New Pilot

Trepidation turns to joy

Fall in upper Middle Tennessee is the smell of dark leaf tobacco being fired for market.

The smoke of the sawdust burning on the earthen barn floor drifts upward through the tiers of dark leaves, absorbing the rich sweetness of the tobacco before slipping out through the eaves to join the smoke of other barns.

It is as if a million corncob pipes have joined to make a smooth, sensual aroma that is all about and nowhere, an aroma that congregates to be visible as a blue haze in quiet low places in the late afternoon. It is the smell of tobacco and wood smoke; and at the start of the firing time, the wood smoke smell is predominant — but as the days ease on, the tobacco smell moves in; and, as the firing time ends, the wood is gone and the tobacco is in control.

The farmer sniffs and notes the progress and is content — the hunter smells it and the hunt is made better — the hiker pauses to appreciate and is rejuvenated.

Fall in this part of the country is not just leaves turning or coon dogs sounding down in the hollow on a crackling clear night, or that special solidity of the pockets of cooler air in the low spots that collect the smoke in the very late afternoon. It is this smell, a fragrance that makes the old men nostalgic and the young men glad for the autumns to come.

It had been thus for a hundred years, and the war in this fall of 1944 had changed nothing.

There were such barns near the small grass-covered airport.

The boy rode up to the airport rail fence and rested the yellow bicycle against it. He was extra-skinny, wearing overalls, a blue work shirt, and old high-topped black tennis shoes with holes worn in the sides where his outside toes were moving to get out. He had an almost-white thatch of hair, blue eyes, and ears that were much too big. Upon seeing his ears, one thought of a taxi going down the street with both back doors open, and he had been reminded of this too many times.

He was not well coordinated as he worked his way up the fence hesitantly. He kept looking at the line of parked airplanes as he eased up toward the line shack where activity seemed to be centered. Beyond the line shack (which was a part of the fence and acted as a gate between the spectators and the participants) stood the large hangar, containing several more brightly colored airplanes.

This was not his first time here; the 10-mile round trip by bike had been made on many other Sunday afternoons, starting in the previous spring. It was October and cool, but the back of his shirt was dark with the sweat of the ride. He kept his eye on the airplane that was taking up passengers, and he felt again for the two damp dollar bills folded in the breast pocket of his overalls.

He did not know that his feelings would be labeled ambivalent by more learned and experienced thinkers; he wanted to get into that airplane and take his first ride more than anything he had ever done, but it was a time of extreme concern because his whole life — all 14 years of it — would be affected by this one airplane ride. If he got sick and didn't like it, or if he panicked in mid-flight, everything would be ended. Ever since he could remember, he had wanted to be a pilot. He had built solid models of combat airplanes of the Allies and Axis and also stick-and-tissue-paper flying models of pre-war lightplanes (the Piper J-3 Cub, Rearwin Speedster, and others). He had built a fighter cockpit (crude, but imagination helped) in the attic of the garage, with stick, throttle, and a cross-hair gun sight (a toilet paper tube with threads pasted over the end served nicely). He even had a solid model of a Messerschmitt Bf109 suspended on a thread "ahead" of the sight and he was now a triple ace.

His only previous flight had been jumping off the peak of the roof of the smokehouse under an umbrella that failed approximately one-third of the way down, leaving him lying in chicken droppings, groaning in pain from a sprained right ankle.

He stopped his slow movement along the fence to watch an Aeronca Defender with a purple fuselage and bright orange wings taxi to a tiedown place in the grass and shut down. An older man in khaki and a very pretty girl in a gray blouse and blue slacks got out. The man was an instructor; he knew this from previous trips to the airport. Pretty girls were also much a part of his fantasies, but this one must be at least 20, much too old and sophisticated. As they walked toward the line shack (the boy was close to the door now), the instructor was reviewing the flight, talking about stalls and rectangular courses, and she was nodding. She looked over at him and suddenly smiled, making him aware of his overalls, tennis shoes, and the fact that his hair probably needed combing. She was beautiful! She had blue eyes and dark brown hair and was slender but well built. He was in love for the fourth time that week.

