New Pilot

An instrument rating for the faint-hearted

I am a coward. This was not always true. I have gone scuba diving among huge black-tip sharks in the South Pacific. Climbed sheer, snow-covered mountains in New Zealand. Hitchhiked to Alaska and back. Skydived. Spelunked. Rafted.

But now I am a coward. Perhaps I shall remain one forever. This is my story.

Head in the clouds

After earning my private pilot certificate 11 years ago, I was content to fly low and slow across the pancake-flat plains of north Texas. Unusual-attitude training and some flight time under the dreaded "hood" cured me of any desire to have Mr. Vertigo as a copilot. Instrument flying? Forget it.

But eventually I wanted more, especially after an eight- hour round-trip drive from Dallas to Houston. I had reserved a Cessna 172 for the day but was grounded by a thin layer of solid clouds that hung over the state like a bad odor.

During the summer of 1993, I thus began researching IFR programs. My three main considerations were quality of instruction, program flexibility, and cost. Fortunately, north Texas is a mecca for flight training, so options were abundant.

I started by talking with a friend who had happily completed Professional Instrument Course's (P.I.C.) 10-day program. Sprinting to a rating was appealing. But, being self- employed with a young family, there was no way I could put that many free days together.

American Flyers had a school at Dallas' Addison Airport and it came highly recommended. But I wanted to learn in a retractable-gear aircraft, and they use fixed-gear Cessna 172s.

Ari Ben Aviator at Addison seemed my best choice, since I had learned to fly Cubs there a year earlier. While many of the students were from overseas and the atmosphere often seemed to border on chaos, owner Mike Cohen naturally assured me that I was making the right choice. The school flew an armada of Beech airplanes, offered competitive prices, and operated 24 hours a day. Plus, all flight time was actual in-air time — "a big advantage," said Cohen — despite the fact that military and commercial training depends heavily on simulators.

During our discussion I thought I would select my instructor based on personal chemistry, ratings, hours, and such.

Not so, said Cohen. My instructor would be Scott Snider, a married man in his early thirties with a two-year-old son. Formerly a construction contractor and Ohio state trooper, Snider had just received his flight instructor certificate and wanted to fly professionally after logging a grand total of 300 hours.

"Three hundred hours," I thought to myself. "That's only 100 more than me! Didn't my friend's P.I.C. instructor have more than 20,000 hours? And didn't the American Flyers instructors average 1,500 hours?"

I shared my concerns with Cohen while lobbying for a more experienced instructor who had been recommended by the school's chief pilot.

"Scott is the best man for you," he insisted. "You want someone who is eager to share his knowledge with you. I know what I'm talking about. Those guys with 1,000-plus hours are pushing to do other things. They won't provide the attention you want. Trust me."

What could I say? Give him a chance and see how things go, I finally decided. Cohen had always been fair with me before. If things didn't work out, I could request another instructor and try to seek some financial redress for the lost time.

Let the games begin

After an initial checkout flight in a retractable-gear Beech Sierra, Snider and I reviewed FAR 61.65 detailing requirements for an instrument ticket. Getting started requires, among other things, a valid FAA medical, current pilot certificate, appropriate aircraft rating, 125 hours total time, and 50 hours cross-country as pilot in command. (The FAA recently proposed changes which, if implemented, would reduce or eliminate many of these requirements.)

To earn the ticket, I would have to accumulate at least 40 hours of instrument time, 20 of which could be with an instructor in an approved simulator. I would also have to complete a 250-mile cross-country flight, using instrument procedures; become proficient in various navigation and orientation techniques, flight planning, aviation systems, and weather planning; learn numerous regulations; and meet a handful of lesser but equally mind-bending requirements.

Finally, I had to complete ground instruction and pass a written test before flying the gauntlet with an FAA inspector.

(Tip number 1: Complete ground school and pass the written test before starting to fly. I put myself way behind the power curve by trying to watch King videotapes after evening flights. Since I was already in a foul, sleep-deprived mood, the endless good cheer of John and Martha King left me more sullen and ill-tempered. Thankfully, I passed the written on the first attempt, but it was late in my training and probably cost me an additional 10 hours of flight time to master concepts the Kings covered in their tapes.)

