New Pilot

Timing and training are everything.

Even weather forecasters have better luck than those trying to predict the airline pilot employment picture. In 1989, Congress became alarmed about a perceived civilian pilot shortage that threatened to siphon expensively trained pilots from the military services into the airlines — only the perception turned out not to be reality.

The defense spending bill that year called for a Presidential commission to study the problem. The Department of Transportation subsequently formed a blue-ribbon panel and expanded its charter to include the study of mechanics, also believed to be in short supply. By the time the panel finished its work last year, the belief in a pending pilot and mechanic shortage had all but disappeared — thanks largely to two years of recession — but a new problem emerged, one affecting the plans of all who hope to make it to the regional or major airlines.

There won't be a numerical shortage of pilots or mechanics for years to come, the Pilot and Aviation Maintenance Technician Blue Ribbon Panel reported. "There is, however, an impending shortage of pilots and aviation maintenance technicians who meet the qualifications necessary to operate in the complex aerospace system of the future," the panel said in its report, "Pilots and Aviation Maintenance Technicians for the Twenty- First Century: An Assessment of Availability and Quality." (Why is it government titles are almost as long as the report?) The report also expressed concern that the typical FAR Part 91 or Part 141 airport flight school fails to understand the experience requirements for entry-level professional pilots. Thus, pilots may not receive "the types of training that will make them truly employable," the report said.

There was a time, back when airline captains were paid extremely well and government regulation assured profitable routes for all carriers, that the term "qualifications" referred only to flying hours, preferably turbine-powered big iron. Now, a knowledge of small silicon chips (computers) is as important as big iron in today's high-technology cockpits. And with highly focused training, airline jobs are now open to pilots with only a few hundred flight hours.

Increasingly, airlines find themselves in agreement with the panel's recommendation that they work closely with schools to create not just pilots, but "designer" pilots educated and trained to fly for a specific airline. Pilot graduates of such training know not only the mechanics of stall recovery, but the secrets of crew coordination and any special requirements unique to the culture of a particular company.

The same is true for mechanics who must learn not only to repair an aircraft, but to repair modern, sophisticated jets and follow the procedures of a specific company. The panel's report noted technology taught at schools for mechanics is often a decade or more behind that actually used in the aerospace industry. (Unfortunately, says University of North Dakota Aerospace Dean John D. Odegard, no airline-oriented training for mechanics exists today. American Airlines nearly began such a program a few years ago but ran into funding problems.)

"There is no pilot shortage," says Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University's Paul McDuffee. "Now, airlines determine what they want in a pilot in terms of education and skills and work with us to design a curriculum. When we're done, the result is a pilot whose experience is low but [whose] training and skills are such that the airline is willing to put them in the cockpit." McDuffee is director of flight services.

Ab initio training designed from the first day to satisfy the needs of the airlines provides the edge to today's job candidate.

Pilot candidates at the University of North Dakota have the opportunity in their freshman year to be selected for training specific to Northwest Airlines' needs, or to a Northwest regional carrier Northwest designates. Under the Preferred Pilot Hiring Program, 25 of the Aerospace school's freshman class of 80 students will be closely monitored and are nearly assured a future job flying for Northwest Airlines.

The school's Spectrum program, although not specific to Northwest, has been used as a training program by several airlines to prepare pilots to act as crewmembers. To date, says Odegard, there have been 228 Spectrum graduates since the program began, many of them trained under contracts with airlines. The 20 or so who took the course through the university have all been placed with regional airlines.

Although the panel said the present pilot supply is adequate for several years, there were still more than 5,000 pilot positions filled in 1993, Kit Darby of Airline Pilot Job Monthly in Atlanta reports. Regionals are clearly where the hiring action is, however, Darby said. "Regional airlines employ less than 17 percent of the airline pilots in the U.S. but accounted for 70 percent of the new pilot jobs last year," he said.

That's not to say regional airlines are accepting just any pilot who steps through the door, as AOPA's Mike Hillier, 33, discovered.

Hillier flew for Dulles Express as a captain aboard a Piper Chieftain between Hagerstown, Maryland, and Dulles International Airport in Virginia before joining the AOPA staff. When the airline went out of business, he applied to American Eagle, won an interview (a significant accomplishment in itself), and aced a Cessna Citation simulator test. The airline said it would be in touch. Hillier then joined AOPA's staff, where he took member calls on AOPA's 800/USA-AOPA service line. In the interim, the airline's expansion plans turned to contraction plans, and back again.