The two disappeared through the line shack and into the airport office, and he was left with his problem again. He didn't want her to see that this was to be his first airplane ride and how nervous he was, but most of all, he was concerned with whether he would get sick or panic. Maybe next Sunday would be a better time; he'd get out here early and wouldn't have to worry about riding his bike home close to dark. The weather was not the problem today. Not a cloud in the sharp blue sky, but maybe he should come back next week.

The airplane being used to hop passengers was an open-cockpit Meyers OTW biplane with a 160-horsepower five-cylinder radial engine. (He knew this.) The fuselage and vertical tail were clean, polished metal, and the wings and horizontal tail were covered in bright yellow-doped fabric. He had seen the Meyers flying near his stepfather's country store and over town when he was there on Saturday afternoons. He wanted to ride in the Meyers; that is, if he decided to fly today.

He stood and watched the Meyers being loaded and unloaded with its generally (though not always) laughing or smiling passengers (one per flight in the front cockpit). His eyes never left the airplane until it grew small flying toward town and disappeared; then he would look at the other airplanes on the ground and at the people sitting on a bench inside the fence by the line shack (he would like to sit there and listen to them and be a part of the group). After a while, though, he would look at the black man (the loader) and then to the south, seeming to anticipate the return of the biplane to the airport almost to the second, and his indecision would come back.

On some flights the pilot wouldn't fly over town but would, after a passenger was buckled in, make a spectacular takeoff and climb briefly to do loops and wingovers with it, appearing to brush the trees on the edge of the airport. After watching the second takeoff of this type, he had made up his mind to come back some day when it wasn't so late and when someone else more conservative was flying.

He was squeezing the two dollar bills in his sweaty hand and starting to turn away, when the black man, who had noticed him and read the problem by the money in hand and his hesitations, came over to the fence, smiled, and said, "You're next to go up! Come on through the line shack there and we'll get you flying! Come on!"

Before the boy knew what was happening, he was through the shack and being motioned to the airplane, which, empty of its last passenger, sat, engine idling, a few yards out on the grass. It was too soon! He needed to think! But the pilot was looking around at him, waiting. He had to go now. He turned, his voice thin and high: "Please, tell him not to do any stunts! I just want to ride!" He handed the punished money to the black man, who, in return, gave him a too- large cloth helmet to put on. (Why did he need a helmet? Did this mean that they would do stunts?) He encouraged the boy up onto the wing walk so that he could get into the airplane, but his legs weren't working right. He was helped to fasten the seat belt and told to keep his hands away from the stick and his feet back from the rudder pedals. (Yes, I know how they work; I could almost fly this plane myself if I weren't so scared.)

The loader then stepped to the back cockpit and spoke to the pilot, but the boy could not hear what he said. (Was he saying to really wring him out, to fly upside down, to do loops until his passenger was sick and scared beyond thinking?) The loader was suddenly gone, the airplane was bumping noisily over the grass, and he was committed. How noisy it was! The sound and airflow whipping around his helmet and head increased. The airplane lifted off and the rumbling of the wheels stopped. It was smooth, even though the five-cylinder engine made whapping noises as each cylinder fired.

His helmet whipped as he leaned over to look at the ground. There was one of the wheels, between him and the tiny spots that were houses and strips of roads that looked like white or gray or brown threads. The airplane banked, and the boy gripped the sides of the seat more tightly, but he relaxed comparatively as he found he wouldn't fall out.

They seemed to be barely moving, but the helmet fluttered against his cheek, and once he stuck his hand up timidly to feel the edge of the air coming past the windscreen. It was stronger than he had anticipated. He wanted to shout but was too shy; he turned and grinned, nevertheless, and the pilot smiled back.

He could see the fields making a varied pattern and to the south saw the river and the county seat. He looked to the southwest, past the farms and woods, to try to pick out his house. No, he couldn't. And then the sound of the engine decreased and he was startled momentarily. It was quiet except for the sound of the wind in the wires, and he knew they were gliding. He could see the grass runway moving nearer past the engine cylinders. It was over so soon; too soon!

