On the menu today is emergencies, of the we're-all-gonna-die sort. Simulating engine failures in a private plane is easy. You pull the throttle back to idle, and pretend your engine stopped running. Then you find a place to land. What you can't simulate is panicky, screaming passengers grabbing your chest and clawing your eyes out for dear life. So, that will have to wait until after I get my license.
I would like to make one thing clear: Bicycles, all bicycles, can slowly burn to a crisp cinder of the course of a thousand years in Bicycle Hell. A single shard of glass honored its ancestors by undertaking and succeeding in a suicide mission to rob my rear tire of its life. As the tire exhaled its final breaths, I had an opportunity to reflect upon all the misfortune bicycle use had brought me. This reflection occurred well into my scheduled lesson time, as I was forced to walk to the Old T's from there.
Finally arriving late, I once again flexed my paperwork muscle and impressed exactly no one with my ability to write personal information into a form. I nabbed the keys, preflighted 854AC, and Stephen and I were off into the blue.
At work, a couple of friends remarked that, so long as I was flying in the Oakland area, I should take some pictures of the MacArthur Maze collapse from the air. I thought this was a swell idea, and seeing no specific restrictions against it, decided I would bring the idea up with Stephen and see if he thought it was safe.
Stephen said sure, we could swing by there on the way up. However, shortly after getting taxi clearance, it was obvious this wasn't going to happen. Another aircraft eagerly piped in over the radio.
"Oakland ground, Cherokee niner zero one five juliet, request taxi to runway 33, we'd like to take some pictures down at MacArthur."
"Cherokee one five juliet, uhhh, well, you're cleared to taxi, but be advised there are numerous aircraft in the vicinity of the accident. Expect frequent collision warnings."
Stephen and I looked at each other. Sure, maybe a licensed pilot might be able to handle the airborne zoo above the freeway, but as a student pilot, it's the FAA's opinion that I wouldn't be able to tell my ass from a hole in the ground I created with my airplane. Stephen remarked that they won't fix the overpass overnight, and there will be plenty more opportunities for rubbernecking.
As we climbed out, NorCal Departure was flooded with traffic advisories for the gawkmobiles hovering above the freeway. CHP helicopters, news helicopters, traffic watch planes, and of course, shameless and opportunistic private pilots such as myself. We were instructed to fly well clear of the area, but Departure didn't talk much to us, since they were so busy keeping people from crashing into each other.
"Five sierra romeo, traffic alert at your three o'clock, numerous targets above the Maze."
"Five sierra romeo, numerous targets in sight." That didn't sound like the world's most helpful radio exchange, but whatever.
After taking off from 33, I was to enter the pattern for 27L where I would do touch-and-goes. See, Stephen never gives up an opportunity to drill more landing practice into me.
Today, however, was an off-day for me. My landings were much worse than I expected from myself. Whereas yesterday I wasn't even scared at some touchdowns, today every landing felt like a near-death experience. My heart pounding, my palms sweaty. Each time the aircraft touched the ground, it was with a precariousness that made it seem as if the slightest gust would topple the whole thing over.
On one or two landings I really thought I would damage the airplane, or otherwise incur some serious injury. I mean, sure when Karla or someone thinks I'm going to kill myself, it's not exactly unusual or cause for alarm. But when I think I might not make it through this landing -- well, now it's time to worry.
I would later admit to Stephen that I was not pleased with my landings today. Not to my surprise, he agreed with my assessment. Almost in passing, though, he mentioned that the 15-knot, 60-degree crosswind made the landings harder than most student pilots are used to. That was a source of some relief.
After five runway kisses, we departed Oakland for San Pablo Bay. I was instructed to maintain a 3,000-foot cruise, and during the languorous traversal of the water body below, Stephen explained the basics of engine-failure procedure -- S.P.E.L.:
S is for speed. Immediately work to put the airplane on an 80-knot glide. Eighty knots is the best glide speed, meaning you can glide the furthest distance. The further you can go, the more options you have for places to land.
P is for place to land. Locate a place to land, near enough that you can get to it. Obviously if your engine quit above a nice airport, good for you, but of course part of the emergency training is landing in fields, on beaches, in dirt, etc. Stephen discussed some of the techniques I should use if I ever need to land "off-runway" -- how to spot suitable (or at least acceptable) landing spots, how to choose a farm field, etc.
E is for engine. Is fuel getting to the engine? Check the fuel switches. Are the magnetos on? Check the ignition switch. Has the carburetor iced up? Check the carb heat switch. You get the idea.
L is for land. If you are still unable to start the engine, it's time to land. Talk on the radio if you have time, call Mayday and the like, but remember the old saying: AVIATE - NAVIGATE - RADIATE. It says your first priority is to fly and keep control of the airplane, second to know where you are, and only third to talk on the radio.
So once we had that squared away, Stephen cut the power to idle and told me the engine just quit. It was time to find a place to land. We were still a mile or so out from the shore, but beyond the shore was Hamilton Field, a long-abandoned airport with a dilapidated, unkempt runway. Should the plane land there, the landing gear would almost certainly be destroyed, but options were thin at this point. Hamilton was right up against the shore, and if I couldn't make that field, I was gonna have to put her in the drink anyway.
So, I put the aircraft in a shallow bank to line up with Hamilton, but doing so ate up about a thousand feet of precious altitude, leaving me with only 2,000 left to glide to the threshold. For most of the approach I was positive I would fall short of the field and splash into the sea, but my not-yet-honed powers of perception were wrong, and at 500 feet above the ground and 1,000 feet from the threshold, it was obvious the landing was assured. Stephen "magically" brought the engine back to life by pushing the throttle back in, and I performed a go-around.
It was almost -- almost -- disappointing to do the go-around. It was a very suspenseful approach and I wanted to know how it would have ended. In fact, that would be a theme for each go-around I would later do. Each time I would be set up for landing, and then the engine would "magically" spring back to life, and I'd abort the emergency landing. Of course it's always better not to put the airplane down in the grass, but still -- you spend so much effort thinking and planning about how to best survive this emergency, that it's disappointing to see it all disappear and be for naught (sort of).
I shouldn't say that, or the gods of aviation will grant me my wish with an actual in-flight emergency, and I will get to see how it ends.
So, Stephen told me to climb again to 3,000 feet, and again he then cut the engine back to idle. This time I had a choice of two "good enough" landing sites -- two fields that seemed reasonably flat. One was a mile away, another three miles away. I opted to go for the one three miles away, since the approach would be simpler (less turning). I made the approach well, and as expected the engine sprang back to life at 500 feet. I expected praise from Stephen. However, I got a scolding. I chose the wrong field. You should always choose the closest suitable landing spot, even if you are sure you can make a further one. You never know what else could go wrong, and the sooner you are on the ground, the better. OK, lesson learned.
Again, I was instructed to climb to 3,000 feet. This time, around 1,800 feet or so, with the airplane in a maximum-performance climb, suddenly -- WHOOMP! Without warning, Stephen cut the power back to idle, and I lurched forward in my seat from the sudden deceleration. The wily bastard had also altered the fuel settings, as a test to make sure I was doing my checklist.
So at 1,800 feet, you have a lot less time, and there's a lot fewer places you can glide to. I quickly chose a "probably-not-safe-at-all-but-better-than-the-ocean" landing spot. The thing about picking landing spots is, you only get to do it once. Once you commit to a landing spot, you cannot change your mind. To change your mind would require turning, and turning wastes altitude, and altitude is your best friend right now.
"It's always better to land at a terrible spot, and break a few bones, than it is to change your mind and try for a better spot, and die."
So, with probably only a minute or so to pick a spot, I chose a "terrible" spot -- one where the airplane would no doubt be destroyed, but its passengers might be OK. Having committed, I did not change my mind. The other problem was this spot was very close by, but not so close that I could make some turns and then return at a lower altitude.
I performed a forward slip to burn off altitude, then lowered the flaps to 40 degrees when I knew I would make it. Flaps are a very thorny rose in an emergency situation. Flaps are good because they slow you the hell down. If you land at 30 mph, you're less likely to break something than if you land at 50 mph. So, if possible, you should lower your flaps for an emergency landing.
On the other side however, once you put the flaps down, you can't put them back up. Flaps generate extra lift. If you raise the flaps, you dump that lift, and the airplane sinks. The airplane sinks, you miss your landing spot, and ... well you know the rest.
So, you can only put the flaps down if you're absolutely positive you will make the landing. So I put my flaps down. After all, this was a very-less-than-ideal landing spot and I wanted to hit it as slow as I could go. This, combined with my forward slip to bleed off altitude, meant my airplane was as dirty and you could possibly imagine. ("Dirty" here refers to wind resistance; a dirty plane is one with lots of aerobraking.) My approach angle was very steep, probably 30-40 degrees.
I would have liked to know if I would have survived that approach. Of course, at 500 feet, like clockwork, Stephen put the throttle in and I performed a go-around.
This will not be the last time my engine suddenly "fails" in flight. Stephen said, "From now on you are fair game." He will fail the engine randomly from here on out and challenge my ability to salvage the situation.
So, I got one more opportunity to land the plane at Oakland. We flew back, I got myself into the landing pattern, got my clearances, and put her down on 27R. We refueled at Kaiser and then I brought her back to the Old T's.
It's obvious that my coveted solo sign-off will have to wait a bit. Landings are my big bottleneck right now, though my steep turns could use some work too.
My next lesson is Wednesday. The next thing to practice is airspace rules, and for that we would be doing a "Bay Tour," a flight around the Bay Area in and out of many airports' airspaces. However, Stephen decided to postpone that, and do a few more landings first. Have to work out that "fear of the ground," I guess.