It was two years before Hillier finally got the call and began training as a first officer on a Saab 340B early this year.

Hillier came up the hard way, mortgaging his house in Britain and selling everything he could to pay for ab initio pilot training in Bolivar, Tennessee. He went from student pilot to flight instructor in seven months. The training was neither related to a specific airline nor aimed at airline pilot skills.

When hired by American Eagle, he had 2,700 hours, including 525 multiengine and 45 turbine hours. A friend hired at the same time as Hillier had only 400 hours; the difference was that the friend attended American Eagle's Eagle Flight Training Center in Dallas. While it does not offer ab initio training, it does offer training specific to the airline's needs. Interestingly, there were laid-off airline pilots from the majors interviewing for positions the same day Hillier was there, but they may have been considered overqualified. Hillier speculated that regionals may prefer to hire candidates who plan to make a career in the regionals, something he intends to do, rather than hire pilots who could be recalled by the major airlines at any moment.

The forecast for pilot and mechanic hiring? An adequate pool of both pilots and mechanics is available for the next three to five years. The question is whether the available candidates will be qualified to meet the needs of the airlines. Air-carrier pilot hiring, for example, will shift from military to civilian sources. Traditionally, military training has provided better qualified pilots.

How It Works: Prime Time

Starting a modern car is easy — put the key in the ignition and twist. Computer-controlled electronic fuel injection does all the dirty work, resulting in a powerplant ticking over within a heartbeat and idling smoothly in even the most difficult climatic conditions.

Not so with airplanes. For good reasons of simplicity and cost, we live with cantankerous magnetos and rudimentary fuel-delivery systems in light, piston-powered airplanes. As such, we must deal in pre-start rituals undreamt of in automotive — or even motorcycle — circles.

At the heart of the differences is the fact that you don't just hop into the airplane, pump the throttle, and turn the key. Aircraft carburetors are mounted below the engine, so working the throttle lever back and forth does little more than fill the airbox below with raw fuel. (And that assumes you're flying an airplane whose carburetor is fitted with an accelerator pump; many trainers are not so equipped.) Fuel- injected engines require a whole different set of starting procedures, but such a system is rare in the training fleet.

Admitting an extra slug of fuel to the cylinders — in a place and quantity that will do some good for starting — is the job of the primer. Plumbed directly from the fuel system, downstream from the tank selector or shutoff valve, the primer system completely bypasses the carburetor. When you pull on the primer's plunger in the cockpit, fuel is drawn from the lines, usually just beyond the gascolator, and pumped straight to the intake ports of the engine, just upstream of the inlet valves.

Sending the raw fuel to the intake ports helps to ensure that when the engine is first turned over, a sufficiently rich fuel-air mixture will reach the combustion chambers. Cold engines need far richer mixtures to initiate combustion than is required for continued running once the pistons and cylinders begin to warm up. The colder the ambient temperature — and hence the engine components themselves — the more you will need to prime.

How much? Follow the recommendations in the pilot's operating handbook if you're unfamiliar with the type. Have a look in the amplified procedures section if the cryptic note "Prime — AS REQUIRED (2 to 6 strokes)" doesn't seem like much help. Generally start with the least amount of priming set out for the conditions. The worst that will happen if you under-prime is that you will get additional practice starting the engine; an insufficiently rich mixture will allow the engine to start briefly then die. Over-priming can send enough fuel to the cylinders to wash the oil film from them, a bad thing for piston-ring and cylinder longevity.

If you are operating in very cold climes, leave the primer knob unlocked when you begin cranking the engine. This allows you to pump the knob and admit extra fuel directly to the combustion chambers, which will help keep the propeller turning while the powerplant comes up to operating temperature. Atomized fuel droplets from the carburetor have to travel a great distance and against gravity to gain entry to the cylinders. At low temperatures, this fuel will fall out of suspension from the surrounding air very easily, resulting in a nearly incombustible mixture. Also, during cold weather, pulling on carburetor heat after the engine starts will help this atomization; use caution taxiing with the carb heat on since the intake air would be unfiltered.

