you'll find enough <a href="http://www.flightglobal.com/blogs/unusual-attitude/CRJ%20electrics.jpeg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">reasons</span> </a>to probably never choose to fly again. But the good news is that you will survive. In the meantime, here's your piece of aviation knowledge for today: all aircraft are equipped with static wicks, small, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">tube like</span> devices attached to the trailing edge of the wings. Since the bulk of an airplane's exterior is composed of aluminum (hint: a very good conductor of electricity), there has to be a way for the charge to flow safely away from the aircraft in the event it is struck. Static wicks allow the safe discharge of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">electricity</span> away from the plane. Despite being a device of such small stature, we are not allowed to take off in our aircraft if missing any of our nine static wicks. <br /><br /><br />Back to my trip up to Kentucky. We waited until just after 6PM, when finally it appeared on radar that there was enough of a gap for us to make the flight. I assisted my student with the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">preflight</span> preparation, checking especially to make sure our electrical system looked good and running my fingers across each and every static wick. We were good to go. With the help of air traffic control, we picked our way around a few of the cells and made a largely uneventful first leg of the journey.<br /><br />A quick bite to eat and my student and I were back at the aircraft, prepping for the night return trip. By this time, most of the buildup had concentrated just north of Nashville and was headed east, giving us enough a window to make it back towards Atlanta. And this is where my night got a little interesting.<br /><br />One of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">intricacies</span> of flying, is the various methods used to obtain an <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">IFR</span> clearance from different airports. (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">IFR</span> stands for instrument flight rules and allows aircraft to penetrate clouds and fly with the radar assistance of air traffic control) At my home base, for example, we simply contact the control tower, who coordinates with Atlanta Approach our departure heading, route, altitude, anything else that may come up. At an 'uncontrolled' field, however, it's a bit different. Pilots have several options, with the best one usually being to dial up a Flight Service Station and obtain a clearance that way. On this night, we spoke with a very green sounding lady in Louisville. Tentative in her delivery, she seemed perplexed as to the directions she was dispensing: <em>"Seminole 1221K is, uh, cleared to the, um, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gwinnett</span> County airport, at, er, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">BWG</span>, via the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Choo</span>-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Choo</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">VOR</span>, and, climb to, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">hmm</span>...let's see, 7,000 and contact, uh, Memphis on 133.85, squawk 1642."</em> Most of the time <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">ATC</span> and the affiliated organizations do an absolutely phenomenal job with every aspect of their responsibilities. However, this was one of the choppiest clearances I'd ever received. Moreover, it was late, I was tired, and the rain was beginning to slap across our windshield. My student had fumbled through copying it down, so I gave a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">readback</span> over the mic and prepared us for takeoff.<br /><br />Our departure runway was 21, meaning we were positioned to fly a slightly southwest course. My plan was to continue that heading until we reached a high enough altitude for Memphis Center to pick us up on their radar, usually in the neighborhood of 2,000 feet. At that point, I was expecting them to give us the go ahead to proceed direct to Chattanooga, and then on in to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gwinnett</span>. <br /><br />A few moments after takeoff, the street lights below us began to disappear. I looked off to my left, and saw nothing but the bright flash of my anti-collision light pulsating against the thick, cumulus clouds that had now enveloped our aircraft. Through the intermittent bursts of light, I could see that the rain was coming down harder. Suddenly, our little airplane caught a huge updraft and we ballooned 1,500 feet in what seemed like a second. My heart pounded as I knew instantly what was happening: we had <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">inadvertently</span> flown into the outer portions of the thunderstorm. Memphis Center, oblivious to our plight, was busy diverting and repositioning aircraft inbound to Nashville. I gave quick thought to turning around, then decided against it. The rain splattered against the windshield with greater force. I gripped my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">seatbelt</span>, searching for some sort of security. My student, who for the previous few moments was chatting about the trip excitedly, was now decidedly silent. Turbulence tossed us around, jolting the aircraft up and then down again in rapid succession. Back in my private pilot days, this was the type of stuff I'd read about, and vowed to avoid at all costs. But we were in it. I kept a careful eye on the instruments, focusing on indications I prayed would hold true: <em>Airspeed?</em> Good. <em>Altimeter?</em> Fluctuating, but acceptable. <em>Flight attitude?</em> Level. I turned off the anti-collision lights as they were serving little purpose now. <br /><br />Rain came down implausibly harder. It was as though God was dumping oceans directly atop the airplane. I'd never seen so much water. I gave the engine gauges a once-over, hoping against anything else now would not be the time I'd experience my first engine failure. Complete darkness surrounded us. Each raindrop, multiplied by the thousands, cascaded against the aircraft fuselage, sounding more like gunshots than <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">precipitation</span>. This is what fear in an airplane felt like.<br /><br />And then, inexplicably, we punched through the final cloud layer. The rain stopped. City lights reappeared. The aircraft steadied out. The loud pelting of rain on aluminum was replaced by the relaxing hum of the propellers. We made it.<br /><br />A few moments later, a crystal clear radio transmission came through:<br /><br /><em>Seminole 1221K, Memphis Center....</em><br /><br />"Center, 21K, go ahead sir."<br /><br /><em>21K looks like you guys pierced through a pretty good sized cell there, everything <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">ok</span>?</em><br /><br />"Roger, a bit of heavy <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">precip</span> but not much else, 21K" (For whatever reason I always downplay things with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">ATC</span>.) I should have said, "MAYDAY MAYDAY, we are actually <a href="http://www.guzer.com/pictures/plane_under_water.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">submerged</span> </a>up to our <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">navals</span> in rainwater." That would have been more accurate.<br /><br /><em>21K glad to hear, just out of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">curiosity</span> what was your clearance?</em><br /><em></em><br />As I reached for my clearance sheet, it hit me: the lady up in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Louisville</span> hadn't been wrong. I was <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">stupefied</span> as I read back what I'd written down. I had unintentionally vectored myself and my student into the worst weather I've experienced yet. On takeoff I'd continued a 210 heading a few moments too long when, according to the sheet I held in my hands, I should have flown something in the neighborhood of a 170. Those forty degrees ended up being the difference between a nice relaxing night flight and a terrifying learning experience.<br /><br />I waited for a response from Memphis Center, knowing I had just <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">inadvertently</span> deviated from an <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">IFR</span> clearance in a non-emergency situation. Fortunately, the gentleman came back over the frequency with a calming voice, assuring me <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-error">there'd</span> be no action against me. He was glad we were <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" class="blsp-spelling-error">ok</span>, and reminded us that in the event of any uncertainty, always request clarification. I thanked him, and he transferred us to the next controller, and that was it.<br /><br />Reps. I learned something that night, and so did my student. A few hours later, back on the ground just outside of Atlanta, we were both weary but glad to have a story to tell. I'd survived my first thunderstorm and even picked up an extra bit of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" class="blsp-spelling-error">IFR</span> knowledge along the way.<br /><em></em><br />That's why I love my job: everything I do all adds up to experience. And ultimately, these reps are what's making me better. Experience counts. So while you're not on my airplane yet, one day you will be, and that's why I'm doing everything I can to ensure moments like this happen now and not while you're sitting in the back, relaxing and chowing down on those awful pretzels.GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-48998989276743478492010-04-24T17:39:00.000-07:002010-05-04T20:03:29.001-07:00Happy AnniversaryIt's 3:30 PM and the school day has just ended. A herd of adolescent boys are meandering their way out through the gymnasium doors, still licking wounds and applying <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">ice packs</span> from another infamous <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">dodgeball</span></span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">beatdown</span></span> courtesy of Mr. Gabe. My end-of-day routine over the past few years of teaching has not changed: gather up the scattered equipment, turn off the lights, shut the windows, and retreat to my office to plan the next day's events. Today, however, is different: I've got an appointment at a nearby flight school to take my first flying lesson, a discovery flight with a real flight instructor in a real airplane. I've been planning this day for a few months now, and in thinking that it's finally here has relegated the other events of today to the Land of Forgotten Priorities. It's a miracle I even remembered to show up to school today, much less teach lessons effectively. In just a few minutes, I'll be at the controls of a Cessna 172, the first step in what I hope to be an incredible journey. The entire day has been consumed with my head in the clouds as I anticipate the things to come. <em>What will it be like?</em> I can hardly wait. The minutes on my stopwatch tick ever slower once the afternoon comes, almost as though it were taunting me. Three times in the past week I'd made similar appointments with this pilot, only to be denied once because of weather and twice because of work <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">commitments</span>. If it doesn't happen today, I'm not sure what I'll do. I only know one thing: I cannot wait to find out what it's like to fly.<br /><br />I sprint to my car and make it out of the parking lot ahead of the school buses, much to the dismay of my principal, who knows nothing of my ambitions to fly airplanes and even less about <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">dodgeball</span>. No matter; the lure of the skies is real, and I've got an appointment to keep. Each stoplight along the way is an eternity, each <a href="http://larchmontgazette.com/commentary/columns/soccermom.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">soccer-Mom minivan</span> </a>seems to go 5 MPH slower than the previous one. I'm driving in quicksand today. That's what it feels like.<br /><br />With my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mapquest</span> directions printout riding shotgun, I navigate closer to the airstrip and a few moments later I step out of my car and gaze out upon the runway. For some, airports hold the same level of appeal as pumpkin pie. To me, they've always had a certain mystique to them, like a forbidden world full of hope and excitement. Airports are, for the most part, a happy place: people are excited for vacations, for honeymoons, to visit family, or to see an old friend. Airports connect people. Who doesn't love that? Even disgruntled businessmen love airports and airplanes, if for nothing else than an excuse to guzzle scotch at 30,000 feet. <br /><br />A few moments later, I step into the main offices and meet Eric, the pilot who I'm entrusting the next sixty minutes of my life to. I sign some paperwork, a formality really, saying that my family cannot sue his family if we somehow crash and become a flaming rubble. It wouldn't have mattered what the document said; the airplane's sitting just a few feet away, ready for us to climb in and takeoff. I would have signed over my life savings at that point, I would have signed over my allegiance to the <a href="http://otisbar.com/images/nfl_football_piss_on_greenbay.gif"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Green Bay Packers</span></a>-anything to get inside that plane and off this ground.<br /><br />I don't remember much from that first flight. It was like being in a dream. Just a few moments after the landing gear lifted off, the instructor gave me the flight controls. Me. Flying an airplane. How are you supposed to act the first time you experience a dream come true? I did my best to stay composed, but inside I was busting. It was the best feeling I'd ever experienced. The entire hour was surreal.<br /><br />In the weeks that followed, I began to detach myself to the elementary school and became more absorbed in the pursuit of my dream to fly. Soon I was bringing in pilot textbooks and reading them during my prep periods. Once I'd tasted flight, everything else became insignificant. I had to fly again.<br /><br />This past week marked exactly one year ago that I decided to embark on what's been the wildest journey of my life. I would have never guessed it would turn out the way it has. I'm often asked if I have regrets. Would I, if given the chance, turn back the clock to last April and tell myself to forget about flying? Listen closely: there is something, inside each of us, that yearns for greatness. Lying dormant in some perhaps, but it's there. And had I let my fears or reservations about taking on this <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">challenge</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">dissuade</span> me from diving in, I would have never discovered the drive that lay within me. No matter what happens from this point forward, I'm cool with my decision with no regrets. I've been incredibly lucky to have made it this far. I've still got light years to go, but I'm closer now than I was a year ago. By the end of this month, I'll have accumulated more than 500 flight hours and a lifetime's worth of memories from the skies. I'm a pilot now, but most importantly, I am living my dream.