Cost so far: $2,948.71
Time so far: 38 days
Hours so far: 12.7
Projected certification date: August 20, 2007
Projected total cost: $11,609.09
20070427
Lesson #9: Steep turns, and something that rhymes with "standings"
Today was a kingly day. Weather-wise, it couldn't be better. Calm, clear, warm ... beautiful to walk around in. My instructor would later tell me, "I really enjoyed the weather today, relaxing on my back porch all morning." I would then reply snidely, "I really enjoyed the weather today, during the one hour I got for lunch." Unfortunately, because I came into work around 7 am, when it was still cold, I now had a sweater I had to haul back and forth to my job and the airport. So ... a little on the hot side, but otherwise a kingly day.
I was excited at the prospect of moving forward for this lesson. Stephen never actually said "good job Tim; we can move forward to other things now." That would be too obvious. He told me, "study the next ground school chapter before the next lesson," which is a more subtle sort of nod. I had studied indeed, and I was all prepped and ready to flex my knowledge of airspace regulations. (The chapter was actually on airspace regulations and weather minima, but the fucking weather minima is rote memorization that I really hate doing.)
Unfortunately, we wouldn't directly be practicing airspace transitions this time. Stephen did leave it sort of open to me, what we would be doing, however. "We should practice more landings," he said, "but let's mix it up." I mentioned off-hand I've not yet landed at an uncontrolled airport (an airport without a control tower). A wicked grin flashed across his face. "Let's go out to Petaluma Field."
When I prodded him as to the wickedness of his smirk, his ostensible reason was "the gas is cheaper there." As I would soon learn, he was actually quite pleased at the prospect of me landing at a runway not much wider than the aircraft itself. I'd been having trouble "straddling the centerline" (as they say), so he figured the pressure of landing on an asphalt pencil would help beat a razor's edge into my landings.
So before we took off he briefed me on the standard approach to Petaluma Field. Runway 29 is usually what the wind favors, and you make right-hand traffic because there's houses and such just south of the field. You pass over the airport at 1,500 feet (about 500 feet over pattern altitude) heading north, glance at the windsock (actually more of a wind-tetrahedron) to figure out which runway to use, then make a descending left-hand turn to enter a 45-degree path to the downwind leg at 1,000 feet. You then turn left into the downwind leg and make right-hand turns for base and final, then land the plane.
If this is all difficult to visualize, don't worry: It's just as difficult when you're trying to control the airplane. All you have to remember is to head north, make a left, make another left, do the thing, hop, skip, jump, and bam! You're lined up and ready to land. Easy peasy.
However, steep turns were also on the menu today, so when it came time to get our clearance, I told Ground we'd be going to San Pablo Bay again. Stephen was once again pushing me to do all the radio work, and with only a few exceptions, I did indeed. Taxi and takeoff went mostly without a hitch, though I wasn't very "gentlemanly" with my runup, pointing my plane to direct the prop blast down a taxiway instead of out over the grass.
The flight to San Pablo Bay was uneventful and done nearly entirely by myself with Stephen enjoying the view of Oakland and the Bay. When we got over the expansive San Pablo Bay, Stephen had me do a clearing turn, and then demonstrated a steep turn. The turn is on the whole not to different from a regular one, except you need to employ special tricks to keep the airplane from losing altitude, and the fact that the plane is nearly sideways creates some interesting sensations.
So, he had me do one. And it went well. He had me do another ... less well. With a few exceptions, each successive steep turn was a little worse than the previous. I can't explain it. The regs require a steep turn to be within ±100 feet for your checkride, and the first turn I held within parameters. My worst turn was all over the altimeter, a good ±300 feet range. Stephen said, fortunately, that holding to parameters isn't as important as employing the correct actions to return to parameters (even if the actions didn't work fast enough), and that I wasn't having an issue with. He also reminded me to make an ostentatious display of "divided attention" (looking inside and outside the airplane constantly). He knew I was doing it, but I had to really show it to the checkride examiner, so he had me crane my neck really visibly, as if to say "LOOK AT ME DIVIDING MY ATTENTION EXACTLY LIKE YOU WANT."
After my stomach had had quite enough, we then continued north to Petaluma. As is appropriate for an uncontrolled airport, I had to say over the radio any time I was about to do anything. Stephen had said that things were much more informal out in the boonies -- I was likely to hear pilots yapping on about the weather or their families, just having lively conversation over the radio. Come 5 miles out, it was my time to radio in.
"Petaluma traffic, Skyhawk 854AC is five miles southeast of the field, request wind and traffic advisories, Petaluma." No one responded. I continued on to cross over the runway.
"Petaluma traffic, Skyhawk 854AC is passing northbound over the airport to maneuver into a 45 to right downwind for two-niner, Petaluma." Still no one. The airport was a ghost town. So much for the jovial chit-chat.
"Petaluma traffic, Skyhawk 854AC is turning right downwind for two-niner, Petaluma."
"... is turning right base for two-niner, Petaluma."
"... is turning final for two-niner, Petaluma." They have a little pilot's diner there. It's called The Two-Niner Diner. Clever.
So I landed on 29, and commented to Stephen that the complete silence over the radio at the airport was "creepy." He said, "How do you think these people feel when they land at Oakland?" That's why I wanted to learn at Oakland -- better to be unsettled at smaller airports than hopelessly lost at larger ones.
Petaluma has only one runway but it's not a tiny airport; there were a good 30 to 50 airplanes parked there. Some of them were pretty expensive, too. There's a diner, a lounge, and some basic entertainment for bored pilots. And there's a gas pump, where we headed. I parked the plane and Stephen and I scratched our heads as we mused on how to work this alien fuel dispenser. Once we had the fuel flowing and the tanks full, we put everything back and prepared to taxi out.
A 1969 Cessna 150 parked across from us had a "FOR SALE" sign across its windshield. We stopped by to check it out. Stephen gave me some pointers on how to be smart when buying used aircraft, and noted that this 150 was a good bargain. A really nice GPS (uncertified, but it has more features than certified GPS's), good maintenance, IFR worthy, and only $24,500. Good deal. A 150 only seats two and I'm not entirely sure I could fit into one, though.
We then taxied back onto runway 29 while chatting about sport pilot licenses, and then departed back to Oakland. We got Oakland ATIS on the way back and crossed San Pablo Bay back into the East Bay, over Richmond. Now was my radio trial by fire.
The woman handling NorCal Approach was talking a mile a minute. She was juggling countless departing commercial jets, and somewhere in there I had to get my message. It took a few tries to get her to listen to me.
"NorCal Approach, Skyhawk 854AC, request."
"854AC, state request." Finally, she was ready for me.
"854AC is over Richmond at 2,500, landing at Oakland." I forgot something. "... with golf." Ah, there it is. A mostly-perfect check-in message.
"854AC, maintain 2,500 to and over the Mormon Temple then turn for a 45 entry into right traffic for 27R, squawk 0312 and ident." Somehow all of this escaped her lips before 2 seconds had passed. And even more miraculously, I understood it all. Just barely, but I did. I read it all back.
"You sound like an old-timer," Stephen remarked, smiling. A rare compliment. I held it with reverence. Listening to the "From the Cockpit" channel on commercial flights pays off. Future radio calls would pin me as a newbie soon enough, anyway.
Stephen said we'd do a few touch-and-goes on 27L then call it. So when Approach handed us over to Oakland Tower, I made my request. "Oakland Tower, Skyhawk 854AC, with you at 2,500, pattern work on 27L." She must have misheard us, because she responded, "4AC, cleared to land on 27R."
Now, since I'm a scared little nugget, I'm a robot over the radio, so I just blithely repeated what she said. "Cleared to land on 27R, 4AC." Stephen had to get on the radio and remind them that we were looking to do pattern work.
It would all be for naught anyway. As we turned final for what was supposed to be the first touch-and-go, the sun shined right through the canopy like a ... giant fusion ball of hydrogen, I guess. (Awesome simile, Tim.) Stephen said we should probably just land and call it. I was ready and willing to keep flying, but I deferred to his judgement nonetheless. We told tower we changed our mind, and we'd be landing. With a hint of annoyance in her voice, she gave us taxi instructions. (This particular tower controller has a short temper anyway, so annoying her is very easy.)
As if to justify our early quit, Stephen mentioned that sometimes, when pilots land into the sun, the spinning propellor creates a strobe effect in the sunlight, and it can induce seizures in pilots who had no idea they have epilepsy. This, combined with the fact that they're just about to land the plane, means it's an easy way to die. I wasn't terribly phased by the idea, since I wasn't having a seizure at the moment despite the strobing in the cockpit. That, combined with the glitter all over, made this landing a particularly disco-riffic one. It was very groovy.
Since we wouldn't be getting gas at Kaiser, my taxi instructions were to exit at Papa, wait for a Falcon business jet, cross 27R, taxi down runway 33, then turn left into the Old T's. I read this back completely incorrectly, and for the second time, Stephen had to take the radio. Two major errors in one flight ... getting better.
At the Old T's, we shut down the plane and headed back into the lounge to do the paperwork. For the first time in like 3 lessons, I proudly handed Stephen my syllabus, and he checked off "steep turns." Finally -- something besides landings. As he flipped through the pages, he noted that we were only two lessons away from my first solo. Lesson #10 is pre-solo preparation, lesson #11 is a solo checkride, and then lesson #12 is the first solo.
My elated heart doubled its tempo. Could it be true -- would I really be soloing in one week's time??
"No." His curt reply hit me like the broadside of a frying pan.
"I won't?"
"Your landings still need polish. You flare too high -- like you have some sort of fear of the ground." I had always thought this was the sort of fear every pilot should have.