A dose of reality

Only two flight hours into our program, I felt confident about instrument flying until we took off in hazy weather. Things started well enough. I departed, wearing Foggles, and tracked the runway perfectly. But after clearing the airport and locking onto an outbound VOR radial, I began growing tense. The haze was eliminating subtle visual clues I had grown used to seeing outside the view-limiting devices. My unintentional "cheating" had caught up with me.

I quickly fell behind the airplane, chasing one instrument, then another. Snider knew what was happening but wanted me to gain an appreciation for losing concentration. Then, on final for a missed approach, I failed to notice that the gear light hadn't come on after Snider pulled the fuse. A belly- up landing would have been our fate. I quickly grew depressed.

(Tip number 2: Although Snider and I reviewed our plan before each flight and debriefed afterwards, it is almost impossible to ask enough questions. The cockpit is a loud, cramped, busy, and expensive classroom. It should be used to reinforce knowledge and refine flight technique. Ask questions, take notes, relax, and come to class well prepared. Or bring a very big checkbook.)

Several days later, Snider left a message that level four and five thunderstorms were approaching from the south. I went to the airport anyway, since the winds were moderate and the ceiling high. During preflight he said we would hop over to a nearby airport to practice approaches. If the weather rolled in, we would outrun it back to Addison.

As I fired up the engine, Snider told me he had logged just 15 hours of flying in instrument meteorological conditions. The balance of his instrument time had been under the hood. Say what?

"Don't worry," he assured me. "We won't enter anything I can't handle." My stomach was churning from paranoia. If we got in a cloud and he got disoriented, my wife might be collecting on a large insurance policy.

Terrified of clouds

I called ground control and requested a clearance. They gave me a departure frequency, transponder squawk code, initial heading, and altitude. Despite a stiff southerly wind, conditions were nearly perfect for hands-off flying. Nonetheless, I was again behind the airplane and did not fully understand what each approach required. As I watched VOR needles slash back and forth like sword fighters, it seemed impossible that my education would congeal in another 30 hours. Plus, I was concerned — terrified, actually — of flying inside clouds.

Foggles allow lots of peripheral cues about attitude, position, and speed. But inside a cloud, there is no external feedback. It's like you're standing still. Every noise, every movement, everything becomes more acute, including the sense of claustrophobia that enveloped me every time we entered one.

"It's simple," said Snider. "Your life depends on these instruments. Take care of them and they will take care of you." My mortality depended upon a half-dozen instruments the size of ashtrays? They had to be scanned, evaluated, cross- referenced, and fully understood. If I did a good job, I lived. If I did a bad job, I had better decide to do a good job very quickly.

(Tip number 3: This is supposed to be fun. Often it will not be, especially at first. You may want to quit. Persevere, and remember — to paraphrase David Letterman — they don't give these tickets to chimps. Success takes work.)

Twenty hours into the program I began hitting a comfortable groove, so Snider introduced holding patterns, which are aerial traffic patterns flown in reference to electronic signals. They demand excellent concentration, attention to wind speed and direction, a thorough understanding of entry and exit rules, and great positional awareness. In short, all the qualities that I appeared to lack.

Despite looking at the map that provided our "fix," I wasn't really clear what was supposed to happen as we prepared to enter our first hold. Snider calmly explained — again — that we would intercept the VOR radial, time various legs for one minute each, and adjust leg lengths and wind correction angles as necessary. My head hurt from all the thinking required.

(Tip number 4: While students at the school consistently secure their ratings within 40 hours, many of them are working to become professional pilots. I, however, was flying only every third or fourth night and needed help. Snider suggested adding a flight simulator to my personal computer. He was using MDM's [now Jeppesen's]sophisticated system which has a control panel and comprehensive database that would plot my holds. I immediately bought the package, and certain mysteries quickly evaporated as I became more adept at the mechanical aspects of instrument flight. For IFR training, I vote a hearty "yes" for simulators, even if the time cannot be logged.)

Barely three weeks into the program I was dreading a Saturday-morning flight dedicated to practicing steep turns and unusual attitudes under the hood.