Then they were slipping across the airport boundary and the wheels touched, rumbling across the grass with its higher tufts and clumps. There were the gate and line shack, and now they had spun around and parked; the engine stopped, and for a few seconds there was no sound except the pings of the cooling engine.

The pilot got out and walked toward the office; there were no more passengers waiting. The boy was shaky as he climbed out, but happier than he had ever been before. It was better than he had imagined. Could he learn to fly? Did he have the skill and the courage? Yes! He walked to the office, legs still trembling, but it was the trembling of excitement now, and not fear. He handed the helmet to the loader (a great man!) and watched the pilot walk into the hangar (a greater man!). There was five miles of road to go on the yellow bicycle before sundown, but it was nothing. The smell of tobacco smoke from barns around the airport would always be a part of his memory of this day.

As he picked up the bicycle from against the fence and turned to go, he looked back at the Meyers. The late afternoon sun had moved the airplane's shadow well away from the fence and shack; the silver surface of the rudder danced with light as it swayed gently back and forth in the decreasing wind, and the yellow wings were as bright as his future.

This is basically the story of my first airplane ride. I try to remember those feelings when taking people for a first flight or when they are out at the airport, just looking around.

If the pilot had done aerobatics and scared me or made me sick, the following 50 years would have been so much different.

A year later I soloed on the same type of fall day described here, and within five years of that first flight I was towing banners and teaching aerobatics in that same Meyers. The loader was my friend who taught me how to crank, fuel, and wash airplanes. He loaded passengers for me in the Meyers on Sunday afternoons.

I was always careful (no stunts!) with the first-timers and now still take it easy and do lots of explaining on a person's first flight.

Maybe that kid over there who's looking over the airport fence, clutching his money, will be the commander of a trip to Mars 20 years from now, but it's doubtful. You see, there are liability problems with letting kids out where there are airplanes. 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.

How It Works: The Politics of Pitch

BY MARC E. COOK

Propellers are, among other things, a compromise. An airscrew, as the ancients called it, with a set angle of attack into the relative wind, is ideal for only a very small range of speeds. A fixed-pitch prop optimized for takeoff and climb, for instance, will sacrifice cruise speed. A prop set up for cross-countries will create a sluggish climber.

This compromise led erstwhile inventors to concoct ways to change a prop's pitch in flight, which improved low-speed performance without sapping top-end thrust. Today, an adjustable- pitch prop appears on the majority of more powerful aircraft — including complex trainers. (The Diamond Katana, with its 80- horsepower Rotax 912, is the notable exception in the training realm.)

Correctly, it's called a constant-speed prop, thanks to the mechanism that controls the blades' pitch. Before this device was invented, though, prop-blade pitch was controlled by the pilot directly. In this sense, the prop control acted like a big wrench on the blades, changing their pitch only as long as the pilot manipulated the control. Airspeed or throttle changes would directly influence engine speed, a nuisance in powerful and aerodynamically clean designs.

Along came the constant-speed prop and its hydraulic governor. As the name implies, this setup maintains a set prop (and consequently engine) speed, regardless of air loads on the prop and, to a limited extent, the amount of power generated by the engine.

Inside the constant-speed prop's hub you'll find a set of bearing surfaces that allows the blades to rotate and change pitch. Attached to the blades' shanks inside the hub are linkages that marry them to an oil-filled cylinder at the center forward portion of the hub. This cylinder obtains its supply of oil through the hollow bore of the crankshaft. For single-engine installations, applying oil pressure to the prop dome results in increased blade pitch; the thinking is that a failure of the controlling mechanism will place the blades in a configuration that will allow for near-maximum rpm and power. (In twins, the props are set up so that removal of the oil supply will allow the blades to feather; the theory behind the design is that you have another engine to get you home.)

Real magic begins at the prop governor. It's a purely mechanical device bolted to a dedicated pad on the engine. A small shaft joins a high-pressure oil pump to the crankshaft or accessory drive. Normal engine oil is ported from the lubrication system and its pressure increased by the governor's integral pump. This high- pressure oil is used to move the prop blades. This is noted during runup, when oil pressure drops as the propeller control is put in high pitch.