Still, Stephen insisted my flares' curves be no less than seductive before he sign me off for soloing, so I have a few more lessons yet. The time is near, though. The time is near!
Cost so far: $2,722.21
Time so far: 35 days
Hours so far: 10.8
Projected certification date: September 1, 2007
Projected total cost: $12,600
I was excited at the prospect of moving forward for this lesson. Stephen never actually said "good job Tim; we can move forward to other things now." That would be too obvious. He told me, "study the next ground school chapter before the next lesson," which is a more subtle sort of nod. I had studied indeed, and I was all prepped and ready to flex my knowledge of airspace regulations. (The chapter was actually on airspace regulations and weather minima, but the fucking weather minima is rote memorization that I really hate doing.)
Unfortunately, we wouldn't directly be practicing airspace transitions this time. Stephen did leave it sort of open to me, what we would be doing, however. "We should practice more landings," he said, "but let's mix it up." I mentioned off-hand I've not yet landed at an uncontrolled airport (an airport without a control tower). A wicked grin flashed across his face. "Let's go out to Petaluma Field."
When I prodded him as to the wickedness of his smirk, his ostensible reason was "the gas is cheaper there." As I would soon learn, he was actually quite pleased at the prospect of me landing at a runway not much wider than the aircraft itself. I'd been having trouble "straddling the centerline" (as they say), so he figured the pressure of landing on an asphalt pencil would help beat a razor's edge into my landings.
So before we took off he briefed me on the standard approach to Petaluma Field. Runway 29 is usually what the wind favors, and you make right-hand traffic because there's houses and such just south of the field. You pass over the airport at 1,500 feet (about 500 feet over pattern altitude) heading north, glance at the windsock (actually more of a wind-tetrahedron) to figure out which runway to use, then make a descending left-hand turn to enter a 45-degree path to the downwind leg at 1,000 feet. You then turn left into the downwind leg and make right-hand turns for base and final, then land the plane.
If this is all difficult to visualize, don't worry: It's just as difficult when you're trying to control the airplane. All you have to remember is to head north, make a left, make another left, do the thing, hop, skip, jump, and bam! You're lined up and ready to land. Easy peasy.
However, steep turns were also on the menu today, so when it came time to get our clearance, I told Ground we'd be going to San Pablo Bay again. Stephen was once again pushing me to do all the radio work, and with only a few exceptions, I did indeed. Taxi and takeoff went mostly without a hitch, though I wasn't very "gentlemanly" with my runup, pointing my plane to direct the prop blast down a taxiway instead of out over the grass.
The flight to San Pablo Bay was uneventful and done nearly entirely by myself with Stephen enjoying the view of Oakland and the Bay. When we got over the expansive San Pablo Bay, Stephen had me do a clearing turn, and then demonstrated a steep turn. The turn is on the whole not to different from a regular one, except you need to employ special tricks to keep the airplane from losing altitude, and the fact that the plane is nearly sideways creates some interesting sensations.
So, he had me do one. And it went well. He had me do another ... less well. With a few exceptions, each successive steep turn was a little worse than the previous. I can't explain it. The regs require a steep turn to be within ±100 feet for your checkride, and the first turn I held within parameters. My worst turn was all over the altimeter, a good ±300 feet range. Stephen said, fortunately, that holding to parameters isn't as important as employing the correct actions to return to parameters (even if the actions didn't work fast enough), and that I wasn't having an issue with. He also reminded me to make an ostentatious display of "divided attention" (looking inside and outside the airplane constantly). He knew I was doing it, but I had to really show it to the checkride examiner, so he had me crane my neck really visibly, as if to say "LOOK AT ME DIVIDING MY ATTENTION EXACTLY LIKE YOU WANT."
After my stomach had had quite enough, we then continued north to Petaluma. As is appropriate for an uncontrolled airport, I had to say over the radio any time I was about to do anything. Stephen had said that things were much more informal out in the boonies -- I was likely to hear pilots yapping on about the weather or their families, just having lively conversation over the radio. Come 5 miles out, it was my time to radio in.
"Petaluma traffic, Skyhawk 854AC is five miles southeast of the field, request wind and traffic advisories, Petaluma." No one responded. I continued on to cross over the runway.
"Petaluma traffic, Skyhawk 854AC is passing northbound over the airport to maneuver into a 45 to right downwind for two-niner, Petaluma." Still no one. The airport was a ghost town. So much for the jovial chit-chat.
"Petaluma traffic, Skyhawk 854AC is turning right downwind for two-niner, Petaluma."
"... is turning right base for two-niner, Petaluma."
"... is turning final for two-niner, Petaluma." They have a little pilot's diner there. It's called The Two-Niner Diner. Clever.
So I landed on 29, and commented to Stephen that the complete silence over the radio at the airport was "creepy." He said, "How do you think these people feel when they land at Oakland?" That's why I wanted to learn at Oakland -- better to be unsettled at smaller airports than hopelessly lost at larger ones.
Petaluma has only one runway but it's not a tiny airport; there were a good 30 to 50 airplanes parked there. Some of them were pretty expensive, too. There's a diner, a lounge, and some basic entertainment for bored pilots. And there's a gas pump, where we headed. I parked the plane and Stephen and I scratched our heads as we mused on how to work this alien fuel dispenser. Once we had the fuel flowing and the tanks full, we put everything back and prepared to taxi out.
A 1969 Cessna 150 parked across from us had a "FOR SALE" sign across its windshield. We stopped by to check it out. Stephen gave me some pointers on how to be smart when buying used aircraft, and noted that this 150 was a good bargain. A really nice GPS (uncertified, but it has more features than certified GPS's), good maintenance, IFR worthy, and only $24,500. Good deal. A 150 only seats two and I'm not entirely sure I could fit into one, though.
We then taxied back onto runway 29 while chatting about sport pilot licenses, and then departed back to Oakland. We got Oakland ATIS on the way back and crossed San Pablo Bay back into the East Bay, over Richmond. Now was my radio trial by fire.
The woman handling NorCal Approach was talking a mile a minute. She was juggling countless departing commercial jets, and somewhere in there I had to get my message. It took a few tries to get her to listen to me.
"NorCal Approach, Skyhawk 854AC, request."
"854AC, state request." Finally, she was ready for me.
"854AC is over Richmond at 2,500, landing at Oakland." I forgot something. "... with golf." Ah, there it is. A mostly-perfect check-in message.
"854AC, maintain 2,500 to and over the Mormon Temple then turn for a 45 entry into right traffic for 27R, squawk 0312 and ident." Somehow all of this escaped her lips before 2 seconds had passed. And even more miraculously, I understood it all. Just barely, but I did. I read it all back.
"You sound like an old-timer," Stephen remarked, smiling. A rare compliment. I held it with reverence. Listening to the "From the Cockpit" channel on commercial flights pays off. Future radio calls would pin me as a newbie soon enough, anyway.
Stephen said we'd do a few touch-and-goes on 27L then call it. So when Approach handed us over to Oakland Tower, I made my request. "Oakland Tower, Skyhawk 854AC, with you at 2,500, pattern work on 27L." She must have misheard us, because she responded, "4AC, cleared to land on 27R."
Now, since I'm a scared little nugget, I'm a robot over the radio, so I just blithely repeated what she said. "Cleared to land on 27R, 4AC." Stephen had to get on the radio and remind them that we were looking to do pattern work.
It would all be for naught anyway. As we turned final for what was supposed to be the first touch-and-go, the sun shined right through the canopy like a ... giant fusion ball of hydrogen, I guess. (Awesome simile, Tim.) Stephen said we should probably just land and call it. I was ready and willing to keep flying, but I deferred to his judgement nonetheless. We told tower we changed our mind, and we'd be landing. With a hint of annoyance in her voice, she gave us taxi instructions. (This particular tower controller has a short temper anyway, so annoying her is very easy.)
As if to justify our early quit, Stephen mentioned that sometimes, when pilots land into the sun, the spinning propellor creates a strobe effect in the sunlight, and it can induce seizures in pilots who had no idea they have epilepsy. This, combined with the fact that they're just about to land the plane, means it's an easy way to die. I wasn't terribly phased by the idea, since I wasn't having a seizure at the moment despite the strobing in the cockpit. That, combined with the glitter all over, made this landing a particularly disco-riffic one. It was very groovy.
Since we wouldn't be getting gas at Kaiser, my taxi instructions were to exit at Papa, wait for a Falcon business jet, cross 27R, taxi down runway 33, then turn left into the Old T's. I read this back completely incorrectly, and for the second time, Stephen had to take the radio. Two major errors in one flight ... getting better.
At the Old T's, we shut down the plane and headed back into the lounge to do the paperwork. For the first time in like 3 lessons, I proudly handed Stephen my syllabus, and he checked off "steep turns." Finally -- something besides landings. As he flipped through the pages, he noted that we were only two lessons away from my first solo. Lesson #10 is pre-solo preparation, lesson #11 is a solo checkride, and then lesson #12 is the first solo.
My elated heart doubled its tempo. Could it be true -- would I really be soloing in one week's time??
"No." His curt reply hit me like the broadside of a frying pan.
"I won't?"
"Your landings still need polish. You flare too high -- like you have some sort of fear of the ground." I had always thought this was the sort of fear every pilot should have.
Still, Stephen insisted my flares' curves be no less than seductive before he sign me off for soloing, so I have a few more lessons yet. The time is near, though. The time is near!
Cost so far: $2,722.21
Time so far: 35 days
Hours so far: 10.8
Projected certification date: September 1, 2007
Projected total cost: $12,600
20070422
Lesson #8: You guessed it ... landings!