As usual, Snider said not to worry as we headed east while climbing to 2,500 feet through the standard jackhammer thermals of summer. After performing clearing turns over a large lake, Snider told me to do a steep turn in either direction. Three times I rolled out early after losing altitude and feeling anxious. "More back pressure. Steepen the bank." It was a mantra I didn't want to chant. Finally, I asked to take a break and do some approaches, which went flawlessly. At least they were improving.

One week later I was bicycling next to my four-year-old daughter, who looked up from her tiny seat and said, "I don't want to do this. I'm afraid of falling."

"I know what you mean," I replied.

(Tip number 5: Instrument flying requires thinking all the time. I always try to stay several beats ahead of the airplane. I also take nothing for granted. Altimeter settings. VOR settings. Station signals. Radials. To or from? Gear up or down? Everything matters.)

The beginning of the end

Although I had logged more than 25 hours with Snider, things didn't seem to be coming together fast enough. I couldn't grasp certain concepts, was distracted at home and work, and was rarely a well-prepared student. Doubts mounted. Did I want to do this? Was it worth the grief? And if I got the rating, would I crash after forgetting some little detail?

Then a funny thing happened. Steve Petranek, an editor at Life magazine who holds multiple ratings, said that I was going through the normal angst and should take a little time off.

Although my subsequent seven-month, work-induced hiatus was longer than he and others prescribed, I returned to the flight school a quicker, more confident student. Snider was also a better instructor. He had logged more than 1,000 hours since we started and anticipated questions before they occurred, just as I had suspected would be the case while originally shopping for an instructor.

After hitting it fast and hard for two weeks, he signed me off to take the FAA exam with 52.3 hours of instrument training in my logbook. To my surprise, I could not have been more relaxed while easily passing the oral and flight tests.

Onward and upward

I now look at my new rating as a ticket to learn. In addition to logging at least six instrument hours every six months to maintain currency — and "flying" my computer at night — I have become a huge fan of Sporty's superb IFR video series and Rod Machado's hilarious IFR book and cassettes. I also read everything available on instrument flying and often fly with an instructor who shares his knowledge as I gain proficiency.

Am I still scared of instrument flying? Respectful might be a better word. Besides, as Mark Twain wrote, "The human race is a race of cowards; and I am not only marching in that procession but carrying a banner."

Now, if I can just get that commercial certificate.

Kevin Knight, AOPA 1120705, is a 38-year-old partner in a Cessna Centurion and president of a Dallas marketing company.

How It Works: Powerplant Management

BY MARC E. COOK

Pilot-lounge gossip often declares that the move into a high- performance airplane is as daunting as mowing a golf course with a weed whacker. There's so much to do, the task so large, that you hardly know where to start. Transitioning to a faster, more sophisticated airplane takes some effort and bookwork, it's true, but it doesn't require the concentration of a brain surgeon or the dexterity of an origami specialist.

You will be confronted with a few more controls and instruments than found in a basic trainer. In addition to the familiar throttle and mixture, there's the prop control. A cowl-flap handle might require your attention, and you may well have to learn to use fuel injection for the first time. You'll need to interpret cylinder- head temperature, manifold-pressure, and fuel-flow gauges.

Chief among the learning items upon this transition is power management. In the simple single, this is a no-brainer affair — use full throttle for takeoff, pull back to a specified engine speed for cruise, lean to slight roughness, and enrich slightly. That done, you can go back to flying the airplane and misplacing your checkpoints.

Complex airplanes require the manipulation of the throttle and prop controls to determine power output, the manifestations of which seem to confuse a lot of transitioning pilots. Consider the prop control analogous to the gear selector in a manual-shift car, and the throttle as similar to, well, the throttle. The higher the engine speed as determined by the prop control (remember that the throttle directly controls engine speed only below a certain, relatively low power output) the more power is available. Think of high prop rpm as first gear in the car; you use first to pull away from a stop, and high rpm in the airplane for takeoff. Once rolling, you naturally shift into a higher gear; in the airplane it's customary to reduce at least prop rpm for the climb, and sometimes a bit further for cruise.