<br /><br />Tomorrow, at 5:30 PM, I'm scheduled to conduct an intro flight for a prospective student. We'll take off and I'll hand over the controls a few moments later, vectoring us around to see the local sights. He'll get a taste of what it's like to fly an airplane. Forgive me if I get a bit nostalgic as I look across the cockpit and see ambitions come to life for the first time. Happy Anniversary...GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-71989334151395537012010-03-31T19:06:00.000-07:002010-04-08T18:54:32.431-07:00The Long March To 1,500<em>"Seminole 256AT, radar contact, climb and maintain 7,000, clear direct Crimson <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">VOR</span>." </em><br /><br />It's just a shade past 9PM and my student and I are headed back to home base after a day chock full of flying. As cross country flights go, they really don't come any more pleasant than this: my student is, despite his minimal experience, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">competent</span> at the controls and thorough in his checklist usage, allowing me a few moments of reflection as we enter our cruise altitude. The air is smooth as glass and the sky is devoid of other aircraft here in central Alabama. Our route is free of turbulence and clouds, making these absolute ideal conditions for some night flying. You can see the stars for miles and for that reason, the world seems smaller on this night. Aside from the occasional airliner Captain reporting in with a new altitude, our only combatant against the peaceful dark silence is the constant hum of the propellers. If we can keep our speed up and receive a clearance vector from Atlanta approach control, there's still a chance I can make it to my bed by midnight.<br /><br />Two months in to full time instructing, moments as these are rare. The days are packed tighter than a blackberry <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C1DgmbMMOgA"><span style="color:#ff9900;">crepe</span></a>, often times with more obligations than hours needed to fulfill. A couple of scheduled flights, a few hours of ground school, maybe toss in a simulator session or two, and before I can say <em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">je</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">suis</span> fatigue</em> it's time to prepare for the next day. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nevermind</span> eating; usually I'm about two meals behind. The days blend together so much that I'm constantly asking my non-pilot friends to confirm what day it is. "<em>Wait, it's Friday? I thought it was Tuesday</em>." No kidding. Happens twice a week. <br /><br />I'm not complaining. It's an observation, and I'm <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">ok</span> with the schedule. Actually, I never thought it was possible that one could truly love a job. I absolutely love to fly airplanes and feel fortunate to have the job I want in the location I want. I love what I do. And unlike dominating my former 4<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span> grade <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">arch rival</span> students in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">dodgeball</span>, it's tough.<br /><br />Each day brings forth new challenges. Right now, I'm struggling to convey the intricate aviation knowledge that I only recently acquired into my students' craniums during a ground school session. If not in the classroom, then I'm in the air, where I deliberately fail engines at dangerously low altitudes, all part of FAA-approved and company mandated pilot training. No pun intended, but flight instructing really is a crash course in becoming a pilot. I'm safe enough to survive my students' mistakes and fly across the country, but am I a good pilot? It's the question that no one can answer now that I'm done with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">checkrides</span>. If we follow the federal aviation regulations and make it safely from A to B, does that count? What about if my students' keep passing their <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">checkrides</span>? Any credit for that? The short answer is that I don't know. In other endeavors, success is easily <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">identifiable</span>. In flight training, it's a bit more ambiguous, and short of me preventing a student from slamming our aircraft into terrain, I'm not sure what parameters I could use. These are the things I think about.<br /><br />I also think about the road ahead, and how with every hour of flying time I'm able to log, the goal is that much closer to reality. To be sure, it's still a long, long ways off: the benchmark of aviation experience is determined through flight hours. While I've achieved the necessary ratings to fly for a living and even instruct others, I'm still a rookie in the greybeard pilot's eye, and rightfully so. No airline worth a bag of salted pretzels would even consider touching a pilot with under 500 hours, with many airlines' hiring minimums well in excess of 1,000 hours. For me, I've set my sights on 1,500 hours, the minimum criteria to apply for what's known as the doctorate of aviation: Airline Transport Pilot. It's the highest rating a pilot can earn, and short of getting hired by a small freight company prior to that mark, I plan on flight instructing as a means to reach that end. A quick glance at the logbook shows I have light years to go, but with every botched student pilot landing I survive, I'm that much closer to attaining it. Ever save up <a href="http://tomstoukas.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/spare-change1.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">spare change</span> </a>in hopes of one day taking a vacation? For every nickel and quarter you put in, it might add up to something great. Same concept here, only the road to 1,500 seems like a slow crawl some days. Maybe I need to quit making logbook entries after every flight. Maybe I need to snake more flights from the tired and experienced instructors. Or maybe I need to stop daydreaming and just enjoy the journey a bit more.<br /><br />Perhaps that's why I enjoy night flight so much. The tranquility that the darkness offers allows me to relax and breathe easy, knowing that my student is straight-and-level at cruise altitude with minimal workload. The goals I have and the dreams I'm chasing-they'll come in time. For now, the drive to get there is a grueling one, yet it's the exact place I'd choose to be 100 times over. So tomorrow, as I embark on yet another long trip well after sunset, this time to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Daytona</span> Beach, forgive me if I take another moment or two to sit back, enjoy the air, and reflect. With one eye on my student, of course.GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-19339575432818713112010-03-15T17:40:00.000-07:002010-03-21T18:26:29.193-07:00Earning ItWhen I first announced I'd be leaving behind my life of teaching to pursue my dream of flying airplane, the reactions from friends and family were mixed. Some celebrated with me and encouraged me. Others dispensed words of wisdom that proved invaluable. Still others did everything short of barricading me inside my house and force me to take up knitting. But the one that sticks with me today is that of my buddy Luke, who took it upon himself to bestow the nickname of 'Captain' upon me. For the next few months, whether we were playing basketball or plowing through a plate of nachos, everything he said to me was prefaced with that moniker. For example, "Uh oh, the Captain is about to fire up the lawnmower!" Or, "Man, the Captain is destroying that apple crisp!" You know, random stuff like that. Naturally, I ate it up. Who <em>doesn't</em> want to be called Captain? Even if you're just a pizza delivery man, it's a good nickname. For me, it was pure gold. Trouble is, I hadn't even stepped foot in an aircraft yet. I had no idea what I was getting into. Giving me that title was more out of place than the <a href="http://viximo.files.wordpress.com/2008/03/2007-3-27-teletubbies.jpeg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Teletubbies</span> </a>being arrested for cocaine possession.<br /><br />My college basketball coach had a penchant for motivational speeches. One of his favorites was a spinoff of the Marine's slogan <em>'Earned, Never Given</em>.' Throughout the grueling pre-season conditioning sessions he'd flash a cheesy smile at us and chant those words at us, over and over again. With sweat pouring over every fiber of our bodies, he'd remind us that nothing was ever given to us, that we'd obtain every morsel of success by working hard and <em>earning</em> it. And it was awful. So many days I wanted to quit, my teammates wanted to quit-it was just too hard. But somehow, somewhere inside us, we dug deep to find something greater. After a few weeks of strenuous training, the season finally began. We had earned it.<br /><br />Those two snapshots of my life illustrate perfectly what I'm experiencing now. So much of this blog has been about facing challenges, leaping hurdles, rising up over mountains, and overcoming adversity in my relentless pursuit of my dream career. For those who've been reading since day one, you'll testify to the fact that it's never been easy, that I've never let my guard down or taken a vacation from learning. I want this, and as evidenced by the turns my life has taken over the past few months, I'm pretty much on the record as being willing to do whatever it takes. The battle of earning it continues for me, only the obstacles in front of me bear a different facing. It's no longer the prospect of another checkride for me, but rather that burden is now placed upon my students. <em>They're </em>the ones going through the same meatgrinder that I just came out of a few months ago, and surprisingly, I'm just as nervous as they are on checkride day. The challenge here lies in preparing them the way I was prepared, to give them my best even though it might not directly affect my livelihood. It's about staying disciplined in the little things, even though it might be the 3rd or even 4th time in a given day that I'm doing something. And I don't mind: flight instructing so far has been remarkably enjoyable. I fly most everyday and am compensated for it. It's exactly what I want to do. But it definitely isn't easy, and even with the unquenching love I have for flying airplanes, the mental toll of always trying to stay 2-3 steps ahead of a novice <a href="http://www.skydivespaceland.com/flight-school/images/Flight-instructor-student-p.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">student pilot</span> </a>is exhausting. There has already been a few moments of sheer terror in the airplane, each of which sprouts a few more grey hairs on my head and causes me to wonder if I'll actually survive a few years of flight instructing. It all comes with the territory, and I love it, but I am definitely earning it.<br /><br />As always, there are things I cannot control, like the weather, or my students' attitudes. It's frustrating knowing that for every day I do not fly, I remain that much further away from reaching my goals, like that coveted ranking of 'Captain.' I'll get there someday, but until then, I'm going to enjoy the ride and be grateful I've made it this far. Patience and contentment will become my good friends. Because if I'm always striving to be somewhere, I'll never really arrive anywhere.<br /><br />One last story for the kids: this past week presented me with an opportunity to oversee what's known as a 'Discovery Flight.' Geared towards inspiring people to sign up for a pilot training program, it's usually the first time someone's flown an aircraft. I perform the takeoff and landing, and monitor the safety of the flight from my right seat position, but for the other thirty minutes or so, the person shelling out the $95 gets to manipulate the controls and play pilot for a day. More often than not, people return from these adventures and instantly whip out the credit card for more flying-it's like a drug. I tried my best to show the prospective flier a good time, vectoring him around some of the more scenic areas and minimizing the amount of time I had to grab the yoke for safety's sake. He maintained a smile for most of the ride, and seemed ecstatic at the prospect of becoming a pilot. Things were going well. But towards the end, he began to sweat profusely, and the Hardee's <a href="http://images.businessweek.com/ss/06/06/hardees_badthings/image/hardeesmonsterthickburger.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Thickburgers</span> </a>that he had consumed just moments before departing quickly began a digestive rebellion, and only a mile from the runway all hell broke loose inside his stomach, and soon I was faced with a smelly cockpit, a very uncomfortable passenger, and one miserable mess. Flying might not be for everyone. You can be most definitely assured, however, that I earned this hour of paid flight time, and on this day, for once, I didn't want to be Captain.GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-57455289931541585912010-02-28T20:14:00.001-08:002010-03-09T18:51:18.092-08:00LogbooksI bought a new logbook today. It's large, shiny, and, similar to an imitation Italian sausage, came in a tightly wrapped plastic casing. If you're like me, spending money in any capacity is usually only because it's a special occasion, like birthdays or <span style="color:#ff9900;">National Pancake Day. </span>But the beginning of my professional pilot career called for an upgrade from my training logbook, so I ventured across the airstrip and found the biggest, baddest hardcovered journal I could find. Some $30 later, (man that would have paid for a truckload of PB&J's) I emerged carrying what's now the most important document I own. As I made the first few entries from recent flights, I found myself thumbing through the 200 + empty pages, wondering what it'll look like 5, 10 years from now. <em>What kind of aircraft will I be flying? Where am I gonna go? Who's coming with me</em>? After all, the word 'logbook' is really just an adult, grown-up word for storybook. My story tells the tale of my entire training record, of lessons learned and great achievements. It details the highs and lows of persuing a dream, frustrations from listening to my instructors bark orders at me and the elation that came with each passed checkride. It's proof that I did actually do this, even if some days it still doesn't seem real, like I'm on the brink of being woken up and told it's time to get ready for school. Like someone's just going to come along, swipe my pilot's licenses and run off. But it's real, and the logbooks show that it's real.<br /><br />So maybe my brain is still fried from flight school, or maybe I'm just a nerd, but either way, I think my logbook is special. Thanks to free internet technology, I'm able to share a piece of it <a href="http://old.flightlogg.in/map.php?type=markers"><span style="color:#ff9900;">here</span></a>. My instructor back in Texas first showed us the website during our first few weeks there, and it instantly became a source of competition between myself and a few of my classmates to see who could log the greatest variety of airports flown into. We spent hours flight planning to some of the most random plots of pavement we could find, often coercing the CFI's to take us to unauthorized airports in some pretty questionable locations. I've lost track of where I stand, but thanks to a few re-locations and transfers along the way, I'm starting to put dots all over the country.<br /><br />I've flown to places I never dreamed I'd make it to and airports I never knew existed. I've been fortunate enough to fly over both coasts and the Gulf of Mexico. I've flown above mountains and over vast desert expanses. I've buzzed over the top of some of the coolest sports arenas and around a few major U.S. cities. See, a few months ago I never had the time to sit back and actually <em>enjoy </em>all the flying I was doing. I was overworked and underslept. (Note: probably not a real word.) Now that I'm outside the flight school crucible, I find more joy than ever in being able to fly airplanes, and, miraculously, be paid for doing so. It really is true. Most days, I spring out of bed, anxious to start my day of flying. Hopefully the zeal for flight instructing can sustain me over the next few years until I find my way into an airline career. Regardless, I'm learning as much or more than I ever did during my training. I just still can't believe that it's real. Forgive me if I spend too much time staring at my logbook.GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-4511733576449867472010-02-17T19:09:00.001-08:002010-02-22T22:35:25.400-08:00Close CallGrowing up in Minnesota, we didn't have a lot of oceans. In fact, we had zero oceans. Imagine then, my excitement when I found out my apartment here in Long Beach was just a few miles from the shores of the Pacific. Even though it's February, plenty of good times can be had in sunny California near the beach. You can play volleyball. You can ride bikes and chase seagulls. You can scope chicks. If you're homeless, you can sleep on the sand and not miss out on too much. Some people fish from the pier; others peer at the fisherman while eating fish tacos. All of these are worthy endeavors. It's not really <em>what</em> you're doing at the beach that's important-it's just about being there. The ocean is the great equalizer for Californians. It doesn't matter if you're dirt poor or Kobe Bryant, anyone can enjoy the panoramic beauty of the Pacific. It's February, and instead of playing 'Survivor: Interstate Gridlock' in icy <a href="http://www.metrocouncil.org/directions/transit/transit2007/snowytraffic.