Should you prime when the engine is warm? It depends. In warm weather, no; the engine will usually retain enough heat to start easily without priming for more than a hour after shutdown. When it's cold, though, you may have to prime the engine even though it hasn't been shut down long. If in doubt, try to start without priming; if the engine fails to catch within a few revolutions, stop and prime using the minimum recommendations.

A final technique note — make certain you pull the plunger out slowly enough for fuel to enter completely; you can usually hear the primer filling. And don't forget to latch the primer closed before takeoff. If left partly extended, fuel will siphon from the primer into the intake tract, making the overall mixture overly rich and robbing the airplane of takeoff and climb performance. — Marc E. Cook

Fears of Flying: No Horizons

I'd had my private pilot certificate for 15 months and had logged more than 100 hours when the opportunity to impress my friends presented itself. A friend was getting married on Jekyll Island off the Georgia coast, so I began planning a flight to the wedding a month ahead of time. I reserved a Cessna 152 from the Charleston (South Carolina) Aero Club, then learned that Malcolm McKinnon Airport on St. Simons Island was very close to Jekyll Island.

The day of the wedding arrived, and I was up early to get a good start on my flight. The weather briefing from flight service predicted VFR conditions at Charleston and the rest of the route all day long. The most significant item that I got out of the briefing was that current conditions at Malcolm McKinnon were broken clouds at 3,000 feet.

Initially this concerned me, but I reasoned that, one, I could always fly under a 3,000-foot ceiling, and, two, a broken cloud deck has some holes in it to descend through. Besides, the forecast was calling for this broken cloud layer to become scattered, and what good is a forecast if you don't use it in your preflight planning? You don't log 100-plus hours without learning something, I figured.

I filed a VFR flight plan and was off the ground from Charleston shortly after 9 a.m., headed for Hilton Head Island, my first checkpoint on the coast. After Hilton Head, it was just a matter of keeping an eye on the coastline and monitoring my progress with checkpoints. As I climbed to my cruise altitude of 4,500 feet, I checked in with Charleston Departure, asking for flight following. Charleston soon handed me off to Beaufort Approach.

I completed my cruise check list and settled in for what should have been no more than a two-hour flight. Hilton Head Island passed down my left side, and I turned to a heading of 215 degrees to take me direct to Malcolm McKinnon. I also noticed the first signs of the clouds that flight service had told me about. They were puffy cumulus clouds, intermittently scattered about, not even a hindrance to identifying the coastline that I was now following to my destination.

The one thing that struck me as curious was that these clouds weren't at 3,000 feet like flight service had said — more like 1,000 or 1,500 feet. Well, time to call upon that skill that I'd honed to a marshmallow's edge: judgment. I was faced with three choices. Obviously, I could execute a 180-degree turn and go home. I quickly decided the situation didn't call for that.

That left two other options. The first was to drop below the cloud deck, so I wouldn't have to worry about getting trapped above it. On the negative side, I had no way of telling how low it might force me. Plus it would mean I'd lose flight following that much sooner. The third option was to continue at my present altitude.

Now it was time to combine my judgment skill with that invaluable commodity that all pilots with more than 100 hours have in abundance — experience. Little did I know that I was confusing the skills of good judgment and experience with rationalization and overconfidence. Imagine that.

Regardless, I drew on those past 100 hours of flight experience and recalled a recent cross country from Charleston to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. Clear skies had been predicted for that flight, but halfway there, clouds began forming below me. I opted to fly below them. About 20 miles later, the sky just opened up, and it was absolutely clear, just like the briefer had said it would be.

So I blundered merrily along, trying to ignore my mounting nervousness and tension. At that point, I dialed in the Brunswick VOR, which is about 10 miles in a direct line beyond Malcolm McKinnon. Now all I had to do was get close enough to receive the signal. Beaufort then called to hand me off to Savannah Approach. The radio work kept me busy enough that I failed to notice that an overcast was now starting to form several thousand feet above me. I did notice, though, that the clouds below me were getting thicker, well past the scattered stage, but I knew they'd clear out over my destination — flight service had said so.

Just as I was reweighing my options, the NAV flag on the VOR disappeared, and the needle swung slightly off center. Hey, I've got a signal — I don't need ground references anymore. Certainly any pilot with more than 100 hours could handle this.