Let's take a brief flight to see how you should manipulate these newfound controls. As previously mentioned, for most takeoffs, you will use full throttle, maximum prop rpm, and full-rich mixture. (One exception is the high-altitude takeoff, for which you may have to lean the mixture to obtain best power.)

At the beginning of the takeoff roll, confirm that the tach shows maximum rpm, no more; it may take until midway through the takeoff roll for some airplanes to obtain maximum engine speed. Note the fuel flow if you're flying an injected airplane; it should indicate at or near the redline value. Manifold pressure in a non- turbocharged installation will vary with atmospheric conditions. It should be near the current barometric pressure, although induction- system losses may cost an inch or more. The cowl flaps, if fitted, should be wide open, as they were during taxi.

Once the gear and flaps are up, you may be asked to set a cruise-climb power setting. Controversy rages here like rivalry among televangelists. Some pilot operating handbooks and many instructors preach the 25-squared rule. In essence, this means retarding the throttle to maintain 25 inches manifold pressure and the prop control to get 2,500 rpm. As part of this sermon, authorities say you should never operate the engine "over square," or with the manifold pressure above the engine rpm divided by 100. Unfortunately, this is a ship full of practical holes, amazingly buoyed by archaic powerplant thinking.

Here's the deal: For the vast majority of engines found in entry-level high-performance airplanes there is no prohibition on operating over square, to a point. Generally, the engine manufacturers condone cruise flight at settings as much as four or five inches over square. So if your instructor whacks you over the head with a rolled-up sectional if you accidentally (or intentionally) allow settings slightly over square, whack him back and tell him to find documentation to prove his point. He may point to something like the verbiage found in the Cessna Cutlass RG's pilot's operating handbook that recommends a cruise-climb setting of 25/2,500, but this is not a limitation. And the Piper Arrow, with an even more powerful engine, makes no specific recommendation at all as to climb power, leaving it to the pilot's judgment.

So, depending upon the enlightenment level of your instructor, you may back off to 25/2,500, or you might leave the throttle full open and reduce prop rpm to 2,500. Why? It's often not desirable from a longevity point of view to use full power for climb. Moreover, fuel flow increases dramatically near the limit of the engine's power, often out of proportion to the added performance. By decreasing prop rpm only, you reduce noise, vibration, fuel flow, and heat. (But by all means, if you need full power to clear terrain, use it.)

In the climb, monitor engine temperatures and manage the cowl flaps as necessary to maintain middle-of-green readings. On cool days, for example, the Cutlass RG will run near the bottom of the green if you leave the cowl flaps open. Close them partway and watch the needles — too cool is almost as hard on the engine as too hot.

Do you lean in the climb? It depends. You first have to have a feeling for how much power the engine is putting out. Both Lycoming and Continental say that you shouldn't lean above 75-percent power. Check the power charts in the POH for guidance. In the Arrow, for example, a setting in excess of 25.6 inches/2,500 rpm at 3,000 feet results in more than 75 percent. In this case, leave the mixture full rich. At or below 75 percent, however, you can lean. In the fuel- injected models, lean to the markings on the fuel-flow gauge that correspond to the assumed power output. Here's a hint: At the climb setting of 2,500 rpm, full throttle will have you at 75 percent by about 5,000 feet, 70 percent by about 6,500 feet, and 65 percent by about 8,000 feet.

Established in cruise, pick a percentage of power (let's use 65 percent for our example) and find the correct settings in the POH. Still using the Arrow, you'll find that at 4,000 feet you can get that at either 22.9 inches/2,500 rpm or 25.7 inches/2,200 rpm. You can also pick any combination in between. Find the appropriate manifold pressure by straight-line extrapolation between these two points. Begin the leaning process by setting to the recommended fuel flow and close the cowl flaps. Let the airplane stabilize for a few minutes and then fine-lean, using the exhaust-gas temperature (EGT) instrument. For best power, lean until the needle peaks and then enrich by 125 degrees Fahrenheit. For best economy, lean to peak EGT and leave it there; if engine roughness accompanies such a setting, enrich until it smoothes out. For carbureted airplanes, you'll have to depend upon the EGT for both coarse and fine leaning. Remember that the best-power mixture gives the best performance, so rate of climb and airspeed are also indications of how close you are to the ideal mixture.

