New Pilot

Beyond the $100 hamburger

A week after slipping that new private pilot certificate into your wallet, you find yourself looking for an excuse to go somewhere, do something — anything. After flying off for a few of general aviation's popular $100 hamburgers, the responsible side of your brain tells you this is not the most economical way to fill your belly. The struggle to earn that certificate can quickly be replaced with one of utilizing the document.

Some new pilots soon discover that the less they fly, the more convenient it becomes to avoid the issue, and the more they fly, the more they want to fly. Rather than let a couple of easily correctable training deficits erode your flying pleasure, sit down with a CFI and create a course to bring the confidence level up to your skill level or to explore the specific realm of the aviation world in which you plan to do the bulk of your flying.

This kind of training can be extremely effective and cost-efficient. Free of practical test requirements and flight-hour minimums, the pilot may create his or her own syllabus, and the only checkride at the end of the line is the one you give yourself. Training can be over a period of days or weeks, but occasionally a single flight every so often does the trick.

One windy day at the airport when I hadn't expected to operate anything but the coffee machine, I instead found myself riding around the traffic pattern for a half hour or so with each of three newly minted private pilots while they tackled a blustery, variable crosswind. Each did a fine job and had his confidence boosted by the experience and by the fact that I never touched the controls. Their abilities had been equal to the task, but prolonged absences from the cockpit — and the doubts that are a natural product of inexperience — had overcome their desire to fly, a condition none had recognized until face-to-face with the go/no-go decision.

Another fellow had more ambitious plans for his confidence-building and flight familiarization program. Gerry earned his private pilot certificate about three years ago and loved to fly, but he wanted more from his training as he began to consider long cross-country flights into airspace entirely unlike his home flying environment. He fashioned a supplemental syllabus that included flight in Boston's Class B airspace to acclimate him to its demanding communication and navigation requirements, then some trips to inspect the short, wind-swept airports in the mountains of New England where the ski lodges are located. The result of roughly 10 hours of supplemental training is that he flies more often and more confidently and is having a wonderful time, despite the demands of a growing, hands-on business that could have offered the perfect excuse to stay away from the airport.

Formal instruction isn't the only way a new pilot can keep proficiency and interest at a peak. Many new pilots feel more comfortable flying with another pilot while the confidence-boosting process is underway. Finding a flight companion may provide the source of much future fun, the sharing of costs, and relieving some of the in-flight workload. Spring and summer provide a continuous calendar of aviation events, including airshows, fly-ins, conventions, club meetings, and other functions at which to meet new pilot friends. Aviation publications, computer bulletin boards, and airport bulletin boards help pilots find companions to share the costs and flying duties on a proposed trip. Local flying clubs often have informal events, such as Saturday morning breakfast flights to outlying airports, that give new pilots a reason to fly together and help support FBOs, pilot shops, and restaurants.

The rest of us can help keep new pilots flying, even if we don't personally know someone at this aviation crossroads. Mentoring a new arrival is one way, as the success of AOPA Project Pilot has shown. It was the human touch of the volunteer guides that brought aviation to life for the classes of 1994 and 1995, and the completion of a training program doesn't mean that those relationships will end.

Clubs and organizations are the cement in many pilots' aviation experience, and it always strikes me how many new pilots can be found in their membership. Strength in numbers and the ready source of peer support can overcome psychological or economic obstacles to flying that individual pilots may find insurmountable, but it is important for these organizations to maintain their esprit de corps if they are to survive. When all members, veteran and neophyte, are equals — investing their time and energy when there's work to be done — a flying club or airport association can be a smashing success and a place to forge lifelong friendships. But when a group gets bogged down in squabbles over finances, or affords privileged status to a leadership elite, or distributes the chores unevenly, it loses its congenial air and teeters on the brink of extinction.

The FAA does both a good and a bad job of making new aviators feel welcome in the flight environment. Courteous, patient controllers and the various plug-in type programs at control towers and flight service stations open the door to the air traffic control system. Seminars on safety issues and aircraft ownership, sponsored by the FAA in conjunction with fixed-base operators, give pilots a destination for a Saturday afternoon, a chance to learn about their aircraft, and credit toward the FAA's Wings pilot proficiency program. Sometimes, however, the FAA inserts its foot in its mouth and bites down hard. Once I watched the room empty when an FAA inspector presenting a seminar on aircraft maintenance and airspace observed that he could probably stroll down the ramp and ground most of the visiting airplanes for various maintenance and inspection discrepancies. The discussion had been rather interesting; but after his comments, the constant drone of departing airplanes drowned out his remarks.