I continued to drone along, thinking that there was something wrong with this whole picture, despite how legal it was. My thoughts were interrupted by Savannah calling to say that radar contact had been lost, that Malcolm McKinnon was 12 miles at my 12 o'clock, and that a frequency change was approved.

My nervousness and tension were no longer mounting; they were built up to a full-scale frenzy. I switched over to McKinnon's unicom frequency and asked for current weather conditions. The nice lady reported a solid overcast at 1,000 feet.

File that thought away for future use because, right now, it was time to fly the airplane. Based on dead reckoning, I estimated my position to be due east from Glynco Jetport, an airport about 15 miles away that I thought might have better conditions. I turned west and received a nasty surprise — the horizon just melted away. One second it was there, and the next, it just disappeared somewhere between where the overcast and undercast layers met off in the distance.

I leveled the wings, and presto, the horizon was back, just as quickly as I had lost it. Thinking how weird that was, I dialed up Glynco unicom and asked for its weather conditions. I was right — its weather was better. The solid overcast didn't start until 1,500 feet. Now it looked like the only option left was that 180-degree turn. As I turned back to the north, the horizon again vanished. This time, though, I was ready. All I had to do was just wait a few seconds for the horizon to appear, just like last time.

Only this time, the horizon didn't come back. And I was headed north, which was where cloud-free skies were supposed to be. I was headed north, right? A quick glance at my instruments showed that I was in a steep right turn and had already lost 500 feet.

I fell back on what little instrument training I'd had. I leveled the wings of the miniature airplane on the attitude indicator and then pitched the nose up 5 degrees to return to my cruise altitude of 4,500 feet. Once back at the proper altitude, I focused on staying there. I was pretty shaken up over how easily I had lost control of the airplane. My hands were trembling, and the sweat trickling down my back was cold, and it still wasn't over. The horizon had returned at some point, but it hardly made me feel any better.

By now, my position was uncertain, and I decided it was time to ask for help. Luckily, I still had Savannah Approach dialed into my radio. I called it, explained my situation, and asked for vectors to the nearest VFR airport.

Clearly, the confidence and assurance that are normally in a 100- hour pilot's voice wasn't there, and the controller could tell. His response was to ask for my fuel state and souls on board. An airline pilot on the frequency informed the controller that the nearest VFR airport was Savannah. I told him that was fine and turned to the vector he gave me.

Minutes later, the ground became visible through holes in the undercast, and soon the clouds had all but disappeared. The controller continued to give me vectors. I almost told him I no longer required his assistance, but I figured overconfidence had already gotten the best of me once today. I stayed with him all the way into Savannah.

I was glad to get back on the ground, but now I was faced with whether or not to tell my instructor. I had already decided that this incident had taught me how weather forecasts couldn't be relied on to be 100-percent accurate. Would he be disappointed because of my poor judgment?

I decided to tell him in order to see if his experience would pull any other lessons from this flight. I'm glad I did. He pointed out that I failed to plan for an alternate (Glynco was too close to be a viable alternate based on the weather, not to mention I didn't consider alternate possibilities until I found out my destination was inaccessible).

Next, he made it clear that flight with reference solely to instruments is an IFR flight, regardless of how much visibility and cloud clearance there is — who was watching for traffic while I was concentrating on the instruments? Last, he asked why I didn't call Flight Watch to ask for weather conditions instead of waiting until I got there. On the up side, he did say that I exercised good judgment by calling Savannah for assistance, and I obviously kept the airplane under control sufficiently — otherwise, I wouldn't have been there.

I came away from this experience with the realization that there's something to learn on every flight but that some flights are more instructive than others. — Eric A. Laing II

Eric A. Laing II, AOPA 1142933, is a naval officer who has accumulated more than 225 flight hours in two years of flying.

Practice Area: Chocks

Airplane chocks are close kin to coat hangers and paper clips. Where do they all come from? Do they quietly reproduce at night? Chocks lie about in surfeit, covering the ramp area. When you taxi in, the airplane must be weaved drunkenly among them to get to a parking space.

Or much more likely, when you taxi into a deserted airport where the wind is gusting to 40 knots (and there are tiedown rings in the ground but no ropes), there are no chocks to be found, and the line office appears not to have been occupied since 1927. After the engine is shut down, the search begins. Sections of two-by-fours, chunks of concrete blocks, and, in extreme conditions, briefcases are used for chocks.