Apparently there is a 7:30 AM on Sunday, because this is when I awoke to go flying. See, there was a sizeable amount of rain pattering on my windows the night before, so I felt secure in staying up til 2:30 AM, believeing that the rain would not relent in the morning, and cancel my lesson (again). Well, as luck would have it, the rain did indeed stop by morningtime, so, awoken with 5 hours of sleep, I now had to make the 5 mile trip to the airport by bike and BART. Oh well -- at least I get to fly a plane.
Today we would be adding some flaps into my landings. Today also marked a momentous occasion -- my first flight as an official AAC member. Since I was no longer Tim Morgan, student pilot, but now Member Number 3012, student pilot, I could check out the airplane myself. This enviable responsibility primarily entails the thrilling act of "filling out a lot of paperwork," after which I grabbed the keys to 9UL and we headed out.
Following preflight, Stephen made it clear that this time, I would be doing all of the radio unless I cracked under the pressure. That felt good to hear. Doing the radio means you get to talk in your Pilot Voice, which is secretly the best part of general aviation flying. You can't normally talk in your Pilot Voice. If you went to 7-11 and tried to buy a hot dog in your Pilot Voice, the employees would probably look around for hidden cameras, thinking they were on a candid TV show.
Generally, the only other time I get to use my Pilot Voice is when no one else is within earshot except the cats.
So we took off from runway 33 with the intent to enter the traffic pattern for runway 27R and do some landings. In the early morning there was no wind and no one else was around, so we basically had the runway for ourselves for the first five or so landings. Stephen had me do 3 without flaps to get back in the groove, then the remaining landings were with 10 or 20 degrees of flaps. Because the runway was otherwise unoccupied, I took my landings at a nice, leisurely pace, and Stephen had me make them full-stop-and-taxi-back landings.
After the first five landings, morning approached noon, and a cold front brought with it a bank of low clouds. It was getting difficult to stay 1,000 feet below the clouds, as necessitated by regulations. That, plus the fact that more pilots were waking up and runway 27R was getting a bit more crowded, compelled Stephen to expedite my training. The last five landings were touch-and-goes, to keep things moving.
The improvement in my landings is remarkable. A few of them were a little on the stomach-turning side, but the majority of them were not only acceptable, they were downright pleasant. Stephen of course wouldn't dare hint this to me, but I felt his pride. In particular, I noticed during the last 3 or so landings, he wasn't even paying attention. Usually he has his hands hovering near the controls, ready to yank them away from me to avert a disaster, but towards the end, he wasn't even looking at the runway. He was staring off into the horizon, counting the clouds or something, like a jaded passenger who has put idle trust into his pilot.
It's probably best that you don't dwell on this too much, or you will realize the only way I could know this is if I was looking at Stephen instead of the runway, which is never a good idea when you're on short final.
On landing 7 Stephen said we could just keep going until I had enough, but other than the encroaching clouds and the bumpier air they harolded, I felt no sense of urgency. I could have done 15, maybe even 20 landings if I had the fuel or the money to pay Stephen to sit in the cockpit and count clouds while I landed. I realized that Stephen had instructed me all that he could about the art of landing, and basically all I was doing now was practicing. This was something I could do on my own time, once I got my solo privileges, rather than bore Stephen with it. So, I called it quits on the tenth landing (a nice round number).
As you might expect, we taxied to Kaiser to fuel up. Since I was an AAC member, I would be buying the gas this time. Credit card reader was broke, though, so we had to call in a fuel truck to fill us up the old-fashioned way (back before they had self-serve pumps).
When we returned to the Old T's I was greeted by an unexpected surprise -- Stephen handed me the pre-solo quiz. This was his roundabout way of saying "you're getting close to the time when I will let you solo." That, plus his offhand mention of us "covering new material" next lesson, is I think his way of saying, "Congratulations, your landings don't suck anymore." A compliment given in the sort of way only a flight instructor could.
My bike ride home was consumed with thoughts of this upcoming milestone -- the day I will be able to solo.
Cost so far: $2,489.21
Time so far: 29 days
Hours so far: 9.3
Today we would be adding some flaps into my landings. Today also marked a momentous occasion -- my first flight as an official AAC member. Since I was no longer Tim Morgan, student pilot, but now Member Number 3012, student pilot, I could check out the airplane myself. This enviable responsibility primarily entails the thrilling act of "filling out a lot of paperwork," after which I grabbed the keys to 9UL and we headed out.
Following preflight, Stephen made it clear that this time, I would be doing all of the radio unless I cracked under the pressure. That felt good to hear. Doing the radio means you get to talk in your Pilot Voice, which is secretly the best part of general aviation flying. You can't normally talk in your Pilot Voice. If you went to 7-11 and tried to buy a hot dog in your Pilot Voice, the employees would probably look around for hidden cameras, thinking they were on a candid TV show.
Generally, the only other time I get to use my Pilot Voice is when no one else is within earshot except the cats.
So we took off from runway 33 with the intent to enter the traffic pattern for runway 27R and do some landings. In the early morning there was no wind and no one else was around, so we basically had the runway for ourselves for the first five or so landings. Stephen had me do 3 without flaps to get back in the groove, then the remaining landings were with 10 or 20 degrees of flaps. Because the runway was otherwise unoccupied, I took my landings at a nice, leisurely pace, and Stephen had me make them full-stop-and-taxi-back landings.
After the first five landings, morning approached noon, and a cold front brought with it a bank of low clouds. It was getting difficult to stay 1,000 feet below the clouds, as necessitated by regulations. That, plus the fact that more pilots were waking up and runway 27R was getting a bit more crowded, compelled Stephen to expedite my training. The last five landings were touch-and-goes, to keep things moving.
The improvement in my landings is remarkable. A few of them were a little on the stomach-turning side, but the majority of them were not only acceptable, they were downright pleasant. Stephen of course wouldn't dare hint this to me, but I felt his pride. In particular, I noticed during the last 3 or so landings, he wasn't even paying attention. Usually he has his hands hovering near the controls, ready to yank them away from me to avert a disaster, but towards the end, he wasn't even looking at the runway. He was staring off into the horizon, counting the clouds or something, like a jaded passenger who has put idle trust into his pilot.
It's probably best that you don't dwell on this too much, or you will realize the only way I could know this is if I was looking at Stephen instead of the runway, which is never a good idea when you're on short final.
On landing 7 Stephen said we could just keep going until I had enough, but other than the encroaching clouds and the bumpier air they harolded, I felt no sense of urgency. I could have done 15, maybe even 20 landings if I had the fuel or the money to pay Stephen to sit in the cockpit and count clouds while I landed. I realized that Stephen had instructed me all that he could about the art of landing, and basically all I was doing now was practicing. This was something I could do on my own time, once I got my solo privileges, rather than bore Stephen with it. So, I called it quits on the tenth landing (a nice round number).
As you might expect, we taxied to Kaiser to fuel up. Since I was an AAC member, I would be buying the gas this time. Credit card reader was broke, though, so we had to call in a fuel truck to fill us up the old-fashioned way (back before they had self-serve pumps).
When we returned to the Old T's I was greeted by an unexpected surprise -- Stephen handed me the pre-solo quiz. This was his roundabout way of saying "you're getting close to the time when I will let you solo." That, plus his offhand mention of us "covering new material" next lesson, is I think his way of saying, "Congratulations, your landings don't suck anymore." A compliment given in the sort of way only a flight instructor could.
My bike ride home was consumed with thoughts of this upcoming milestone -- the day I will be able to solo.
Cost so far: $2,489.21
Time so far: 29 days
Hours so far: 9.3
20070415
Lesson #7: On landings and successes thereof
Stupid bike got itself stolen, so my ride to the Old T's was on a brand spankin' new Kona roadbike. Definitely an easier ride.
Stephen was waiting for me outside, and he had the plane (4AC this time) all checked out so we headed straight to the tarmac. I preflighted the plane, then we took off from 33 to do pattern work on runway 27L. The controller told us that 27L and 27R were both in heavy use, so she would be switching us between runways frequently. Also of note was that 27L did not allow full-stop-and-taxi back landings; for the landings on 27L, I would be doing my first touch-and-gos.
During the runup a very, very old biplane was patiently waiting for us to clear the taxiway. On closer inspection, it was an old US Navy trainer from what could well be the 1930's. I wondered how anyone would fly such a plane; it must be a fun experience. I took off from 33 and immediately turned into right-hand traffic for runway 27R.
In order to help me learn to land, Stephen was going to try something different. We would land without flaps, perfect that, and then practice flaps-down landings. This meant faster landing speeds and longer rolls, but more predictable airplane behaivor.
So the times we landed on 27R were familiar and normal to me; a normal right-hand pattern, a landing, and a taxi back and takeoff. 27L was a whole different ballgame. Runway 29 (the runway that the Big Jets all use) is right next door, so the pattern requires a fast, low-altitude 180-degree turn at only 300 feet above the ground to stay out of their way. Pattern altitude is 600 feet too, so it's a short climb and descent.
Touch-and-gos, not surprisingly, were easy to learn and perform. Your airspeed has a tendency to get away from you though; and I learned the hard way that rolling down the runway at 75-80 MPH without taking off is a good way to stress your tires. The tires saw stress in plenty of other ways too; a few of my landings bounced 2 or 3 times. One landing "would have been perfect if we were a 747," Stephen commented, noting how I managed to fly the airplane onto the ground like you would an enormous metal jet.
The majority of them, however, were actually much better. Stephen had exclaimed, "so it was the flaps all along!" Apparently, keeping the flaps up was just the thing to make my landings nice. Heck, I even got a round of applause after one in which the airplane settled on the runway as gently as a feather.
