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
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