If you are one of those people that teeter on the edge of thinking perhaps flying is an unsafe pastime, and are as yet unsure if you want to risk getting in a plane with me, I would advise not reading this entry. Simply read this next paragraph:
Flying is perfectly safe!
... and go on to a different website.
Now, for the rest of you. My instructor's been in the hospital, unfortunately, due to some stomach condition. So I was unable to call on him to fly with me when the weather turned sour. Thus, my Thursday lesson became my first phase check, wherein a different flight instructor asks me to perform some basic maneuvers to ensure I am still on track.
The only aircraft I was able to reserve was one I'd never flown before, N4312R. Stephen had mentioned that 12R was "bad luck," but I never believe in luck, so it didn't phase me. So, there I was at the Old T's, 12R preflighted and ready to go, waiting for my phase check instructor to show up.
Joel Klein is a large man with a thick Brooklyn accent. He's everyone's best friend on the airport: Along with being a flight instructor, his day job is managing the airport's construction crew. This crew was out in spades today, as 27R was closed down for some maintenance. Vehicles were running around, crowding the taxiways and the ground frequency. This also meant that Joel and his hard-hat buddies would trade thick Brooklyn pleasantries while I readied for departure.
Joel is quite a talker too. It was like having a commentary track on my flying. As I started up the alternator, Joel would go off on a 5-minute speech on how the alternator works. As I taxied past the construction crews, Joel would go on at length about the nature of the FAA's airport maintenance requirements.
I parked 12R in front of a closed taxiway to do my runup, but got the ire of Ground in doing so.
"12R, is there a problem?"
"12R, negative, just doing my runup."
"12R, please move away from the closed taxiway and perform your runup at the hold-short line."
Ooooookay. I'm not looking to make enemies over the radio so I did as I was told. I brought the airplane to the hold-short line for 33 and began my runup. As I brought the yoke back to test the elevators, Joel suddenly jumped.
"What the hell was that?"
"What??" I said anxiously.
"A giant freakin' spark! Right by your leg!"
We could both smell it now -- burning insulation. Joel and I were in agreement that we needed to taxi back. I had read earlier that 12R was having some battery problems, so I asked Joel if we could taxi back with the battery off. He said yes.
"Ground, 4312R is having a problem and needs to return to the Old T's."
"12R, taxi down runway 33 to the Old T's."
After I got my taxi clearance I killed the battery and the plane went dark. Joel and I took off our headsets and continued to chat over the droning engine noise. Now, of course, Joel's endless monologue was on alternator failures, electrical fires, and appropriate emergency procedures.
We returned the plane to the Old T's, shut it off, and stuck a giant red sign over the logbook that read "DOWN FOR MAINTENANCE, DO NOT FLY." Joel called the plane owner and informed him of the problem while I made a reservation for 739UL, which had recently returned and become available.
Since we were low on time and the weather was getting a little thicker, Joel said we'd only do a part of the phase check, and finish the rest later. We'd stick to doing a few touch-and-goes for now. That's fine, I'll defer to his judgement. I preflighted 9UL and got my clearance to takeoff.
"9UL, cleared for takeoff on 33, right turn over the 27 midfield to left closed traffic for 27L, winds 250 at 12."
That was an interesting departure clearance; clearly the construction on 27R has screwed up the traffic pattern somewhat. I had a little trouble with it, so tower came over the radio again to direct me more carefully through the unfamiliar flow of things. When I was set up in the 27L pattern, I requested my touch-and-go clearance.
"Tower, 739UL abeam the 27 numbers, request the option."
"739UL, ahhh .... uhhh .... let me see here ... well, OK. For now extend your downwind, ummm .... I'll call your base. Hold that course for now."
"Ooookay, extending our downwind, 9UL."
Whoever was doing tower was new to the job. I followed his instructions and continued flying further and further away from the runway.
"739UL, you can turn your base now. Cleared for low approach, 27L."
"Turning base and cleared to land, 9UL."
I turned the plane 90 degrees to line up with the runway.
"9UL, change of plans, extend your downwind now."
"9UL, we're turning back north..."
Okay, Iturned the airplane back north. We finally got our landing clearance and I did a touch-and-go on 27L. Coming back around, I asked for the option again, and got my clearance. Coming in to land...
"9UL, uhhh, I'll need you to extend your downwind once more..."
Okay, so Joel asked me if we wanted to try Hayward maybe. Sure, why not. I got clearance to fly to Hayward, and made tracks to their airspace. Low bands of stratus clouds were surrounding me; it was difficult to fly below them and stay in VFR minima. We'd be at Hayward soon enough though.
Since this was an examination, Joel was constantly bombarding me with questions. Along with flying the plane and dealing with the screwy radio commands, I had an oral quiz to participate in.
Hayward cleared us for pattern work on 28L. My landing at Oakland and this first landing at Hayward were surprisingly smooth. The wind was almost right down the runway, which helped, but I was still impressed at how lovely the touchdowns were. Taking off again from 28L, I heard a familiar request over the radio.
"9UL, can you extend your downwind...?"
Joel and I looked at each other? Is this Annoy the Pilot day? Well, fine. I dealt with more squirrely radio instructions and performed another few touch-and-goes. On my last touch-and-go, in the middle of an oral quiz no less, Joel had me perform a go-around.
Well, I never really practiced go-arounds, so I made a pretty bad mistake when aborting the landing: I raised all my flaps at once. The airplane sunk suddenly to the ground and scared the bejeezus out of me.
"Generally on a go-around we raise the flaps incrementally." Yeah, no shit.
Heading back to Oakland, dodging clouds again, I got my clearance for a long final to 27L. We were behind a commuter jet, so Joel had me land long -- really long -- to ensure we didn't get disturbed by their wake turbulence. I ended up touching down halfway down the runway.
I returned the plane to the Old T's, where we found Ginny and her crew inspecting 12R. We talked a bit about the surprising miswirings they found underneath the panel, and then headed back into the clubhouse.
Since we had taken off and landed at Hayward, I coyly asked Joel if he could sign me off for solo work at Hayward, thus giving me the ability to fly between Oakland and Hayward on my solos. He said sure, he would, but he never actually did. Blast.
Joel had offered his explanation as to why we kept getting vectored away from the airport at the last minute: Apparently "cleared for low approach" is not the same as "cleared for landing." So each time I got clearance for a low approach, and I replied with "cleared to land," Tower got scared and vectored me away.
I have a solo opportunity Saturday and the second half of my first phase check on Sunday, again with Joel. Stephen says he might be better by Monday; I'm looking forward to resuming training.
Cost so far: $5,036.41
Time so far: 68 days
Hours so far: 24.1
Projected certification date: August 12, 2007
Projected total cost: $10,500
20070521
Lesson #17: Cross country flight to Oakdale
Although we did check the ATIS before we flew, I didn't need ATIS to tell me today was a very hot, very windy day. Landings, takeoffs, and the flight itself would be interesting at the minimum.
So, I was told last week to plan a flight to Oakdale Airport (O27), a small untowered airport southeast of Stockton, and about 70 or 80 miles away from Oakland. It's a 1.75-hour drive and a 45-minute flight. Because this is my first cross-country, and because I would be practicing pilotage, not dead reckoning, Stephen told me not to calculate courses or wind speeds or anything like that.
Pilotage is the art of looking out the window, noticing significant landmarks like lakes and cities and freeways, and then using those landmarks, in combination with a map, to determine where you are and to follow a course. Pilotage is a much more easy skill to comprehend among the navigation methods pilots use, but as I would soon learn, it's not an easy skill to master.
Pilotage flyers like to call themselves IFR pilots: I Follow Roads.
Dead reckoning is the art of navigation using hard, cold, unrelenting mathematics. You plot a course, and figure out exactly which direction to head based on wind speed, magnetic variation, and magnetic deviation, then determine what speed you'll fly at, and finally figure out exactly how long you must fly that course and speed.
Dead reckoning's name seems somehow apt for the scary difficulty of the method.
So, I'm to practice pilotage. I had been confident at first -- how hard could it be, anyway? -- so we hopped in the plane. With my kneeboard, my Pilot's Guide, my flight plan, and the two maps I'd be using, my knees were completely covered with navigation information. No stretching on this flight, I see.
I got clearance to Oakdale, some simple departure instructions, and took to the sky. The plane climbed slowly to 5,500 feet in the hot air. I'd never flown up so high before. Five thousand five hundred feet looks very different from the lower altitudes I was accustomed to flying.
So the first VFR checkpoint was an easy one: Mount Diablo. A blind monkey could point out Mount Diablo, the towering peak, anywhere in the Bay. I passed south of Mt. Diablo, heading eastwards, and then turned to cross over the Byron reservoir and just north of Tracy.
Riiiiiight about there is where I got confused and lost. In fact, it happened just about when I had to switch from the San Francisco TAC to the Northern California sectional. I started looking and looking for clues as to where I was, but I was unable to find myself. Finally, I tentatively deduced that a city to my left was Stockton, and I was just south of it.
Stephen had brought along his own handheld GPS, which he shielded from me. He allowed me to continue this assumption until it took me so far off course that he had to rescue me. "That's not Stockton. That's Manteca. That giant city off in the distance is Stockton."
"What? Really??"
"Yep."
"... Oh."
"My advice is to head directly to the Modesto airport, regain your bearings, and fly to Oakdale from there." He pointed to show me where the Modesto airport was.
So, I was able to pick out the airport, and I headed directly to it. I plotted a course from Modesto to Oakdale -- 25 degrees magnetic -- and estimated how long it would take to get there at my present speed: around 7 minutes. (A little bit of dead reckoning.)
Stephen started his timer while I attempted to maintain a fix on where I was. As the timer counted slowly down towards zero, I realized the wind was blowing me off-course.
"Don't fret," Stephen said. "Just use your head. The wind is blowing you to the southeast, so the airport will be to your left somewhere."
I scanned for the small airport, but even as the clock reached zero, I couldn't see it. Moments later, I saw it plain as day. It was directly below me, a blatantly obvious municipal airport that had "OAKDALE" written on a taxiway in bright white paint.
Guess my dead reckoning is better than my pilotage.
I began descending turns over the airport and entered into the traffic pattern. Coming in on final, I realized that Oakdale has a deviously thin runway. I was used to getting coddled by Oakland's expansive asphalt oceans. The Stockton ATIS (the nearest ATIS there is) noted winds of 20 knots gusting to 28. Stephen was very unsure about the landing.
"With winds this high, I wouldn't recommend landing here."
I was infused with the foolish bravado of inexperience, however, and I further thought Stephen was saying that partially to trick me into practicing in-flight course changes. I figured I'd give the landing a shot anyhow.
I had remembered that all of my supervised landings were supposed to be short and soft from now on. "What kind of landing should I do?"
"Um ... a safe one." Stephen looked at me like I was crazy. Winds at nearly 30 knots and I was asking if I wanted to practice an emergency landing?
"Well, I guess 'safe' is a type of landing."
Coming in on final, it was obvious the strong gusts would pose a problem. Stephen was still pushing his concerns at me. "If you don't feel like you can make this, I want you to go around. No doubts."
"Yeah, I got it." I continued in to the runway.
Floating above the runway, crabbed into the wind, I realigned the nose with the centerline, tilted the plane, and landed on my left wheel. The right main touched ground shortly afterwards, but gusting winds pushed the airplane sharply leftward. The left wheel let out a horrendous screech as the plane listed strongly to port, the left tire moving uncomfortably close to the left edge of the runway. I put in full right rudder, as much as my leg could muster, and the right wheel slammed its disobedient ass back on the runway where it belonged. The full rightward rudder deflection solved the airborne tire problem, but yawed the airplane to the right as it continued down the runway, both tires now screeching as the airplane slipped down the asphalt. Running out of runway and lateral space, I pumped the brakes as efficiently as I could and brought the plane to a tentative halt in the center of the runway.
As the dust settled, Stephen gave me his usual dry appraisal. "Well, if I could turn back time, I'd have forced you to go around. But as usual you miraculously skirt death."
Oakdale is a sleepy airport, so there wasn't much to do except take off and head back to Oakland. Stephen had checked the guidebook to see where the fuel pump was located; he wanted to fill up if the gas was cheaper out here in the boonies.
We pulled up the pump. Stephen read the price from the meter: $3.65 per gallon. Three sixty-five!! Jesus, at Oakland it's like $4.75 per gallon. Stephen looked at me with eager eyes.
"I have suddenly decided we have an unacceptably low level of fuel for the trip back. Refuel the plane."
Sitting in the fuel console was the receipt for the previous customer, who had purchased $365 worth of fuel. Stephen thought it would be funny to submit that to the club with my name on it, and get it reimbursed.
"Hell, if they credited you the $365, you could fly out the rest of your lessons on that. Give it a try."
Ultimately we decided that the club's accountant wouldn't see the humor in the joke.
After refueling I brought the plane back up to cruise altitude and back to Oakland. Navigating to Oakland is easy. You locate Mt. Diablo, fly to it, then locate Oakland, and fly to it. We got a flight following from NorCal, who then sent me to Tower, who cleared me for a long straight-in to 27R.
Passing over the mountains in the Outer East Bay is always very bumpy. I'm used to it by now, but if you plan on flying with me to the east, be warned: Mountains do nasty things to the air above them.
After landing at Oakland and returning to the Old T's, Stephen talked more about that upcoming ground school I have. Shannon and I will be practicing plotting and filing complex flight plans. I would have to know how to get a weather forecast, so Stephen showed me how to dial a Flight Service Station and ask them for the weather.
Stephen dialed the number while warning me that their quality of service has declined lately.
We were put on hold.
There was no hold music. Only utter silence. A deadpan silence ... I drummed my fingers. Stephen played with his pen.
Time passed on and on. Finally, twenty minutes later, a man asked what he could do for us.
Stephen told him we were planning a flight to Oakdale. (We weren't, but let's pretend.) The helpful man told us about the weather and winds we would expect along the way, gave us advisories about construction at Oakland, and other helpful information. If you ignore the hold, it was actually an impressive service. You actually talk to a real person. Hell, that alone is unusual.
I showed him a website I usually go to for these sorts of things. We both agreed a website is probably easier.
Next Sunday I have another solo, assuming the winds are feeling generous. At some point in the very near future, I should do my phase check with Joel. And finally, for my next (as yet unscheduled) lesson with Stephen, I'll be practicing dead reckoning.
Stephen believes students should learn dead reckoning in a trial-by-fire method. Before the flight, I'll do my calculations, determine the directions to fly and the times to fly them, and all that jazz. Then, when we take off, Stephen will slap on the hood, and tell me to fly my course. I'll fly it blind, and when I finally arrive, he'll take off the hood and ask me to find the airport and land there.
We'll see if I'm even close.
Cost so far: $4,888.21
Time so far: 58 days
Hours so far: 23.1
Projected certification date: July 27, 2007
Projected total cost: $10,600
So, I was told last week to plan a flight to Oakdale Airport (O27), a small untowered airport southeast of Stockton, and about 70 or 80 miles away from Oakland. It's a 1.75-hour drive and a 45-minute flight. Because this is my first cross-country, and because I would be practicing pilotage, not dead reckoning, Stephen told me not to calculate courses or wind speeds or anything like that.