Towards the end, the increasing turbulence around 100 feet was making me sick to my stomach and impairing my ability to land, so Stephen called it early as usual. We did one more on 27L, then a full-stop on 27R to end the lesson. Since the lesson was so short, we didn't bother to refuel the aircraft, but merely took it back to the Old T's.
Along the way I saw the old biplane making rounds about the sky above the airport, and it became clear to me: The old Navy trainer is a banner-tow airplane. It had a hook suspended by a cable, about 50 feet long, out the back of the aircraft. Out on the field near the runway were two men holding out a large loop of rope with their hands. The biplane would dive-bomb the field, and pull up just before hitting the ground. In the process the hook would swing forward, and catch the rope, carrying the banner up with the aircraft.
Well, in theory. We watched it make a good five attempts, and never once did that hook come close to catching the rope. Poor guy. The A's game was only an hour off, and here he was frustrating himself above an airport.
The A's game. On the way back it could not be more clear they had a game. Getting through the throngs of people at BART ... I would have prefered to sit back, enjoy a hot dog or something, and hassle some Yankees players.
So the people at Cessna told me they activated the rest of the ground school lessons, but apparently they lied. I still can't get past lesson 6. If anyone reading this is considering using the Cessna Student Pilot series to prepare for your exams, I'd say choose a different one.
The AAC also approved my membership. Now I have to go down to the main terminal sometime and get a badge so I can access the AOA (airport operating area). This is a fairly lengthy process that, since 9/11, requires a lot of background checking and form-filling-out and an interview and a class or two. Not looking forward to it.
Next lesson is Thursday at 4 PM. We'll probably do more landings!
Cost so far: $2,305.96
Time so far: 22 days
Hours so far: 8.4
Stephen was waiting for me outside, and he had the plane (4AC this time) all checked out so we headed straight to the tarmac. I preflighted the plane, then we took off from 33 to do pattern work on runway 27L. The controller told us that 27L and 27R were both in heavy use, so she would be switching us between runways frequently. Also of note was that 27L did not allow full-stop-and-taxi back landings; for the landings on 27L, I would be doing my first touch-and-gos.
During the runup a very, very old biplane was patiently waiting for us to clear the taxiway. On closer inspection, it was an old US Navy trainer from what could well be the 1930's. I wondered how anyone would fly such a plane; it must be a fun experience. I took off from 33 and immediately turned into right-hand traffic for runway 27R.
In order to help me learn to land, Stephen was going to try something different. We would land without flaps, perfect that, and then practice flaps-down landings. This meant faster landing speeds and longer rolls, but more predictable airplane behaivor.
So the times we landed on 27R were familiar and normal to me; a normal right-hand pattern, a landing, and a taxi back and takeoff. 27L was a whole different ballgame. Runway 29 (the runway that the Big Jets all use) is right next door, so the pattern requires a fast, low-altitude 180-degree turn at only 300 feet above the ground to stay out of their way. Pattern altitude is 600 feet too, so it's a short climb and descent.
Touch-and-gos, not surprisingly, were easy to learn and perform. Your airspeed has a tendency to get away from you though; and I learned the hard way that rolling down the runway at 75-80 MPH without taking off is a good way to stress your tires. The tires saw stress in plenty of other ways too; a few of my landings bounced 2 or 3 times. One landing "would have been perfect if we were a 747," Stephen commented, noting how I managed to fly the airplane onto the ground like you would an enormous metal jet.
The majority of them, however, were actually much better. Stephen had exclaimed, "so it was the flaps all along!" Apparently, keeping the flaps up was just the thing to make my landings nice. Heck, I even got a round of applause after one in which the airplane settled on the runway as gently as a feather.
Towards the end, the increasing turbulence around 100 feet was making me sick to my stomach and impairing my ability to land, so Stephen called it early as usual. We did one more on 27L, then a full-stop on 27R to end the lesson. Since the lesson was so short, we didn't bother to refuel the aircraft, but merely took it back to the Old T's.
Along the way I saw the old biplane making rounds about the sky above the airport, and it became clear to me: The old Navy trainer is a banner-tow airplane. It had a hook suspended by a cable, about 50 feet long, out the back of the aircraft. Out on the field near the runway were two men holding out a large loop of rope with their hands. The biplane would dive-bomb the field, and pull up just before hitting the ground. In the process the hook would swing forward, and catch the rope, carrying the banner up with the aircraft.
Well, in theory. We watched it make a good five attempts, and never once did that hook come close to catching the rope. Poor guy. The A's game was only an hour off, and here he was frustrating himself above an airport.
The A's game. On the way back it could not be more clear they had a game. Getting through the throngs of people at BART ... I would have prefered to sit back, enjoy a hot dog or something, and hassle some Yankees players.
So the people at Cessna told me they activated the rest of the ground school lessons, but apparently they lied. I still can't get past lesson 6. If anyone reading this is considering using the Cessna Student Pilot series to prepare for your exams, I'd say choose a different one.
The AAC also approved my membership. Now I have to go down to the main terminal sometime and get a badge so I can access the AOA (airport operating area). This is a fairly lengthy process that, since 9/11, requires a lot of background checking and form-filling-out and an interview and a class or two. Not looking forward to it.
Next lesson is Thursday at 4 PM. We'll probably do more landings!
Cost so far: $2,305.96
Time so far: 22 days
Hours so far: 8.4
20070410
Lesson #6: On landings and failures thereof
I hate the wind. If I had walked to the Old T's, I would have arrived at about the same time. This is no ordinary wind, either: This is a devious wind that starts up just before my lesson and ends right about when I set foot outside the plane. Stupid wind.
Once again my instructor would be late, so I got to enjoy a 30 minute wait outside the tarmac. As I waited, this unassuming Honda pulled into the parking lot. Out stepped a gorgeous young woman, a slim and well dressed lady with confidence and a peacemaking smile. Such a woman could never be a pilot, no -- female pilots simply do not get so beautiful.
Like me, this attractive young woman was waiting for someone. Perhaps a flight instructor? Would she be the new classmate of my dreams, and we would trade glances as we got into our respective aircraft? No, I couldn't allow myself such luxurious thoughts: As said earlier, female pilots simply do not come this hot. But still, the way she carefully studied each plane as it departed and landed ... Maybe ...
After 15 minutes of this basically unbroken line of thought, two cars pulled into the driveway. One was my instructor's, which I made tracks for. The other was clearly attached to this woman, as she walked towards it. We noticed each other walking to these two cars, and thus the game was on.
Out of the car she headed toward stepped a young, neat, and obviously very rich man. He was exceptionally well dressed, had very carefully styled hair, expensive sunglasses, and a cool that makes Iceman look like Jerry Lewis. She gave him a kiss and they headed arm-in-arm to the tarmac. They were on a date. This rich Adonis would be taking her up for a joyride, after which it can be assumed the favor would be returned.
She then turned to me and lowered her sunglasses at me, as if to say, "This is the man that stepped out of my car -- now who's gonna step out of yours, hotshot?" And on cue, Stephen emerged from his sedan. Stephen is an aging, portly, balding man with thick glasses and a golfer's hat. It's fair to say she won that contest, and she knew it.
Today would be, unsurprisingly, more landings. But first, we'd make a quick trip to Hayward Executive to get my stupid ground school CD's unlocked. Fuckin' Cessna. I give them $400 for a ground school CD kit, and they give me crippleware. I get the first six lessons (out of 20), and to get the rest I have to sit through a sales pitch at a Cessna location. So, today I would be enjoying THAT fine experience.
Preflight went quick, and within moments I was climbing and heading towards Hayward. Because the airports are so close, I had to get clearance to enter Hayward's pattern virtually immediately after taking off from Oakland. We did so (Stephen and I are basically trading off on the radio nowadays) and Stephen talked me through a landing at Hayward's unfamiliar airport.
Having landed on the runway, I made a few inevitable blunders over the radio (such as references to nonexistent runways), and then taxied to transient parking. From there we walked to the Cessna center, but alas -- the man we needed had left for the day. Oh well. Another time.
We departed Hayward with the intent to remain in the pattern and practice full-stop landings on their 28L runway (which does, in fact, exist). At first Stephen's voice was calm, but with each successive failure of a landing, he became more and more agitated. I tried not to let it phase me, but damn ... landing is hard! Keeping all the needles pointing where they are supposed to be is an epic balancing act.
Some of my landings were rough and bouncy, others floated and ballooned, and still others slipped and skidded. No one landing was shining and beautiful. With each following taxi I got a mouthful from Stephen. By the fourth landing, his disappointment was palpable. I could taste its acrid presence in the very air inside the cockpit. It was hanging there, like when your disgusting cousin Rudy lets free a silent fart, and no one says anything, but everyone who smells it knows it's Rudy because he's disgusting. I had farted failure into the formerly fresh air of the cockpit.
Stephen's voice turned somber and almost heartless during the final landings, as if he had given up hope. Each clumsy landing simply confirmed that I am undeserving to hold the yoke in my cockpit, as he would have it. Likely he was consumed in thought on exactly what to write on my logbook to make it succinctly clear to the FAA that I am like King Midas -- any plane I touch turns to an aluminum pancake.
Later in the lesson I would ask him, "How many lessons did it take you to learn to land?", reflecting on the fact that two lessons have been devoted to the topic thus far and I am yet capable of doing so. He would tell me, to my surprise, "Four or five." This is how flight instruction work, folks. Your loving instructor sets out to make you feel like a worthless empty shell of a man on your second landing lesson, even though it took him five. See, somewhere along the road, this abuse makes you a better pilot. I don't know how quite yet. I haven't worked out the details.