As pilots, we can be more patient and resist the urge to intimidate an obviously less-experienced flier who brings out the predator in us. Recently I sat in the cockpit and watched as a 15-hour student pilot took such an assault head-on. A working pilot in a Cessna 185 on am-phibious floats had punched into the pattern on the base leg and now was making a fuss on the radio about how he was circling around out there over the bay to let our little trainer complete its closed pattern. Every few seconds, in a most agitated tone, he queried my student about his location, intentions, and speed. Talk, talk, talk. The young fellow got rattled by all the bluster on the radio, resulting in a go-around. On the ramp, I had words with the other pilot about it, but the bluster only got worse. A good learning experience, but we can all do without this kind of thing.

Aviation will always remain a learn-by-doing activity and a new certificate will not make it any less demanding. What a new pilot should find reassuring is that help and counsel can be found everywhere you turn at so many airports — not just when the sun is shining, but also on those days when the fog rolls thickly by and the music on the radio is drowned out by the rain pounding on the hangar roof. That high-time pilot sitting at the desk in the back of the office may look unapproachable, but I recommend walking over with a cup of World War II java in each hand and blurting out your questions. Chances are he wasn't ready to lock up and go home just yet, in which case you'll get an earful — and maybe a ride in something new and different next time the sun comes out.

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

How It Works: Getting Into Gears

BY MARC E. COOK

Transitioning to a high-performance airplane creates the need for you to think further (and farther) ahead. You'll also get exposure to complex systems. When it comes to folding feet, you'll spend much of your time learning your particular complex trainer's system, how to troubleshoot it in flight, and how to manage it when your instructor allows it to work as the designers intended.

First, you should thoroughly study the portions of the pilot's operating handbook concerning the gear. It'll give you the normal operating and emergency procedures, and a schematic that will help you troubleshoot in-flight problems.

Retracting and extending bulky landing gear in the face of hurricane-force winds calls for mechanical power. Lots of it. Three basic methods are used to move the wheels from down-and-locked to up-and-away. Some manufacturers use large electric motors and gear-reduction devices to manhandle the gear. Mooney and Beech are the most common users of this system; you'll find electrics in the M20 series, the Bonanzas and Barons, as well as in the Piper Comanche.

More common gear activation methods are like those employed by Beech (in the Sierra and Duchess), Cessna, Piper, and Aerospatiale. All use hydraulics to move the gear.

To get a better feel for how this type of hydraulic system works, let's take a hypothetical flight in a Piper Arrow. The Arrow uses hydraulics energized by an electric power pack under the back seat; this is just a small motor integral with the hydraulic pump and a fluid reservoir. (This is the most common modern example of electrohydraulics; early Cessnas and many other designs dating from the 1950s, by contrast, used engine-driven hydraulic pumps.)

The fun starts after takeoff, once a positive rate of climb has been established or when there is no longer runway ahead of the airplane for landing. Now the pilot flips the gear switch to Up and waits as the hydraulics go to work. In the Arrow, moving the switch grounds one side of the Gear Down contactor on the hydraulic power pack. The other end of the circuit derives power from the main power bus through the landing gear control circuit breaker. Before this juice arrives at the contactor (which is just a relay that isolates the high current of the power pack motor from the control circuits), it must pass through the squat switch and the hydraulic pressure switch. The squat switch senses physical load on the landing gear, preventing ground retraction. Power then arrives at the pressure switch, which is designed to close when the pressure drops below about 1,000 pounds per square inch and open when the pressure exceeds about 1,500 psi.

At this point, all the electrical connections have been made and the power pack begins to run. It contains separate circuits internally for the Up and Down gear plumbing and a reversible motor and now starts to pressurize the Up side. This, in turn, fills one side of each of the three hydraulic cylinders attached to the gear legs. Inside each of these cylinders is a plunger that separates it into two chambers. As the pressure builds and the gear starts up, you may notice the airplane yawing. That's because the Arrow uses a common line for all three gear legs and the hydraulic fluid seeks the path of least resistance. Typically, the nose gear rises first — helped by the substantial air flowing over it from the propeller — and then the mains begin their retreat.