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Minneapolis</span></a>, I'm basking in the glow of 80 degree days, cloudless skies, and the warm ocean breezes. A good way to spend winter, unless you run an Igloo construction corporation.<br /><br />Throw in the fact that I'm getting paid to fly airplanes and most days I really do feel as though I've won the lottery sweepstakes. What kind of price tag can you put on that? The cynic would say to just look at my student loan tab, and there's your answer, but it's not about money. Sure it's been a brutally difficult road to even make it this far, and I'm nowhere close to where I ultimately want to go, but it has been an incredibly rewarding past few weeks. For the first time since I began this journey, I am starting to see the payoff for my hard work, and it comes in the form of job enjoyment. And actually, the word 'job' is deceiving: I don't feel like I've worked a single day since I arrived out here.<br /><br />Certainly not without challenges, however. During standardization training, one of the most oft-repeated company mantras was to be extra careful because the students are 'trying to kill us.' Not with guns and knives, or even Anthrax poisoning, but more in the sense that, as novice pilots, they still lack the necessary decision making skills and safety knowledge that are gradually acquired as training progresses. Heck, just read back a few months and I was in the same boat. More than anything, it takes <em>time </em>to become a skilled pilot, and in most cases, it can't be taught simply by sitting in a classroom or reading a book. That's why it's laughable to think I'm anywhere near being ready to fly for an airline, with paying passengers' lives in my hands. I may be done with training, but I'm finding that I'm learning much more now than I ever did before, when I was in the care of <em>my</em> instructors. And some of the most beneficial lessons I learn are often the most dangerous.<br /><br />I conduct most of my students' training flights a few miles just out over the ocean, where there's usually a bit less general aviation traffic than flying inland over the city. One of the safety precautions I take is to obtain the services of Air Traffic Control and let them know my position and intentions. It's commonly called 'Flight Following', and mainly used for <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">VFR</span> cross country flights, but in the busy <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">SoCal</span> airspace, it's a nice service to have for local training flights as well. That way, they'll be able to let <em>other</em> airplanes, namely the big, shiny jets, what this clown-of-a-pilot is doing some 5000 feet above the sea, besides impeding their final approach course into one of the major airports out here. Once communication is established, they'll tell me I'm in radar contact and give me frequent updates on the altitude and magnetic heading of other aircraft. It's a nice supplement to the tried-and-true method of looking out of the cockpit and scanning the sky. While I'm still responsible for seeing and avoiding all traffic, it's good to have someone looking out for you, just in case. And a few days ago, while training a rookie pilot on multi-engine maneuvers, it may have saved my life. I was training a student in his last flight prior to taking the multi-engine practical test. The weather was sunny and clear. We had been up in the air for nearly two hours, and as I looked at my watch, I figured we had time for a few more maneuvers before heading back to Long Beach. I had him set up a practice maneuver called a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Vmc</span> Demo, which simulates losing an engine, and losing directional control of the aircraft, then recovering. Risk is compounded due to several factors, including flying at slower <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">airspeeds</span> and a very high angle of attack, which reduces my ability to see outside the nose of the airplane. As the student began the maneuver, my Portable Collision Avoidance System began to bleep. I glanced towards the handheld device, and its reading showed traffic some 2000 feet above me, in the vicinity of 3 miles. After searching the sky from my right seat position, I returned my attention to coaching the student through the maneuver and kept my <a href="http://ep.yimg.com/ca/I/stylespilotshop_2090_29505338"><span style="color:#ff9900;"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">PCAS</span></span> </a>cradled in my hand. Despite the company's <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">generosity</span> in providing us with these, I often find them more annoying than helpful, especially in the busy <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">SoCal</span> airspace. Plagued with inaccuracy, I've often seen other airplanes far closer than I'd like that fail to show up on the device. It's almost like watching 'The Bachelor'; you never really know what to believe. Despite the buzzing, I kept my student in the maneuver, thinking the other airplane was still a ways off. By now, you can imagine where this story is headed.<br /><br />A few seconds later, the air traffic controller I had been talking to came over our headsets, and gave us the traffic alert: <em>'Seminole 263AT, traffic 10 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">O'Clock</span>, 2 miles, SE bound. Turn right heading 030 for spacing</em>.' I responded in kind, and had my student stop the maneuver while we searched for the jet somewhere in our vicinity. I grabbed the controls for a second, gently nudging the airplane in a right banked turn for a few seconds. My <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">PCAS</span> was silent on this round, and now I was legitimately wondering if I'd see the other plane. Still, I thought we were good.<br /><br />I started talking again to the student, and began to set him up for the next maneuver, when the controller came over the radio once again, only this time with a strong sense of urgency: <em>'Seminole 263AT, turn right IMMEDIATELY for traffic!</em>' This time, I swung the aircraft sharply to the right, changing our heading by another 30 degrees in just a few seconds. I stabilized the aircraft, and began to rapidly scan the area. It was here I saw the jet, just outside our left window, a few hundred feet below us, on what appeared to be direct path towards our previous position. Just missed us. Whew. Exhale. <br /><br />You know the feeling you get when you're speeding along on the freeway, and all of the sudden you see the flashing red and blue police lights? You've just been <a href="http://www.hankstruckpictures.com/pix/trucks/mike_boyd/2008/12-03/mls_volvo_vnl300_van_pulled_over_i75_tn_07.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">pulled over</span></a>. Your heart sinks. Muscles tighten, your throat dies up like the Sahara. In an instant, you've gone from being in total control to complete submission. It's terrifying. (Um, not that this has ever happened to me) Multiply that by about 10 and you'll know what I felt that day. Would we have hit the other plane? Probably not, but maybe. I was legitimately spooked. After a few minutes of wiping the sweat off my face and catching my breath, I decided to terminate the flight and head back towards the airport. <br /><br />I love to fly, and no experience could change that. But when I climbed out of that airplane and set my feet back on the tarmac, I've never felt happier to be on the ground. It only took a few weeks, but I'd had my first real scare as a flight instructor. Let's hope it's along time before something like that happens again. I thanked the approach controller profusely as I signed off, and went on with my day, thankful that I hadn't ended up as one of those horrific aviation accident statistics that I'm always reading about. I lived to fly another day.GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-72847004676850858302010-01-27T17:12:00.001-08:002010-02-01T20:15:22.658-08:00Round TwoI used to love looking at maps. As a kid, I'd pull out the biggest road atlas I could find, then try to pick out towns that appeared to be the furthest apart, and guess their distances. I'd look up the most remote locations, and estimate how long it'd take to get there. I spent hours staring holes into these maps, simply because I enjoyed it. In a related story, I also wore braces, had no girlfriend, and spent considerable time trying to pry myself out of school lockers. But as I pored over these maps, I kept coming back to Texas, and was always dumbfounded that a state could be so big. I deduced that one could spend an entire day driving from one corner to the next, and yet still not make it out of the state. Factor in the scorching heat and you're looking at a solid 12-14 hours of desert misery, which is infinitely different than dessert mystery. <em>Fools</em>, I thought. <em>I'll never drive that. What a waste of time. </em><br /><br />As I'm learning lately, elements of my past are continually creeping into the forefront of my life. Despite my best efforts to be 'drafted' by the company location I most desired, I got word late Monday evening that I would be headed out to Long Beach, CA. Goodbye Atlantic Ocean, hello Pacific. No more Jacksonville, but <em>plenty</em> more driving: including a straight shot through (yep, you guessed it) the heart of southern Texas. I spent most of that night ignorning Mapquest's driving directions page, instead choosing to focus my energies on procrastinating anything that resembled packing up my Jacksonville apartment. The next day, I trudged wearily into the company offices, hoping there had been some form of paperwork error or misinformation. Nope. It would be Long Beach. Almost on cue, one of the company executives laughingly pulled up the route, and cheerfully announced, "Wow, 38 hours, have fun with that trip." Thanks, man. Getting Long Beach as a base was like being named CEO of Waffle House-sure, you're excited to have reached this point in your career, but there's definitely some obstacles to overcome. After all, it was only a week earlier that I'd made the fateful joke about being 'banished to some random place, like Long Beach.' Well, here I am. Long Beach, California. <em>Gulp.</em><br /><br />A few snapshots from my life on the road:<br /><br />-I alluded to it before, but as it turns out, Texas is really, really big. Crossing the Louisiana-Texas state line, I encountered an ominous road sign: <strong>El Paso, 857 miles</strong>. In moment of self-denial, I quickly reached for my atlas, hoping that somehow, that wasn't my route. Nope. I settled into the driver's seat a little bit deeper, relaxed my grip on the steering wheel, and took a deep, deep breath. This was going to be one long drive. <br /><br />-Because I'd been driving since 9PM the previous night, I knew my stamina was about to reach the 'disgruntled fast-food employee' level quickly. I drove for a few more hours, then settled in to a Motel 6 just past San Antonio. As always, my thoughts turned to food, and I starting salivating towards the thought of a hot breakfast bar the next morning. Of course, when I woke up and inquired about said spread, the lady at the counter chortled and replied, "No, there's no breakfast here, but we do have free toothpicks!" Awesome. Thanks for all your help. The next time I'm driving 38 hours across the country and starving to death, I'll be sure to stop by your hotel and clean the food particles out of my teeth.<br /><br />-Apparently there's not one Chinese person in all of Mississippi or Louisiana. I scoured the freeways for the better part of 5 hours as I transversed their states in vain for a Chinese buffet, but couldn't find one. I kept driving and driving, hoping that each subsequent exit would deliver. I <em>wanted</em> a Chinese buffet. Eventually, as the hunger pains began to take their toll, I resigned myself to pulling over at a Subway. Sure enough, at the first exit heading into Texas, just moments after finishing my sandwich, was a Chinese buffet. Next time, I'm using Mapquest to highlight every Chinese establishment in a six-state radius, just to be safe. I havn't been that disappointed since <a href="http://www.cduniverse.com/productinfo.asp?pid=1266300"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Home Alone 3.<br /></span></a><br />-In the barren wasteland that is New Mexico, it's not uncommon to travel for long stretches without seeing any signs of life. Ordinarily, this isn't a problem, but when the Silver Tauras' gas light's been on for twenty minutes, a sense of panic ensues. After all, I've made <em>plenty </em>of jokes throughout this blog about pilots being eaten by wild animals. The last thing a traveler wants to have happen is run out of gas on the Interstate in a strange, lonely place. I couldn't remember the last roadsign I'd seen. How far was the next town? Once again, I instinctively reached for the road atlas, hoping to find some off-the-beaten path joint with gas services. No luck. I reduced my speed to a more fuel-efficient 55 MPH, hoping to stave off the impending doom as long as possible. I began to sweat and curse myself for not filling up an hour ago, when I had 1/4 tank left. Finally, out of nowhere, a small outpost appeared on the horizon. "<strong>Separ Gift Shop</strong>." (Note: this town was so tiny it's <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&ie=UTF8&ll=32.236036,-108.591614&spn=0.346159,0.52803&z=11"><span style="color:#ff9900;">not even ON a map</span></a>. It's true.) I could see the fueling station pumps from the exit ramp, and my I finally exhaled after nearly a half hour of terror. But, as things often seem to be for me, the town of Separ did not have fuel that day. Only the tattered remnants of a once-proud establishment remained. Incredulously, I walked inside to the gift shop, and demanded to know where they were hiding my gas. The poor counter-lady couldn't have been more distraught when I told her how long I'd been driving on empty, how I was SURE there was gas here. Despite her best efforts to sell me some moccasins and cowhide vests, I told her I really needed gas, and asked what the nearest place was. All she could muster was a consolitory, "Honey, if you want GAS, you're looking at TWENTY MINUTES, at least."<br /><br />Now... it was pouring rain. I had neglected my atlas. My car hated me for subjecting it to a 3rd cross country drive in less than a month. I was hungry. Nobody else was around. Sunset was just around the corner. Thanks to some poor planning, my cell battery was waning. The odds of this story turning out good were about the same as me starting a gardening enthusiasts club. I did the only thing I could: got back into the car, began to pray that I'd miraculously make it to the next town, and kept driving west. As I crept back onto the Interstate, my car bellowed at me like one of those African water buffaloes. Pretending to be deaf, I stepped on the gas pedal, set the cruise for 55 MPH, and kept praying. Soon, a mile passed. Then five. So far, so good. I counted out ten miles, and now I was feeling it, like a high-roller who hits a hot streak at a Craps table. My atlas showed a sizable town, only 11 miles away. I used a Post-It note to cover up my fuel indicator, defiantly protesting against its indications. Another mile down. More prayers. By now, my situation was less dire: if the car died here, at least I was closer to fuel. In the end, it didn't matter: a few minutes later, my car coasted with relative ease to a large fuel station, and in my mind, onlookers and other passerby were cheering and applauding one of the greatest moments in New Mexico transportation history. Somehow, someway, my 15 gallon fuel tank managed to take 15.7 gallons of fuel. I think I'll frame the receipt. The Silver Tauras, and God, had conquered fuel starvation. The name of the town? Lordsburg. Some things were just meant to happen.GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-91557685826653731342010-01-15T07:36:00.001-08:002010-01-25T16:38:31.323-08:00Training DaysOf all the <em>Rat's nest, this is horrible</em> things about life, few can stand up to the excruciating monotony of searching for a job. The agonizing periods of waiting, the endless recording of information minutae, and especially the rejection letters-of-doom all add up to some fairly undesirable feelings. More than a few people can relate, especially given the economy. As I neared the flight school finish line, more than anything else I dreaded the long days of trolling the internet for possible job openings and submitting resumes to unnamed human resource personnel in far off places I never dreamed I'd consider living. Fortunately, for all parties involved, I didn't have to wait or search long: while spending the afternoon after my final checkride cleaning the apartment and packing my car, I received an email from the HR department of my flight school, wanting to know if I'd be available for a phone interview later that afternoon. I cleared my schedule (read: there was nothing to be cleared) and prepared myself for what she might ask. The interview came and went, and a few hours later, I had been offered a job as a flight instructor, and I'd be headed back one of my least favorite U.S. cities: Jacksonville, FL.