By my sixth landing for this lesson, a combination of a sun setting upon the horizon and a complete lack of any half-decent flares on my part ("you flared too soon," "you flared too late," "I would rather eat casserole than have suffered through that flare, and I hate casserole"), Stephen decided to call it quits. We took off once more and performed one more landing, this time at Oakland. (During the trip back I made yet more radio blunders!)
The usual course of events followed, whereby I refueled the plane, then we taxied back to the Old T's. After each flight I hand Stephen my syllabus, and he checks off the material that we cover, and hands it back to me, now aglow with a sense of accomplishment. I handed him my syllabus, and without so much as a word, he glanced at it, and then handed it right back to me. I was about to ask him why he didn't check off anything, but it was already clear: We had covered no new material this flight. It was more of the same -- landings, landings, landings.
I held the book in my hand as one might clutch a beloved dead gerbil. I couldn't look at it. It would be like looking into a mirror, and seeing shame. I quietly and discreetly closed the book and returned it to the dark recesses of my flight bag, where it could taunt me no further.
My next lesson is Saturday at noon. A penny if you can guess what it is we'll be doing.
Cost so far: $2,156.76
Time so far: 22 days
Hours so far: 7.7
Once again my instructor would be late, so I got to enjoy a 30 minute wait outside the tarmac. As I waited, this unassuming Honda pulled into the parking lot. Out stepped a gorgeous young woman, a slim and well dressed lady with confidence and a peacemaking smile. Such a woman could never be a pilot, no -- female pilots simply do not get so beautiful.
Like me, this attractive young woman was waiting for someone. Perhaps a flight instructor? Would she be the new classmate of my dreams, and we would trade glances as we got into our respective aircraft? No, I couldn't allow myself such luxurious thoughts: As said earlier, female pilots simply do not come this hot. But still, the way she carefully studied each plane as it departed and landed ... Maybe ...
After 15 minutes of this basically unbroken line of thought, two cars pulled into the driveway. One was my instructor's, which I made tracks for. The other was clearly attached to this woman, as she walked towards it. We noticed each other walking to these two cars, and thus the game was on.
Out of the car she headed toward stepped a young, neat, and obviously very rich man. He was exceptionally well dressed, had very carefully styled hair, expensive sunglasses, and a cool that makes Iceman look like Jerry Lewis. She gave him a kiss and they headed arm-in-arm to the tarmac. They were on a date. This rich Adonis would be taking her up for a joyride, after which it can be assumed the favor would be returned.
She then turned to me and lowered her sunglasses at me, as if to say, "This is the man that stepped out of my car -- now who's gonna step out of yours, hotshot?" And on cue, Stephen emerged from his sedan. Stephen is an aging, portly, balding man with thick glasses and a golfer's hat. It's fair to say she won that contest, and she knew it.
Today would be, unsurprisingly, more landings. But first, we'd make a quick trip to Hayward Executive to get my stupid ground school CD's unlocked. Fuckin' Cessna. I give them $400 for a ground school CD kit, and they give me crippleware. I get the first six lessons (out of 20), and to get the rest I have to sit through a sales pitch at a Cessna location. So, today I would be enjoying THAT fine experience.
Preflight went quick, and within moments I was climbing and heading towards Hayward. Because the airports are so close, I had to get clearance to enter Hayward's pattern virtually immediately after taking off from Oakland. We did so (Stephen and I are basically trading off on the radio nowadays) and Stephen talked me through a landing at Hayward's unfamiliar airport.
Having landed on the runway, I made a few inevitable blunders over the radio (such as references to nonexistent runways), and then taxied to transient parking. From there we walked to the Cessna center, but alas -- the man we needed had left for the day. Oh well. Another time.
We departed Hayward with the intent to remain in the pattern and practice full-stop landings on their 28L runway (which does, in fact, exist). At first Stephen's voice was calm, but with each successive failure of a landing, he became more and more agitated. I tried not to let it phase me, but damn ... landing is hard! Keeping all the needles pointing where they are supposed to be is an epic balancing act.
Some of my landings were rough and bouncy, others floated and ballooned, and still others slipped and skidded. No one landing was shining and beautiful. With each following taxi I got a mouthful from Stephen. By the fourth landing, his disappointment was palpable. I could taste its acrid presence in the very air inside the cockpit. It was hanging there, like when your disgusting cousin Rudy lets free a silent fart, and no one says anything, but everyone who smells it knows it's Rudy because he's disgusting. I had farted failure into the formerly fresh air of the cockpit.
Stephen's voice turned somber and almost heartless during the final landings, as if he had given up hope. Each clumsy landing simply confirmed that I am undeserving to hold the yoke in my cockpit, as he would have it. Likely he was consumed in thought on exactly what to write on my logbook to make it succinctly clear to the FAA that I am like King Midas -- any plane I touch turns to an aluminum pancake.
Later in the lesson I would ask him, "How many lessons did it take you to learn to land?", reflecting on the fact that two lessons have been devoted to the topic thus far and I am yet capable of doing so. He would tell me, to my surprise, "Four or five." This is how flight instruction work, folks. Your loving instructor sets out to make you feel like a worthless empty shell of a man on your second landing lesson, even though it took him five. See, somewhere along the road, this abuse makes you a better pilot. I don't know how quite yet. I haven't worked out the details.
By my sixth landing for this lesson, a combination of a sun setting upon the horizon and a complete lack of any half-decent flares on my part ("you flared too soon," "you flared too late," "I would rather eat casserole than have suffered through that flare, and I hate casserole"), Stephen decided to call it quits. We took off once more and performed one more landing, this time at Oakland. (During the trip back I made yet more radio blunders!)
The usual course of events followed, whereby I refueled the plane, then we taxied back to the Old T's. After each flight I hand Stephen my syllabus, and he checks off the material that we cover, and hands it back to me, now aglow with a sense of accomplishment. I handed him my syllabus, and without so much as a word, he glanced at it, and then handed it right back to me. I was about to ask him why he didn't check off anything, but it was already clear: We had covered no new material this flight. It was more of the same -- landings, landings, landings.
I held the book in my hand as one might clutch a beloved dead gerbil. I couldn't look at it. It would be like looking into a mirror, and seeing shame. I quietly and discreetly closed the book and returned it to the dark recesses of my flight bag, where it could taunt me no further.
My next lesson is Saturday at noon. A penny if you can guess what it is we'll be doing.
Cost so far: $2,156.76
Time so far: 22 days
Hours so far: 7.7
20070408
Lesson #5: Landings, and the Oakland A's
Well, it's been a few weeks, and I'm not any thinner and the ride to the Old T's is still gruesomely tiring. I want a new bike. The kind with a motor.
Today we would be taking off, heading to Livermore Airport (KLVK), doing a couple full-stop landings, followed by a couple touch-and-go's, until my landings were silky smooth. My landings in the past can be likened to the kind of landings you see a large man perform on the WWF -- the way he slams onto his opponent is similar to the way my plane slams onto the runway. Today sought to change all that.
Before heading out to the preflight, I met a man by the name of Kevin, who shares partial ownership of N612SP, my instructor's personal plane. Kevin is the CSO (what does "CSO" stand for?) of VideoEgg, the company that provides Flash-based video playing services to Ringo.com. Ringo.com is, of course, one of the websites I work on. Given that our respective companies are basically fuckbuddies, Kevin and I had a good chat. Kevin would be taking 2SP out for a spin with a girl he met (something he seems to do frequently), after which Stephen would be using it for IFR approach practice. He asked me if I wanted to go along. I said sure -- a free flight, why not?
I performed my preflight abeam another student and instructor duo, who were preflighting 4AC. (I was in 9UL again.) From the conversation I divined that this was this particular student's first preflight. It was amusing to watch them wade through the details, spending the better portion of an hour on barely the first part of the checklist. I was there once ... how far I've come.
With the plane checked out and ready to go, I got my clearance to Livermore from Ground, and brought her down 33 and into the sky. Honestly, I think 9UL has a trim problem. Every time I take off the plane, with the trim in takeoff setting, the thing shoots up into the sky. I have to push forward on the stick pretty damn hard just to keep a 75-knot climb. I figured the so-labeled "takeoff setting" is, uhh, so-labeled, because it's a good setting for takeoff. I suppose it is, if your idea of takeoff is a vertical departure into outer space, like the Space Shuttle does.
So we turned eastish and headed for Livermore, listened to ATIS again and got approach clearance from Livermore tower. I made a few notable blunders when talking to Tower, but Stephen would be handling the radios from now on while I focused on landings, so that wouldn't be a problem.
There's a saying among military pilots. A pilot's priorities are to AVIATE, NAVIGATE, then RADIATE. That means, first: Fly the plane. Don't focus on anything else unless you have a handle on the plane. Second: Know where you are. If you don't know, figure it out. And finally, third: Talk over the radio. Hence, Stephen would be doing the radiating, so I can do the aviating.
It's worth mentioning at this point that Aeolus, the Greek god of wind (tip o' the hat to Pre-Med for that one), had a death wish for me today. The ride there was bumpy enough I thought the wings would fall off. To make matters worse, a 20-knot crosswind would basically blow my airplane clear off the runway on approach. This would merely add to the challenges I must face.
Because there's a lot to think about for landing, Stephen had me memorize it all beforehand. Lots to think about, and it all happens pretty fast. Now, among the many steps I was asked to perform for a landing was to maintain a 65-knot descent on the base leg. This I was unable to do for the first few landings. Why, you ask? Because in order to do this, I basically had to shove the nose right at the ground, such that the view ahead was filled with streets and cars, all only 600 feet below me. You couldn't even see the sky. It took a couple of tries to become comfortable with the idea of having the nose so low, so close to the ground.