Back on the electrical side, each wheel will contact its up-limit switch, and when all three have done so, the Gear Unsafe light will extinguish. At about the same time, the pressure switch in the power pack senses that the system has reached maximum pressure and will then open; this cuts power to the Gear Up contactor and stops the motor. If, during cruise, the hydraulic pressure falls, the pressure switch will open and allow the power pack to restore it, keeping the wheels in place.

When it's time to put the wheels back out, the process reverses. The Gear Down switch position routes power through downlock switches on each gear leg. The power pack motor begins turning in the direction opposite that of gear-up. Internally, this sends hydraulic pressure to a pair of shuttle valves. One forces the gear-up check valve open (this device tries to keep pressure from bleeding away on the Gear Up circuit), and the other uncovers the port that supplies pressure to the Gear Down side. Since gravity wants to force the gear down, the pump doesn't have to work very hard for the first part of the cycle; in fact, there's a restricting orifice in the return line to keep the gear from slamming down. The motor will continue to run until all three downlock switches have opened. The other side of the downlock-switch circuit controls the three gear-position lights. In addition, a Gear Unsafe light comes on whenever the landing-gear switch position does not agree with either the uplock or downlock switches. So, as long as the gear handle is in the Up position, the warning light will be on until all the up-limit switches have tripped.

This scenario naturally assumes everything's working as planned. Sometimes it doesn't. In the Arrow, emergency gear extension is a no-brainer. Slow the airplane to the recommended speed, 88 knots indicated for the Arrow IV, and punch the emergency gear extension lever. This opens a path between the Gear Up and Gear Down circuits. Since the Gear Up lines will be under some 1,500 psi of pressure, this potential will gladly relieve itself into the other branch, allowing the gear to free fall. Springs help force the nosewheel over center; the speed limitation is to make it easier on those springs.

It's worth noting that in most cases a failure of the actuating system — whether it's in a hydraulic or electric system — usually renders the airplane a fixed-gear model. You can always extend the gear by the emergency systems, but seldom do the manufacturers approve retracting the wheels by the alternative methods. That doesn't mean you can't, just that the manufacturers don't want you to. Some electric and hydraulic setups (Cessna's in particular) are rigged so that the backup systems will readily provide the motivation necessary to get the wheels up. The question is, as Dirty Harry might pose, do you feel lucky?

Gear speed limits must be understood. They are set by many factors, usually the ability of the gear doors to remain on the airplane. You may notice that some systems carry a variety of speed limits. VLO designates the operating limit or the maximum speed at which the gear may be extended. Some models, the Cessnas in particular, have a higher VLE (max gear extended) speed; so once the gear is down and locked, it's safe to accelerate to this limit speed. Some models also have maximum gear-retraction speeds, often quite low. Piper specifies a max retraction speed of 111 knots indicated for the Arrow, for example, against a VLO of 133 knots.

If it all seems complex, don't worry. After a few dozen times cycling the gear and practicing emergency procedures, it'll all become old hat.

New Pilot's Journal: Obstacles to Flying: Statement of Demonstrated Ability

BY RONALD A. DETZ

I had just completed most of my pre-solo flight training and needed my medical certificate to continue my training and solo. During my medical exam, the physician asked me to read the eye chart first with my left eye, then my right. I told him I was blind in my right eye from an accident years before. He got a very puzzled look and left the examining room, muttering something about calling the FAA. He returned about 10 minutes later, saying he had a call in to the FAA and that we should continue the exam. The rest of the exam went without incident, and I returned to the waiting room.

About a half an hour later the physician called me back to his office and explained that he could issue only a temporary certificate so that I could continue my flight training, but the FAA would contact me with some additional requirements. When I showed my medical certificate to my CFI, he noted the curious notation, which was "Valid for Student Pilot Purposes Only." He didn't know what to make of it but continued my training anyway. I really did not think much more about it, since my CFI seemed to think it was not that important, and anyway the FAA would contact me.

I went on with my training, completed the written exam, and was ready to take the flight test, having forgotten about the medical, since I had never received anything further from the FAA. My instructor made the appointment for my flight exam. The big day was at hand; it was windy and cold, with broken clouds and scattered showers. My instructor and I flew the 100-odd miles to the exam airport. The menacing weather enhanced my existing feelings of trepidation about taking the test.