Upon beginning the descent, reduce throttle gradually. It's best to limit the first reduction to two or three inches, to give the engine time to cool slowly from cruise flight. Make sure the cowl flaps are closed. Leave the mixture knob where it is until you are in a position where you might need full power at a second's notice, such as during the final approach phase. There's no need to go to full rich descending through 5,000 or 3,000 feet unless you are using more than 75-percent power; let power output, not merely altitude, be your guide here.

There it is, then: Handling the complex airplane's engine is not dramatically more difficult than a simple model's. After a few hours with the black, blue, and red controls, their manipulation will become almost second nature. Then you'll be able to concentrate on the airplane's other systems and its speed; and you can go back and debunk some of that lounge lore.

New Pilot's Journal: Keep Talking

BY SHERIE SCHMAUDER

I had the weather against me to start with and had to postpone my FAA flight exam twice. The second time, I took the oral exam and got that out of the way, thinking that I would be able to take the flight exam on the following Monday. The FAA examiner was very demanding, but he was fair and I knew what to expect.

Wrong. Sunday I got a call that he had an emergency and wouldn't be able to give me my flight exam. The school had notified another examiner.

I very nearly went to pieces over that announcement. I had taken a very long time to feel that I was competent to take the exam, although instructors had thought I was ready months before. I wanted to make sure I didn't get lost trying to find an airport, and I wanted to know emergency procedures in my sleep.

I had been a reluctant student in the first place, taking lessons only because my husband had bought a Cessna 210 and was a very enthusiastic pilot, now instrument rated. I knew I couldn't fly with him if I didn't learn all the mechanics of flying. Furthermore, I couldn't disappoint my four children (three of them pilots). I had to get that certificate.

So, on Monday morning, with the weather iffy again, I reported to the flight school classroom in Morristown, New Jersey, festooned with a ponderous flight bag full of every conceivable necessity, a water bottle for the dry mouth syndrome of a nervous applicant, and high-energy bars in case the whole exam went past lunch time. Jim Casserly, the new examiner, was calm, reassuring, and methodical. Unfortunately, because the first examiner had left so suddenly, he hadn't given me a letter of approval stating officially that I had passed the oral exam, and Casserly wanted me to take it again. I protested, but to no avail. As the certifying examiner, he had to be sure that I knew all that I was supposed to know before we got into the airplane.

So I took the oral exam again, nervous because I hadn't studied the material for a week. I passed. Then we looked out the window, and it didn't look good. I called for a weather briefing. With only five miles visibility, I didn't want to have that handicap. I postponed the flight exam again.

My sleep continued to suffer. I took a refresher flight with my instructor, Harrison Cladis. When the examiner and I finally managed to get off the ground a few days later, I wondered how many things I would do wrong because of nervousness.

Everything went relatively well for the first part of the exam, even though I kept waiting for the words "Sorry, that was dreadful; you can't fly worth a hill of beans." I was surprised that I didn't have to be absolutely perfect; a few wobbles here and there in technique were okay. In the practice area west of Lake Hopatcong, we did VOR tracking, emergency landing techniques, and under-the-hood maneuvers.

Then he said, "Take me to Somerset Airport."

I had landed at Somerset one or two times, but never from this direction. The air was a little bumpy, so I had some difficulty dividing my attention among the map, the instruments, and the busy air traffic of the New York Class B area near which we were flying. Somerset Airport is only 2 1/2 miles from that area, and Morristown Municipal Airport is underneath the 3,000-foot floor of the outer ring. I had only about 20 miles in which to juggle everything and find the airport. I tuned in the nearby Solberg VOR in and headed for that, knowing Somerset was only four miles away from it.

During the exam I had been talking to Casserly, telling him what I was doing and why. Now, because I was approaching Somerset from a different angle than on previous approaches, I missed some critical landmarks and flew over the airport before I thought we should be there. The airport is within a triangle of three major roads. How could I miss it? It must have been right out my left window, but I was looking farther ahead.