<br /><br />My disdain for Jax runs deep, stemming from an encounter with a disgruntled taxicab driver back in October and continuing on with my epic two week CFI school imprisonment shortly before Christmas. Throw in the fact that it's one of the most sprawling cities around (count on thirty minutes of driving to get <i>anywhere</i>), obscenely high crime rates, and an overwhelming surplus of overpriced Publix grocery stores and one might begin to form an idea of why even Cleveland ranks higher on USA Today's "Top 10 Most Desirable Getaways" List. I made that last part up. But, still.<br /><br />Some decisions are hard in life, like determining which breakfast cereal to eat, or whether or not <a href="http://www.howtallarecelebrities.com/male-celebrities/ben-affleck.php"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#ff9900;">Ben Affleck</span></a> wears a tupee. Accepting this job wasn't one of them. In aviation, a sure-fire offer on the table always trumps what <i>could </i>be out there. I originally had grand visions of working as a bush pilot up in Alaska, or spending a few years overseas as a missionary pilot. And perhaps someday those plans will still come to fruition. But with a concrete offer on the table, I elected to go with the sure thing. For now, I'm thrilled to be working for the flight school I attended, and even more fortunate to be receiving a paycheck FOR FLYING AIRPLANES. Six months ago, when I first enrolled, completing school on time and exiting with a job offer in hand would have been the absolute most desirable outcome. I like how things turned out, even if I'm in Jacksonville, although it's not entirely awful living three miles from the ocean on 70 degree January days. Somebody has to do it-might as well be me.<br /><br />It's not been easy. Compressing the amount of information I just learned into a 5 month, 150 Day program was intense, but the company's standardization training has obliterated anything I've ever encountered. It's like brushing your teeth at the bottom of Niagara Falls-just a catastrophic amount of excess pressure everywhere you turn. The demands placed upon me as a salaried pilot are taking their toll. Each day has been chock full of training sessions, simulator prep work, and a ridiculous amount of hours spent in the company business center, where we counsel prospective students on the <a href="http://img.allposters.com/6/LRG/11/1161/SGGU000Z.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">perils</span></a> of enrolling in our school. Before we are unleashed to one of the company's 25 nationwide locations, however, we must pass five thorough simulator evalation sessions and two flights with the Chief Instructor. It is here where I ran into my first major obstacle.<br /><br />Flying in any simulator is the classic double edge sword illustration. You're performing the same checklists, announcing the same callouts, and configuring the device as you would in the air. The value of spending time in a simulator is definitely tangible. However, most sims are often labeled as being squirrelly, or difficult to fly. The obvious difference is that, in the air, you're able to 'feel' the aircraft as changes are made, and compensate accordingly. The reality is, there's simply no substitute for the real thing. Now, I'd succeeded in the sim before, but in my first attempt to pass the evaluation sessions, I crumbled under the pressure and received an unsatisfactory rating. Failing the sim session meant I lost my instructor seniority and was moved to the back of the line. I watched as the four people I was hired with plowed through their sim blocks with the ease of someone loading up their plate at Old Country Buffet. For two weeks I languished in uncertainty, wondering when I'd get another chance. In the meantime, I began pulling even longer days, spending two or three hours in the morning running through procedures and operations and another few hours at night flying in the simulator. Soon, I'd pushed myself to exhaustion and had to take a step back.<br /><br />No disrespect to anyone who may have, at one point, ran an illegal dogfigthing operation, but these really have been the dog days of my fledgling pilot career. Moments of doubt, mixed with frustration and impatience, are the defining elements of my new struggle. I knew climbing the ladder would be tough, but until you're a few rungs up, you really don't know how far it is to go. Like I used to lament back in my private pilot days, it seems as though everyone is a better, safer, and more experienced pilot than I. And it's true: they are.<br /><br />I remember thinking, back a few months ago, that when I finished flight school, that THEN I would celebrate and enjoy my hard work. I would lay around, basking in the glow of being done. I would be lazy. Sleep in. I would get fat. These were the things I looked forward to. I distincly recall telling myself to feel proud of what I'd accomplished, that I'd finally 'made it'. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The reality is I am a rookie, that I really don't know too much about anything, and this is the part of my life where I take my lumps, early and often. Responsibility has increased tenfold-I'm no longer the trainee-and it's all on my shoulders. The company has a saying, "If you see it, you're responsible." These days I'm seeing everything. There's no time to be lazy, and get fat, because I've got a flying career now. I am responsible. It is an incredibly sobering thought, that I know just enough to legally teach someone how to fly, and not much else. It's enough to keep me dilligent in my studies, and more than enough to motivate me towards give my everything to the students I'll be teaching.<br /><br />Fast forward to a few days ago. With all that extra practice time built in, I breezed through the final few simulator evalutations, passed my initial recommendation flight, and now am readying myself for one final flight. Then, I'll wait, for my name to be called, for the final word on where I'll begin my flying career. Early word from HR is that I'll be headed to Indianapolis, or possibly Atlanta. Like an NBA Draft prospect awaiting his fate, I'll be anxious to find out where my Silver Tauras will deliver me next. I only know one thing: it will be someplace other than Jacksonville.GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-31831223296626939782009-12-27T15:54:00.000-08:002010-01-10T15:55:44.169-08:00Endings<div align="center">"All endings are actually beginnings, we just don't know it at the time." -Mitch Albom</div><div><br /></div>Has it really been three weeks since I finished flight school? <i>Gulp</i>. I can just about imagine how many people actually still read this: it's probably the same number of people who've successfully paid me to fly their airplane so far: zero. I started writing this shortly after I passed my final checkride, and somewhere between driving 3100 miles and having the egg-nogg IV inserted into my forearm, I lost track of the blog. Who knows how much longer I'll keep this up now that my formal training is finished. The important thing is to at least share the conclusion, right?<br /><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left">No matter how long a particular journey is, there's always a myriad of emotions when it's finally over. But is there a certain way one should feel? Whatever the manual says, I don't think I followed it properly: there were no victory parades, no celebratory champagne toasts, and not even the obligatory trip to the Chinese buffet. I'm still not sure what happened. Did I really do this? Is it actually over? It still doesn't seem real: I'm still waiting for the FAA to storm my house in the middle of the night <a href="http://www.smh.com.au/ffxImage/urlpicture_id_1068329571248_2003/11/11/240mel_gibson_braveheart.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">William Wallace</span></a>-style, take all my pilot certificates, then set everything ablaze on their way out. But it really is over. Hard to believe. Look, I hate cliches as much the sandwich artists at Subway hate it when I ask for extra spinach, but it really does feel like yesterday I packed up my house and moved to Texas. And now it's over? I feel many things, but above all else, I am relieved. I'm glad that my sixteen hour study days are over, and happy that the late night sim sessions are through. Grateful that I survived the grueling pace, and thankful I made it my original goal: I'm now a certified flight instructor with 220 hours in the logbook. I scraped and clawed for every single one of those hours, and could have compiled some awfully disgusting statistics about if I'd kept track. I'm excited that I'll now have the freedom to decompose on my parent's couch while not feeling too guilty about not studying. </div><br /><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">It took way too long for my body to detox from eating nothing besides sandwiches and noodles. For the first few days I kept reaching instinctively for sandwiches, even while Mom did everything short of strapping me to a chair and pouring pureed steak and chicken down my throat. The good news: I survived without contracting any communicable diseases and while keeping my sanity intact. The bad news: I lost an inordinate amount of weight and successfully convinced my stomach that the food pyramid is nothing but an elaborate hoax. I'm sure I'll develop some form of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIrkU6VkIhJQ3llVYtMplG8fjLwaMNHBCdMb7PLZn-EAcGDlcrxq4vfVPmtsAfYqL1D45hxA1xRgrNNF3BdIOaSioJxnyGTuZ5XZBMEbjv4g3vuUFjl1dUi26YUdbTaXLHj0x6V0MvwoU/s400/animal_oddities_gourd_tortoise.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF9900;">mutation</span></a> later in life because of this.</div><br /><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">My last checkride was largely uneventful. Back in the single engine Cessna for the last time, I took this one out of the right seat, and played the role of flight instructor. The examiner was cheerful and full of conversation, almost exceedingly kind, like he knew just how hard I'd pushed myself to get to that point. I flew a variety of maneuvers, mostly ones I'd performed before, talking through each as though I were teaching a new student. It was almost easy. On my final approach to Arlington, some 400 feet above ground, a fuel track inadvertantly drove out on the runway, parked itself, and forced me to make an emergency go-around. The odds of this happening had to be something like 227,000 to 1. I mean, my roommate and I had wasted hundreds of hours practicing this exact scenario, only because we both loved throwing unmitigated disasters at one another to see how we'd react. But who, besides terrorists, drives a fuel truck on an active runway? As I jammed the throttle forward and began to climb, I called the control tower to notify them of what was happening, and in a matter of seconds, chaos ensued. Controllers could be heard over the frequency yelling at one another, wondering how such a colossal breakdown in airport security could occur. Phone calls were made, and the words 'FBI' and 'arrests' were audible over the radios. Either way, I was soon out of the traffic pattern, and planning for the return landing. In a matter of moments, I was back on the ground, and I had passed my final checkride. As for the fuel truck guy, I think it's safe to say he didn't pass his checkride.</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left">For the last time, the examiner shook my hand and forked over my temporary certificate. I think even someone as experienced and proficient in the airplane as he is can appreciate just how far I've come in five months. Or maybe he was lamenting the fact that I'd no longer be making trips to the ATM for the express purpose of bolstering his bank account. Did I really give the examiner $3,675? Yes. Hopefully he's enjoying that two week yacthing expedition off the Caribbean islands. You're welcome, sir. I'd prefer to not think about that money.</div><div style="text-align: -webkit-left;"><br /></div><div align="left">Thank you for reading this journey, for following along as I struggled first with a new environment and grasping the intricacies of flying an airplane, for growing with me as I flew by myself for the first time, to encouraging me during the instrument phase, for listening as I wondered if I'd ever make it, and for putting up with a ridiculous sandwich count at the end of every posting, all the way to seeing and hearing about the finished product. In a way, you are all pilots too. I may be leaving flight school, but I'll still be blogging, and since I'm writing this retroactively, there's a new journey already happening that I'm anxious to write about. In the meantime, here's a short clip from one of my favorite movies that sums up the last 5 months better than anything else I could have said:</div><div align="left"> <object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/R90DJdhSkQQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/R90DJdhSkQQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /></div><br /><div align="left"> </div><br /><div align="left"> </div>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-11290993662001995972009-12-20T12:51:00.000-08:002009-12-21T19:15:04.841-08:00CFI School, Part IIAs the long days of instructor school turned into weeks, our collective resolve gradually began to diminish: the TV, which had been neglected for most of the first 10+ days, now found its way back into the routine. The ocean beaches, which we stared after lustily at first, soon became too enticing to pass up. And the piles of textbooks, which had ingrained themselves into every fiber of our existence, soon sat in far corners of the condo, longing to be picked up and held again. Combined, this was substantial evidence that either we had offically reached burnout stage, or that we were ready for our checkrides.<br /><br />The worst part of the first ten days? The uncertainty of not knowing when it would be over. Anyone can withstand pain, torture even, when there is a clear end in sight. Just ask Detroit Lions <a href="http://ksm913.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/detroit-lions2.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">fans</span></a>. But when it seemingly will go on forever? That's when hope is lost. Eventually, word was passed down from the higher ups that our checkrides had been scheduled, giving us moderate rejeuvenation to regain our strenuous study pace.<br /><br />Soon after, I was informed that I had indeed escaped 'The Executioner' for my initial flight instructor checkride and was instead scheduled with a gentleman named Walt, who also happened to be the lead ground school instructor. I couldn't have been happier. My classmates all remarked that I'd hit the lottery, and I agreed. After all, Walt was the 70 year-old grandfather figure who spent years working for the FAA, and now, in retirement, found great joy in helping future generations of pilots achieve their dreams. He purposefully sought out us students, often gathering around during coffee breaks and sharing one of his famous one-liners. He was, in all senses, a walking encyclopedia of aviation knowledge. I'd lost count of the times he'd seen me diligently reviewing his lecture notes or preparing lesson presentations and stopped by to offer his insights. This had to be a good thing, right? Having spent four years accumulating brownie points with my professors in college taught me that one can never have enough goodwill stored up-you never know when it might come in handy.