The flight examiner — a reserved man of 50-something, meticulous in both appearance and manner — asked for my paperwork and, in turn, examined each document with care. The last document he looked over was my medical certificate. He looked up from the medical certificate and announced that he could not test me without a Statement of Demonstrated Ability. I felt like a 16-year-old who got only a handshake at the front door from his date. He explained that I had to contact the FAA flight standards district office and gave me the phone number, saying that the FSDO would send me the proper forms. Once I had the forms in hand, I could make another appointment with an FAA examiner, who would give me the proficiency test appropriate to my disability. Then, if I passed this test, I could take the flight exam immediately afterward. What really bothered me was the part about being a disabled person. It really threw me. I have never considered myself disabled or, to be politically correct, visually challenged. I was worried.

The trip back to my home airport with my CFI was made in almost complete silence. I was stuck on the notion that I had just spent a lot of time and money to acquire a skill that I might never be allowed to use because I did not know that I was disabled and had ignored a very important FAA flight requirement.

To make matters worse, this was all taking place about the time the story of Bob Hoover's medical fiasco was all over the media. When we got back to my home FBO, after telling my story to the regulars around the hangar, I was treated to a series of stories whose central theme was unfair treatment of pilots by the FAA. Each of these stories concluded with the teller of the story giving me one of those looks that says "you are not ever getting your ticket." One of the fellows even offered the name of an attorney who specializes in FAA-related problems. To say the least, I was disheartened.

The first thing I did when I got home was to call the FSDO. To my surprise, I was connected to a very pleasant lady. She explained that the forms I needed would be in my hands within 10 days and that this type of problem is fairly commonplace; and since my CFI thought I was ready to take the flight test, I shouldn't have any problem passing the proficiency test required to get my Statement of Demonstrated Ability.

Just eleven days later I took — and passed — the proficiency flight test, received my Statement of Demonstrated Ability, then passed the flight exam and got my ticket. The FAA's proficiency test for me was centered around my ability to judge distance and make landings, since the loss of an eye diminishes depth perception.

The problems that I experienced were really self-inflicted. A simple telephone call right after taking my medical exam could have avoided most of the anxiety I experienced. In my case, I felt the FAA requirement was both fair and completely warranted.

Ronald A. Detz, AOPA 1206508, of Livingston, Montana, flies single-engine aircraft and hang gliders, and has 120 total flight hours.

Practice Area: First Time Around

BY WILLIAM K. KERSHNER

I've been instructing spins for 46 years, and I've had quite a few nervous students. I've noticed three main categories of nervousness: fast spin counters, the opera soprano, and King Kong. The fast spin counters are people who count spin turns faster than the actual rotation rate would justify. In more extended spins, the turn counts increase even more rapidly and the individual's voice goes up a couple of octaves. I've had some football lineman types who could, under those conditions, give an opera soprano some pretty good competition.

I teach recoveries from inverted attitudes, visual and hooded, and I always warn the trainee that in a real situation of getting rolled inverted by wake turbulence, the person in the right front seat will inevitably be a King Kong who will grab that handle (wheel) in front of him that the manufacturer has thoughtfully provided and pull on it with his adrenalin-enhanced power. Unfortunately, when the plane is inverted at a low altitude, pulling on the wheel or stick is not the best thing to do, since it's unlikely that a split-S can be successfully accomplished. One psychiatrist aerobatic trainee indicated to me that the pulling on the wheel (or stick) and the crouched posture that resulted was a "subconscious desire to avoid danger by assuming the fetal position and returning to the safety of the womb." I guess that makes sense.

Another problem is that even if the passenger does not have a lot of upper body strength, he or she more than makes up for it with a voice that has enough volume and intensity to get the attention of sleeping hogs nine miles away. When the King Kong and opera singer are combined in one person, things are indeed grim; I'm going to write a book on this someday. But, getting back to spins....

I've had people who figured that we'd done six turns before the airplane had completed one turn. Another problem is that usually the spin is started over and lined up with a straight stretch of road or railroad. The spin trainee, who may be a little nervous about the process, counts it as another turn every time the railroad or road comes into view, which gives a two-for-one bargain, since the reference line will be seen twice per turn. Others, though, just count fast.

In instructing on spins over the years, I've never had any problem with the trainee's failing to apply opposite rudder for the start of the recovery, but quite a few balk at applying the required forward stick or wheel to complete the recovery. (The nose is pointed down far enough already, thank you.) I always want the trainee to recover without my help, and my voice becomes terrorized as I cajole, order, and encourage the "lowering of the nose."