When I saw the Solberg-Hunterdon Airport and the VOR which is located on the field, I said that I knew I had probably flown right past Somerset but that I also knew I could find it on the Solberg VOR's 60-degree radial. (I had done this before, flying home to Morristown on the same radial.) By this time, the examiner had turned his checklist over and was making squiggly marks.

I kept up a constant stream of talk, even though I had already decided I'd failed the test and he was just being nice to let me continue floundering around in this congested airspace.

And there was the airport, right where it was supposed to be. Amazing what instruments can do for you. Casserly told me to land, which was anticlimactic after everything else, even when he had me do a go-around the first time. I still thought I had failed the test, so now my nervousness was gone. Even doing a good slip when we got back to Morristown was easy.

Back on the taxiway, when I was getting up my nerve to ask him when he would be available to do this again after I'd taken some more classes on finding airports, he congratulated me for passing the exam. He said that if I hadn't been talking the whole time I was looking for Somerset Airport, he would have failed me right away, but I obviously knew how to find an airport by using a VOR. And, yes, those squiggles were my flight path.

So, you see, if I'd given up too soon and said, "I can't find the airport," I would have failed.

Persistence is the key, and so is being sure of your abilities. Taking all those hours to satisfy myself that I was ready for the FAA exam wasn't a waste of time after all.

Practice Area: Giving That First Jet Airplane Ride

BY WILLIAM K. KERSHNER

I'm not sure whether there was a law in 1955 against dropping a 230-gallon tip tank (full) into San Francisco Bay. If there was, the statute of limitations has expired long ago.

This incident started with a program in Composite Squadron Three (VC-3) in which the white hat (enlisted man) chosen as Airman of the Month would get a ride in one of our Lockheed T-33 (Navy TV-2) jet trainers.

The young man chosen seemed enthusiastic as I briefed him on use of oxygen; the ejection seat; and, most important of all, the techniques of using the "comfort bag." I didn't plan to do anything other than straight and level flying because he had told me that he'd never been up in any airplane before. I wondered if a first ride in a jet trainer wasn't pushing things a bit, but it wasn't my decision.

The engine start was good, and the takeoff was uneventful until I tried to raise the landing gear. The lever would not budge because the spring-loaded lock button wouldn't move. The lever lock (a separate control) decided not to work, either, so now I was airborne and couldn't land until I burned off a thousand pounds of fuel to get down to the maximum landing weight.

Well, I might as well stay down low, I decided, and I bored around at 5,000 feet, knowing that the fuel consumption would be greater at the lower altitude (besides, I couldn't climb to a higher altitude at any great rate with the landing gear down).

As we flew around the Moffett Field area, I kept talking into the intercom, pointing out San Francisco and other places of interest, in hopes of keeping the young man's mind occupied. (He was about 22, while I was a ripe old 25.)

After 30 minutes I realized that the right wing was becoming heavy; at 45 minutes, I couldn't keep the wings level below 160 knots. The tip tank red light, indicating that the tip tanks had stopped feeding the system, also confirmed that only one of the 230-gallon tip tanks had emptied; as far as I could tell, the right tip tank was still completely full.

A few months back, I had been put in charge of the squadron's three T-33s to set up an instrument and jet transition course for pilots who had not flown jets before or who were rusty after duties at the Pentagon or other non-flying billets. Because of this, I had studied the systems and knew them well.

There was no way I could land with a full tip tank, as I had no desire to touch down at 160 knots or better, because Moffett was not the expansive Muroc dry lake bed.

There were three methods of getting rid of the tip tanks. There was a tip tanks (or bombs) salvo switch on the instrument panel. Push this "hot" button and both tanks would go. Both tanks could be dropped by using the armament button on the stick or the manual releases located on the floor by the seat on the left side of the front cockpit, whereby either tank could be released separately by pulling its manual release.

I decided to drop only the full tank to save the Navy a little money and told Moffett tower of my plans. I noted that the part of San Francisco Bay just off the runway at Moffett would be a good spot, since every place else for miles around was inhabited and I didn't have enough fuel to go too far from the air station. In fact, the fuselage tank warning light had come on, indicating that there were only 95 gallons of fuel left in that, the last usable tank.