<br /><br />As I spent the final few days prior to my checkride making sure I'd left no stone unturned, Walt continued to help me fine tune my efforts, combing over my power point slides with the same care he used to guard his beloved Taco Soup <a href="http://calgaryisawesome.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/the_soup_nazi028.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">recipe</span></a>. I couldn't believe it: my examiner was actually helping me pass the checkride. He told me to let him know when I wanted to get started, and on a rainy Saturday around 8 AM, we decided to go for it.<br /><br />Now, up until this point, most of my checkride orals lasted 30-45 minutes, at the most. I knew this would be different. A few of my classmates had taken theirs the day before, with one oral exam lasting 7.5 hours. Did we have to know everything? Apparently, yes. As I gathered my materials and lesson presentations, I made sure to pack my 900+ page book of aviaion law, which, ironically, my examiner Walt wrote 1/3 of.<br /><br />Checkrides are a funny thing. Pilots who've successfully passed through multiple ones say that they're no big deal. To a beginning pilot though, a checkride felt like life or death. At this stage of the game, I'd become accustomed to the process, wasn't very nervous, and wanted simply to pass this one, gain my instructor's certificate, impress Walt, and go home.<br /><br />Here's the thing: in the aviation world, the initial flight instructor checkride is, by design, one of the hardest to pass. It's not merely a test of skill and proficiency but also of knowledge, safety, and the ability to teach. I've heard the national average pass rate hovers around 40%. None of that mattered to me; I <em>wanted</em> this one bad. It's sort of like playing cards with my Gramma-at first, she's happy just to be playing, but then, after winning the first few games, she's transformed into a ruthless, win-at-all costs competitor. I'm the same way with these checkrides. It's not enough that I made it through the first five without a bust; I want to pass them <em>all</em>.<br /><br />It didn't happen. Though I blasted through the 3.5 hour oral with few problems, the flight almost instantly turned into a disaster. Walt took it upon himself to fluster, bewilder, confuse, and intimidate me, and it worked. I lost sight of an airport. I nearly breached a restricted airspace. I botched radio calls. My maneuvers, which had been crisp only the day before, withered like a decaying garden eggplant. During the most crucial hour of my flight training, I fell apart. I had failed my first checkride.<br /><br />We flew back to the departure airport, and debriefed the flight. He wanted to know what happened; I didn't have an answer. Even chipmunks could have flown better than I did that morning. Just like that, $575 down the drain. It was the most disparaging of all possible outcomes.<br /><br />A few days later, after I'd cleared my head and regained my confidence, I went out and flew like <a href="http://interflightstudio.com/store/images/Red%20Baron%20Plane%20-%206001RB.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Red Baron</span></a>, and earned my flight instructor certificate. After all the hardships I'd endured over the past few weeks, it was more relief than anything else. Soon, I found myself back on a plane, bound for Dallas. Instructor school was finished. Only one more week of flight school.<br /><div align="center">PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 167</div>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-31029370648764417162009-12-09T13:42:00.000-08:002009-12-14T16:09:45.811-08:00CFI School, Part IThe flight school machine may have taken a four day vacation in honor of some of the greatest Pilgrims I know, but that doesn't mean there hasn't been plenty of material stored up for another blog entry. Since I'm a freshly minted commercial pilot, the next logical step was to earn my flight instructor's certificates. After a quick trip home to Minnesota for some much-needed turkey and family time, I was told to be at the Dallas-Ft. Worth airport a few Sundays ago with all of my textbooks and study materials by 1PM. My training partners and I begrudingly packed our suitcases bound for military boot camp, disguised as certified flight instructor school. We'd heard the horror stories from classes before us: 16 hour study days, impoverished living conditions, brutally indifferent instructors, and a checkride with an examiner nicknamed 'The Executioner'. I prepared myself for the worst.<br /><br />After two weeks of nothing besides sleep and studying, I can only confirm this: I'm exhausted. Each morning when the alarm clock sounds my body groans in disapproval, rebelling against the grueling pace that I've established. I keep wondering when the end is in sight, when I'll get to take my instructor check ride and fly back to Dallas. In the mean time, life is on hold: calls to my cell phone go unreturned, emails neglected, bills upaid, friendships stranded. Make no mistake: this has been some of the most awful two weeks of my entire life.<br /><br />Living in hamster-like cages with 3 other students lends itself to madness. Few are the moments when I question not only my sanity but that of those around me. Annoyances fester beneath the skin until one of us erupts like some overwhelmed Kindergarten teacher during <a href="http://www.americanprofile.com/asset/file/art/94/23094/36s362.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Show & Tell</span></a><em> </em>gone awry. <em>GET YOUR AIRPLANE FLYING HANDBOOK OFF MY BED!</em> Who will reach their breaking point first? It doesn't matter; we all already have. I want to go home, and I'm not even sure what that means anymore. Texas? Minnesota? I just know it's not here.<br /><br /><div align="left">How much longer can I take it? Who knows. In the meantime, a few stories, good and bad, from the epicenter of it all:<br /><br />-Delayed in Dallas for over an hour, we sprinted to make our connecting flight in Charlotte, only to have our bags left behind. Faced with the prospect of sleeping without my packed sheets and blankets, I scavanged around the unfurnished townhouse and only found a thin, shredded-up Pocahontas beach towel. Sleeping without any blankets is awful. What did I use to keep warm that first night? Let's just say that I can now paint with all the colors of the wind.<br /><br />-With no time to go to the grocery store before our first day of class, I splurged and went to Subway with a few of the others in the class. One girl came along, but didn't buy anything, instead plowing some donated crackers with the intensity of a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Ef0dqGEDQrZGKG8JqpWxst08QySZCjDObiBXc8NQ8f0Cx472h3bn8u1Idj_qdNpZqBvVXt_SJZ9M8Txc5tsfNd2Blz8Z0JXZjbe0ZenDRn_e3N_JoJKJ5WawxCWkhgsAjFr6RNaven0/s320/2961759617_dedb546f11.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">squirrel</span></a> hoarding acorns before winter. When asked what she had against $5 footlongs, she replied that she only had $3 to her name. <em>$3?</em> No credit cards, no parental assistance, no war bonds she could cash? Nope. I was incredulous. If you're ever wondering why pilots are arrogant, it's because of what they've overcome to get where they are. I'll bet you an oven-roasted chicken breast on Honey Oat that she will never forget how poor she once was, if that airline dream of ours ever comes true.<br /><br />-One of my first flights here was a required 'Spin Training and Recovery' flight. In layman's terms, a spin is the result of an uncoordinated stall, resulting in the airplane plummeting to the ground as it faces nose-down and rotates around its center axis. In other words, something I don't want to ever happen as a flight instructor. We are required by aviation law to learn proper recovery technique and procedure before earning our instructor's certificates. This was by far one of my favorite flights. The sight picture was a little scary at first, but after I developed proficiency it became a game to see how quickly I could recover. Good to know I'll be able to survive the types of disasters my future students might put me in, just like my instructors overcame my ineptitude just a few months ago.<br /><br />-Being a native of Minnesota has taught me a few things about winter; namely, that people should not leave the house from Thanksgiving to St. Patrick's Day, just to be safe. The one redeeming quality of being lampooned here in Jacksonville is that I'm able to parade around in shorts and a polo while the locals bundle up with fur coats and scarves. If you need to find me, just look for the guy embracing 55 degree weather by going for late night jogging excursions.<br /><br />Back to the present: to repeat the mantra I learned very early on in flight school, I'm taking this one day at a time. It's a struggle, especially as I begin to wonder if I'll be finished up by Christmas, but I'm a pilot, and therefore I'll figure things out.<br />PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 162</div>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-80099623463151740752009-11-25T13:34:00.000-08:002009-11-29T08:56:13.358-08:00Will Fly For FoodI like to cook. Unusual hobby, sure, but it's healthier than constantly eating greasy burritos from Taco Bell 24/7, and it saves money. Unfortunately, the flight school diet has <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">consisted</span> of far too many sandwiches and oatmeal over the past few months, but on occasion I splurge and head for the bulk meats section of the nearest <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Wal</span>-Mart <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">supercenter</span>, all in hopes of stockpiling the ground beef for making Hamburger Helper. If you have the discipline to ration the portions refugee-style, one can usually get 2-3 meals out of this. Even though I'm now very proficient in making this meal, it always baffles me how it's able to come together. At first it's just a lump of red, raw meat. Fifteen minutes later it's an unrecognizable scramble. Douse it with a few cups of water. Maybe add in some milk, throw a few noodles in it. By now it's all I can do to keep my creation from overflowing the pan and causing a big mess. There's nothing about it that resembles a meal, not even close. It's at this point I mix in the seasoning sauce, and that only furthers the perception that I'm cooking vomit. The discolored blob of ingredients hardly looks edible. But soon, after a few stirs, and enough time over the hot stove, the liquids settle in, the noodles begin to cook, and the pan starts to become one. An aroma flows through the air. Soon, with a little care and effort, my dinner's ready. Now, no one here would argue that Hamburger Helper is a gourmet meal. Point conceded. But there is something special about taking something ordinary and seeing it come to its full potential. Maybe it tastes better because I went through the effort of making it. Or maybe I've gone senile over the past few months and somehow decided that writing a paragraph on Hamburger Helper was a good idea.<br /><br />No matter, I can't help but draw parallels from one of my favorite low-budget meals and my experiences here. One of my first recollections about this crazy journey comes from back in early May, when the first crate of aviation textbooks and supplies arrived at my house. As I sifted through the boxes, feelings of being overwhelmed consumed me. The materials were things I'd never seen before, never knew they existed. I flipped through a few pages of a training manual and thought, "<em>What did I get myself into this time</em>?" It was a <a href="http://1416andcounting.files.wordpress.com/2008/12/gigli.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">disaster</span></a>.<br /><br />Over the next few weeks, little by little, I threw myself into the books. My free time was spent learning things that, even just a few months prior, never envisioned myself caring to learn. And as summer approached, and my flight school date grew ever closer, I realized there was no going back. The beef was now brown.<br /><br />My arrival here in Texas was met with more books, more uncertainty, and an even greater overwhelming feeling. I remember my first night here: exhausted from the fourteen-hour drive, hungry and in dire need of a shower, I met a few of my training partners and collapsed onto my bed, wondering if I'd made the right decision. The life I'd left behind suddenly seemed remarkably appealing. Was it too late to change my mind? As I stared at the heaping pile of books and aeronautical charts on the table, I wondered how I would ever make it.<br /><br />The next morning, while eating the first of the PB&J sandwiches for breakfast, I pored over the syllabus, which outlined the next 150 days of my life, almost down to the hour. I'm the type of person who likes to take things one day at a time. I thought I'd <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">accidently</span> stepped into a military prison camp. I felt more out of place than <a href="http://static-resources.goodguide.com/images/entities/all/226937.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Captain Crunch</span> </a>at a quilting convention. That night my classmates and I studied until midnight. If the first day didn't kill me, I thought, maybe there's a chance I can do this.<br /><br /><br />Eventually, my classmates and I fell into a routine: wake up, study, go flying, study, sleep. And that's how it went for me for the first month. Before I could blink, I'd been here a month. The reality that I was chasing a dream sprung me out of bed each morning. Soon, after about six weeks, I'd earned my private pilot's license. A few weeks later, I'd added a multi-engine rating. Who knew I had it in me?<br /><br /><br />Slowly, but steadily, I progressed though the grueling instrument stage. If there were ever a time to quit, this would have been it. These were long days, often starting before 6 and ending well after midnight. I wanted to kill my instructor. He probably wanted to kill me. If Vegas had been taking bets on <a href="http://www.deskpicture.com/DPs/Miscellaneous/spam.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">survival</span></a>, odds would have been pretty much even. <br /><br /><br />Time has been on fast forward ever since. I spent two weeks flying around the country, building my hours. I took three written exams in seven days. Just last week, I conquered two commercial <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">checkrides</span> in one weekend, making me qualified to fly for hire. Somehow, someway, the ingredients all came together. I am now a real-live pilot. The end is near. In a few short hours, I'll board a U.S. Airways flight for Jacksonville to begin certified flight instructor school. Two weeks of grueling study and preparation for a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">checkride</span> that determines my immediate flying future. After being <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">separated</span> for most of the past three months, my classmates from our private pilot days are joining me for this final push. If all goes well, I'll be back to Dallas and done with the program in three weeks. The end is near.<br /><br /><br />In one of my very first posts, I broke down my ambitions as plainly as possible: <em>I just want to fly airplanes</em>. While I've attained that goal, I'm ready for the next challenge: I want to teach people how to fly airplanes. I'm still not quite sure how this happened, but I never want to go back.