Pilotage is the art of looking out the window, noticing significant landmarks like lakes and cities and freeways, and then using those landmarks, in combination with a map, to determine where you are and to follow a course. Pilotage is a much more easy skill to comprehend among the navigation methods pilots use, but as I would soon learn, it's not an easy skill to master.
Pilotage flyers like to call themselves IFR pilots: I Follow Roads.
Dead reckoning is the art of navigation using hard, cold, unrelenting mathematics. You plot a course, and figure out exactly which direction to head based on wind speed, magnetic variation, and magnetic deviation, then determine what speed you'll fly at, and finally figure out exactly how long you must fly that course and speed.
Dead reckoning's name seems somehow apt for the scary difficulty of the method.
So, I'm to practice pilotage. I had been confident at first -- how hard could it be, anyway? -- so we hopped in the plane. With my kneeboard, my Pilot's Guide, my flight plan, and the two maps I'd be using, my knees were completely covered with navigation information. No stretching on this flight, I see.
I got clearance to Oakdale, some simple departure instructions, and took to the sky. The plane climbed slowly to 5,500 feet in the hot air. I'd never flown up so high before. Five thousand five hundred feet looks very different from the lower altitudes I was accustomed to flying.
So the first VFR checkpoint was an easy one: Mount Diablo. A blind monkey could point out Mount Diablo, the towering peak, anywhere in the Bay. I passed south of Mt. Diablo, heading eastwards, and then turned to cross over the Byron reservoir and just north of Tracy.
Riiiiiight about there is where I got confused and lost. In fact, it happened just about when I had to switch from the San Francisco TAC to the Northern California sectional. I started looking and looking for clues as to where I was, but I was unable to find myself. Finally, I tentatively deduced that a city to my left was Stockton, and I was just south of it.
Stephen had brought along his own handheld GPS, which he shielded from me. He allowed me to continue this assumption until it took me so far off course that he had to rescue me. "That's not Stockton. That's Manteca. That giant city off in the distance is Stockton."
"What? Really??"
"Yep."
"... Oh."
"My advice is to head directly to the Modesto airport, regain your bearings, and fly to Oakdale from there." He pointed to show me where the Modesto airport was.
So, I was able to pick out the airport, and I headed directly to it. I plotted a course from Modesto to Oakdale -- 25 degrees magnetic -- and estimated how long it would take to get there at my present speed: around 7 minutes. (A little bit of dead reckoning.)
Stephen started his timer while I attempted to maintain a fix on where I was. As the timer counted slowly down towards zero, I realized the wind was blowing me off-course.
"Don't fret," Stephen said. "Just use your head. The wind is blowing you to the southeast, so the airport will be to your left somewhere."
I scanned for the small airport, but even as the clock reached zero, I couldn't see it. Moments later, I saw it plain as day. It was directly below me, a blatantly obvious municipal airport that had "OAKDALE" written on a taxiway in bright white paint.
Guess my dead reckoning is better than my pilotage.
I began descending turns over the airport and entered into the traffic pattern. Coming in on final, I realized that Oakdale has a deviously thin runway. I was used to getting coddled by Oakland's expansive asphalt oceans. The Stockton ATIS (the nearest ATIS there is) noted winds of 20 knots gusting to 28. Stephen was very unsure about the landing.
"With winds this high, I wouldn't recommend landing here."
I was infused with the foolish bravado of inexperience, however, and I further thought Stephen was saying that partially to trick me into practicing in-flight course changes. I figured I'd give the landing a shot anyhow.
I had remembered that all of my supervised landings were supposed to be short and soft from now on. "What kind of landing should I do?"
"Um ... a safe one." Stephen looked at me like I was crazy. Winds at nearly 30 knots and I was asking if I wanted to practice an emergency landing?
"Well, I guess 'safe' is a type of landing."
Coming in on final, it was obvious the strong gusts would pose a problem. Stephen was still pushing his concerns at me. "If you don't feel like you can make this, I want you to go around. No doubts."
"Yeah, I got it." I continued in to the runway.
Floating above the runway, crabbed into the wind, I realigned the nose with the centerline, tilted the plane, and landed on my left wheel. The right main touched ground shortly afterwards, but gusting winds pushed the airplane sharply leftward. The left wheel let out a horrendous screech as the plane listed strongly to port, the left tire moving uncomfortably close to the left edge of the runway. I put in full right rudder, as much as my leg could muster, and the right wheel slammed its disobedient ass back on the runway where it belonged. The full rightward rudder deflection solved the airborne tire problem, but yawed the airplane to the right as it continued down the runway, both tires now screeching as the airplane slipped down the asphalt. Running out of runway and lateral space, I pumped the brakes as efficiently as I could and brought the plane to a tentative halt in the center of the runway.
As the dust settled, Stephen gave me his usual dry appraisal. "Well, if I could turn back time, I'd have forced you to go around. But as usual you miraculously skirt death."
Oakdale is a sleepy airport, so there wasn't much to do except take off and head back to Oakland. Stephen had checked the guidebook to see where the fuel pump was located; he wanted to fill up if the gas was cheaper out here in the boonies.
We pulled up the pump. Stephen read the price from the meter: $3.65 per gallon. Three sixty-five!! Jesus, at Oakland it's like $4.75 per gallon. Stephen looked at me with eager eyes.
"I have suddenly decided we have an unacceptably low level of fuel for the trip back. Refuel the plane."
Sitting in the fuel console was the receipt for the previous customer, who had purchased $365 worth of fuel. Stephen thought it would be funny to submit that to the club with my name on it, and get it reimbursed.
"Hell, if they credited you the $365, you could fly out the rest of your lessons on that. Give it a try."
Ultimately we decided that the club's accountant wouldn't see the humor in the joke.
After refueling I brought the plane back up to cruise altitude and back to Oakland. Navigating to Oakland is easy. You locate Mt. Diablo, fly to it, then locate Oakland, and fly to it. We got a flight following from NorCal, who then sent me to Tower, who cleared me for a long straight-in to 27R.
Passing over the mountains in the Outer East Bay is always very bumpy. I'm used to it by now, but if you plan on flying with me to the east, be warned: Mountains do nasty things to the air above them.
After landing at Oakland and returning to the Old T's, Stephen talked more about that upcoming ground school I have. Shannon and I will be practicing plotting and filing complex flight plans. I would have to know how to get a weather forecast, so Stephen showed me how to dial a Flight Service Station and ask them for the weather.
Stephen dialed the number while warning me that their quality of service has declined lately.
We were put on hold.
There was no hold music. Only utter silence. A deadpan silence ... I drummed my fingers. Stephen played with his pen.
Time passed on and on. Finally, twenty minutes later, a man asked what he could do for us.
Stephen told him we were planning a flight to Oakdale. (We weren't, but let's pretend.) The helpful man told us about the weather and winds we would expect along the way, gave us advisories about construction at Oakland, and other helpful information. If you ignore the hold, it was actually an impressive service. You actually talk to a real person. Hell, that alone is unusual.
I showed him a website I usually go to for these sorts of things. We both agreed a website is probably easier.
Next Sunday I have another solo, assuming the winds are feeling generous. At some point in the very near future, I should do my phase check with Joel. And finally, for my next (as yet unscheduled) lesson with Stephen, I'll be practicing dead reckoning.
Stephen believes students should learn dead reckoning in a trial-by-fire method. Before the flight, I'll do my calculations, determine the directions to fly and the times to fly them, and all that jazz. Then, when we take off, Stephen will slap on the hood, and tell me to fly my course. I'll fly it blind, and when I finally arrive, he'll take off the hood and ask me to find the airport and land there.
We'll see if I'm even close.
Cost so far: $4,888.21
Time so far: 58 days
Hours so far: 23.1
Projected certification date: July 27, 2007
Projected total cost: $10,600
20070520
Lesson #16: First solo!
Riding my bike into the Old T's, I had a suspicion that today might be The Day. The wind was calm, and I had called ATIS at 8 am and they had reported the wind being only 7 knots. Of course, a lot can change in an hour, but so far, things were looking mighty promising.
Flying overhead was our good friend the banner tow aircraft, preparing for the Bay to Breakers. The rickety biplane Navy trainer was yet again making passes to hook a banner. I snapped a poor quality photo with my phone camera. I had it in my head to save space, though, for in the event that I did solo today, I would be snapping lots more poor quality photos.
Waiting at the Old T's, Stephen told me to head straight for the aircraft. He'd already preflighted 4AC. The wind was calm and my opportunity was nigh, and he didn't want to waste any time before the weather changed. He informed me that I'd be doing a few takeoffs and landings to show him I hadn't suddenly forgotten how to fly, and if he was good and I was good, my time would come.
We walked briskly to 4AC, strapped in, started her up, and took off on 33 for pattern work on 27L. I was told to do three normal landings, no frills, with flaps. The wind was calm, and although you couldn't say the same about me, I did my best to make the landings as silky smooth as possible. Thanks in part to the lack of gusting and in part to my unbreakable concentration, all three landings went pretty darn well. Only a few bumps here and there, but very smooth otherwise.
Stephen told me to park at Kaiser. This was his flight-instructor way of saying, "it's solo time, baby." I brought the plane to the fuel pump and shut it off. He took my logbook from me and unceremoniously penned a solo endorsement. Now came the obligatory, time-honored, and sacrosanct Pre-Solo Goodbye Speech.
"Tell them you want to do pattern work on 27R if you can get it, but take 27L if you have to. Also, be sure to tell them you're a student pilot on his first solo."
I couldn't hold back a small scoff. "What, so they'll clear the airport for me?"
"Just short of it. They'll give you some extra attention." I didn't need extra attention! "I'll be listening in on a handheld radio." He said it as if to warn me to do as I was told.
Stephen looked me straight in the eye. "You are the pilot in command for this flight. Your word is law. If you have to deviate from any regulation, break any law, or disobey any order for the sake of your safety, then do it. A pilot in command has a lot of power and a lot of authority. Use it to stay safe. Don't be afraid to go around or ask for another runway or simply tell the tower 'no' if you need to. They are sitting comfortable in their air-conditioned room, and you are flying the plane. If things go wrong, cut the solo short. We can finish it another time.
"Do three full-stop landings on 27R. Bring the plane back here when you're done ... in one piece, please." My mind was racing, absorbing all this information. I didn't want to fuck up my first solo.
Stephen paused. He couldn't think of much else to say.
"The plane will climb faster without me onboard. Good luck." And with that, he shut the door.
The cockpit fell suddenly very silent.
Of course, inside my mind was racing through a thousand thoughts a minute, but amidst all of that I managed to command my hands to the appropriate controls and start the plane. I calmly asked ground for a taxi to 27R. When cleared, I carefully brought the plane out to the taxiway and down to the threshold of 27R.
Almost immediately, the second-guessing began. Without Stephen aboard, if I forgot something or overlooked a step anywhere in the process, he won't be there to point at it and give me an angry glare. So I found myself double-checking everything and second-guessing myself constantly. I did my best to reign it in and trust my training.
The other realization I made was that photos are not going to be a possibility. I had envisioned my first solo's blog entry would be a photo-rich experience, but it became clear to me that this was simply out of the picture. I concentrated on flying the plane.
I was at the hold-short line for 27R. MALTDD. Everything looks fine. Did I forget anything? Flaps? Carb heat? Cool it, Tim. You're fine.
"Oakland Tower, Skyhawk 854AC is ready for takeoff at 27R."
"4AC, hold short."
"Holding short, 4AC."
Silence. A Citation business jet was inching towards my runway. Twiddling my thumbs to expel nervous energy, I watched him creep closer and finally land. A pilot flying such a jet would have hundreds, if not thousands, of hours. His landing was flawless and he rolled gently down the runway. I reflected on this a bit.
"4AC, cleared for takeoff, 27R, right closed traffic, winds 260 at 8."
"Cleared for takeoff, 27R, right closed traffic, 4AC."
I brought the plane onto the runway. 27R is a lot bigger than 33. The runway traveled off thousands of feet into the distance. I lined up with the centerline. This is it.
Throttle to maximum, yoke slightly forward, right rudder to hold the centerline. Oil temperature and pressure rising, airspeed increasing. The runway starts passing beneath me. Sixty-five miles per hour. The airplane is buffeting a bit, ready to fly. I bring the yoke smoothly back, and the airplane leaps into the sky. My first solo takeoff.
I bring the airplane around for the crosswind leg, and again to the downwind leg, and begin preparing for landing. Carb heat on, fuel selector both, mixture rich. Engine and oil gauges are in the green. Power back to 2,000 RPM. I'm abeam the "27R" numbers. Power back to 1,500 RPM, flaps to 20°. Trim for 80 miles per hour. Turn base.
Final approach, 27R. The runway is a straight shot, barely any wind. Power slowly back to idle, and I glide it in at 75 miles per hour onto the runway. I was a little high so my landing is long and I touch down in the center of the runway. That's fine. It's a small plane and big runway; I have plenty of leeway.
After landing, a strong leftward yaw kicks in and I hear my left tire squealing. I quickly apply right rudder to correct, and the skid stops. Must have been some windshear close to the runway. I bring the airplane slowly to a halt, taxi off the runway, and prepare the airplane for takeoff again.
"4AC, taxi back to 27R."
"Taxi 27R, 4AC."
Oh, shit! I forgot to tell him I was a student pilot. I had wondered if Stephen was really listening, or if he just told his students that to scare them into cooperating over the radio, but I wasn't going to chance it.
"Tower, be advised 4AC is a student pilot on his first solo."
The words felt like shame exiting my mouth. I was ready for some derision over the radio.
"4AC, roger."
Well ... there might have been some derision in the background...
Takeoff #2 now. MALTTD again, take the runway, line up, and then full throttle. At about 20 knots, the nosewheel starts oscillating. Badly. The entire front of the aircraft feels like it's going to fall off. The plane is shaking violently as it picks up speed, rolling down the runway.
My mind is racing. This is a crucial moment. I have to decide if I want to abort the takeoff or press it, and I have to decide now. I spend about a quarter second thinking about the possibilities: What if the nosewheel falls off? What if the plane flips over? Ultimately I decide to press the takeoff, and with a gasp of air, I lift the plane into the air. As soon as the nosewheel hits sky the plane settles down. In the back of my head I wonder what will happen when I land, and the nosewheel touches earth again.
I fly the pattern once more, line up for final approach, and bring the airplane down to the runway. Fortunately, the nosewheel didn't act unusually upon landing, but that annoying windshear caused my plane's tires to squeal again.
Number three now. The pattern's getting busier now. Bay to Breakers means a bunch of helicopters are taking off and landing. The radio's getting a little more crowded, and I'm getting a few traffic advisories. Regardless, I take off and put down a third time just fine. The windshear is pretty bad this time, and my tires squeal for a good five seconds before I get the airplane under control, but the runway is wide and I have plenty of room.
"4AC, you going back again?"
"Negative, 4AC is going to Kaiser this time."
"Roger 4AC, taxi to ramp."
"Taxi to ramp, 4AC."