Inside the governor is a set of flyweights rotating on the same shaft that drives the pressure pump; therefore, they spin at a constant relationship to engine speed. These flyweights connect to the so-called pilot valve and are opposed by a spring whose tension is adjusted by the pilot, through the prop control. The pilot valve meters high-pressure oil to the prop hub, directly influencing the prop's blade pitch.

In the governor, equilibrium is the key. Say, for example, you're cruising along with the prop control set to maintain 2,500 rpm. In this case, the speed-control lever forces the spring against the flyweights a certain amount. No oil is actually flowing to the prop hub, since the blades' pitch is correct for maintaining the desired rpm. This is the on-speed condition. But let's say that the airplane enters a downdraft. Prop load decreases as the airspeed increases, and so the engine momentarily gains speed. In this instance, the force of the set spring is overcome by the power of the centrifugal flyweights, allowing the pilot valve to move along its bore. This forces high-pressure oil into the prop hub, which increases blade pitch, loads the engine, and restores equilibrium. This is called an overspeed condition. In the underspeed condition — as you might experience in an updraft, for example — the set spring overcomes the force of the flyweights and causes the pilot valve to relieve oil pressure in the hub, reducing the blades' pitch. Helper springs in the hub or the sheer centrifugal twisting forces of the blades themselves force the prop to a lower pitch setting.

What's most amazing about the constant-speed setup is that these adjustments happen constantly and nearly without the pilot's awareness. Moreover, each governor is adjusted so that at the maximum-rpm (low pitch) setting, the engine will turn its normal redline rpm; this allows you to leave the prop control full forward for takeoff and not worry much about engine speed.

Both the prop and the governing mechanism have a limited range, however. You'll notice this during engine start. As soon as oil pressure rises, the governor will try to maintain a set rpm. But because the flyweights aren't turning anywhere near the set point, no oil will flow to the prop hub. As a result, you'll be taxiing around with the blades at full fine or low pitch. The whole idea of exercising the prop during runup is to ensure that warm oil is moved through the hub and that the whole governing body is working at all. Left alone, a constant-speed prop stuck in low pitch will allow the engine to overspeed quite readily on the takeoff run. That's why it's always a good idea to keep one eye on the tachometer on the departure to make sure the prop system is working according to plan.

Fears of Flying: Lost Over the Pacific

BY KAMRAN TEHRANI

"Socal Approach, Arrow Seven-Six-Two-Six is somewhere over the water between Catalina and the mainland. I believe our navigation equipment has malfunctioned and we seem to be lost...."

Those were my words to a Los Angeles area controller as I desperately tried to determine our position over the water in relation to the gigantic Los Angeles Class B airspace.

Our flying day had started mid-morning on Sunday, when my friend — a two-hour student — asked me to go up with him and show him some basic maneuvers. Since I am not an instructor, I told him that he wouldn't be able to log any of the flight time. He agreed, and we departed Torrance Municipal Airport in the only rental available that day, a 180-horsepower Piper Arrow.

A few minutes later, we arrived over the practice area and I put my 500-hour commercial, multiengine, instrument ticket to use and demonstrated to my friend shallow and steep turns, various stalls, and slow flight. After playing around over the Pacific for about 70 minutes, we proceeded to the nearby island of Santa Catalina. My friend was excited about the fact that it had taken us 10 minutes to fly there, versus nearly 2 hours by boat.

We toured the town of Avalon for a couple of hours and decided to head back to our home airport at Torrance. By now, I was getting the "nothing-can-happen-to-this-pilot" feeling. We performed a quick runup and departed the island. As soon as the mains left the runway, a gush of air poured in the cockpit as a result of the cabin door's being ajar.

Knowing that most Pipers fly well with the door ajar, I decided not to return to the airport, but rather to try to close the door over the ocean. However, it wouldn't close, no matter what I tried. I noticed that the landmarks I was expecting to see on the mainland after our departure from Catalina were not visible because of a dense haze layer. I tuned in the Seal Beach VOR, which is located 15 miles east of Torrance and had my friend point the nose in its general direction.