<br /><div align="center">PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 143</div>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-52600469028439912292009-11-15T21:21:00.000-08:002009-11-22T11:09:53.599-08:00Break In The ActionThey say no man is an island, but flight school can sure make you feel like it. Inhabiting the basement floor often leaves me wondering if indeed the rapture has happened and I've somehow been forgotten. These are dark and quiet days, with few demands on my schedule besides a few hours of flying each day. While it's a nice respite from the grueling pace of the program, the abundant downtime leaves one with a prevailing feeling of guilt. Even tasks <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">once</span> viewed as a productive expenditure of time, like <a href="http://silverfox863.files.wordpress.com/2008/05/dirty-laundry.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">laundry</span> </a>or composing emails, now offer a chance for my conscious to challenge my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">diligence</span>. <em>You should be studying or getting ahead right now</em>. That's what living each day on flight school autopilot will do. After all, since I first stepped foot on the tarmac way back in July, I've been bludgeoned repeatedly with one assignment, project, or test to prepare for. And now, at least until I leave for instructor school, the exams are finished and ground lessons done, giving me ample time to realize I'm not accustomed to having ample time.<br /><br />Fortunately, I've <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">combated</span> this by purposefully scheduling early morning flights back in the Cessna and plenty of textbook review. Simply staying on guard against complacency consumes a tremendous amount of energy, especially without an individually assigned instructor for this phase of my program. There are positives and negatives to this, with the major advantage being I get to see and hear several different critiques of my performance in a relatively short period. The major downside, of course, is that I usually end up being tossed around like one of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Kardashian</span> sisters. Since every instructor is different, each has their own <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"><a href="http://waleshoststheashes.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/105_1.png?w=463&h=463"><span style="color:#ff9900;">idiosyncrasies</span></a></span> that can't help but be encountered during a lesson. A checklist flow method that generates applause from one instructor might result in a tongue-lashing from another. Trying to keep them all straight almost requires the use of Microsoft Excel. Today's flight was spent with the most experienced instructor our school has, a guy with nearly 1,700 hours on his resume and enough confidence to salvage a middle school homecoming dance. His penchant for crazy unusual attitude training notwithstanding, the guy knows his stuff and is an excellent instructor. It's hard not to feel intimidated around the more experienced, battle-tested pilots. I look forward to the day when I'm considered a peer, rather than just another student climbing the ladder that seemingly lacks a top step.<br /><br />A quick glance at my logbook says the 200 hour mark is fast approaching-the minimum benchmark when applying for a commercial pilot's license. Training for the commercial <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">checkride</span> really is a lot less awful than, say, drinking a sewage-flavored smoothie. The new <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">maneuvers</span> aren't all that difficult; it's mostly a refining of the basic skills I learned back in my private pilot days. What's mainly giving me trouble during my training flights is a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">maneuver</span> responsible for the majority of botched <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">checkrides</span> at this stage, known as a power-off 180. Simply put, it's a simulation of a failed engine while in the traffic pattern of an airport. While parallel to the landing zone, approximately 1,000 feet off the ground, I cut the throttle to idle and begin turning the aircraft back down towards the runway, with the goal to put the wheels of the plane down exactly on a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">pre</span>-determined spot. Sound easy? The margin for error here is +200 feet, -0 feet. If I land it a foot short, too bad, it's a failure. Also in play: accounting for the wind factor. At no point am I allowed to increase the throttle-my only weapons are adding flaps or performing S-turns while I lose altitude. It is a constant blend of determining position and airspeed while slight adjustments to align the aircraft correctly. To be honest, the few times I've successfully pulled it off so far could be attributed to minor miracle. And even while demonstrating it to me, the instructors repeatedly botch it as well. The moral of the story: hope for a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">checkride</span> day with zero wind and pray for leniency from the examiner. It's more than that, and with two training flights before the moment of truth I'm sure my proficiency will increase, but it'll be interesting to see how I perform. From this point on, I'm calling it the $400 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">maneuver</span>. To see it done at a passing level, click <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n-iG59aRaEE"><span style="color:#ff9900;">here</span></a>.<br /><br />There are days I'd love nothing more than to sleep in and lay around, but both of those are <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">incongruent</span> to the ultimate goal and the magnitude of what's at stake here. Seeing the big picture requires loads of discipline, but I'm getting weary. In my downtime I've realized how much I miss family and the structure of normal life. This is the longest I've gone without seeing any of them-4 months. And all the things I miss about my 'normal life', like sleeping in a bed long enough for my 6'4" frame. Morale remains high, and the end is in sight, but man, I am ready for some home cooking. As I finish my final few weeks of training, the sandwiches are rapidly beginning to lose their flavor. Marked on my calendar after this week's <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">checkride</span>: a trip to China World's massive buffet. Motivation for passing never tasted so good.<br /><br />The other day, a fresh new batch of students came in, all excited and ready to get started with their private pilot program. It strikes me as fascinating that my two classmates and I are now the self-proclaimed big dogs around here, the ones who supposedly know the drill and are viewed as the wise old sages. Let me be the first to say that I feel grossly unprepared for that mantle. What's even more alarming to me is that after Friday of this week, barring a complete disaster up in the air, I will be qualified to begin earning $$$ as a professional pilot. Not that <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">there'll</span> be a Lion King-style stampede of job offers at my door, but still, it's a very exciting and humbling prospect.<br /><div align="center">PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 131</div>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-11042496265707941212009-10-31T20:07:00.001-07:002009-11-13T19:05:23.212-08:00Great Moments In AviationOne 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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">coffee</span> 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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">methodology</span> 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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">privileges</span> sans coffee making responsibility than the inverse of that.<br /><br /><br />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, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=156985&id=500412089&l=3ed7108b5b"><span style="color:#ff9900;">click here</span> </a>to view them. For those thirsting for a more detailed description of my adventures, let's go to the envelopes:<br /><br /><strong>The Amelia Earhart Memorial 'Crap, I Think We're Screwed' Award</strong><br />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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">pre</span>-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 <a href="http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/discoblog/files/2008/03/brain-surgery.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">obligations</span></a>, we really learned nothing from that exchange. As I moved the airplane forward to where I <em>thought</em> 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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">maneuvered</span> 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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">maintenance</span> and requested a different aircraft. After a quick phone call to the dispatch attempting to explain my incompetence, we <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">pre</span>-flighted a new aircraft and were on our way-but not before an apologetic phone call was placed to the tower. Despite the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">inconvenience</span>, I found myself thankful the engine malfunctioned when it did-any later would have constituted a real emergency.<br /><br /><strong>The Octave <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chanute</span> 'Man, This Is Way Better Than A Cubicle' Award</strong><br />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.<br /><br /><strong>The Neil Armstrong 'Hey Buzz, The Field's In Sight, Put It Down' Award</strong><br />You probably won't believe this, but I was not a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">crewmember</span> 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. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lauderdale</span> 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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">ILS</span> approach. In a precision approach, there is a listed decision altitude (DA) listed on the <a href="http://stoenworks.com/images/ILS%20approaches,%20images/Approach%20plate,ILS.gif"><span style="color:#ff9900;">approach plate</span></a>. 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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">communicating</span> 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, '<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">OK</span>, 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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">oncoming</span> 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 <em>watching </em>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.<br /><br /><strong>The Bessie Coleman 'Hey, These Chili Dogs Are Pretty Good' Award</strong><br />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 (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">KMEI</span>), 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.<br /><br /><strong>The John Glenn 'We're Still Alive' Award</strong><br />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 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">XC</span> 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.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://flightlogg.in/map.php?type=markers&share=702&token=47fec9f491"><span style="color:#ff9900;">here</span></a> for your enjoyment.<br /><div align="center">PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 122</div>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-79430491683095948092009-10-22T07:53:00.000-07:002009-10-23T16:07:09.920-07:00A New Rating<em>4:45 AM, Unit #301, ATP Airport Housing Complex</em><br />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.<br /><br /><em>4:57 AM, Unit #301, Kitchen, ATP Airport Housing Complex</em><br />All efforts to avoid waking my comatose roommate have been for naught as I unconsciously slam into a pre-arranged <a href="http://expat21.files.wordpress.com/2008/12/dirty-dishes.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">pile of dirty Tupperware, cups, eating utensils, and dishes</span></a>, knocking them 4 feet downward, creating a series of loud crashes and causing him to groan like an agitated walrus. I love checkride days.<br /><br /><em>5:05 AM, Pilot's Lounge, ATP Housing Complex, ESPN.com</em><br />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?<br /><br /><em>6:30 AM, Instrument Training Classroom, ATP</em> <em>Training Center</em><br />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.<br /><br /><em>7:15 AM, Main Offices, ATP Training Center</em><br />Like a heavyweight <span style="color:#000000;">boxer</span> 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.<br /><br /><em>7:30 AM, FAA Examiner's Office, ATP Training Center</em><br />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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=viXx3RfFc4Q"><span style="color:#ff9900;"> Adrian Peterson</span></a>-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.<br /><br /><em>8:20 AM, 2,500 feet, Dallas Executive Airport, ILS Approach</em><br />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.<br /><br /><em>8:45 AM, 2,500 feet, Cockpit of N6816A</em><br />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 <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB1QAQs_-xSrWugar_JwrdryG7twPJnQyKL9CBTiFpUe3XkOyxcvrPpNET7bhyPCEZp0tuw1oSeTf0w9_So_Kb-WymXJq_iM9VzRcukZhbT6vzucClReSDgpnDVtdEBhEe-F9D5OR0R1EF/s400/SeriFishSculpturewithClay.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">ceramic sculpturing</span> </a>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. <em>Exhale</em>. I don't think I took a single breath in the last 30 seconds.<br /><br /><em>8:55 AM, Grand Prairie Municipal Airport, GPS Approach</em><br />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.<br /><br /><em>9:20AM, 5 miles from BROUZ, VOR Approach to Arlington Municipal Airport</em><br />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.<br /><br /><em>10:00 AM, Pilot's Counge, ATP Housing Complex<br /></em>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.<br /><br /><em>11:45 AM, FAA Examiner's Office, ATP Training Center</em><br />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.<br /><br /><em>1:45 PM, Unit #301, ATP Housing Complex</em><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><div align="center">PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 112</div>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-58077486033069098122009-10-11T15:26:00.000-07:002009-10-11T19:46:43.041-07:00ProgressMuch 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.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.americansweets.co.uk/ekmps/shops/statesidecandy/images/2lb-aunt-jemima-pancake-mix-and-pancake-syrup-combo-55-p.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Aunt Jemima</span></a>. 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.brownstoner.com/brownstoner/archives/ice%20cream%20truck.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">ice-cream truck</span> </a>around, but I'm hoping that this is a more rewarding career path.<br /><br />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.<br /><div align="center">PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 99</div>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-43906779487123734322009-09-28T17:19:00.000-07:002009-09-30T20:42:51.041-07:00Low PointTwo months ago, when I had barely wet my feet into the world of aviation, I had a conversation with my CFI regarding just how difficult the journey from zero to hero would be. One of the first kernals of wisdom he dispensed was this: 'During instrument training, you'll want to pull your hair out, it's that bad.' Turns out, the CFI was only half right. I want to do more than that. I'd prefer to douse myself in jet fuel while standing underneath a <a href="http://www.wallpapernow.net/images/wallpaper/shuttle-launch-wallpaper.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">space shuttle launch</span></a>. That's how I feel most days. I'm spending preposterous amounts of time staring at manuals and computer screens all in hopes of solving asinine questions such as:<br /><br /><strong>What is the MCA at SABAT intersection when eastbound from DBS VORTAC on V298?