I brought the airplane to the fuel pumps exactly as before, and I saw Stephen exit the FBO with what I think was a smile on his face. He walked behind the aircraft as I shut it down, and when I exited the plane he was snapping photos. I smiled and stood next to my baby, the beautiful 4AC that brought me skyward and safely to the Earth, proud as a button.
Stephen firmly shook my hand and congratulated me.
"She's a beautiful aircraft, isn't she," I said, gazing upon 4AC's glistening form in the sunlight, empowered by the moment.
"What? No." Stephen looked at me like I was crazy. "She's ugly as sin."
"Oh. I guess when you've felt like you were gonna die so many times in one plane, some kind of Stockholm's syndrome sets in."
"Did anything go wrong?"
"Second takeoff was a doozy. The nosewheel kinda got out of control."
"Probably should have lifted off sooner."
We got into the aircraft, and Stephen had me return to the Old T's. This would be a short lesson, less than an hour, but a momentous one nonetheless.
Stephen gave me a little talk about my future solos. I can do them without him at the airport, but I should call him if the weather gets worse, so he can come sit in the right seat. I would need to get a phase check with a different instructor, to make sure both Stephen and I are on track. I was given the number of another instructor to call. If I wanted, Stephen could sign me off for solos at a different airport, in case I get bored of flying circles around Oakland all day. I think I'll do this. Flying back and forth between Oakland and, say, Concord or Palo Alto is more exciting than simply staying in Oakland's airspace.
"You'll need some ground school back here, too. I'll schedule you together with Shannon, since she's catching up to you real fast."
Let me tell you a little somethin' about Shannon Cantwell.
Shannon is the specter that haunts my every accomplishment. I dread when Stephen mentions her name, because he does so with gushing pride. Every milestone I hit is done with a comparison to Shannon, and I always compare unfavorably.
Not three lessons ago, Stephen had been once again discussing his wunderkind student. "How many landings did it take you before you could finally do it unassisted? Nine?"
"Yeah, I think," I had said, my voice filled with anxiety at what would invariably come next.
"Would you believe she had it down on her second landing? Two! That girl's unbelievable!"
It was the same story each time. Shannon had started a complete newbie to flying, and her first flight was a terrible display of uncoordinated inability. She learned faster than anyone thought possible, though, and she's on track to get her license in simply record time. She started learning weeks after me, and even though I have years of prior simulator experience, she will be overtaking me in progress any moment now. That ground school lesson will likely be the moment.
Suffice it to say, I don't like it when Stephen brings up Shannon. Tempers my pride somewhat. It will be interesting to finally meet this miracle girl, however.
My next lesson is tomorrow, and will likely be my first cross-country flight, and the first step towards my next milestone, a cross-country solo endorsement. No doubt I will hear about how Shannon did it before me.
I had half-expected, half-hoped Stephen wouldn't charge me for the time he spent outside the aircraft. So it came as quite a surprise when he said, out of the blue, "Flight instructors should charge extra for the time they spend sitting in on the ground, listening on the radio."
This threw my brain for a loop. "What??"
"You get so nervous, sitting down there, unable to do anything if something goes wrong. It wracks the mind a bit."
I scoffed. "Well, you're welcome to forgo that next time. You can turn off the radio."
Ultimately, I didn't have to pay him extra, but I did have to pay him for the time he spent sitting in Kaiser, listening on the radio. Sigh.
As I rode my bike home, once again the banner tow biplane was trundling along above me, now with a new banner. I felt as if I was looking at the airplane with a completely new set of eyes.
Cost so far: $4,596.16
Time so far: 57 days
Hours so far: 20.9
Projected certification date: August 7, 2007
Projected total cost: $11,000
Flying overhead was our good friend the banner tow aircraft, preparing for the Bay to Breakers. The rickety biplane Navy trainer was yet again making passes to hook a banner. I snapped a poor quality photo with my phone camera. I had it in my head to save space, though, for in the event that I did solo today, I would be snapping lots more poor quality photos.
Waiting at the Old T's, Stephen told me to head straight for the aircraft. He'd already preflighted 4AC. The wind was calm and my opportunity was nigh, and he didn't want to waste any time before the weather changed. He informed me that I'd be doing a few takeoffs and landings to show him I hadn't suddenly forgotten how to fly, and if he was good and I was good, my time would come.
We walked briskly to 4AC, strapped in, started her up, and took off on 33 for pattern work on 27L. I was told to do three normal landings, no frills, with flaps. The wind was calm, and although you couldn't say the same about me, I did my best to make the landings as silky smooth as possible. Thanks in part to the lack of gusting and in part to my unbreakable concentration, all three landings went pretty darn well. Only a few bumps here and there, but very smooth otherwise.
Stephen told me to park at Kaiser. This was his flight-instructor way of saying, "it's solo time, baby." I brought the plane to the fuel pump and shut it off. He took my logbook from me and unceremoniously penned a solo endorsement. Now came the obligatory, time-honored, and sacrosanct Pre-Solo Goodbye Speech.
"Tell them you want to do pattern work on 27R if you can get it, but take 27L if you have to. Also, be sure to tell them you're a student pilot on his first solo."
I couldn't hold back a small scoff. "What, so they'll clear the airport for me?"
"Just short of it. They'll give you some extra attention." I didn't need extra attention! "I'll be listening in on a handheld radio." He said it as if to warn me to do as I was told.
Stephen looked me straight in the eye. "You are the pilot in command for this flight. Your word is law. If you have to deviate from any regulation, break any law, or disobey any order for the sake of your safety, then do it. A pilot in command has a lot of power and a lot of authority. Use it to stay safe. Don't be afraid to go around or ask for another runway or simply tell the tower 'no' if you need to. They are sitting comfortable in their air-conditioned room, and you are flying the plane. If things go wrong, cut the solo short. We can finish it another time.
"Do three full-stop landings on 27R. Bring the plane back here when you're done ... in one piece, please." My mind was racing, absorbing all this information. I didn't want to fuck up my first solo.
Stephen paused. He couldn't think of much else to say.
"The plane will climb faster without me onboard. Good luck." And with that, he shut the door.
The cockpit fell suddenly very silent.
Of course, inside my mind was racing through a thousand thoughts a minute, but amidst all of that I managed to command my hands to the appropriate controls and start the plane. I calmly asked ground for a taxi to 27R. When cleared, I carefully brought the plane out to the taxiway and down to the threshold of 27R.
Almost immediately, the second-guessing began. Without Stephen aboard, if I forgot something or overlooked a step anywhere in the process, he won't be there to point at it and give me an angry glare. So I found myself double-checking everything and second-guessing myself constantly. I did my best to reign it in and trust my training.
The other realization I made was that photos are not going to be a possibility. I had envisioned my first solo's blog entry would be a photo-rich experience, but it became clear to me that this was simply out of the picture. I concentrated on flying the plane.
I was at the hold-short line for 27R. MALTDD. Everything looks fine. Did I forget anything? Flaps? Carb heat? Cool it, Tim. You're fine.
"Oakland Tower, Skyhawk 854AC is ready for takeoff at 27R."
"4AC, hold short."
"Holding short, 4AC."
Silence. A Citation business jet was inching towards my runway. Twiddling my thumbs to expel nervous energy, I watched him creep closer and finally land. A pilot flying such a jet would have hundreds, if not thousands, of hours. His landing was flawless and he rolled gently down the runway. I reflected on this a bit.
"4AC, cleared for takeoff, 27R, right closed traffic, winds 260 at 8."
"Cleared for takeoff, 27R, right closed traffic, 4AC."
I brought the plane onto the runway. 27R is a lot bigger than 33. The runway traveled off thousands of feet into the distance. I lined up with the centerline. This is it.
Throttle to maximum, yoke slightly forward, right rudder to hold the centerline. Oil temperature and pressure rising, airspeed increasing. The runway starts passing beneath me. Sixty-five miles per hour. The airplane is buffeting a bit, ready to fly. I bring the yoke smoothly back, and the airplane leaps into the sky. My first solo takeoff.
I bring the airplane around for the crosswind leg, and again to the downwind leg, and begin preparing for landing. Carb heat on, fuel selector both, mixture rich. Engine and oil gauges are in the green. Power back to 2,000 RPM. I'm abeam the "27R" numbers. Power back to 1,500 RPM, flaps to 20°. Trim for 80 miles per hour. Turn base.
Final approach, 27R. The runway is a straight shot, barely any wind. Power slowly back to idle, and I glide it in at 75 miles per hour onto the runway. I was a little high so my landing is long and I touch down in the center of the runway. That's fine. It's a small plane and big runway; I have plenty of leeway.
After landing, a strong leftward yaw kicks in and I hear my left tire squealing. I quickly apply right rudder to correct, and the skid stops. Must have been some windshear close to the runway. I bring the airplane slowly to a halt, taxi off the runway, and prepare the airplane for takeoff again.
"4AC, taxi back to 27R."
"Taxi 27R, 4AC."
Oh, shit! I forgot to tell him I was a student pilot. I had wondered if Stephen was really listening, or if he just told his students that to scare them into cooperating over the radio, but I wasn't going to chance it.
"Tower, be advised 4AC is a student pilot on his first solo."
The words felt like shame exiting my mouth. I was ready for some derision over the radio.
"4AC, roger."
Well ... there might have been some derision in the background...
Takeoff #2 now. MALTTD again, take the runway, line up, and then full throttle. At about 20 knots, the nosewheel starts oscillating. Badly. The entire front of the aircraft feels like it's going to fall off. The plane is shaking violently as it picks up speed, rolling down the runway.
My mind is racing. This is a crucial moment. I have to decide if I want to abort the takeoff or press it, and I have to decide now. I spend about a quarter second thinking about the possibilities: What if the nosewheel falls off? What if the plane flips over? Ultimately I decide to press the takeoff, and with a gasp of air, I lift the plane into the air. As soon as the nosewheel hits sky the plane settles down. In the back of my head I wonder what will happen when I land, and the nosewheel touches earth again.
I fly the pattern once more, line up for final approach, and bring the airplane down to the runway. Fortunately, the nosewheel didn't act unusually upon landing, but that annoying windshear caused my plane's tires to squeal again.
Number three now. The pattern's getting busier now. Bay to Breakers means a bunch of helicopters are taking off and landing. The radio's getting a little more crowded, and I'm getting a few traffic advisories. Regardless, I take off and put down a third time just fine. The windshear is pretty bad this time, and my tires squeal for a good five seconds before I get the airplane under control, but the runway is wide and I have plenty of room.
"4AC, you going back again?"
"Negative, 4AC is going to Kaiser this time."
"Roger 4AC, taxi to ramp."
"Taxi to ramp, 4AC."
I brought the airplane to the fuel pumps exactly as before, and I saw Stephen exit the FBO with what I think was a smile on his face. He walked behind the aircraft as I shut it down, and when I exited the plane he was snapping photos. I smiled and stood next to my baby, the beautiful 4AC that brought me skyward and safely to the Earth, proud as a button.
Stephen firmly shook my hand and congratulated me.
"She's a beautiful aircraft, isn't she," I said, gazing upon 4AC's glistening form in the sunlight, empowered by the moment.
"What? No." Stephen looked at me like I was crazy. "She's ugly as sin."
"Oh. I guess when you've felt like you were gonna die so many times in one plane, some kind of Stockholm's syndrome sets in."
"Did anything go wrong?"
"Second takeoff was a doozy. The nosewheel kinda got out of control."
"Probably should have lifted off sooner."
We got into the aircraft, and Stephen had me return to the Old T's. This would be a short lesson, less than an hour, but a momentous one nonetheless.
Stephen gave me a little talk about my future solos. I can do them without him at the airport, but I should call him if the weather gets worse, so he can come sit in the right seat. I would need to get a phase check with a different instructor, to make sure both Stephen and I are on track. I was given the number of another instructor to call. If I wanted, Stephen could sign me off for solos at a different airport, in case I get bored of flying circles around Oakland all day. I think I'll do this. Flying back and forth between Oakland and, say, Concord or Palo Alto is more exciting than simply staying in Oakland's airspace.
"You'll need some ground school back here, too. I'll schedule you together with Shannon, since she's catching up to you real fast."
Let me tell you a little somethin' about Shannon Cantwell.
Shannon is the specter that haunts my every accomplishment. I dread when Stephen mentions her name, because he does so with gushing pride. Every milestone I hit is done with a comparison to Shannon, and I always compare unfavorably.
Not three lessons ago, Stephen had been once again discussing his wunderkind student. "How many landings did it take you before you could finally do it unassisted? Nine?"
"Yeah, I think," I had said, my voice filled with anxiety at what would invariably come next.
"Would you believe she had it down on her second landing? Two! That girl's unbelievable!"
It was the same story each time. Shannon had started a complete newbie to flying, and her first flight was a terrible display of uncoordinated inability. She learned faster than anyone thought possible, though, and she's on track to get her license in simply record time. She started learning weeks after me, and even though I have years of prior simulator experience, she will be overtaking me in progress any moment now. That ground school lesson will likely be the moment.
Suffice it to say, I don't like it when Stephen brings up Shannon. Tempers my pride somewhat. It will be interesting to finally meet this miracle girl, however.
My next lesson is tomorrow, and will likely be my first cross-country flight, and the first step towards my next milestone, a cross-country solo endorsement. No doubt I will hear about how Shannon did it before me.
I had half-expected, half-hoped Stephen wouldn't charge me for the time he spent outside the aircraft. So it came as quite a surprise when he said, out of the blue, "Flight instructors should charge extra for the time they spend sitting in on the ground, listening on the radio."
This threw my brain for a loop. "What??"
"You get so nervous, sitting down there, unable to do anything if something goes wrong. It wracks the mind a bit."
I scoffed. "Well, you're welcome to forgo that next time. You can turn off the radio."
Ultimately, I didn't have to pay him extra, but I did have to pay him for the time he spent sitting in Kaiser, listening on the radio. Sigh.
As I rode my bike home, once again the banner tow biplane was trundling along above me, now with a new banner. I felt as if I was looking at the airplane with a completely new set of eyes.
Cost so far: $4,596.16
Time so far: 57 days
Hours so far: 20.9
Projected certification date: August 7, 2007
Projected total cost: $11,000
20070519
Stocking up your flight bag
I think at this point it's safe to make The List of things you (the prospective future pilot) will need in your flight bag. If you want to be a stocked and ready pilot, consider purchasing the following. In parentheses are the actual brands I purchased, and the price I'm using is based on that brand.
Flight bag (e.g., ASA AirClassics): $70
Fuel sampler (e.g., GATS jar): $18
Two Dramamine tubes (for you or your passengers as needs 'em): $11
Barf bags: Free if you steal 'em from commercial flights
Two sectional charts and a terminal area chart (1 year subscription): $18
ANR headset (e.g., LightSPEED QFR XC/c): $320
Flight planning sheets: Free if you print 'em out yourself
Kneeboard (e.g., ASA Trifold): $29
Kneeboard quick-note sheets: Also free if you print 'em out yourself
Cheap Sunglasses: $10
Airport/facility guide (e.g., Pilot's Guide to California): $35
First Aid Kit: $11
Logbook: $8
Flight computer (e.g., aluminum E6-B): $26
Recent copy of the FAR/AIM: $11
Pair of working gloves: $7
Add, say, $30 for tax and shipping...