Everything seemed normal. The course deviation indicator was centered, and the "To" flag was pointing towards the station, but I noticed that our overwater leg had become dramatically longer.

I became alarmed, knowing that something was awry, especially when I noticed the DME counting away from the station. Yet my heading indicator, the OBS and its "To" flag all indicated that I was heading in the right direction.

By now I knew that we were lost in potentially dangerous airspace. An undercast had begun to form, and we lost sight of the ocean below. I tuned in the Los Angeles VOR; based on the DME, we were either 40 miles to the south or to the north of it, with the DME indicating an increase in distance as we flew in what appeared to be a northerly direction.

The loud sound of air coming through the door and the sickly feeling of being lost — not to mention the fear of a possible Class B airspace violation — all helped to distract me further. This is when I made my call to the controller to report our dire situation and get radar help. The helpful gentleman couldn't pinpoint our location and asked me to squawk 7700 (emergency). He also pointed out higher traffic to me, to see whether I could spot it.

I have never felt more embarrassed in my whole life than I did at that moment. There was the compass indicating a heading, reciprocal of what was on my heading indicator. This 500-hour pilot with 100 hours of instrument flight experience was going the wrong way because he had forgotten to set the heading two hours prior.

As soon as I corrected the heading problem, everything fell into place and I realized that we had wandered east of our course, which kept us clear of any special-use airspace. My friend had been really quiet all this time, and I apologized to him for having set such a bad example and hoped he also had learned as much from this mishap as I had. Since this incident, I have created an abbreviated checklist that covers all necessities for return trips of short flights.

Incidentally, we still beat the boats (even with our door open).

Kamran Tehrani is a systems engineer who has an instrument rating and has logged 500 flight hours in eight years of flying both single- engine and multiengine aircraft.

After the Checkride: Heading Off Bad Habits

BY DAN NAMOWITZ

Every pilot who has ever passed an FAA checkride has proven to someone in authority that he or she is capable of behaving like a responsible adult when flying an aircraft. Then why are so many accidents directly attributable to the failure of these pilots to live up to their abilities?

It says in the practical test standards that if you have passed a flight test, you exhibited knowledge, showed good judgment, consulted checklists, and followed recommended operating procedures.

But after training, many pilots discover that questionable practices that were easy to avoid earlier become more of a problem, because often it's easier to cut corners when there's no CFI sitting next to them. A high-time pilot takes off on a VFR flight in a piston single but abruptly aborts the mission because the new line attendant failed to secure a fuel cap and the pilot failed to check it. A VFR-only pilot flies in controlled airspace with the vertical tail nicking the bottom of an overcast, forgetting that the requirement to remain 500 feet below clouds applies to him as well as everyone else. An instrument pilot prepares to take off into IMC in near- freezing temperatures, unconcerned that the aircraft's electrically powered outside-air-temperature gauge isn't working properly.

What most of these cases have in common is that the first link in the chain was created during the complacency that accompanies completion of training. With the checkride over and the pressure off, some pilots can't help letting down from the intensity level that characterized their flying before the flight test. Left to their own devices, too often the pilots respond to the problem with "So what?"

Flying just for fun is fine, but not if it means getting sloppy about safety. When I go for a social ride with one of my former students, I remind myself that they have earned their independence, and they remind me that I have not been invited aboard to be a grinch, as was tolerated during the good old days of their training. Now occurs one of the most difficult experiences a CFI must ever undergo: keeping his mouth shut in a moving airplane. But experience teaches that once a newly certificated pilot departs the training environment, certain lapses in technique will develop.

Jack was a superb student who had moved through training in an impressive fashion. The designated examiner had nothing but praise for Jack's oral prep and for his flying, and now it is two months after Jack earned his ticket. He is flying two or three hours a week in rented airplanes and is approaching the 100-hour mark. My telephone rings. Jack has broken free from work for a lunch hour session of takeoffs and landings, but he is a little doubtful. The wind is gusty and variable, and to Jack it seems higher than the "15 gusting to 20" advertised in the terminal forecast. Should he go?