</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />A few weeks ago, asking me that question would have been like asking Chef Boyardee for an oil change. Aside from learning how to decode the above hieroglyphics, it seems like my progression has been on vacation for the past week. For the first time, I am really struggling. Not with attitude, desire, or work ethic, but in the one area that proves to be the most baffling: performance. I am simply not picking the nuances of instrument flying as quickly as I'd like, or expected. While the CFI has been remarkably patient, I am still waiting for the breakthrough that everyone keeps saying will inevitably happen. The CFI's all say that the instrument phase is crazy and sometimes it takes awhile for the light bulb to finally go on-but, it WILL eventually happen. In the meantime, it's all I can do to stay positive in the face of repeated uncertainty. This morning simulator session was particularly disheartening. The scenario was set up for me to fly a GPS approach with a 200 FT cloud cover ceiling. As I descended into the thickest clouds about 3,000 feet up, I noticed that my attitude indicator was providing some misleading information. Rather than do the correct thing and cross-check the other instruments on my panel, I chased the attitude indicator with a hard bank to the right, to what I assumed would give me the proper correction. A few seconds later, I finally glanced over at the airspeed indicator, which was showing a rapid increase to 200 kts. It was at this point I knew <em>something</em> was wrong. My vertical speed indicator showed I was plummeting at a rate of 2,000 feet per minute. In a panic, I yanked back on the control yoke sharply, hoping to stave off certain death. This only exaggerated the effect, and as I peered over at the altimeter in vain, I knew my time was up. In a few short seconds, the simulator screen flashed bright red, and the speakers blasted out the ominous sound of my airplane slamming into the ground. <br /><br />A few moments later, after I surveyed the damage, the CFI explained what happened. He had failed my vacuum pump system, rendering two crucial instruments inoperative. By neglecting my other instruments, namely the turn coordinator, I had inadvertently entered what's known as a graveyard spiral. I'm guessing it's called that because happy endings are few and far between. Mortified and dejected, it was a rough ending to a brutal past few days. There are few things in life as difficult as feeling inadequate, and that's the prevailing emotion after most of these sessions. I want so badly to succeed at this, and to some degree, I already have. Never once did I expect this to be easy, but by the same token, I didn't think <em>anything </em>could be this hard. Why do the things we want the most in life often prove to be the most elusive? This is the question I'm pondering tonight as I pore over airport diagrams and approach charts in hopes that tomorrow's the day of my instrument breakthrough.<br /><br />Despite repeated failures in the sim, my resolve remains stronger than ever. I can, and will, do this. Even though the road ahead remains long and grueling, I've already come so far. It's a daily battle to fight through the negativity and self-doubt-in flight school, confidence is like <a href="http://students.ou.edu/W/Michelle.L.Wilson-1/TheOldProspector.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">gold</span></a>, and finding it is often a struggle, but when it DOES arrive, there is nothing you cannot do. I'll let you know when I get there. With the check ride still a few weeks off, there's ample time to keep searching. And even in the midst of the long hours of study, perpetual setbacks, and the constant wondering of whether I have it in me, I still, without a doubt, love to fly. That trumps all else.<br />*********************************************<br /><strong></strong><br />On the (admittedly) small list of 'Things I Will Not Miss About Texas', the 5:30 a.m. lawn service visits to my housing complex would rank pretty high. What would ordinarily be the unmistakable sounds of weed-eaters and leaf blowers resembles something more like a chainsaw and machine guns when roused from a mid-REM cycle just prior to wake up. The first time it happened, I instinctively dove for cover underneath my bed and began making tunnels in hopes of survival. Generally, this is not the ideal way to start a morning. My brain is conditioned to tolerate only soft, peaceful noises during slumber. Anything more than that and the sensory system goes haywire. I understand their desire to avoid the intense mid-day heat, but flight school students need to sleep. Next time it happens, the lawn care team should be forced to partake in one of my simulator sessions as retribution. It's only fair.<br /><div align="center">PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 87<br /><br /></div><strong></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong></strong><br /><br /><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><br /><br /><strong></strong>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-73151170653247545762009-09-22T08:21:00.000-07:002009-09-25T19:18:25.377-07:00All Your Questions AnsweredThis morning, while plowing through a bowl of Cheerios, it came to my attention that my family has begun posting my picture on the backs of milk cartons. Yikes. Has it really been that long? It might be time to make a few calls, because I'm still alive and still a pilot. You can send the search parties back to Minnesota; the bloodhounds are keeping me up at night. As for the blog, well, it's still on life support...but has hopes of coming off the respirator here in the next few minutes. There's really a dearth of legitimate excuses for the lack of blog posts. But I have been amused by the inquiries as to my status, so let's dispense of the rumors by joining the Greenpilot press conference, already in progress:<br /><em></em><br /><em>Did you flunk out of flight school?</em> Actually, this is the one I would believe if I were in your shoes. After all, we're going on nearly 3 weeks since my last post and in all likelihood, unless you are an <a href="http://games.espn.go.com/ffl/leagueoffice?leagueId=405133"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Enjoy Sack Lunch</span> </a>fantasy league participant, you probably havn't fielded a phone call or email from me either. Let's quickly put this theory to bed, though, as I'm doing just fine academically and enjoying this portion of my training more than I expected. Remember the motto, 'Cash Above All': if I were to flunk out of flight school, I'd be out the $60K. Money, believe it or not, is a huge antidote to procrastination and serves as a powerful motivator for binge study sessions.<br /><br /><em>So if you're still in school, why havn't we heard from you? </em>As it turns out, flight school is actually very demanding. Most days there simply isn't enough time to accomplish all the things I wish to get done. The CFI piles on the homework like Emeril loading ingredients into a <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgidTM5-fTkxUpEKDPPOwDPXrZZraPekQ5xZCWHaGY6qHFYrU57MOOf5SOu9XiJy0r_emAUIGPLbTPV707b-z_mASxGehH0iQFGj7vPn-LXQI3a80NL1_-sF4MQ5cdFKjC90QZKw6OibPQ/s200/IMG_0534.JPG"><span style="color:#ff9900;">boulliabaisse</span></a>; there's simply no stopping him. My reading assignments for tonight only took two hours; that's a decrease from the usual allocation of infinite.<br /><br /><em>Do you eat anything besides PB&J sandwiches?</em><br />No, although, I did recently did recently discover Banquet's .58 cent frozen pot pies, which seemed like a good idea, at least on paper. This false euphoria lasted for about 3 1/2 minutes, or roughly the time it took to thaw via microwave action. Please save yourselves and your families by not purchasing this product, unless you are a fan of heart disease and Ebola. The best story I can share with you involving food occurred just a few weeks ago, on Labor Day, when the acclaimed fast-food restaurant Chick-fil-A ran their ubiquitous promotion of giving away free chicken sandwiches on the condition that you wore collegiate apparel while ordering. I didn't go to the University of North Carolina, nor did I study at Oregon State. I also was never a student at the University of Minnesota. None of these facts, however, prevented me from making four successive trips with my classmates to the nearest establishment, where I proudly displayed my shirts each time for a delicious (and free) fried chicken sandwich. If only I hadn't been verbally assaulted for wearing my Bryan College jersey. Note to cashier: yes, it's a real college. Some would call my artistry dishonest; I choose to use the phrase 'poor flight school student being resourceful.'<br /><br /><em>What do you do for entertainment?</em><br />Besides study, not much. I'm beginning to think that the academic karma police are giving me my retribution for the four years of undergrad, where I compiled an impressive ratio of 1:30 study/fun hours. That time I should have been in the library studying for my Child Development exam, but instead spent 4 hours 'acquiring' pumpkins, only to roll them down a massive hill and watch as they smashed into a cinder block wall? Yep, I'm paying for that now. The gargantuan assortment of textbooks on my desk serves as an important reminder to be more prudent with my time management skills.<br /><br /><em>What's the next phase of the program for you?</em><br />I'm heavy into the instrument stage of my training. To the casual observer, it would seem like this should take a few days. After all, it's basically just looking at gauges and dials and making the correct interpretations, right? I'm discovering it's much more than that. True instrument training dictates that you will be spending your time directly in the clouds, often flying in some of the worst meteorological conditions around. Low ceilings, poor visibility, and overcast sky conditions are the cornerstones of instrument flying. Without an instrument rating, a pilot is relegated to flying only in the most ideal of weather conditions-not to mention prohibited from flying into clouds. The overwhelming majority of airline flights will operate using Instrument Flight Rules. Consequently, unless one's career ambition is to only fly banners over the Gulf of Mexico on sunny and clear summer days, an instrument rating is the quintessential endorsement a pilot should have. Instrument flying is actually quite enjoyable; your body and brain often form alliances against you, spreading lies and propaganda about your aircraft position and attitude. With no horizon to guide you, a pilot is left only with the instrument panel as an ally. Trusting these indicators will prevent you from making an incorrect adjustment. Fortunately for me, I have experience in fighting off lies from my brain, like the time in 9th grade I was convinced that an NBA future was my destiny.<br /><em></em><br /><em>How many checkrides do you have left?</em><br />Glad you asked. After passing my multi-engine exam this past Sunday, I believe the count is somewhere near six. At $400 a pop, passing is considered to be the desired outcome. Still, this check ride seemed substantially less taxing than my initial private pilot exam, perhaps due to the confidence I brought with me headed into this one. The examiner holds every possible aviation rating known to man, and at the ripe age of 60, he clearly has had a more prolific flying career than me, making his presence in the cockpit rather intimidating. Nonetheless, I'm 2/2 on check rides now and plan on continuing that trend.<br /><em></em><br /><em>Colonel Jessup, DID YOU ORDER THE CODE RED?</em><br />Whoops, sorry, wrong press conference...<br /><br /><em>This is supposed to be an aviation blog, give us something we can use!</em><br />Hmm...well, as a commercial airline passenger many moons ago, I always wondered how pilots could see and identify the runway from so high and far away, especially if, during our final descent, there were clouds obscuring their field of vision. Were they just guessing? Did a computer do the work? Magic? I've spent the last few days training in the flight simulator doing exactly what I described above. Not to get overly technical here, but most aircraft are equipped with GPS moving map technology, which aids in determining position. In addition to that, most airports have something called an ILS, or Instrument Landing System. The ILS is composed primarily of two seperate systems, one called the localizer, which provides lateral guidance, and one called the glideslope, which provides vertical guidance. Transmitted over radio frequencies, these signals are received by aircraft antennae and displayed on the display panel's heading indicator. The glideslope can be picked up from as far as 18 miles out, spanning ten degrees from the width of the runway and basically gives a path that the pilot should follow to descend at a proper rate in order to find the runway with little visibility. From there, it's simply a matter of making small corrections in pitch and power to stay on the glideslope. By using the ILS, pilots can be guided all the way down to a minimum decision altitude, at which point, if they cannot visually locate the runway approach lights, they are mandated to perform a missed approach and enter a predetermined location for a holding pattern. So the next time you're flying commerically with a window seat, don't panic simply because the airplane is slicing its way through clouds and fog. The ILS will take care of you.<br /><br /><em>Did you really just wasted 45 minutes writing that paragraph?</em><br />Exactly. It's past my bedtime.<br /><div align="center">PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 77<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-4044495828642499212009-09-06T16:29:00.000-07:002009-09-09T20:39:57.007-07:00Halfway To The Shire<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFwFt6-sNIqA_T8nUxtTfNX7IYawyIlzQOjHgBNvq0ZW2pIL1E5PwygB8xPWaTACUQfTXb9T6aXEt1fPSoOePa7K1IAHKrG_P9ZOvtJlaTZhyicq14b3aXRVRcW0VWOukUI3hyphenhyphenBKrOwoI/s1600-h/IMG_2657.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378907867344586850" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFwFt6-sNIqA_T8nUxtTfNX7IYawyIlzQOjHgBNvq0ZW2pIL1E5PwygB8xPWaTACUQfTXb9T6aXEt1fPSoOePa7K1IAHKrG_P9ZOvtJlaTZhyicq14b3aXRVRcW0VWOukUI3hyphenhyphenBKrOwoI/s400/IMG_2657.JPG" border="0" /></a>I don't go see many movies. Not because I am opposed to the secular world, or because I can't get a date, but mostly due to my penchant for falling asleep during lengthy films. Think about it: is there a more conducive atmosphere for catching some shut-eye? Complete darkness, comfy reclining seats, a greased-up stomach from overpriced popcorn, and horrendously intricate plots all lend themselves to form one insurmountable obstacle towards actually watching the movie. I still remember the time my college buddy Tan conned me into seeing a midnight showing of the third <em>Lord of the Rings</em>. Not only had I 'missed' the first two installments, but my motive for going was questionable at best (a female may or may not have been involved). My disdain for silly fantasy storylines notwithstanding, I barely made it through the previews before I was snoring like a geriatric with a sinus infection. (note: did you know that the word geriatric derives from Greek orgin and means 'Old Man Healer'? Why are we still calling them doctors?) Since I didn't have any idea what the the movie was about, I did some minor research and can now tell you that the film revolved around a group of people (or animals, it remains unclear) who embarked on some great quest, encountered numerous obstacles, fought through adversity, and ultimately found their destiny, united by a common goal of global preservation/domination. In retrospect, that Tolkien fellow could have saved time and simply renamed the trilogy <em>Flight School. </em><br /><br /><div><div><div>Hardship. Sacrifice. Uncertainty. Evil warlords controlled by an all-consuming passion for power. A relentless march to Mount Doom. The discovery of self. Parallels from that movie to my experiences here are infinite.<br /><br />Like a piece of <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMwYgCTbV9Ko0BMcYC6K-jGYMDgW9Z_BGl8B9JGi6XMet8UpbWdaEDfW-CCdR9LsogGS8xji7PigTgYBTXxEZkaeZskNOMhNwNoShUwHmOGUBCnmlM2t8JZuQsdKOFNeRaUSQYZ7N2aKg/s400/asparagus.