Total: $614
Just a heads-up on what you might spend to fill up your flight bag. I purchased a few extras here and there, but they aren't necessary. For instance, I purchased a clip-on desk for the yoke, so I could get some writing space that wasn't on my knee. (See, due to my height, when I pile up my knees with charts and papers, I can no longer steer the airplane without bumping the yoke into my legs. This is an annoyance and has caused some problems in past landings when I was steering vigorously.)
I also eschewed the cheap sunglasses for more expensive and sexy ones, but of course that's personal choice. Finally, as part of my learning kit, I received a PIM for a 2000 Cessna 172. (This PIM is near useless to me, unless we happen to pick up such a lovely new Cessna down at the club; plus, all the older Cessnas the club does rent have their POH's right there in the glove compartment, so ... I guess I don't see the point.) Basically, if you pick up a student pilot learning kit, it will probably include some subset of the materials listed above.
If you will be carrying passengers, you should consider purchasing additional (cheaper) headsets for them if the club doesn't loan out spares. At a minimum, carry a few packs of disposable earplugs, just as common courtesy. Don't force them to suffer the loud noises.
Aside from the things you'll purchase, you should also carry an "overnight bag" in your flight bag. This small pouch should contain toothbrush, toothpaste, any medications you regularly take (or inhalers or what-have-you), and basically anything you need to last 2-3 days out in some strange hotel. It doesn't take long before you will experience your first "unplanned landing due to weather," and you will have to wait out the storm at a hotel God-knows-where. Be prepared.
Some pilots go all out and bring basically camping gear: Whatever they'd need to live for a week out in the woods if they have to put down in the middle of nowhere. Some travel pots and pans, signaling mirror, flares ... you get the idea. While I appreciate the possibility that such a thing might happen to me, I'm not exactly made of money, and this kind of insurance is too costly for me. I'll just try really hard to have my in-flight emergencies near reasonably populated areas.
Although, if you do find a compass in your next box of cracker jacks, consider throwing that in your emergency kit. I imagine that plus a flashlight would be a very cheap investment that could potentially go a very long ways if the worst should happen. I'll probably pick those up sometime when I get a bigger bag. If you're extra-paranoid, get a hand-crank flashlight.
If you purchase the headset model I listed (as well as any of many similar models) you'll have the ability to plug in your portable music player. So, bring an iPod along and smooth over the longer journeys with music.
Aviation watches. Fuckin' $300 for a watch that basically a) tells time, and b) does the functions of the E6-B. Just buy the E-6B for less than $30; there's no reason to downsize that sucker to your watch's face. For $300 my watch better have a grappling hook and a tear gas dispenser, I'm sorry.
Maybe you're going to accuse me of being a hypocrite, seeing as I just justified spending more for designer aviation sunglasses. Well, there's a crucial difference: Designer aviation sunglasses look goddamn sexy, whereas aviation watches look like alphabet soup and a minute hand.
When's the last time you heard a chick mention that Tom Cruise looked sexy in Top Gun because of his watch? That's right, never.
Flight bag (e.g., ASA AirClassics): $70
Fuel sampler (e.g., GATS jar): $18
Two Dramamine tubes (for you or your passengers as needs 'em): $11
Barf bags: Free if you steal 'em from commercial flights
Two sectional charts and a terminal area chart (1 year subscription): $18
ANR headset (e.g., LightSPEED QFR XC/c): $320
Flight planning sheets: Free if you print 'em out yourself
Kneeboard (e.g., ASA Trifold): $29
Kneeboard quick-note sheets: Also free if you print 'em out yourself
Cheap Sunglasses: $10
Airport/facility guide (e.g., Pilot's Guide to California): $35
First Aid Kit: $11
Logbook: $8
Flight computer (e.g., aluminum E6-B): $26
Recent copy of the FAR/AIM: $11
Pair of working gloves: $7
Add, say, $30 for tax and shipping...
Total: $614
Just a heads-up on what you might spend to fill up your flight bag. I purchased a few extras here and there, but they aren't necessary. For instance, I purchased a clip-on desk for the yoke, so I could get some writing space that wasn't on my knee. (See, due to my height, when I pile up my knees with charts and papers, I can no longer steer the airplane without bumping the yoke into my legs. This is an annoyance and has caused some problems in past landings when I was steering vigorously.)
I also eschewed the cheap sunglasses for more expensive and sexy ones, but of course that's personal choice. Finally, as part of my learning kit, I received a PIM for a 2000 Cessna 172. (This PIM is near useless to me, unless we happen to pick up such a lovely new Cessna down at the club; plus, all the older Cessnas the club does rent have their POH's right there in the glove compartment, so ... I guess I don't see the point.) Basically, if you pick up a student pilot learning kit, it will probably include some subset of the materials listed above.
If you will be carrying passengers, you should consider purchasing additional (cheaper) headsets for them if the club doesn't loan out spares. At a minimum, carry a few packs of disposable earplugs, just as common courtesy. Don't force them to suffer the loud noises.
Aside from the things you'll purchase, you should also carry an "overnight bag" in your flight bag. This small pouch should contain toothbrush, toothpaste, any medications you regularly take (or inhalers or what-have-you), and basically anything you need to last 2-3 days out in some strange hotel. It doesn't take long before you will experience your first "unplanned landing due to weather," and you will have to wait out the storm at a hotel God-knows-where. Be prepared.
Some pilots go all out and bring basically camping gear: Whatever they'd need to live for a week out in the woods if they have to put down in the middle of nowhere. Some travel pots and pans, signaling mirror, flares ... you get the idea. While I appreciate the possibility that such a thing might happen to me, I'm not exactly made of money, and this kind of insurance is too costly for me. I'll just try really hard to have my in-flight emergencies near reasonably populated areas.
Although, if you do find a compass in your next box of cracker jacks, consider throwing that in your emergency kit. I imagine that plus a flashlight would be a very cheap investment that could potentially go a very long ways if the worst should happen. I'll probably pick those up sometime when I get a bigger bag. If you're extra-paranoid, get a hand-crank flashlight.
If you purchase the headset model I listed (as well as any of many similar models) you'll have the ability to plug in your portable music player. So, bring an iPod along and smooth over the longer journeys with music.
Aviation watches. Fuckin' $300 for a watch that basically a) tells time, and b) does the functions of the E6-B. Just buy the E-6B for less than $30; there's no reason to downsize that sucker to your watch's face. For $300 my watch better have a grappling hook and a tear gas dispenser, I'm sorry.
Maybe you're going to accuse me of being a hypocrite, seeing as I just justified spending more for designer aviation sunglasses. Well, there's a crucial difference: Designer aviation sunglasses look goddamn sexy, whereas aviation watches look like alphabet soup and a minute hand.
When's the last time you heard a chick mention that Tom Cruise looked sexy in Top Gun because of his watch? That's right, never.
20070516
Lesson #15: A whole lot of hood work
There are some of you who, upon reading the title of this lesson, are thinking, "Oh boy! Finally, Tim will learn the most important part of flying: brominating nitroaniline to produce diazonium salt!" Well, I'm sorry to report, it's not that kind of hood. The hood I am referring to will not explode again, nor ever.
Wellp, I wasn't surprised when ATIS reported the winds at 240 for 15 knots on this sunny Wednesday evening. It will be a cold day in Hell when the winds are calm enough for my first solo in the evening.
Instead, we would be doing a whole lesson of hood work. The hood, if you've forgotten, is an unattractive device you strap over your head, that obscures your vision out the window. It forces you to fly by instruments, simulating flying in darkness or in a cloud.
Ah, 739UL. How long it's been since I've taken you into the air. She feels no different than 4AC to me now, where once there would have been a world of difference, but still ... it will be nice to land a different plane for once.
About 5 minutes out from Oakland, Stephen plopped the hood on my face, and for the rest of the flight up until landing, it would be instruments only. He started out with a typical instruction: "Tune and fly to the Scags VOR, and climb and maintain 2,500 feet." So, I was tuning, climbing, and turning.
(It just occurred to me that I never did identify the station, and Stephen never dinged me for it. Guess we both forgot.)
Thanks to extensive simulator experience, I already had a good scan. I moved my eyes across the instruments I needed, never fixating on any one, and keeping up my total situational awareness. I had trouble maintaining a heading (drifting off by about 20 degrees or so), but my altitude was doing fine.
So, in the simulator, I can maintain both an altitude and a heading just fine using only instruments. So what gives in real life? The answer is my damn inner ear. The tricksy bastard plays games with me, telling me I'm banked when I'm level, and telling me I'm turning when I'm straight. So, my heading deviated wildly as my eyes (watching the heading indicator) and my inner ear wrestled for control of the yoke.
So really, IFR flight is a two-front battle. On the first front, you have to develop a good scan to avoid fixating on an instrument, and keep your general situational awareness high. That part I have honed from years of flight sims. On the second front, you have to learn to ignore your inner ear, which is a wholly unreliable sense of bank and pitch. That's something you can't learn in a sim when you're sitting in your room, so I was completely new to this unsettling disagreeing sensory input.
Stephen gave me new commands (new altitudes and new headings) and I flew them as best I could. Twenty minutes he informed me we were over the San Pablo Bay. I had no idea of this, seeing only the instruments and the top of my hood the whole flight, so it came as a bit of a surprise.
Next I would practice power-on and power-off stalls with the hood on. This means I had to rely on my instruments to help me recover from the stall, rather than looking out the window. No problem. Other than once again being unable to maintain a heading due to my stupid inner ear, I did fine. I trusted my instruments and used them to recover from these stalls.
We did three stalls, then it was time to practice recovery for unusual attitudes. The idea here is, a pilot flies into a cloud. Once the white-out hits him he panics, begins listening to his inner ear, and makes all sorts of crazy control inputs in an attempt to fly back out. Of course, all he succeeds in doing is putting himself in an "unusual attitude." So, now comes the recover time.
Now, mind you, I had been flying for about 30 minutes with the hood on, unable to see the horizon, so motion sickness was creeping up on me like a looming shadow. To practice unusual attitude recoveries, you close your eyes, your instructor makes some abrupt and confusing control inputs, and then you open them and recover to normal flight. (It's the analogy to when you blindfold your friend, spin him around really fast, and then have him try to find his way to you. If your friend had a compass he could use, it would sure be a lot more trustworthy than his completely compromised senses.)
So, I figured by closing my eyes and allowing myself to be tossed and turned in the sky, I would get sick to my stomach. Surprisingly, closing my eyes allowed me to relax and zone out a bit while Stephen flew the plane, so even though he was doing crazy banks and pitches all over the sky, I still felt mostly fine.
He then asked me to open my eyes, and I would recover the plane, ignoring what my senses "thought" the plane was doing, and instead listening to what my instruments "knew" the plane was doing. I did just fine. We did three recoveries and Stephen was satisfied.
That's not to say the motions didn't affect me at all. Even as I sit here typing this (three hours after my lesson), I am vaguely reliving the roller-coaster sensation in my head, my inner ear still spinning from the experience.
It sure was fun though.
So, I was allowed to take the hood off and take the plane back home at this point. The approach was uneventful; I called NorCal outside of Richmond and they vectored me to the Mormon Temple, then had me go to Tower, which brought me in to 27R. They vectored me just beneath to a helicopter, and I was a little worried about the downdraft from its rotor, but I didn't feel anything passing under it, so I guess we were far enough below.
Stephen had me practice two short-field and two soft-field landings on 27R, which actually went pretty well. The trick for the crosswind landing, apparently, is to make your rudder correction further out than I was doing. See, the way I had learned a crosswind landing, you crab the airplane into the wind, and fly it all the way down the chute crabbed out (facing diagonally to the direction it's going). Then, at the last minute, you "kick out the crab:" You apply opposite rudder to straighten the plane, so that when the wheels touch, they won't skid.
That sounded reasonable, but Stephen had me put in my rudder correction about 1,000 feet out from final. For one, it helps to know if you have enough rudder authority to completely straighten yourself in the crosswind: If you don't, you'll have to land on a different runway. Secondly, it apparently fixed the unsettling skidding with my landings. All four of my landings were smoother because the wheels didn't skid on touchdown.
I kinda liked the whole "crab up to the end" idea, though. I liked the idea of freaking out passengers by coming down to land facing nearly sideways. Oh well.
Next weekend will either be (of course) my first solo or my first cross-country flight. Stephen wants me to plan a flight to tiny Oakdale airport, across the state, for some practice in VFR navigation over long distances. Either way, I'm looking forward to it.
Cost so far: $4,456.46
Time so far: 53 days
Hours so far: 20.1
Projected finish date: August 2, 2007
Projected total cost: $11,000
Wellp, I wasn't surprised when ATIS reported the winds at 240 for 15 knots on this sunny Wednesday evening. It will be a cold day in Hell when the winds are calm enough for my first solo in the evening.
Instead, we would be doing a whole lesson of hood work. The hood, if you've forgotten, is an unattractive device you strap over your head, that obscures your vision out the window. It forces you to fly by instruments, simulating flying in darkness or in a cloud.
Ah, 739UL. How long it's been since I've taken you into the air. She feels no different than 4AC to me now, where once there would have been a world of difference, but still ... it will be nice to land a different plane for once.
About 5 minutes out from Oakland, Stephen plopped the hood on my face, and for the rest of the flight up until landing, it would be instruments only. He started out with a typical instruction: "Tune and fly to the Scags VOR, and climb and maintain 2,500 feet." So, I was tuning, climbing, and turning.
(It just occurred to me that I never did identify the station, and Stephen never dinged me for it. Guess we both forgot.)
Thanks to extensive simulator experience, I already had a good scan. I moved my eyes across the instruments I needed, never fixating on any one, and keeping up my total situational awareness. I had trouble maintaining a heading (drifting off by about 20 degrees or so), but my altitude was doing fine.
So, in the simulator, I can maintain both an altitude and a heading just fine using only instruments. So what gives in real life? The answer is my damn inner ear. The tricksy bastard plays games with me, telling me I'm banked when I'm level, and telling me I'm turning when I'm straight. So, my heading deviated wildly as my eyes (watching the heading indicator) and my inner ear wrestled for control of the yoke.
So really, IFR flight is a two-front battle. On the first front, you have to develop a good scan to avoid fixating on an instrument, and keep your general situational awareness high. That part I have honed from years of flight sims. On the second front, you have to learn to ignore your inner ear, which is a wholly unreliable sense of bank and pitch. That's something you can't learn in a sim when you're sitting in your room, so I was completely new to this unsettling disagreeing sensory input.
Stephen gave me new commands (new altitudes and new headings) and I flew them as best I could. Twenty minutes he informed me we were over the San Pablo Bay. I had no idea of this, seeing only the instruments and the top of my hood the whole flight, so it came as a bit of a surprise.
Next I would practice power-on and power-off stalls with the hood on. This means I had to rely on my instruments to help me recover from the stall, rather than looking out the window. No problem. Other than once again being unable to maintain a heading due to my stupid inner ear, I did fine. I trusted my instruments and used them to recover from these stalls.