My response is that I am not doing anything terribly urgent at the moment, and if Jack would like company for the ride, a session in the pattern might bring back some fond memories, or at least some vivid recollections. Jack assents. The wind is definitely higher than advertised, and the first thing I notice as we make our way out is that Jack is taxiing too fast. Much too fast. He also seems a little befuddled as to the correct positioning of the controls for taxiing in the windy conditions; when I quiz him on it, he makes the proper adjustment of the ailerons but incorrectly holds the elevator up as we taxi downwind (down-elevator would prevent a gust of wind from lifting the tail). I gently nudge the yoke forward while easing back the throttle. That's another thing: he's not holding onto the throttle as he taxis, as he was taught to do...I think that this is starting to feel like work.

Having been in this situation many times before, I can catalog the lapses I am likely to witness. On takeoff, the throttle — after an all-too-brisk push to the full-power position — will again go unattended, and perhaps creep back. Rudder-aileron coordination will be shaky. Shortly after takeoff, the pilot will be advised by the radar controller to "check transponder on." (I once heard a controller ask the pilot to "check your Oscar November switch." Subtle.) We will level off at 2,650 feet, then 2,400 feet, and finally, the altitude we requested — 2,500 feet. The first landing of the day will be a three- pointer, if I allow it; and if it is in a crosswind, it will be more than a little interesting. On shutdown the pilot will kill the engine with the mixture control and then launch into a post-mortem on the landings — without having cut the mags. I try to stay good-natured about all of this; and if I can still contort my face into a smile at the end of the flight, the ex-student usually proposes that we get together again soon to recapture the sharp edge that is obviously lacking.

Surprised that even a great student could become so rusty so soon?

Don't be. Deep in many pilots' minds — even those of good pilots — lurk suspicions that checklists are only for sissies and flight instructors, that renters who pay by the hour have a constitutional right to taxi fast, and that early-morning weather briefings are sufficient preparation for late-afternoon flights. Calculating weight and balance, perusing the performance charts, or even just flying by chart and compass with the fancy black boxes turned off — all are things many pilots readily confess to not having done "since I was a student."

No one starts out on a flight expecting, or hoping to have, an accident, but many pilots manage to convince themselves that the pilot they see in the mirror is too bright, or clever, or good-looking, ever to have one — deteriorating operating practices notwithstanding. What the statistics show, however, is that though the chances of having a mishap are small, certain predictable actions or omissions committed by the pilot in command cause nearly 75 percent of the accidents we read about. Non-believers need only review the AOPA Air Safety Foundation's safety review of various aircraft to notice how constant this figure remains.

A week before this article was written, temptation beckoned. It was a sunny day following two days of fog and rain, and I was on the schedule of the local designated examiner for a CFI-renewal checkride. I would meet him at an airport 10 miles from the home base. The gauges showed the tanks of the old Skyhawk to be three- quarters full, a likely time to find water in the fuel system. Someone had apparently walked off with the fuel sampler cup, because it was nowhere to be found. It was getting late ... and I sure didn't want to keep the examiner waiting.

I resisted the temptation to cut corners, however, and improvised with a survival tool and some plastic wrap I found in the cockpit, procured a fuel sample, found water, and cleared the system before firing up. As I flew to the destination, I remembered having recently heard some pilots cackling about an accident in which someone ran out of fuel, or got lost, or had some similar mishap, en route to a checkride. Sitting comfortably in the hangar with the coffeepot at hand, everyone found the tale hilarious because it's assumed that a pilot going for a flight test is in a heightened state of readiness, as compared to someone flying for business or pleasure.

But we're wrong to laugh. Once we accept the notion that routine flying can be performed with less rigor than training sessions or checkrides, we've bought into letdown syndrome — and how low we'll go from there is anybody's guess. The only limiting factor is the elevation of the terrain over which we fly.

Dan Namowitz is a multiengine-rated commercial pilot and CFII living, flying, and instructing in Maine.