And how were my landings? Well, given the 20-knot crosswind, they weren't great. In such a huge crosswind your plane actually touches down tilted, so that one wheel touches before the other. It can be unsettling. I did only three landings in all -- one was a nice hard one that really rattled the plane, one was too fast and I came barelling down the runway, and my last one was alright. During the early climbouts and approaches I had trouble maintaining a specific airspeed while climbing to a specific altitude while turning to a specific heading while looking out for traffic while this and that and everything else, but towards the end, I wasn't doing half bad at juggling all these things. Most all the needles were pointing where they should be.
Anyway, after the third landing, Stephen said the wind was too damn strong to practice further, so we would head back. We took off, I took over the radio again, and we got our clearance to land at Oakland. There we refueled at Kaiser again and taxied back to the Old T's as usual.
Stephen then drove me around the airport back to Kaiser, where 2SP was parked. This time he was doing all the flying, so I just sat in the passenger's seat and tried not to get in the way while he prepared to depart. We would fly to Concord (CCR), pick up his safety pilot, then practice IFR approaches to Concord. He needs to do three IFR approaches per month to stay current, and that's what today was for. My job was to sit, enjoy the view, and allow my weight to bring the CG of the plane aft a bit.
Stephen's landing at Concord was at best questionable, and more likely hazardous. The crosswind was ridiculous by this point, and the plane nearly flipped over. When he finally did get it on the ground, it took all the strength in him to prevent it from rolling onto the grass. He would later tell me that he "should never have performed that landing, and should have gone around instead."
At Concord I met the safety pilot (Rick, maybe?), a lively fellow. Now, for those of you who don't know, when a pilot flies IFR, the cockpit magically transforms from a driver's seat into an office desk. Let me elaborate. When you fly VFR, you're looking out the window, flying by your eyes, and only glancing into your cockpit occasionally, much like you would drive a car. When you fly IFR however, you don't look out the window. You use your instruments and your GPS to fly, and in order to fly correctly, you spread a whole bunch of charts and papers on your lap. You have a pencil, and you take notes and plot courses. Stephen's plane even has an autopilot, so he doesn't have to touch the controls. He just dials the numbers into the autopilot.
So, imagine a pilot sitting in a cockpit, with a pencil, scribbling notes on a sheet of paper, with a bunch of maps on his lap, and dialing numbers into his autopilot. That's IFR flying. It's desk work. It turns the cockpit into an office.
So, with Stephen doing his approaches, I enjoyed a nice tour of Walnut Creek and Concord from the air, and kept an eye out for traffic to help out. After he was done, we dropped Rick off and headed back to Oakland. We landed at Oakland and taxied to Kaiser to park.
(And finally, here at the end of my story, we get to the Oakland A's.)
Parked at Kaiser was another large jet, a 737, with a white and purple livery. Unconvinced it was another USDoJ plane, I asked Stephen why it was there. Stephen said it was a chartered flight for the A's, returning from their away game against the Mariners. Indeed, stepping out of the plane was the entirety of the A's lineup, as well as a sizeable entourage of managers, personal trainers, and very important looking people in suits talking into Bluetooth headsets.
As I waited in front of Kaiser, I got an opportunity to wave to most of the A's players, since they walked right by me. I was on the lookout for a girl I know who works for the A's, but it crossed my mind that she probably doesn't go with them to away games. Still though.
I should have pounded on an airplane and then yelled "TEJADA!" Oh wait, nevermind. He's working for the Orioles now. Damn.
Next lesson is Tuesday at 4, where no doubt we will try more landings if the weather is better.
Cost so far: $1,930.91
Time so far: 17 days
Hours so far: 6.2
Today we would be taking off, heading to Livermore Airport (KLVK), doing a couple full-stop landings, followed by a couple touch-and-go's, until my landings were silky smooth. My landings in the past can be likened to the kind of landings you see a large man perform on the WWF -- the way he slams onto his opponent is similar to the way my plane slams onto the runway. Today sought to change all that.
Before heading out to the preflight, I met a man by the name of Kevin, who shares partial ownership of N612SP, my instructor's personal plane. Kevin is the CSO (what does "CSO" stand for?) of VideoEgg, the company that provides Flash-based video playing services to Ringo.com. Ringo.com is, of course, one of the websites I work on. Given that our respective companies are basically fuckbuddies, Kevin and I had a good chat. Kevin would be taking 2SP out for a spin with a girl he met (something he seems to do frequently), after which Stephen would be using it for IFR approach practice. He asked me if I wanted to go along. I said sure -- a free flight, why not?
I performed my preflight abeam another student and instructor duo, who were preflighting 4AC. (I was in 9UL again.) From the conversation I divined that this was this particular student's first preflight. It was amusing to watch them wade through the details, spending the better portion of an hour on barely the first part of the checklist. I was there once ... how far I've come.
With the plane checked out and ready to go, I got my clearance to Livermore from Ground, and brought her down 33 and into the sky. Honestly, I think 9UL has a trim problem. Every time I take off the plane, with the trim in takeoff setting, the thing shoots up into the sky. I have to push forward on the stick pretty damn hard just to keep a 75-knot climb. I figured the so-labeled "takeoff setting" is, uhh, so-labeled, because it's a good setting for takeoff. I suppose it is, if your idea of takeoff is a vertical departure into outer space, like the Space Shuttle does.
So we turned eastish and headed for Livermore, listened to ATIS again and got approach clearance from Livermore tower. I made a few notable blunders when talking to Tower, but Stephen would be handling the radios from now on while I focused on landings, so that wouldn't be a problem.
There's a saying among military pilots. A pilot's priorities are to AVIATE, NAVIGATE, then RADIATE. That means, first: Fly the plane. Don't focus on anything else unless you have a handle on the plane. Second: Know where you are. If you don't know, figure it out. And finally, third: Talk over the radio. Hence, Stephen would be doing the radiating, so I can do the aviating.
It's worth mentioning at this point that Aeolus, the Greek god of wind (tip o' the hat to Pre-Med for that one), had a death wish for me today. The ride there was bumpy enough I thought the wings would fall off. To make matters worse, a 20-knot crosswind would basically blow my airplane clear off the runway on approach. This would merely add to the challenges I must face.
Because there's a lot to think about for landing, Stephen had me memorize it all beforehand. Lots to think about, and it all happens pretty fast. Now, among the many steps I was asked to perform for a landing was to maintain a 65-knot descent on the base leg. This I was unable to do for the first few landings. Why, you ask? Because in order to do this, I basically had to shove the nose right at the ground, such that the view ahead was filled with streets and cars, all only 600 feet below me. You couldn't even see the sky. It took a couple of tries to become comfortable with the idea of having the nose so low, so close to the ground.
And how were my landings? Well, given the 20-knot crosswind, they weren't great. In such a huge crosswind your plane actually touches down tilted, so that one wheel touches before the other. It can be unsettling. I did only three landings in all -- one was a nice hard one that really rattled the plane, one was too fast and I came barelling down the runway, and my last one was alright. During the early climbouts and approaches I had trouble maintaining a specific airspeed while climbing to a specific altitude while turning to a specific heading while looking out for traffic while this and that and everything else, but towards the end, I wasn't doing half bad at juggling all these things. Most all the needles were pointing where they should be.
Anyway, after the third landing, Stephen said the wind was too damn strong to practice further, so we would head back. We took off, I took over the radio again, and we got our clearance to land at Oakland. There we refueled at Kaiser again and taxied back to the Old T's as usual.
Stephen then drove me around the airport back to Kaiser, where 2SP was parked. This time he was doing all the flying, so I just sat in the passenger's seat and tried not to get in the way while he prepared to depart. We would fly to Concord (CCR), pick up his safety pilot, then practice IFR approaches to Concord. He needs to do three IFR approaches per month to stay current, and that's what today was for. My job was to sit, enjoy the view, and allow my weight to bring the CG of the plane aft a bit.
Stephen's landing at Concord was at best questionable, and more likely hazardous. The crosswind was ridiculous by this point, and the plane nearly flipped over. When he finally did get it on the ground, it took all the strength in him to prevent it from rolling onto the grass. He would later tell me that he "should never have performed that landing, and should have gone around instead."
At Concord I met the safety pilot (Rick, maybe?), a lively fellow. Now, for those of you who don't know, when a pilot flies IFR, the cockpit magically transforms from a driver's seat into an office desk. Let me elaborate. When you fly VFR, you're looking out the window, flying by your eyes, and only glancing into your cockpit occasionally, much like you would drive a car. When you fly IFR however, you don't look out the window. You use your instruments and your GPS to fly, and in order to fly correctly, you spread a whole bunch of charts and papers on your lap. You have a pencil, and you take notes and plot courses. Stephen's plane even has an autopilot, so he doesn't have to touch the controls. He just dials the numbers into the autopilot.
So, imagine a pilot sitting in a cockpit, with a pencil, scribbling notes on a sheet of paper, with a bunch of maps on his lap, and dialing numbers into his autopilot. That's IFR flying. It's desk work. It turns the cockpit into an office.
So, with Stephen doing his approaches, I enjoyed a nice tour of Walnut Creek and Concord from the air, and kept an eye out for traffic to help out. After he was done, we dropped Rick off and headed back to Oakland. We landed at Oakland and taxied to Kaiser to park.
(And finally, here at the end of my story, we get to the Oakland A's.)
Parked at Kaiser was another large jet, a 737, with a white and purple livery. Unconvinced it was another USDoJ plane, I asked Stephen why it was there. Stephen said it was a chartered flight for the A's, returning from their away game against the Mariners. Indeed, stepping out of the plane was the entirety of the A's lineup, as well as a sizeable entourage of managers, personal trainers, and very important looking people in suits talking into Bluetooth headsets.