The controllers in the tower stated that they had called VC-3 to check whether only one wing tank could be dropped; they said that someone in operations said that both wing tanks had to be dropped, and that information was dutifully passed on to me. The controllers also indicated that the squadron people were looking for the guy in charge of the three T-33s to see whether he could give permission to drop only one tank and to have him pass on the procedure to me.

Meanwhile, time and fuel were marching on. I was getting nervous.

I patiently told the tower that I was the guy in charge of the T-33s and that I knew the procedure very well, thank you.

From the response I got I wondered whether my transmitter had failed.

Tower: "Stand by. Your squadron is still looking for the guy to check with him."

Me: "I'm the guy, and I'm up here in the airplane."

Tower (after a couple of minutes): "They think the guy may be flying. They still can't find him."

Me (exasperated): "I'm the guy, and I'm going to drop the right wing tip tank."

Tower: "Negative! Drop both tanks, the operations department advises." (Well, they heard the last part of that transmission, anyway; that was some progress.)

Me: "Too late. I just dropped the full tank into the bay." (I had been extra careful to be sure that I pulled the correct lanyard. How embarrassing it would be to drop an empty tank and then have to drop the full one.)

In 1955 there was no Environmental Protection Agency, for which I am eternally grateful. I'd still be filling out paperwork about polluting the water — and probably paying fines into the next century. I wonder, however, how the EPA would feel about a tip tank, an airplane, and two people submerged in the bay, and really polluting the water. But moving on....

I had some concern about how the airplane might fly with only one tank; but I was more than pleasantly surprised when, in fact, the aileron response was better than it had been with one full and one empty.

I waggled the wings, pleased with the response. The passenger, as seen in the rear-view mirror, was not as gratified by the newly acquired higher roll rate. Well, since I had been flying the airplane with full to half-full tip tanks, the inertial forces were different, and there would be less heavy roll damping with one gone and the other empty and....

The fuselage tank quantity gauge was showing 60 gallons, and that was critical. I'd better get back to Moffett now. I notified the tower and fell in on the downwind leg for Runway 30 Left. (No time to waste circling the field and making a break.)

I told my passenger to make sure that his harness was locked, in case something went wrong. This statement was no doubt a comfort to him.

At the approach end of the active runway at naval air stations a sailor is posted, with a pair of paddles similar to those used by the landing signal officers on carriers. His job (the "wheel watch") is to hold the paddles straight out for a "roger" (OK) signal if the airplane approaching has three wheels hanging down and (apparently) locked.

I always felt that this thankless job was punishment for some misdemeanor and/or that the individual selected was not of the highest IQ or value to his squadron and hence was sent as far as possible from the center of operations. I suspect that the assignment briefing consisted of "Leroy, if the airplane has three wheels sticking down, you hold the paddles straight out like this (demonstrated) or if the airplane has no wheels or two wheels or one wheel, you criss-cross the paddles over your head like this (wave- off). Got that? Good; now go."

As I rolled out on final, I could see the white hat (sailor) holding the paddles out at the "roger."

(But wait, wait. There were three wheels sticking down — but the airplane certainly didn't look right. It was lopsided, with a great big tank or bomb on one wing and nothing on the other. Orders didn't cover this.)

The paddles moved down, then up to the "roger." But, hold the phone; there was definitely something wrong with that airplane.

He didn't want to commit himself but still wanted to do something; this situation hadn't been covered in the briefing. The final result was a wavering and then the paddles pointing down at a 45 degree angle (the LSO signal for "low"); and this was retained as he flashed by the airplane.

The landing was, well, a landing, and I explained to the line chief that I had saved the taxpayers some money and his crew some time that would have been spent on attaching another tank.

I didn't see much of my passenger after that and heard (unconfirmed) that his work had deteriorated considerably; it was also rumored that he had transferred to the East Coast. I guess that was one way to assure that he would never be Airman of the Month in our squadron again and win another airplane ride.

Some people will do anything to avoid the thrill of flight.

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