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">oversteamed asparagus</span></a>, I have now been in the pressure-cooker for two months. I'm nearing the halfway point of the program. My existence has been trimmed of virtually anything other than flying, studying, and sleeping. Lost in the rubble are the last eight weeks of my life. How can time progress so quickly when each day is exactly the same? You could tell me that I arrived here just yesterday, or you could tell me I've been here for two years. I would believe either one. </div><br /><div>I have tasted small morsels of success, achieved major victories, and successfully wrecked havoc on the food pyramid by refusing to eat anything besides sandwiches. Along the way I've discovered more about myself than I ever knew existed. I can fly airplanes. I know how to study. I am impervious to challenge. And, probably the most surprising: I am passionate about something other than sports. My final career destination, while still unknown, means substantially less to me now when compared to transformation that's already happened.<br /><br />The savagery of a small group hungry student pilots attempting to complete flight school in five months is not pretty. This relentless pursuit of aviation knowledge leaves a tremendous trail of destruction: already one student just a few weeks ahead of me has been sent packing, deemed not fit for the rigors of flight school. One more was dismissed from the program for having a lacksadaisical attitude towards studying. Still another prospective pilot was devoured by a pack of desert <a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2378/2074498520_ca93088845.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">lobos</span></a>. Let's hope my fate more closely resembles what this program originally prescribed. </div><br /><div>I am closer to the finish line than ever before, yet it seems further away than ever. What lies ahead is a daunting schedule I never dreamed I'd be ready for. It's going to get crazy in here, and fast: In the next 90 days, I am scheduled for six more checkrides, five written FAA exams, 165 hours of flying time, and something close to one hundred dreams involving Outback waitresses bringing me bottomless baskets of Filet Mignons.<br /><br />Tomorrow, I change airplanes, leaving the Cessna to climb aboard the Seminole and leave my faithful CFI behind. The journey continues. There are new mountains to climb, battles yet to be fought, and plenty of packaged noodles stockpiled in my cupboard. This bizarre and confusing journey through Middle Earth flight school will be over before I know it. Will our hero make it? Who wins? One thing's for sure: I'll be certain to stay awake for this one.</div><div align="center">PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date):61</div><br /><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"></div></div></div>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-55377702994108539652009-09-02T19:03:00.000-07:002009-09-02T21:53:32.519-07:00A Night In San AngeloIt's come to my attention recently that I am perhaps making flight school out to be this terribly tramatic event, with suspenseful twists at every turn and hair-raising commentary about my life here. It is certainly not this way, at least for now. So this time, if you've come here looking for a death-defying story of cockpit heroism, I'm sorry to disappoint, but there will be no such tale. If you are simply bored and searching for random flight school antidotes, however, I'm more than willing to oblige, for the last seven days have been filled with exactly the types of mundane monotony that has suddenly enveloped my life, making it difficult to formulate coherent and entertaining blog posts. Studying. Eating. Sleeping. Repeat. Not to complain; I'm enjoying the reprieve from the pressure cooker and am preparing for the next stage of my training by plowing through the fifteen-textbook monkey that UPS happily dumped on my back. There are college libraries that hold less books than my tiny apartment now shelves. I'm running out of space here; it's only a matter of time before I have to use the refrigerator for overflow storage. I am only one shipment away from taking business from the Library of Congress. We're not kidding; it's time to cut back on the textbooks.<br /><br />My last act as a private pilot was a lengthy trip out to a city called San Angelo, west of Arlington by three hours and smack in the middle of seemingly the largest windmill and oil rig colony in Texas. It's probably not found on the typical family's list of most-desired vacation destinations. Flatter than construction paper, it's the type of place where you can watch your dog run away for three days. It's unclear what people do for entertainment there; but the 106 degree temperatures tell me it probably has something to do with survival. Don't be surprised next fall when you turn on CBS and see the promo ads for Survivor: San Angelo. Remember, you heard it here first. Having said that, I'll be happy to enlist for duty since I've already managed to overcome anything the network executives could throw my way.<br /><br />The normal procedure for these types of flights is a thirty-minute rest, a bathroom break, and then plan for the return leg home. So after the customary restroom visit and refueling of the airplane, I headed back out for the trip home, only to be greeted by a disgruntled engine that sounded like a <a href="http://www.mutanteggplant.com/agog/wp-content/uploads/2008/12/lipizzaners.jpg"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Lippizaner</span></a> getting a root canal . Figuring it simply needed a break, I went back inside, waited a few, and tried again. Nothing. I'm no aerospace engineer, but I knew something was wrong. After a few phone calls and running through the vaunted "Engine Troubleshoot Checklist", it was confirmed that the plane was rendered inoperative and in need of mechanical attention. I assumed that meant a few hours; my flight school had different ideas: I'd be forced to spend the night in the very place I'd already begun to loathe.<br /><br />The words <em>overnight</em> and <em>San Angelo</em> proved to be a worse combination than a tuna fish sundae. Thinking this flight would be nothing more than a quick trip, I'd neglected to pack my wallet or any type of toiletries, not to mention a remedy for my now-drenched boxers and socks. Because I am a trooper, however, I tried to make the best of an unfortunate situation by forming alliances with the Days Inn front-desk lady (free toothbrush) and restaurant waitress (free pancakes). The taxicab driver, however, proved to be much more formidable. He never wavered from 'company policy', insisting on charging $56 for a ten minute ride from airport to hotel. It's a good thing my flight school is apparently flush with cash and offered to pick up the tabs; otherwise you'd probably still be peeling my scorched corpse off the tarmac with a spatula.<br /><br />The plane was fixed by noon the next morning, and, after carefully checking things out, I started the engine, took off, and within three hours was back in my apartment, where the first order of business was to follow the lead of <span style="color:#ff9900;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsyYvFgdb5c"><span style="color:#ff9900;">Forrest Gump</span> </a></span>and change my socks. I dutifully thanked the Chief Pilot for taking care of the arrangements and vowed to never again forget my wallet. They say to expect the unexpected in the world of aviation; I am proud to say I've now learned that important lesson. From now on, I'm definitely packing extra supplies, just in case. Whether or not that includes an attractions map of San Angelo remains to be seen.<br /><br /><div align="center">PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 57</div>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266056581412623756.post-53630659774276130872009-08-25T12:39:00.000-07:002009-08-28T08:36:53.303-07:00Kid Passed, C+ AverageBefore I tackle everything that needs to be discussed here, my first priority is to acknowledge that we should probably change the title of this page to, "Come Neglect To Update The Blog With Me." Yes, it's been awhile. It's a minor miracle that it's even happening. Be thankful, be thankful. But I'm here, alive, with plenty of stories to go around. Let's recap the last few days of flight school:<br /><br />If your family doesn't celebrate half-birthdays, you're really only cheating yourself. The origins of such a holiday are unclear, but I do recall leading riots and mass protesting on the streets in response to my older sister's birthdays, so perhaps my mom felt obligated to create pseudo-happiness for me by declaring a half-birthday. Whatever the case, the half-birthday should be commemerated as such: you should only receive half the normal allocation of 'happy birthday' phone calls, half the gifts, and generally submit half the effort required for your regular birthday celebration. Why partake in the phantom celebration? Well, for starters, sometimes twelve months is just too long to wait. An even greater reason is that the half-birthday offers the opportunity to celebrate in a different season and setting, for example, if your normal birthday parties fell during the summer months, having a half-birthday provides ample reason for your teacher and classmates to lavish attention upon you. Regardless of when your actual birthday is, I highly recommend the half-birthday experience. I recently had my half-birthday this past Friday, August 21st. How did I choose to celebrate this year? I did what any reasonable person in flight school would do: I took my private pilot checkride.<br /><br />The actual event was bumped back one day due to abnormal factors well beyond my scope of control. (note: if you are an important person, it's advisable to avoid slamming your car door shut on your $300 glasses-they will be destroyed instantly) I had already spent the entire previous night agonizing over what felt like the biggest test I'd faced since the time I had to choose between Fruity Pebbles or Golden Grahms. Waking up at 5 A.M. was the easy part-I'd been restless ever since my nightly foray to the refridgerator several hours earlier. I quickly inhaled some breakfast while reviewing my checklists and study notes, then headed upstairs to begin filing my paperwork with the CFI. For what seemed like an eternity, I sat and waited, questioning myself as to whether I had prepared enough, if there was something I'd missed. Flipping open the nearest textbook, I quickly began to quiz myself. It was futile. My brain, already on overdrive and seemingly ready to explode, refused to allow any more learning to transpire-it had to save storage space for the upcoming NFL season, I'm convinced.<br /><br />The examiner finally called me into the briefing room, invited me to sit, and immediately started interrogating me as though I were on the F.B.I's 10 Most Wanted List. <em>Describe your aircraft's engine. What instruments operate using a vacuum system? How many fuel sumps does your aircraft have? Where were you on the night of the 13th? </em>He barely paused long enough to digest my answers, then moved on to the next question, leaving me to doubt each response for accuracy and clarity. Like a mouse trapped in a python's cage, I kept waiting for the moment of impending doom, for that one questions that I didn't know the answer to. It never came. Thirty minutes later, I emerged, caked with sweat, but victorious. I had conquered the oral exam, only to walk outside and see the vast dark clouds that had swept in. Thunderstorms, which meant more waiting, more pacing back and forth in my apartment. More restlessness, more anxiety. Few things in life are as difficult to endure as waiting for something you've spent so much time preparing for. After a few hours, I finally gave in and began playing video games. I made a milkshake. I went to the bathroom about 47 times. These are the things I did to survive.<br /><br />The examiner gave me the go-ahead to start getting ready. With my hands shaking, knees weak, and sweat dripping down on my suit, I had one last pep talk with the CFI, then began the preflight process. Having checked everything twice, I climbed aboard, strapped myself in, and said one final prayer. The examiner climbed in, and in an instant, a wave of confidence washed over me: <em>I can do this-it's just another flight</em>. I flipped a few switches, contacted ground control, and rambled down the taxiway, all while the examiner thumbed playfully with his iPhone. Nice. Either he is trying to acquire a 10% stake in Vandalay Industries, or he's feigning disinterest to see how I react. As I steered the plane just off the runway, he finally spoke: "Flaps 10, soft field takeoff." My mind reacted, reaching over to alter the flaps setting, mentally running through the checklist of what needed to be accomplished. By now, I may as well have been a participant in the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DI_-sMBKZuw&feature=related"><span style="color:#ff9900;">World Sauna Championships</span></a>; the sweat glazed my face, pools of perspiration formed in places I didn't even know I had places. As we took off, the examiner immediately reached for the yoke on his side, as though I'd done something wrong. I continued to climb, staring out of the cockpit with one eye, glancing over at his side with the other. I began verbally going through the appropriate checklists, making sure each step was heard by the person who ultimately controlled my fate. I performed the correct time and fuel calculations, and took a long-overdue deep breath. I had survived the first five minutes. The next seventy were still to come.<br /><br />A few landings at a nearby airport. Steep turns. Simulated emergency. Radio navigation. Power off stalls. With every completed manuever, the end grew closer in sight. His demeanor made it impossible to gauge my performance; by my estimations I was somewhere between highly proficient and grotesquely incompetant. I actually thought I'd done well, but here's the thing: silence is intimidating. There would be no feedback, not here, not now. With my flying livelihood resting firmly in the contents of his notebook, he finally directed me to head back towards Arlington.<br /><br />I landed, waited for taxi instructions, and located a parking space. Nervously, I rested my hands on the yoke and waited for his verdict...the dry lump in my throat grew to increasingly resemble the Sahara desert-part of me considered gulping some engine oil just to stave off dehydration. As I turned the engine off and monitored a few gauges, he broke the silence: "Meet me inside in a few minutes." I tied down the aircraft, gathered my headset, maps, and other flight equipment, and headed towards the the briefing center.<br /><br />I don't remember the next few minutes. The CFI came ambling over, asking about the flight, but I could hardly speak. I don't know what I told him, he just sort of laughed. I just knew that it was over. Pass or fail, I could at least relax. In reality, I just wanted to shed myself of this now-drenched suit, grab a Gatorade, and find a recliner somewhere. After a few minutes, the examiner called me into the briefing room, handed me a slip of white paper, extended his hand, and said, "Well done." I'd passed. Euphoria. I instantly broke into a huge smile, thanked him, and focused my remaining energy on restraining myself from giving him a bear hug.<br />*********************************************<br />I'm not entirely sure who General Tso is, but if I ever have the chance to meet him, I'll be sure to tell him how much I enjoy his chicken. I'd already made up my mind that if I passed the checkride, I'd celebrate my new pilot status by devouring as much Chinese food as possible. Unfortunately, my stomach has been conditioned over the past two months to believe it belongs to a field sparrow. Suffice it to say, it was a disappointing performance at the buffet. I'm almost embarrassed to say I could only make two trips. It won't happen again.<br /><br /><div align="left">I am now a pilot. While my privilidges are fairly limited, it is the first milestone in my journey. With the first hurdle cleared, my thoughts gravitate towards what's ahead. Over the week, I'll continue to fly to exotic locale such as Tulsa, Houston, and Shreveport. Another shipment of textbooks and aircraft manuels has already arrived, and, as I switch from the single-engine Cessna to the multi-engine Seminole, a harrowing thought is at the forefront of my mind: my next checkride is 15 days away. Does anyone have a birthday I can borrow?</div><div align="left"></div><div align="center">PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 49</div>GreenPilothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15015075715007844611noreply@blogger.com5