We did three stalls, then it was time to practice recovery for unusual attitudes. The idea here is, a pilot flies into a cloud. Once the white-out hits him he panics, begins listening to his inner ear, and makes all sorts of crazy control inputs in an attempt to fly back out. Of course, all he succeeds in doing is putting himself in an "unusual attitude." So, now comes the recover time.
Now, mind you, I had been flying for about 30 minutes with the hood on, unable to see the horizon, so motion sickness was creeping up on me like a looming shadow. To practice unusual attitude recoveries, you close your eyes, your instructor makes some abrupt and confusing control inputs, and then you open them and recover to normal flight. (It's the analogy to when you blindfold your friend, spin him around really fast, and then have him try to find his way to you. If your friend had a compass he could use, it would sure be a lot more trustworthy than his completely compromised senses.)
So, I figured by closing my eyes and allowing myself to be tossed and turned in the sky, I would get sick to my stomach. Surprisingly, closing my eyes allowed me to relax and zone out a bit while Stephen flew the plane, so even though he was doing crazy banks and pitches all over the sky, I still felt mostly fine.
He then asked me to open my eyes, and I would recover the plane, ignoring what my senses "thought" the plane was doing, and instead listening to what my instruments "knew" the plane was doing. I did just fine. We did three recoveries and Stephen was satisfied.
That's not to say the motions didn't affect me at all. Even as I sit here typing this (three hours after my lesson), I am vaguely reliving the roller-coaster sensation in my head, my inner ear still spinning from the experience.
It sure was fun though.
So, I was allowed to take the hood off and take the plane back home at this point. The approach was uneventful; I called NorCal outside of Richmond and they vectored me to the Mormon Temple, then had me go to Tower, which brought me in to 27R. They vectored me just beneath to a helicopter, and I was a little worried about the downdraft from its rotor, but I didn't feel anything passing under it, so I guess we were far enough below.
Stephen had me practice two short-field and two soft-field landings on 27R, which actually went pretty well. The trick for the crosswind landing, apparently, is to make your rudder correction further out than I was doing. See, the way I had learned a crosswind landing, you crab the airplane into the wind, and fly it all the way down the chute crabbed out (facing diagonally to the direction it's going). Then, at the last minute, you "kick out the crab:" You apply opposite rudder to straighten the plane, so that when the wheels touch, they won't skid.
That sounded reasonable, but Stephen had me put in my rudder correction about 1,000 feet out from final. For one, it helps to know if you have enough rudder authority to completely straighten yourself in the crosswind: If you don't, you'll have to land on a different runway. Secondly, it apparently fixed the unsettling skidding with my landings. All four of my landings were smoother because the wheels didn't skid on touchdown.
I kinda liked the whole "crab up to the end" idea, though. I liked the idea of freaking out passengers by coming down to land facing nearly sideways. Oh well.
Next weekend will either be (of course) my first solo or my first cross-country flight. Stephen wants me to plan a flight to tiny Oakdale airport, across the state, for some practice in VFR navigation over long distances. Either way, I'm looking forward to it.
Cost so far: $4,456.46
Time so far: 53 days
Hours so far: 20.1
Projected finish date: August 2, 2007
Projected total cost: $11,000
20070512
Lesson #14: Well, it *was* supposed to be my solo
Riding my bike into the Old T's, I could already tell today wouldn't be the day. The wind pounded back at me like always, and I knew that today would be windy like any other day I fly. I wonder when I may actually see a day still enough to meet Stephen's solo requirements.
Instead, today would be VOR navigation. Stephen seemed ready to hurry through this lesson. "You already know all about VOR navigation, right?"
"Yep," I said confidently. I had worked with VOR's in flight sims plenty of times.
"Good. Let's skip the ground school and get to flying."
Music to my ears. A quick preflight of 4AC (during which I noticed a bird's nest and deceased bird in the left elevator) and we were ready to go, with Stephen by my side. This would be the first flight I got to use my brand-spankin' new headset, a Lightspeed ANR (active noise reduction) model that was quite comfortable to wear and listen with.
Stephen told me to first ask to depart on 33 for pattern work on 27R. We would be practicing more short- and soft-field takeoffs and landings. Takeoffs I've got down. Normal, short, soft, you name it, I can do it. Landings ... well ... let's just say my first two landings of the morning were stinkingly disappointing. I could hear over the radio, my old friend 9UL was being flown by a different student who was clearly many lessons behind me, and I think even he could smell the stank from my awful touchdowns.
At this point I was getting worried that Stephen would rescind his judgement that I am ready to solo. He reminded me, however, that for short- and soft-field landings, the object of the game isn't to make it silky smooth, but just to get the plane on the ground safely. That brought me some needed solace.
After three appallingly bad landings, Stephen had me get clearance out to San Pablo Bay, where after we left NorCal's airspace, he turned off the radio and started having me do navigation work.
Stephen did not bar any holds on my first real-life application of radio navigation. Nay, he dived me right into the thick of it:
"Alright, I want you to tune in the Skag's Island VOR, climb to 3,500 feet, and head inbound to Skag's on the 060 radial." He plopped an Oakland terminal area chart onto my lap. "And I want you to use the VOR and the DME to tell me where we are on this map." He then plopped a ruler and a pencil on my lap.
Fortunately, this situation was not unfamiliar to me. Having done radio navigation on flight simulators, I was familiar with the concept. You fight two battles at once: On the one hand, you have to use your charts and your instruments to hold a course and plot your position, and on the other hand, you have to of course keep flying the plane. (Aviate, navigate, communicate...)
If there's one thing pilots learn how to do well, it's split your attention. Flying the plane requires constantly checking on three instruments: the attitude indicator, the altimeter, and the heading indicator. Add the VOR needle to that for radio navigation. And in addition, I had to take my eyes off the panel periodically to look down at the chart and continue plotting my position. So in total, I'm splitting my attention between about 5 different tasks.
Any time I let the plotting and charting take up so much of my concentration that the plane drifted away from its climb to 3,500 feet, Stephen gave me a good lashing on the aviate-first-then-navigate bylaw. After a few minutes of it I was getting into the rhythm of the thing. It is a rhythm. You find a good groove between flying the plane by instruments and checking your charts, and then it becomes easier.
Although I did know how to use the radios and instruments to follow a VOR radial, I never did formally learn it, so I didn't have the mnemonic memorized. There's a mnemonic for everything. Takeoff is MALTTD (mixture, altimeter, lights, trim, transponder, doors and windows), engine failure is SPEL (speed, place to land, emergency checklist, land the plane) ... you get the idea. For VOR navigation is "TIT." (I like this mnemonic already.) TIT is tune, identify, twist: Tune it in, listen to the morse code and compare against your chart, then twist the dial to the radial you want. I didn't identify; I just tuned and twisted, and assumed I had the correct station. Stephen gave me a quick lashing about not double checking myself.
So, the plane reached 3,500 feet and was flying on the 060 radial inbound to Skag's when I look out the window -- clouds! We had flown into clouds! The plane was bumping something vicious, and white wisps of forbidden territory were floating through and past me.
"We'd better get down, we're in a cloud," I said, masking my worry.
"This isn't a cloud." Huh? "You can see through it. If you can see through it, it's not a cloud." Stephen gave me a quaint little look of triumph, as if he were proud of his deduction. "This is a haze, or something."
I looked out the window again. This wasn't haze. This was a billowy, wispy cloud. However, Stephen had a point -- it was a billowy, wispy, translucent cloud. If you can see through it, that means you can see airplanes hiding in it, and that means you can fly VFR in it. It's only the ones that mask other airplanes completely that the FAA is worried about you trundling into.
Nonetheless, like any cloud, this one was giving my lunch a bit of a ride, so Stephen "changed the parameters of the assignment" (as he calls it), asking me to descend to 2,500 feet, well below the cloud layer.
Of course, any true test of a pilot's concentration does not simply involve one task. So along with a descent, Stephen also had me tune the Sausalito VOR into my second nav radio, and intercept and fly a radial inbound. I handled these three tasks reasonably well, and when he was satisfied, he asked me to plot my position on the map. Alright, pull out the ruler and the pencil! Five seconds of plotting, pencils down, five seconds of flying, pencils up, five seconds of plotting, and so on.
Well, I made my only major blunder. I read the VOR needle wrong and I headed in 180° the opposite direction. Stephen must have been feeling wicked at the time, because he let me fly further and further off course, for about, for about 10 minutes, before finally relenting.
"So, are you just going to trust that you're going the right direction?"
"Huh? We're off course?"
"See, that's exactly my point. I know we are off course, but you didn't, because you just trusted your own judgement. You need to check yourself against other instruments. Use the charts, use the DME, use anything to make sure you're doing it right once you've done it."
OK, lesson learned. I turned the plane around.
When we were about 5 miles out from the Sausalito VOR, Stephen drew a dot on the TAC (terminal area chart) over Hercules. He explained that I was to pretend there was an airport here, and using the two VOR's I had tuned, I was to fly to exactly this point.
So, using the compass and ruler, I found the distance and bearing from each of the VOR's, and using the two VOR needles, flew inbound. About halfway in, Stephen asked me to calculate in my head how long it would take us to get there given our current speed, and how much fuel we would have left. I fumbled a bit with the math, but with some time I landed on the correct values.
You can probably already see why Stephen was pressing this sort of multitasking ability into me. Imagine being nearly out of fuel, after dark, with only your map and your VOR to tell you where an airport is. You have to know if you can get to this airport before you run out of fuel, and the sooner you know the better. And while you figure all this out, you have to keep flying the plane. I was imagining the situation in my head as I flew the VOR radial inbound to the imaginary Hercules airport.
This is why most pilots enjoy a copilot. I'm thinking even if the person sitting next to me is completely clueless about aircraft, I can maybe press him into helping take some of the load off me. All this navigating and flying and radio work at the same time can give you brain strain.
Over Hercules, we were at a perfect spot to check in with NorCal and head back, so Stephen had me do exactly that. I gave them my information (completely out of order, but they managed) and was vectored inbound to Oakland International. One more landing (this one soft field), and then a taxi to Kaiser for fuel followed by the return to the Old T's.
Stephen didn't say anything about my performance today, which I've learned usually means I did pretty well. Unfortunately, I'm way behind on my ground school. The next few days will be spent cramming to catch up for my next lesson, and of course praying for calm winds in anticipation of that first solo.
Cost so far: $4,246.06
Time so far: 49 days
Hours so far: 18.8
Projected certification date: August 1, 2007
Projected final cost: $11,300
Instead, today would be VOR navigation. Stephen seemed ready to hurry through this lesson. "You already know all about VOR navigation, right?"
"Yep," I said confidently. I had worked with VOR's in flight sims plenty of times.
"Good. Let's skip the ground school and get to flying."
Music to my ears. A quick preflight of 4AC (during which I noticed a bird's nest and deceased bird in the left elevator) and we were ready to go, with Stephen by my side. This would be the first flight I got to use my brand-spankin' new headset, a Lightspeed ANR (active noise reduction) model that was quite comfortable to wear and listen with.
Stephen told me to first ask to depart on 33 for pattern work on 27R. We would be practicing more short- and soft-field takeoffs and landings. Takeoffs I've got down. Normal, short, soft, you name it, I can do it. Landings ... well ... let's just say my first two landings of the morning were stinkingly disappointing. I could hear over the radio, my old friend 9UL was being flown by a different student who was clearly many lessons behind me, and I think even he could smell the stank from my awful touchdowns.
At this point I was getting worried that Stephen would rescind his judgement that I am ready to solo. He reminded me, however, that for short- and soft-field landings, the object of the game isn't to make it silky smooth, but just to get the plane on the ground safely. That brought me some needed solace.
After three appallingly bad landings, Stephen had me get clearance out to San Pablo Bay, where after we left NorCal's airspace, he turned off the radio and started having me do navigation work.
Stephen did not bar any holds on my first real-life application of radio navigation. Nay, he dived me right into the thick of it:
"Alright, I want you to tune in the Skag's Island VOR, climb to 3,500 feet, and head inbound to Skag's on the 060 radial." He plopped an Oakland terminal area chart onto my lap. "And I want you to use the VOR and the DME to tell me where we are on this map." He then plopped a ruler and a pencil on my lap.
Fortunately, this situation was not unfamiliar to me. Having done radio navigation on flight simulators, I was familiar with the concept. You fight two battles at once: On the one hand, you have to use your charts and your instruments to hold a course and plot your position, and on the other hand, you have to of course keep flying the plane. (Aviate, navigate, communicate...)
If there's one thing pilots learn how to do well, it's split your attention. Flying the plane requires constantly checking on three instruments: the attitude indicator, the altimeter, and the heading indicator. Add the VOR needle to that for radio navigation. And in addition, I had to take my eyes off the panel periodically to look down at the chart and continue plotting my position. So in total, I'm splitting my attention between about 5 different tasks.
Any time I let the plotting and charting take up so much of my concentration that the plane drifted away from its climb to 3,500 feet, Stephen gave me a good lashing on the aviate-first-then-navigate bylaw. After a few minutes of it I was getting into the rhythm of the thing. It is a rhythm. You find a good groove between flying the plane by instruments and checking your charts, and then it becomes easier.
Although I did know how to use the radios and instruments to follow a VOR radial, I never did formally learn it, so I didn't have the mnemonic memorized. There's a mnemonic for everything. Takeoff is MALTTD (mixture, altimeter, lights, trim, transponder, doors and windows), engine failure is SPEL (speed, place to land, emergency checklist, land the plane) ... you get the idea. For VOR navigation is "TIT." (I like this mnemonic already.) TIT is tune, identify, twist: Tune it in, listen to the morse code and compare against your chart, then twist the dial to the radial you want. I didn't identify; I just tuned and twisted, and assumed I had the correct station. Stephen gave me a quick lashing about not double checking myself.
So, the plane reached 3,500 feet and was flying on the 060 radial inbound to Skag's when I look out the window -- clouds! We had flown into clouds! The plane was bumping something vicious, and white wisps of forbidden territory were floating through and past me.
"We'd better get down, we're in a cloud," I said, masking my worry.
"This isn't a cloud." Huh? "You can see through it. If you can see through it, it's not a cloud." Stephen gave me a quaint little look of triumph, as if he were proud of his deduction. "This is a haze, or something."
I looked out the window again. This wasn't haze. This was a billowy, wispy cloud. However, Stephen had a point -- it was a billowy, wispy, translucent cloud. If you can see through it, that means you can see airplanes hiding in it, and that means you can fly VFR in it. It's only the ones that mask other airplanes completely that the FAA is worried about you trundling into.
Nonetheless, like any cloud, this one was giving my lunch a bit of a ride, so Stephen "changed the parameters of the assignment" (as he calls it), asking me to descend to 2,500 feet, well below the cloud layer.
Of course, any true test of a pilot's concentration does not simply involve one task. So along with a descent, Stephen also had me tune the Sausalito VOR into my second nav radio, and intercept and fly a radial inbound. I handled these three tasks reasonably well, and when he was satisfied, he asked me to plot my position on the map. Alright, pull out the ruler and the pencil! Five seconds of plotting, pencils down, five seconds of flying, pencils up, five seconds of plotting, and so on.