Sometimes, if there is too much of a delay, I "assist" the nose-lowering process. I've found that a calm statement, such as "If you don't push on that wheel, we're gonna die," gets a good response.

But almost everybody is nervous about that first spin, and I'll bet I was more shaky than most the first time.

I was 15 that summer of 1945 and earning flight lessons by selling airplane rides on Sunday afternoons. Cars would pull up to the fence to watch the airplanes, and I would approach the occupants and suggest that a flight over town for only $5 a couple would make their lives complete.

The best technique was to walk up to a young courting couple and ask the girl if she and her boyfriend wanted to fly over town in "that sharp blue and yellow Piper Cruiser parked over there." This put the poor guy on the spot, and there were times when I felt a little guilty, but $50 worth of rides sold meant a half-hour lesson to me.

On one occasion the girl didn't want to go but the boyfriend did. Their parting would have brought tears to the most hardened of Marine sergeants. You could almost hear music building as they held hands until it was time for him to get into the airplane. I could have told her that the time of separation would be short indeed (the flight over town and back took, at most, 12 minutes), but I was too choked up to say anything. I resolved then never again to break up a set.

But getting back once more to my first spin: After a session of rectangular courses late one Sunday afternoon, my instructor said casually, after we got out of the airplane, that we would do spins the next Sunday. (Spin instruction was required before solo in those days.) My training was in an Aeronca Defender, a forerunner of the Champion, and the student sat in the back seat. Since my instructor was rather rotund, I could not see the instruments but would watch his unconscious body English for hints of what was to be done next. For instance, if he leaned forward during a climb, I knew we had reached the altitude for leveling off. A slight lean into the turn meant to tighten it up; a lean against the turn meant it was the point to roll out, etc. I got rather good at this; and, frankly, when I did solo, just looking at the instruments was not as effective and sometimes scared the hell out of me.

The week that followed this announcement was not a happy one. I catalogued in my mind every flying story and aviation movie I had ever seen where spins ended in a fatality; and in the late 1930s and early '40s, there was plenty of material along this line. It seemed that for the next six nights, usually at about 3 a.m., I would wake up and wonder if I'd get sick or maybe do something else equally stupid. I reviewed the entry and recovery procedures, but they were gone, maybe forever.

The instructor demonstrated the first spin.

He reviewed what he had done.

I don't remember anything about that spin.

Now it was my turn. I cleared the area, making a 90-degree left turn, followed by a 90-degree right turn.

I cleared the area twice more to be sure no airplane had encroached on our territory since the first clearing.

I suggested that we climb to 12,000 feet "to be on the safe side." The instructor said that 5,000 feet above the ground was safe enough and for Pete's sake, let's get on with it. "Put it into a spin. I'll tell you when to recover."

Okay, I just wanted to make sure, and so I tightened my safety belt once more and thought about Fred MacMurray's fatal auguring in a Grumman F3F in the movie Dive Bomber, where Errol Flynn was the flight surgeon and....

I applied carburetor heat, waited a few seconds, closed the throttle, and eased the nose up.

As the airplane started buffeting, I pulled the stick all the way back and pushed full left rudder and held it.

The nose yawed over, and the airplane rolled into a near vertical rolling path. I started counting. One...two....

Geez, that ground was really going around, and the spin went on and on. The brown and green and brown and green streaks were fields going by down there. Five...six....

Seven...eight...I tried to keep up with the turns.

Twelve...thirteen...I guess he wanted a real extended spin.

Eighteen...nineteen — I'm 15 years old and I'm going to die a virgin. (Farewell to beautiful 20-year-old Cassie Sue, who lives down the road.)

Finally..."Okay, use your recovery procedure." (About time, I thought.) I had such a grip on the stick it's a wonder it wasn't being extruded out between my fingers. The recovery came back to mind.

Opposite rudder, relax back pressure or move the stick forward as needed; when the rotation has stopped, get off the rudder and pull out of the dive.

Whew. We probably set a new record. Maybe we should write Guinness. My eyeballs were still whirling as we climbed back up.

I didn't know how much altitude we'd lost, since I couldn't see the altimeter, but that was really something. I wondered how many turns we had done.

"That was a good three-turn spin. Now let's do one to the right," the instructor said.

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 Flight Instructor of the Year Award.