As I waited in front of Kaiser, I got an opportunity to wave to most of the A's players, since they walked right by me. I was on the lookout for a girl I know who works for the A's, but it crossed my mind that she probably doesn't go with them to away games. Still though.
I should have pounded on an airplane and then yelled "TEJADA!" Oh wait, nevermind. He's working for the Orioles now. Damn.
Next lesson is Tuesday at 4, where no doubt we will try more landings if the weather is better.
Cost so far: $1,930.91
Time so far: 17 days
Hours so far: 6.2
20070404
Lesson #4: Ground reference maneuvers
Leaving work at 4 pm, I arrived at the Old T's around 5 as planned. After some whiteboard discussion of ground reference maneuvers (most of which was review from my reading material), we headed to the aircraft for preflight.
Preflight checks are getting more and more informal. Most of the time Stephen is off doing something else while I preflight the plane. When he comes back, he trusts my judgement when I say we're ready to go. Likewise, taxi and takeoff is more informal now, with him keeping only a casual eye on me as I communicate with ground controllers and steer the aircraft. I still make mistakes though. Today, when positioning for the runup, I brought the plane too close to the edge of the taxiway. Stephen told me there wouldn't be enough room to turn around without going off the taxiway.
This was an unusual experience because, as a simmer, I'm not used to thinking about stuff like that. Ground is all the same in flight sims, and if I taxied too far to the edge, I just turned around on the dirt. No big deal. Well, it was a big deal in Real Life, because now Stephen had to get out and pull the plane back from the edge, so there would be room to turn around. Oops.
Takeoff was done mostly under my command with Stephen jumping in to make small corrections now and then. After takeoff we headed south of Mount Diablo and east out to the farmland near Tracy. Ground reference maneuvers are performed close to the ground, so it's advisable to do them away from cities. Along the way we did a quick, 15-minute review of stalls and slow flight.
When my instructor was learning to fly sometime during the Bronze Age, he practiced a maneuver called Turns About the Transamerica Building (a ground reference maneuver whereby you make circles around the Transamerica Tower). If you tried to do this today, the Air Force would probably shoot you down without a moment's hesitation.
So, in this day and age, for my ground reference maneuvers, I did a maneuver called Turns About a Cow. You choose a cow or other stationary object on the farmland below, and make circles around it in the sky. The trick is accounting for wind -- a wind will turn your ground track oblate, so you have to steepen and shallow your bank as necessary to maintain a good ground track.
There's a nice straight canal in the area, so we used it for ground-reference S-turns. Stephen seemed satisfied (though not thrilled) with my performance. Personally, I was shocked at my ability to maintain 1,000 feet. I remember having an easy time controlling altitude in 4AC, and figured that the plane was more forgiving. But here I was back in ol' 9UL, holding altitude pretty darn well. I was within 50 feet of my assigned altitude most of the time, and within 100 feet of my assigned altitude always.
Stephen didn't seem too worried about my performance in the ground reference maneuvers, because the FAA checkride examiner he usually refers his students to doesn't test them. The suits up at the FAA consider them very important for some reason, but most others don't. Such is the way of the FAA.
After completing my training, we used the GPS to set me up for a direct-in approach to Oakland's 27R. When in range I contacted NorCal approach and got our clearances. There were a few commands I had to have Stephen read back, but nowadays I'm doing 90ish percent of the radio myself. Once we passed over Livermore Airport, NorCal gave us the go-ahead for a direct-in approach to 27R.
Over the radio another aircraft with the callsign Justice 315 was getting vectors in to land from NorCal. Stephen asked me if I knew what "Justice" meant. I said no. He said it stands for U.S. Justice Department aircraft. They round up illegal immigrants, drive 'em to the Kaiser FBO at Oakland, and load 'em on to planes like Justice 315, where they are flown back to Mexico.
Stephen had me do the landing myself, and for kicks and giggles, tuned in the ILS and pointed at the landing symbology. Now, most students on their fourth flight wouldn't even know what ILS stands for, but since I had some familiarity with IFR procedures, he figured he'd entertain a notion.
"If you really want to impress me, fly an ILS approach in and hold 90 knots." I was able to hold the speed ±10 knots about, and I was decent on holding the glideslope. It was pretty sloppy, all told, but for a first ILS approach ever, not bad. Landing was like takeoff, with me in command and Stephen putting his hands on the controls occasionally for small corrections.
We taxied to Kaiser to refuel, and sure enough, parked there was Justice 315 and a big bus, inside of which could be assumed to be a large number of despondent Mexicans. The airplane stuck out like a sore thumb. Kaiser is a zoo of small private aircraft, and here was this MD80 casting a shadow on the whole FBO.
After refueling, I returned the airplane to the Old T's. A 737 was blocking the way to the T's so ground had us taxi all the way down runway 33 to get there. Along with accidentially leaving the tow bar on the aircraft fuselage last week, I went the whole flight this week having forgotten to put on half my seatbelt. Little things like that, I will always forget.
Next Sunday is landing practice, which means taking off and landing over and over again on a runway. Should be fun! (Should at least iron out my sloppiness.)
Cost so far: $1,703.46
Time so far: 11 days
Hours so far: 5.0
Preflight checks are getting more and more informal. Most of the time Stephen is off doing something else while I preflight the plane. When he comes back, he trusts my judgement when I say we're ready to go. Likewise, taxi and takeoff is more informal now, with him keeping only a casual eye on me as I communicate with ground controllers and steer the aircraft. I still make mistakes though. Today, when positioning for the runup, I brought the plane too close to the edge of the taxiway. Stephen told me there wouldn't be enough room to turn around without going off the taxiway.
This was an unusual experience because, as a simmer, I'm not used to thinking about stuff like that. Ground is all the same in flight sims, and if I taxied too far to the edge, I just turned around on the dirt. No big deal. Well, it was a big deal in Real Life, because now Stephen had to get out and pull the plane back from the edge, so there would be room to turn around. Oops.
Takeoff was done mostly under my command with Stephen jumping in to make small corrections now and then. After takeoff we headed south of Mount Diablo and east out to the farmland near Tracy. Ground reference maneuvers are performed close to the ground, so it's advisable to do them away from cities. Along the way we did a quick, 15-minute review of stalls and slow flight.
When my instructor was learning to fly sometime during the Bronze Age, he practiced a maneuver called Turns About the Transamerica Building (a ground reference maneuver whereby you make circles around the Transamerica Tower). If you tried to do this today, the Air Force would probably shoot you down without a moment's hesitation.
So, in this day and age, for my ground reference maneuvers, I did a maneuver called Turns About a Cow. You choose a cow or other stationary object on the farmland below, and make circles around it in the sky. The trick is accounting for wind -- a wind will turn your ground track oblate, so you have to steepen and shallow your bank as necessary to maintain a good ground track.
There's a nice straight canal in the area, so we used it for ground-reference S-turns. Stephen seemed satisfied (though not thrilled) with my performance. Personally, I was shocked at my ability to maintain 1,000 feet. I remember having an easy time controlling altitude in 4AC, and figured that the plane was more forgiving. But here I was back in ol' 9UL, holding altitude pretty darn well. I was within 50 feet of my assigned altitude most of the time, and within 100 feet of my assigned altitude always.
Stephen didn't seem too worried about my performance in the ground reference maneuvers, because the FAA checkride examiner he usually refers his students to doesn't test them. The suits up at the FAA consider them very important for some reason, but most others don't. Such is the way of the FAA.
After completing my training, we used the GPS to set me up for a direct-in approach to Oakland's 27R. When in range I contacted NorCal approach and got our clearances. There were a few commands I had to have Stephen read back, but nowadays I'm doing 90ish percent of the radio myself. Once we passed over Livermore Airport, NorCal gave us the go-ahead for a direct-in approach to 27R.
Over the radio another aircraft with the callsign Justice 315 was getting vectors in to land from NorCal. Stephen asked me if I knew what "Justice" meant. I said no. He said it stands for U.S. Justice Department aircraft. They round up illegal immigrants, drive 'em to the Kaiser FBO at Oakland, and load 'em on to planes like Justice 315, where they are flown back to Mexico.
Stephen had me do the landing myself, and for kicks and giggles, tuned in the ILS and pointed at the landing symbology. Now, most students on their fourth flight wouldn't even know what ILS stands for, but since I had some familiarity with IFR procedures, he figured he'd entertain a notion.
"If you really want to impress me, fly an ILS approach in and hold 90 knots." I was able to hold the speed ±10 knots about, and I was decent on holding the glideslope. It was pretty sloppy, all told, but for a first ILS approach ever, not bad. Landing was like takeoff, with me in command and Stephen putting his hands on the controls occasionally for small corrections.
We taxied to Kaiser to refuel, and sure enough, parked there was Justice 315 and a big bus, inside of which could be assumed to be a large number of despondent Mexicans. The airplane stuck out like a sore thumb. Kaiser is a zoo of small private aircraft, and here was this MD80 casting a shadow on the whole FBO.
After refueling, I returned the airplane to the Old T's. A 737 was blocking the way to the T's so ground had us taxi all the way down runway 33 to get there. Along with accidentially leaving the tow bar on the aircraft fuselage last week, I went the whole flight this week having forgotten to put on half my seatbelt. Little things like that, I will always forget.
Next Sunday is landing practice, which means taking off and landing over and over again on a runway. Should be fun! (Should at least iron out my sloppiness.)
Cost so far: $1,703.46
Time so far: 11 days
Hours so far: 5.0
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