Well, I made my only major blunder. I read the VOR needle wrong and I headed in 180° the opposite direction. Stephen must have been feeling wicked at the time, because he let me fly further and further off course, for about, for about 10 minutes, before finally relenting.
"So, are you just going to trust that you're going the right direction?"
"Huh? We're off course?"
"See, that's exactly my point. I know we are off course, but you didn't, because you just trusted your own judgement. You need to check yourself against other instruments. Use the charts, use the DME, use anything to make sure you're doing it right once you've done it."
OK, lesson learned. I turned the plane around.
When we were about 5 miles out from the Sausalito VOR, Stephen drew a dot on the TAC (terminal area chart) over Hercules. He explained that I was to pretend there was an airport here, and using the two VOR's I had tuned, I was to fly to exactly this point.
So, using the compass and ruler, I found the distance and bearing from each of the VOR's, and using the two VOR needles, flew inbound. About halfway in, Stephen asked me to calculate in my head how long it would take us to get there given our current speed, and how much fuel we would have left. I fumbled a bit with the math, but with some time I landed on the correct values.
You can probably already see why Stephen was pressing this sort of multitasking ability into me. Imagine being nearly out of fuel, after dark, with only your map and your VOR to tell you where an airport is. You have to know if you can get to this airport before you run out of fuel, and the sooner you know the better. And while you figure all this out, you have to keep flying the plane. I was imagining the situation in my head as I flew the VOR radial inbound to the imaginary Hercules airport.
This is why most pilots enjoy a copilot. I'm thinking even if the person sitting next to me is completely clueless about aircraft, I can maybe press him into helping take some of the load off me. All this navigating and flying and radio work at the same time can give you brain strain.
Over Hercules, we were at a perfect spot to check in with NorCal and head back, so Stephen had me do exactly that. I gave them my information (completely out of order, but they managed) and was vectored inbound to Oakland International. One more landing (this one soft field), and then a taxi to Kaiser for fuel followed by the return to the Old T's.
Stephen didn't say anything about my performance today, which I've learned usually means I did pretty well. Unfortunately, I'm way behind on my ground school. The next few days will be spent cramming to catch up for my next lesson, and of course praying for calm winds in anticipation of that first solo.
Cost so far: $4,246.06
Time so far: 49 days
Hours so far: 18.8
Projected certification date: August 1, 2007
Projected final cost: $11,300
20070509
Lesson #13: Short-field and soft-field takeoffs and landings
Last lesson Stephen really pushed me to start scheduling my lessons earlier. If I wanted to solo I'd have to wait for calm winds, and those never happen in the evening. He said the winds pick up around 3pm, when they're at their worst, and then die down later in the evening.
So, I guess it was no surprise that I scheduled this lesson for 3pm. Not because I like wind, the force that turns ordinary scary landings into the type that make you lose your hair, but because that's the only time I could reserve a plane. C'est la vie.
Today we'd be practicing short-field takeoffs and landings, and soft-field takeoffs and landings. Oakland was in a sort of disarray, with half its runways and taxiways closed for repair. Neither of us knew exactly why, but in light of this, Stephen decided I'd fly out to bitty little Byron airport to the east.
In addition, Stephen instructed me to request a takeoff from runway 27L instead of 15/33, so that I became more familiar with Oakland's geography.
I got my clearance and departed to the east for Byron, buffeted by winds the entire way. For some reason NorCal was particularly busy today, so there were more than a few times I converged near other aircraft. NorCal couldn't give me traffic alerts fast enough. I didn't hit anyone, however, so it all worked out fine.
Upon arriving at Byron I noted the active runway and then entered into the pattern. Byron is a small, uncontrolled airport with a UNICOM frequency like Petaluma. Stephen had alleged that Petaluma would be a more relaxed and chatty radio environment than Oakland, but it turned out to be stark quiet and empty.
Byron was reasonably busy, and on UNICOM were a collection of backwater pilots chatting and enjoying flying. It wasn't like cocktail-party conversation, but definitely more lax than Oakland's white-starch-shirt environment. How anyone lands at Byron when it gets busy there is a mystery to me. When we arrived there was a glider, its tow plane, and two other aircraft in the pattern. They seemed to barely avoid colliding into each other by frantically warning each other over the radio. It was amusing to witness from afar, but jarring to be a part of.
I suppose it's just different. At big airports you get the puppetmaster directing the whole marionette, but at smaller places like Byron it's a bit more like an improv show with a lot of audience participation.
A short-field landing is one where the landing distance is minimized. You try to touch down as close to the edge of the runway as you can, with full flaps and going as slow as possible, and then you hit the brakes and get the airplane stopped with as little runway behind you as possible. A short-field takeoff accomplishes the same idea: You take off with flaps and get the wheels off the runway ASAP, then climb when you've accelerated to climb speed.
I practiced one short-field landing then Stephen decided that Byron was too windy, so he told me to proceed to Livermore Municipal. I climbed to 3,000 feet and checked in with Livermore, entering their pattern. I tried another short-field approach there, where the wind was no better. Stephen decided, to hell with it, let's just return to Oakland and do our approaches there.
So, back to Oakland. By now the runways and taxiways had opened up so the place wasn't a mess anymore. I entered the pattern for 27L and began more short- and soft-field takeoffs and landings.
Soft-field operations are tricky. The idea is that the ground is muddy, so if your plane ever stops it will sink. Also, if you get too much weight on the plane when it lands, it will sink and flip over. So, for taxi, you never stop the plane, you always keep rolling, and you keep full elevator back to lighten the load on the nosewheel. For takeoff you get the nosewheel out of the mud as soon as possible, then take off when prudent. For landing you hold the nosewheel off the ground as long as possible and land as slow as possible.
I did seven more short- and soft-field operations. On the last one, Stephen felt devious so he put covers over the airspeed indicator and the altimeter, blocking my view of them. "You just had an instrument failure." I had an opportunity to practice takeoffs and landings while guessing my airspeed and altitude.
The lesson ended up running nearly 2 hours, so since we were short on time Stephen told me to forgo refueling. I brought the plane back to the Old T's and shut her down.
Stephen told me that, from now on, when he's in the plane, each of my takeoffs and landings should be either a short- or a soft-field one, to keep me in practice. He went on to mention that, since my Saturday lesson was at 9 am, if the winds were favorable, it would be my first solo.
I was of course happy, but not surprised. I had expected Saturday to be my first solo. I am looking forward to it, and also scared to high Hell thinking about my first solo landing.
In the meantime, as long as the weather isn't soloable, Stephen and I will push forth into material on cross-country flights. But any day where the winds are 10 knots or less, and the crosswind component is 5 knots or less, is a day I fly alone!
Cost so far: $3,947.61
Time so far: 47 days
Hours so far: 17.2
Projected certification date: August 7, 2007
Projected total cost: $11,475.61
So, I guess it was no surprise that I scheduled this lesson for 3pm. Not because I like wind, the force that turns ordinary scary landings into the type that make you lose your hair, but because that's the only time I could reserve a plane. C'est la vie.
Today we'd be practicing short-field takeoffs and landings, and soft-field takeoffs and landings. Oakland was in a sort of disarray, with half its runways and taxiways closed for repair. Neither of us knew exactly why, but in light of this, Stephen decided I'd fly out to bitty little Byron airport to the east.
In addition, Stephen instructed me to request a takeoff from runway 27L instead of 15/33, so that I became more familiar with Oakland's geography.
I got my clearance and departed to the east for Byron, buffeted by winds the entire way. For some reason NorCal was particularly busy today, so there were more than a few times I converged near other aircraft. NorCal couldn't give me traffic alerts fast enough. I didn't hit anyone, however, so it all worked out fine.
Upon arriving at Byron I noted the active runway and then entered into the pattern. Byron is a small, uncontrolled airport with a UNICOM frequency like Petaluma. Stephen had alleged that Petaluma would be a more relaxed and chatty radio environment than Oakland, but it turned out to be stark quiet and empty.
Byron was reasonably busy, and on UNICOM were a collection of backwater pilots chatting and enjoying flying. It wasn't like cocktail-party conversation, but definitely more lax than Oakland's white-starch-shirt environment. How anyone lands at Byron when it gets busy there is a mystery to me. When we arrived there was a glider, its tow plane, and two other aircraft in the pattern. They seemed to barely avoid colliding into each other by frantically warning each other over the radio. It was amusing to witness from afar, but jarring to be a part of.
I suppose it's just different. At big airports you get the puppetmaster directing the whole marionette, but at smaller places like Byron it's a bit more like an improv show with a lot of audience participation.
A short-field landing is one where the landing distance is minimized. You try to touch down as close to the edge of the runway as you can, with full flaps and going as slow as possible, and then you hit the brakes and get the airplane stopped with as little runway behind you as possible. A short-field takeoff accomplishes the same idea: You take off with flaps and get the wheels off the runway ASAP, then climb when you've accelerated to climb speed.
I practiced one short-field landing then Stephen decided that Byron was too windy, so he told me to proceed to Livermore Municipal. I climbed to 3,000 feet and checked in with Livermore, entering their pattern. I tried another short-field approach there, where the wind was no better. Stephen decided, to hell with it, let's just return to Oakland and do our approaches there.
So, back to Oakland. By now the runways and taxiways had opened up so the place wasn't a mess anymore. I entered the pattern for 27L and began more short- and soft-field takeoffs and landings.
Soft-field operations are tricky. The idea is that the ground is muddy, so if your plane ever stops it will sink. Also, if you get too much weight on the plane when it lands, it will sink and flip over. So, for taxi, you never stop the plane, you always keep rolling, and you keep full elevator back to lighten the load on the nosewheel. For takeoff you get the nosewheel out of the mud as soon as possible, then take off when prudent. For landing you hold the nosewheel off the ground as long as possible and land as slow as possible.
I did seven more short- and soft-field operations. On the last one, Stephen felt devious so he put covers over the airspeed indicator and the altimeter, blocking my view of them. "You just had an instrument failure." I had an opportunity to practice takeoffs and landings while guessing my airspeed and altitude.
The lesson ended up running nearly 2 hours, so since we were short on time Stephen told me to forgo refueling. I brought the plane back to the Old T's and shut her down.
Stephen told me that, from now on, when he's in the plane, each of my takeoffs and landings should be either a short- or a soft-field one, to keep me in practice. He went on to mention that, since my Saturday lesson was at 9 am, if the winds were favorable, it would be my first solo.
I was of course happy, but not surprised. I had expected Saturday to be my first solo. I am looking forward to it, and also scared to high Hell thinking about my first solo landing.
In the meantime, as long as the weather isn't soloable, Stephen and I will push forth into material on cross-country flights. But any day where the winds are 10 knots or less, and the crosswind component is 5 knots or less, is a day I fly alone!
Cost so far: $3,947.61
Time so far: 47 days
Hours so far: 17.2
Projected certification date: August 7, 2007
Projected total cost: $11,475.61
20070506
Lesson #12: Review and one hell of a landing
Today is very hot. I arrived at the Old T's sweating and panting. Stephen arrived shortly afterwards, wearing shorts for the first time. Me, I usually wear shorts in the coldest days of winter but for some reason I had decided to wear pants. I was regretting that decision.
Today I was supposed to be flying N739UL. Both my instructor and I wanted to practice landing in an aircraft other than N854AC, since I had been using it so much lately. However, on entering the club building, the previous operator of 9UL told me that there was a pin missing from the nosewheel landing gear. He said he flew without the pin anyway, but Stephen decided to play it safe and had me switch my reservation to 4AC. Another day, 9UL, another day...
I had a choice today -- I could practice more landings, or I could do my pre-solo flight review. I had been doing landings nonstop the previous weeks, and I thought it would be nice to get a change of pace. Plus, I could really use a review on steep turns and slow flight.
During preflight Stephen wandered over to 9UL to inspect the nose gear. He said he didn't see anything in particular wrong with it, but we had already switched our reservation anyway. Oh well.
The sky was completely free of clouds, allowing the sun to beat down on me. Such a day would be a nice day to wash these planes (4AC could really use a wash, too), and I saw that some of the other people were washing various planes today, as well as spraying each other.
The wind was mighty unusual today. Usually it comes from the west, but today it was coming from 190°, which I had never seen before. This actually ended up being fortuitous for takeoff, since I could use runway 15 instead of the usual 33. Runway 33 is a mile or so away, and 15 is right next to us.
I got my clearance to depart on 15, and Stephen told me to make a turn over the terminal area right after takeoff, then continue at 2,500 feet towards San Pablo Bay, where we would do our review.
Along the way we passed close to the MacArthur maze, so I snapped a photo of the collapse. I was so eager to get it I simply took my hands off the controls and produced my camera, prompting Stephen to sigh and say "I've got the plane" (translation: "Next time ask me first, please").
NorCal departure was particularly tied up with an air-headed woman who sounded hopelessly lost over the radio. Every five minutes the controller would call her and explain to her what new thing she had done incorrectly, and she'd apologize and make a fumbling attempt to correct. At first I thought she was some poor student, but as time went on it became clear that she was either a very rusty private pilot or a soloing student who clearly wasn't ready for it.
After making clearing turns Stephen had me practice slow flight. I was obviously a little rusty, so Stephen provided a quick refresher on the parts I forgot. He had me do slow flight and turns with and without flaps, as well as a power-on stall without flaps. Other than a tendency to bleed altitude during entry into slow flight, I was doing OK.
The annoying air-headed woman and her constant blundering over the radio was making impossible to talk to Stephen, so he requested a frequency change. NorCal denied his request: Apparently the air-headed woman was flying in our vicinity and NorCal was afraid that, without being able to sequence us around her, she'd run into us. Stephen and I let out heavy sighs.
Next he had me review steep turns. My first one I botched completely, and my second wasn't much better. Stephen told me to use the airplane's attitude as my primary reference during the turn. This was welcome advice: I had been using the VSI as my primary reference and it caused me to "oscillate" during tuns: pitch the nose up and down trying to maintain altitude.
So, I would use the attitude indicator while looking in the cockpit, and I would choose a dead mosquito smooshed on the windshield as my reference while looking outside.
This improved my steep turns enormously. I only drifted out of altitude parameters once during the 720° turn. Stephen was pleased.
Next we proceeded to Hamilton airport to practice emergency descents. Stephen again made the point that if my engine catches fire, I'm probably just going to explode, but the FAA wants us to practice this anyway. Power off, cab heat on, full flaps, 60° bank, and loaded turns. As I did it the vertical speed increased dramatically -- I could hear the wind pounding against my side door as the plane dropped from the sky. We lost a thousand feet of altitude in mere seconds.
Stephen told me to make sure I didn't exceed 85 knots, the maximum flap extension speed. I noted that with so much air rushing into the static port on the side of the plane, the airspeed indicator is probably unreliable. He said that it didn't matter, since if the engine were actually on fire I should probably just go ahead and damage the flaps if it will help me get on the ground more quickly, but "please don't break the flaps during training." I did my best to keep the airspeed low.