Chocks can be detrimental to a pilot's mental well being. Who has not carefully used the pre-start check list, waved good-bye to the friends lined up at the fence, and, after applying power to taxi, remembered that the chocks haven't been removed?

What about having this happen at an event with a large crowd and a famous and respected person on board the airplane?

When I was working at Piper Aircraft (1960 to 1964), in addition to flight-testing and demonstration duties, I sometimes flew W. T. Piper, Sr. (then in his 80s), around the country to dedicate new airports. The incident of discussion occurred at a small town in Missouri at the end of a three-day celebration for the dedication of its airport.

The mayor gave a speech extolling aviation and the "Grand Old Man of Aviation," Mr. Piper. Mr. Piper talked about the value of an airport to the economy of an area. If memory serves me, even I mumbled something about airports and their importance. (It was not a prepared speech on my part.)

Then it was time to leave.

The band played, the mayor and his entourage waved, and the crowd was highly enthusiastic and vocal. Our Piper Aztec was the center of attention as I got on board, followed by Mr. Piper (the Aztec has only a right door — this will be important later).

During the preflight check, I had untied the wings and tail and noted that the chocks at the nosewheel "should be removed before I start up." Then I was momentarily distracted by being asked to say a few words to those gathered.

I can fall back on history; even so-called famous men have had their moments of less than heroic proportions: Napoleon's Waterloo, Nixon's Watergate, and John Henshaw, here in Tennessee, apologizing to the entire congregation of the Lesser Goshen Church of the Eternal Faith about his longtime carnal assignations with the deacon's wife.

Anyway, you get the drift.

The band played. The mayor and his entourage waved. We waved. The crowd waved. I was very proud to be Mr. Piper's pilot, and I proceeded to smoothly start the engines. (Engines sometimes get very moody when people are watching, but these fired up immediately — I should have been suspicious.)

The band continued to play.

I increased power to taxi out and depart our scene of triumph.

To paraphrase author Thomas Wolfe: "O lost! O ghosts of better days! O forlorn hope!" ( O no!)

A faint hope that the mayor could pull the chock from in front of the nosewheel was quickly dismissed. He was not a pilot, and even a pilot should not pull the chock with the engines running.

The thought of suicide also was brushed aside. (I would do that when I got back to Lock Haven, Pennsylvania, where I had a dress sword to fall on.)

How about applying full power and jumping the chock? No, I recalled the chock was of such dimensions that it would be impossible. The good people of the town had assured that Mr. Piper's airplane would not be moved by an errant breeze.

A man has to do what he has to do. I killed both engines and said, "Mr. Piper, would you mind getting out?" This was necessary so that I could get out.

I unlatched the door and opened it.

He got out and stepped off the wing.

I got out, carefully avoiding looking at Mr. Piper, the mayor, or the crowd, and removed the chock.

The band played on valiantly, repeating verses and choruses of the original song that started hours ago. I was pretty tired of that song, I'll tell you.

I climbed back in.

Mr. Piper climbed back in.

I shut the door and latched it.

I started the engines but did not wave to the crowd. Mr. Piper and the mayor waved to each other — again. I could see out of the corner of my eye that the band was still playing.

The flight back to Lock Haven was routine. Part of it was IFR if I recall. I kept wondering what would be the best way to end it all after I got Mr. Piper back on the ground.

Except for an occasional quiet chuckle, there was no sound from Mr. Piper.

I was not fired nor, obviously, did I do away with myself. Mr. Piper would occasionally mention it with a twinkle in his eyes. I was not much amused, though the disgrace has dimmed somewhat over the years.

Sometimes I still try to taxi with chocks in front of the wheels, but now, it's no big deal — no Mr. Piper, no mayor, no band, and no crowd. I merely shut the engine down, mutter something to the passenger about " you'd better pull the chocks next time," remove the chocks, and get back in.

You see, after that day, any such incident is nothing. I can now even make it appear to the people at the airport fence that it's part of the start and taxi procedure. I can shut down, get out, and remove the chock(s) with dignity.

Chocks — they grow in front of airplane wheels. — William K. Kershner

William K. Kershner, AOPA 084901, is an aviation writer and flight instructor who has been flying for more than 48 years, has taught 433 students aerobatics, and received the 1992 National Instructor of the Year Award.