At about 1,000 feet Stephen had me recover to normal flight and climb back to altitude. During the climb --- uh oh! -- Stephen pulled the power back to idle. A fake engine out emergency. I narrated the steps to him as I did my checklist.
I selected Hamilton field (right below us) as my landing spot, flew outward from it and turned back to final approach, did my emergency landing checklist, and began S-turns and flaps to bleed off altitude. At five hundred feet he brought the power back on and congratulated me on a job well done.
My next challenge was to fly the plane back to Oakland with no help at all from Stephen. He told me to demonstrate that I could handle landing, navigating, and the radios without his help. Okay, sure. I got the ATIS, proceeded over Richmond, and checked in with NorCal approach. I didn't get any specific orders so I just headed to the Mormon temple.
About 5 miles out from the temple, Approach switched me to Tower, where I checked in for landing. They cleared me to land on 27R. I would soon learn that it would have been wise to ask for another airport, considering the screwy wind today. But, of course, I am still a robot over the radio, so I simply parrot any orders I am given.
Upon turning final, thanks to the heavy crosswind, I overshot the runway so much I was in the final approach path for 27L. Stephen muttered out a grave "oh dear," but I confidently quipped, "I can fix it!" With some quick maneuvering I put the plane back on course for 27R.
Approaching 27R, the crosswind was so significant that I was nearly looking out the side window to keep the runway in sight. The airplane was pointing around 45° off from the runway centerline to keep its course. Stephen was pleased, though, since my plane's track stayed precisely aligned with the runway.
About 100 feet away from the runway or so, a sudden gust of wind caught us both off-guard. It threw the plane up and off course. Before I had any time to react, another gust of wind caused the plane to rapidly sink. Working quickly, I set up the plane for a shaky landing seconds before touching the ground, and touched down a hair's breadth away from disaster.
After rolling off the runway, I stopped the plane and we caught our breath. Stephen looked at me and said, "That ... was amazing. It takes a hell of a lot of skill to land the plane in that kind of wind, and you did wonderfully."
I suppose I should have felt elated, but as I sat there -- eyes wide with terror, face blanched, stark-white hands still maintaining a death grip on the wheel -- he never would have seen the emotion surface.
Every praise from Stephen comes with its criticism, and such was quick to follow. "However, I wouldn't have done that landing. You shouldn't have done that landing. It's way too dangerous. You should have gone around."
We refueled at Kaiser and returned to the Old T's. As I got out of the airplane, I noticed another plane on final to 27R, going around. Stephen pointed at it and said, "See? He's not going to chance that landing." He refused to do the landing that I had so bravely and foolishly accomplished with white knuckles.
At the clubhouse I felt in sort of a trance. The landing had demanded so much of my concentration and attention, that normal activity seemed attenuated and detached. Stepping out of the plane, my feet struggled to know what solid ground felt like. It would be an hour or so before my mind had fully grasped my continued state of being alive.
Stephen went over my short-comings from the pre-solo review, then mentioned (again) that the wind will have to calm down before I do my first solo. However, he did tell me he will give me my solo endorsement once I demonstrate three unassisted takeoffs and landings in calm winds. So, the next opportunity I get, I will prove to him my landing proficiency (as if I hadn't already), and I will receive my solo endorsement.
Then I will begin praying for calm winds.
Cost so far: $3,684.81
Time so far: 44 days
Hours so far: 15.4
Projected total cost: $11,963.67
Projected certification date: August 12, 2007
Today I was supposed to be flying N739UL. Both my instructor and I wanted to practice landing in an aircraft other than N854AC, since I had been using it so much lately. However, on entering the club building, the previous operator of 9UL told me that there was a pin missing from the nosewheel landing gear. He said he flew without the pin anyway, but Stephen decided to play it safe and had me switch my reservation to 4AC. Another day, 9UL, another day...
I had a choice today -- I could practice more landings, or I could do my pre-solo flight review. I had been doing landings nonstop the previous weeks, and I thought it would be nice to get a change of pace. Plus, I could really use a review on steep turns and slow flight.
During preflight Stephen wandered over to 9UL to inspect the nose gear. He said he didn't see anything in particular wrong with it, but we had already switched our reservation anyway. Oh well.
The sky was completely free of clouds, allowing the sun to beat down on me. Such a day would be a nice day to wash these planes (4AC could really use a wash, too), and I saw that some of the other people were washing various planes today, as well as spraying each other.
The wind was mighty unusual today. Usually it comes from the west, but today it was coming from 190°, which I had never seen before. This actually ended up being fortuitous for takeoff, since I could use runway 15 instead of the usual 33. Runway 33 is a mile or so away, and 15 is right next to us.
I got my clearance to depart on 15, and Stephen told me to make a turn over the terminal area right after takeoff, then continue at 2,500 feet towards San Pablo Bay, where we would do our review.
Along the way we passed close to the MacArthur maze, so I snapped a photo of the collapse. I was so eager to get it I simply took my hands off the controls and produced my camera, prompting Stephen to sigh and say "I've got the plane" (translation: "Next time ask me first, please").
NorCal departure was particularly tied up with an air-headed woman who sounded hopelessly lost over the radio. Every five minutes the controller would call her and explain to her what new thing she had done incorrectly, and she'd apologize and make a fumbling attempt to correct. At first I thought she was some poor student, but as time went on it became clear that she was either a very rusty private pilot or a soloing student who clearly wasn't ready for it.
After making clearing turns Stephen had me practice slow flight. I was obviously a little rusty, so Stephen provided a quick refresher on the parts I forgot. He had me do slow flight and turns with and without flaps, as well as a power-on stall without flaps. Other than a tendency to bleed altitude during entry into slow flight, I was doing OK.
The annoying air-headed woman and her constant blundering over the radio was making impossible to talk to Stephen, so he requested a frequency change. NorCal denied his request: Apparently the air-headed woman was flying in our vicinity and NorCal was afraid that, without being able to sequence us around her, she'd run into us. Stephen and I let out heavy sighs.
Next he had me review steep turns. My first one I botched completely, and my second wasn't much better. Stephen told me to use the airplane's attitude as my primary reference during the turn. This was welcome advice: I had been using the VSI as my primary reference and it caused me to "oscillate" during tuns: pitch the nose up and down trying to maintain altitude.
So, I would use the attitude indicator while looking in the cockpit, and I would choose a dead mosquito smooshed on the windshield as my reference while looking outside.
This improved my steep turns enormously. I only drifted out of altitude parameters once during the 720° turn. Stephen was pleased.
Next we proceeded to Hamilton airport to practice emergency descents. Stephen again made the point that if my engine catches fire, I'm probably just going to explode, but the FAA wants us to practice this anyway. Power off, cab heat on, full flaps, 60° bank, and loaded turns. As I did it the vertical speed increased dramatically -- I could hear the wind pounding against my side door as the plane dropped from the sky. We lost a thousand feet of altitude in mere seconds.
Stephen told me to make sure I didn't exceed 85 knots, the maximum flap extension speed. I noted that with so much air rushing into the static port on the side of the plane, the airspeed indicator is probably unreliable. He said that it didn't matter, since if the engine were actually on fire I should probably just go ahead and damage the flaps if it will help me get on the ground more quickly, but "please don't break the flaps during training." I did my best to keep the airspeed low.
At about 1,000 feet Stephen had me recover to normal flight and climb back to altitude. During the climb --- uh oh! -- Stephen pulled the power back to idle. A fake engine out emergency. I narrated the steps to him as I did my checklist.
I selected Hamilton field (right below us) as my landing spot, flew outward from it and turned back to final approach, did my emergency landing checklist, and began S-turns and flaps to bleed off altitude. At five hundred feet he brought the power back on and congratulated me on a job well done.
My next challenge was to fly the plane back to Oakland with no help at all from Stephen. He told me to demonstrate that I could handle landing, navigating, and the radios without his help. Okay, sure. I got the ATIS, proceeded over Richmond, and checked in with NorCal approach. I didn't get any specific orders so I just headed to the Mormon temple.
About 5 miles out from the temple, Approach switched me to Tower, where I checked in for landing. They cleared me to land on 27R. I would soon learn that it would have been wise to ask for another airport, considering the screwy wind today. But, of course, I am still a robot over the radio, so I simply parrot any orders I am given.
Upon turning final, thanks to the heavy crosswind, I overshot the runway so much I was in the final approach path for 27L. Stephen muttered out a grave "oh dear," but I confidently quipped, "I can fix it!" With some quick maneuvering I put the plane back on course for 27R.
Approaching 27R, the crosswind was so significant that I was nearly looking out the side window to keep the runway in sight. The airplane was pointing around 45° off from the runway centerline to keep its course. Stephen was pleased, though, since my plane's track stayed precisely aligned with the runway.
About 100 feet away from the runway or so, a sudden gust of wind caught us both off-guard. It threw the plane up and off course. Before I had any time to react, another gust of wind caused the plane to rapidly sink. Working quickly, I set up the plane for a shaky landing seconds before touching the ground, and touched down a hair's breadth away from disaster.
After rolling off the runway, I stopped the plane and we caught our breath. Stephen looked at me and said, "That ... was amazing. It takes a hell of a lot of skill to land the plane in that kind of wind, and you did wonderfully."
I suppose I should have felt elated, but as I sat there -- eyes wide with terror, face blanched, stark-white hands still maintaining a death grip on the wheel -- he never would have seen the emotion surface.
Every praise from Stephen comes with its criticism, and such was quick to follow. "However, I wouldn't have done that landing. You shouldn't have done that landing. It's way too dangerous. You should have gone around."
We refueled at Kaiser and returned to the Old T's. As I got out of the airplane, I noticed another plane on final to 27R, going around. Stephen pointed at it and said, "See? He's not going to chance that landing." He refused to do the landing that I had so bravely and foolishly accomplished with white knuckles.
At the clubhouse I felt in sort of a trance. The landing had demanded so much of my concentration and attention, that normal activity seemed attenuated and detached. Stepping out of the plane, my feet struggled to know what solid ground felt like. It would be an hour or so before my mind had fully grasped my continued state of being alive.
Stephen went over my short-comings from the pre-solo review, then mentioned (again) that the wind will have to calm down before I do my first solo. However, he did tell me he will give me my solo endorsement once I demonstrate three unassisted takeoffs and landings in calm winds. So, the next opportunity I get, I will prove to him my landing proficiency (as if I hadn't already), and I will receive my solo endorsement.
Then I will begin praying for calm winds.
Cost so far: $3,684.81
Time so far: 44 days
Hours so far: 15.4
Projected total cost: $11,963.67
Projected certification date: August 12, 2007
20070502
Lesson #11: A flight to Palo Alto
I thought the lesson would begin today at 4 pm -- after all, that's what the scheduler website thingie said. Stephen thought otherwise though -- he thought it was at 5 pm -- so, he left his house when I arrived (late) at 4:10.
When he did arrive, at 4:30, he told me he forgot his badge. He offered me a choice -- he could drive back to his place, get his badge, and come back to start the lesson around 5 pm, or we could simply stay outside, review the answers to my pre-solo quiz, and talk a bit about procedures at Palo Alto.
When he posed me this choice, I looked at him like he was retarded. "Which do you want to do?", he had asked -- did he have to ask?
"I want to fly." The words exited my mouth with a sort of assuredness that I rarely summon.
So we loaded into his car and went off to his house.
On the way I studied the terminal area charts for the SF Bay to familiarize myself with Palo Alto approach procedures, and we chatted about all things pilotage. When we finally arrived back at the airport, the sun was hanging ominously low in the sky. I imagined in my head how much lower it would be when we finally got the plane preflighted and ready, and it brought to me a sense of dread.
While driving back, Stephen said, very matter-of-factly, "This should work out. We'll do a short lesson, just a few touch-and-goes." I did my best to hide it from him, but the words "short lesson" broke my heart. They fell through my ear into the pit of my stomach like a brick might. A short lesson ... say it ain't so! I want to fly!!
4AC was preflighted and humming by 5:30, and the sun still had a good 5 or 6 degrees to go on the horizon, but I rushed my preflight, feeling the pressure of time. I figured it would come back to bite me later, rushing through the various preflight checks, but I did my best not to compromise on the thoroughness of the checks.
Before taking off Stephen had me configure the radios with all the frequencies I'd need for both Oakland and Palo Alto already dialed in and ready to go. I learned that this is an important practice: The Bay Area is densely packed with airports and their airspace, and once I get flying enroute, I will need to concentrate on following instructions over the radio, not fiddling with dials.
A departure to the south involves a handoff from North Tower to South Tower. Yes, Oakland has two towers. This, more than anything, embodies the dual nature of Oakland International. It's as if two airports had been smooshed together to make one. One, the North Field, is a general aviation airport with some private planes and a reasonable amount of traffic. The other, South Field, is a bustling metropolitan international airport, with lots of parking, a terminal, security checks, big jets, and everything a large airport should have.
Normally I deal strictly with North Tower, but today I was handed off to South Tower for the second part of the departure. After she was able to sequence me over the incoming Big Jets and out of her airspace, she canceled radar services and I had a 15 minute break to catch a breather before re-entering the "airspace maze."
Over the San Mateo midspan, I called Palo Alto tower and told them I was inbound to do touch-and-goes. He cleared me for a normal entry into right traffic for runway 31. I was to report over the Dunbarton Bridge. To Palo Alto's credit -- the Dunbarton is a much easier reporting point than the Mormon Temple. Any Bay Area resident can spot the Dunbarton Bridge from the air, but hell if they know where the "Mormon Temple" is.
Palo Alto is the busiest single-runway general-aviation airport in the world. Van Nuys Airport in Los Angeles is the busiest general-aviation airport in the world, and of course, Chicago-O'Hare is the busiest airport in the world. So, with Palo Alto being as busy as it is, it's a curiosity how they have ... less than perfect controllers at Tower and Ground.
My landing on 31 was in a respectably strong crosswind, so a lot of my concentration was focused towards getting the plane safely on the ground. Thus, very little was left when, only 100 feet out from the threshold and only a few dozen feet off the ground, still battling the crosswind, Tower came over the radio and asked me to switch to Ground. (This is the sort of request they usually save until after you're done landing.)
I mentioned in an earlier entry that, as a newbie pilot, I am a robot on the radio, and I blindly repeat any command I'm given. So rather than tell Tower I was still busy landing the plane and couldn't switch to Ground yet, or -- even better -- simply ignore them and focus on the approaching earth, I said, "Going to ground, four alpha charlie." Knowing I couldn't land and tune the radio at the same time, I told Stephen "You'll have to do the radios for me right now."
Stephen was not pleased. After landing and clearing the runway, I got a mouthful from him. Most of it was a rehash of that AVIATE - NAVIGATE - RADIATE adage: I shouldn't be chatting on the radio when I'm seconds from touching down. I should have simply ignored Tower. I nodded my head obediently and promised it wouldn't happen again.
At about that time, Tower again came over the radio. The guy was clearly in the middle of laughing and other coworkers could be heard laughing in the background. "Four alpha charlie, now you can go to Ground..."
Tower had the humor to laugh at his own blunder (ordering me to tune to Ground before my wheels had even touched the ground), but Ground wasn't much more on top of things. She cleared us for takeoff with three planes in front of us, and when Stephen told her a takeoff would be ill-advised, she apologized and cleared the correct plane for departure.
Stephen mused on how such a busy airport would hire such inexperienced controllers. Drawing my knowledge from an article on controllers I had read recently, I remarked that they are in high demand. Stephen agreed emphatically. No one wants to be a traffic controller these days, and the FAA needs them bad. They are paying good money to anyone who can sit in a windowless room, stare at a radar screen, and talk a mile a minute to pilots on the radio. Hell, Stephen even asked me if I wanted the job.
After leaving Palo Alto's airspace, I performed my usual check-in procedure with NorCal (the one that used to cause me so much grief but nowadays is getting better), and got clearance for a straight-in to Oakland's runway 27L.
Oakland was still a good 10 miles away at this point, so this basically meant we would fly a 10-mile final. The wind was nearly perfectly down the runway: 270 degrees and 20 knots. This ridiculously strong headwind made the airplane feel as if it was crawling along the ground to the runway. This would be a long final.
Finally, when the runway was a mile or so out, I took the speed back to 75 MPH, the normal landing speed. With the 20-knot headwind, a 75 MPH airspeed meant a ground speed around 50 MPH or so, the slowest landing I had performed yet. The upside to this is such a slow landing is comfortable and easy, and there is no crosswind.
The downside, I would soon learn, is the very fast winds created some very disturbing turbulence at distances uncomfortably close to the runway. I would approach the runway and when it was just a few feet above me, the turbulence would make things very bumpy. This isn't a fun thing.
Anyway, about a mile out from 27L, Tower suddenly switched our clearance to 27R, so I had to make a quick bank and do my first touch-and-go on 27R. With the sun as low as it was, I decided to do three more touch-and-goes on 27R and then a full-stop to land.
The touch-and-goes were marvelous. After each one Stephen nearly burst out in praise at how silky smooth the landings were. My final landing for the day was a travesty, however -- for reasons unknown to me, I botched it completely, and had to do some very abrupt and unsettling maneuvering to avoid stalling too high and plummeting 10 feet to the ground.
"Other than that last stink job, nice work on your landings, Tim. You're really coming along." That's what he said, but what I heard was "your first solo is inching ever closer!"
I should state here that, despite my very obvious desire to solo, I am still scared shitless of my first solo landings. I imagine coming in to land without the Stephen Safety Net next to me, and for the first time, I am actually afraid to fly. Landings are something that scare a pilot to his dying days. The saying goes that you can ask the oldest, crustiest airline pilot with 20,000 hours how he feels about landings, and he'll say that to this day every last one scares him.
Because the lesson was so short (sniff), I didn't have to refuel the plane in the rapidly cooling twilight weather.
When we got back into the club building, Stephen pulled out my quiz which was very alarmingly covered in red ink. For the first time since senior year of college, I had had something of mine graded. And the amount of red was disappointing. A hasty estimate pegs my grade at around 2/3rds correct -- a D.
Fortunately, just discussing the wrong answers was enough for Stephen, so after he corrected my errors with me, he gave me my first endorsement:
"I, Stephen Ashley, hereby declare that Tim Morgan has satisfactorily completed a presolo knowledge test demonstrating knowledge of the areas outlined in 14 CFR 61.87(b)(1) applicable to student pilots, and the flight characteristics and operational limitations for a Cessna 172."
My first endorsement. What an honor! (Actually my second endorsement; my first I got for being a natural-born US citizen, whoop-dee-doo.)
Sitting just to the right of this endorsement was the tantalizing template for the solo endorsement, as yet un-filled, taunting me there. I sealed my lips though -- I had vowed not to bring up my first solo anymore, for fear of seeming more focused on what's ahead than what's in front of me.
However, without prompting, Stephen did talk a bit about my future. Seems club bylaws restrict me on when I can solo. I can only solo on the most calm, most pristine of days, and these days come very rarely with my luck. Stephen said if there weren't many "solo-able" days, I'd still be able to continue on with my cross-country training with him in the cabin, but he worried that I would be soloing too infrequently.
He also hinted that we may have just one more lesson's worth of pre-solo material to cover. Emergency descents (which sound very fun) and flying with broken instruments. Then we are out of stuff to do before the first solo.
Emergency descents are "ridiculous" according to Stephen. "If your engine catches fire, you're going to die. End of story. But because the FAA thinks you have some pitiful chance of actually surviving an engine fire, I have to teach you how to get the plane down on the ground as fast as possible." Talking about the ways in which you could die flying a plane doesn't even phase me anymore.
The basic idea is you point the plane down and fly it right at the redline, as fast as it will go, in an attempt to blow out the fire. (This never works.) Then, failing that, you dump all the lift you can and fly in tight circles to drop the airplane out of the sky as fast as you can (never works), land it anywhere that's not completely unsuitable (also never works), and get the hell out. (And neither does this.) So, in a magical fairy world, if your engine catches fire, yeah you might survive. But for the rest of us, just keep an eye your oil temperature and pressure, and land before it gets that bad.
So on Sunday, I imagine I will be learning how to get the plane down as fast as possible. Even if I will never use this knowledge to save my life, I do like flying planes in scary and interesting ways, so I am looking forward to it.
Cost so far: $3,145.91
Time so far: 40 days
Hours so far: 13.9
Projected certification date: August 14, 2007
Projected total cost: $11,316.22
When he did arrive, at 4:30, he told me he forgot his badge. He offered me a choice -- he could drive back to his place, get his badge, and come back to start the lesson around 5 pm, or we could simply stay outside, review the answers to my pre-solo quiz, and talk a bit about procedures at Palo Alto.
When he posed me this choice, I looked at him like he was retarded. "Which do you want to do?", he had asked -- did he have to ask?
"I want to fly." The words exited my mouth with a sort of assuredness that I rarely summon.
So we loaded into his car and went off to his house.
On the way I studied the terminal area charts for the SF Bay to familiarize myself with Palo Alto approach procedures, and we chatted about all things pilotage. When we finally arrived back at the airport, the sun was hanging ominously low in the sky. I imagined in my head how much lower it would be when we finally got the plane preflighted and ready, and it brought to me a sense of dread.
While driving back, Stephen said, very matter-of-factly, "This should work out. We'll do a short lesson, just a few touch-and-goes." I did my best to hide it from him, but the words "short lesson" broke my heart. They fell through my ear into the pit of my stomach like a brick might. A short lesson ... say it ain't so! I want to fly!!
4AC was preflighted and humming by 5:30, and the sun still had a good 5 or 6 degrees to go on the horizon, but I rushed my preflight, feeling the pressure of time. I figured it would come back to bite me later, rushing through the various preflight checks, but I did my best not to compromise on the thoroughness of the checks.
Before taking off Stephen had me configure the radios with all the frequencies I'd need for both Oakland and Palo Alto already dialed in and ready to go. I learned that this is an important practice: The Bay Area is densely packed with airports and their airspace, and once I get flying enroute, I will need to concentrate on following instructions over the radio, not fiddling with dials.
A departure to the south involves a handoff from North Tower to South Tower. Yes, Oakland has two towers. This, more than anything, embodies the dual nature of Oakland International. It's as if two airports had been smooshed together to make one. One, the North Field, is a general aviation airport with some private planes and a reasonable amount of traffic. The other, South Field, is a bustling metropolitan international airport, with lots of parking, a terminal, security checks, big jets, and everything a large airport should have.
Normally I deal strictly with North Tower, but today I was handed off to South Tower for the second part of the departure. After she was able to sequence me over the incoming Big Jets and out of her airspace, she canceled radar services and I had a 15 minute break to catch a breather before re-entering the "airspace maze."
Over the San Mateo midspan, I called Palo Alto tower and told them I was inbound to do touch-and-goes. He cleared me for a normal entry into right traffic for runway 31. I was to report over the Dunbarton Bridge. To Palo Alto's credit -- the Dunbarton is a much easier reporting point than the Mormon Temple. Any Bay Area resident can spot the Dunbarton Bridge from the air, but hell if they know where the "Mormon Temple" is.
Palo Alto is the busiest single-runway general-aviation airport in the world. Van Nuys Airport in Los Angeles is the busiest general-aviation airport in the world, and of course, Chicago-O'Hare is the busiest airport in the world. So, with Palo Alto being as busy as it is, it's a curiosity how they have ... less than perfect controllers at Tower and Ground.
My landing on 31 was in a respectably strong crosswind, so a lot of my concentration was focused towards getting the plane safely on the ground. Thus, very little was left when, only 100 feet out from the threshold and only a few dozen feet off the ground, still battling the crosswind, Tower came over the radio and asked me to switch to Ground. (This is the sort of request they usually save until after you're done landing.)
I mentioned in an earlier entry that, as a newbie pilot, I am a robot on the radio, and I blindly repeat any command I'm given. So rather than tell Tower I was still busy landing the plane and couldn't switch to Ground yet, or -- even better -- simply ignore them and focus on the approaching earth, I said, "Going to ground, four alpha charlie." Knowing I couldn't land and tune the radio at the same time, I told Stephen "You'll have to do the radios for me right now."
Stephen was not pleased. After landing and clearing the runway, I got a mouthful from him. Most of it was a rehash of that AVIATE - NAVIGATE - RADIATE adage: I shouldn't be chatting on the radio when I'm seconds from touching down. I should have simply ignored Tower. I nodded my head obediently and promised it wouldn't happen again.
At about that time, Tower again came over the radio. The guy was clearly in the middle of laughing and other coworkers could be heard laughing in the background. "Four alpha charlie, now you can go to Ground..."
Tower had the humor to laugh at his own blunder (ordering me to tune to Ground before my wheels had even touched the ground), but Ground wasn't much more on top of things. She cleared us for takeoff with three planes in front of us, and when Stephen told her a takeoff would be ill-advised, she apologized and cleared the correct plane for departure.
Stephen mused on how such a busy airport would hire such inexperienced controllers. Drawing my knowledge from an article on controllers I had read recently, I remarked that they are in high demand. Stephen agreed emphatically. No one wants to be a traffic controller these days, and the FAA needs them bad. They are paying good money to anyone who can sit in a windowless room, stare at a radar screen, and talk a mile a minute to pilots on the radio. Hell, Stephen even asked me if I wanted the job.
After leaving Palo Alto's airspace, I performed my usual check-in procedure with NorCal (the one that used to cause me so much grief but nowadays is getting better), and got clearance for a straight-in to Oakland's runway 27L.
Oakland was still a good 10 miles away at this point, so this basically meant we would fly a 10-mile final. The wind was nearly perfectly down the runway: 270 degrees and 20 knots. This ridiculously strong headwind made the airplane feel as if it was crawling along the ground to the runway. This would be a long final.
Finally, when the runway was a mile or so out, I took the speed back to 75 MPH, the normal landing speed. With the 20-knot headwind, a 75 MPH airspeed meant a ground speed around 50 MPH or so, the slowest landing I had performed yet. The upside to this is such a slow landing is comfortable and easy, and there is no crosswind.
The downside, I would soon learn, is the very fast winds created some very disturbing turbulence at distances uncomfortably close to the runway. I would approach the runway and when it was just a few feet above me, the turbulence would make things very bumpy. This isn't a fun thing.
Anyway, about a mile out from 27L, Tower suddenly switched our clearance to 27R, so I had to make a quick bank and do my first touch-and-go on 27R. With the sun as low as it was, I decided to do three more touch-and-goes on 27R and then a full-stop to land.
The touch-and-goes were marvelous. After each one Stephen nearly burst out in praise at how silky smooth the landings were. My final landing for the day was a travesty, however -- for reasons unknown to me, I botched it completely, and had to do some very abrupt and unsettling maneuvering to avoid stalling too high and plummeting 10 feet to the ground.
"Other than that last stink job, nice work on your landings, Tim. You're really coming along." That's what he said, but what I heard was "your first solo is inching ever closer!"
I should state here that, despite my very obvious desire to solo, I am still scared shitless of my first solo landings. I imagine coming in to land without the Stephen Safety Net next to me, and for the first time, I am actually afraid to fly. Landings are something that scare a pilot to his dying days. The saying goes that you can ask the oldest, crustiest airline pilot with 20,000 hours how he feels about landings, and he'll say that to this day every last one scares him.
Because the lesson was so short (sniff), I didn't have to refuel the plane in the rapidly cooling twilight weather.
When we got back into the club building, Stephen pulled out my quiz which was very alarmingly covered in red ink. For the first time since senior year of college, I had had something of mine graded. And the amount of red was disappointing. A hasty estimate pegs my grade at around 2/3rds correct -- a D.
Fortunately, just discussing the wrong answers was enough for Stephen, so after he corrected my errors with me, he gave me my first endorsement:
"I, Stephen Ashley, hereby declare that Tim Morgan has satisfactorily completed a presolo knowledge test demonstrating knowledge of the areas outlined in 14 CFR 61.87(b)(1) applicable to student pilots, and the flight characteristics and operational limitations for a Cessna 172."
My first endorsement. What an honor! (Actually my second endorsement; my first I got for being a natural-born US citizen, whoop-dee-doo.)
Sitting just to the right of this endorsement was the tantalizing template for the solo endorsement, as yet un-filled, taunting me there. I sealed my lips though -- I had vowed not to bring up my first solo anymore, for fear of seeming more focused on what's ahead than what's in front of me.
However, without prompting, Stephen did talk a bit about my future. Seems club bylaws restrict me on when I can solo. I can only solo on the most calm, most pristine of days, and these days come very rarely with my luck. Stephen said if there weren't many "solo-able" days, I'd still be able to continue on with my cross-country training with him in the cabin, but he worried that I would be soloing too infrequently.
He also hinted that we may have just one more lesson's worth of pre-solo material to cover. Emergency descents (which sound very fun) and flying with broken instruments. Then we are out of stuff to do before the first solo.
Emergency descents are "ridiculous" according to Stephen. "If your engine catches fire, you're going to die. End of story. But because the FAA thinks you have some pitiful chance of actually surviving an engine fire, I have to teach you how to get the plane down on the ground as fast as possible." Talking about the ways in which you could die flying a plane doesn't even phase me anymore.
The basic idea is you point the plane down and fly it right at the redline, as fast as it will go, in an attempt to blow out the fire. (This never works.) Then, failing that, you dump all the lift you can and fly in tight circles to drop the airplane out of the sky as fast as you can (never works), land it anywhere that's not completely unsuitable (also never works), and get the hell out. (And neither does this.) So, in a magical fairy world, if your engine catches fire, yeah you might survive. But for the rest of us, just keep an eye your oil temperature and pressure, and land before it gets that bad.
So on Sunday, I imagine I will be learning how to get the plane down as fast as possible. Even if I will never use this knowledge to save my life, I do like flying planes in scary and interesting ways, so I am looking forward to it.
Cost so far: $3,145.91
Time so far: 40 days
Hours so far: 13.9
Projected certification date: August 14, 2007
Projected total cost: $11,316.22
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