How to make a bad impression on a CFI
The chief pilot was frowning when I stepped into his office. Not good.
"This is Bud," he said, nodding toward a man standing there. "He wants to rent an airplane." We shook hands and headed for the classroom. When Bud went out to preflight the airplane, the boss came over, ever the unhappy camper.
"Have you ever flown with Bud before?" I had not. "Wring him out," the boss growled. "I'll explain later."
Now we're back from flying. No, I didn't think I would sign Bud out with one of our airplanes. Forgot to close the oil door during the preflight. Left the checklist on the stabilizer. Manhandled the airplane in flight. Blabbed all the time. Pulled major Gs during stalls. Showed all the situational awareness of Rip Van Winkle. Parked without chocks and left the mags hot. It's nice to be back on the ground.
The boss seemed relieved. Turns out that Bud (not his real nickname) was one of that small minority of pilots who had rented here and there but had always been turned away for one reason or another. At least once, rumor had it, metal had been bent. The boss was willing to let him go dual, but solo — no. Unless things had changed. Which they hadn't.
Why do I offer this cautionary tale? Each time when you strap into an airplane for a rental checkout, flight review, or the beginning of a course of training, it will help to understand that the evaluation process is mutual. Whether a neophyte or a veteran, don't do something that reminds the CFI of Bud or some of the other memorable characters he has seen. In turn, the CFI should let you feel that you are in the presence of a competent professional. If you were ever treated roughly for reasons you never figured out, perhaps a problem like this was the cause.
This really isn't the quagmire it might seem. Many observations of a new customer make flight instructors feel cheerful and confident. But other things make them nervous. Press certain of a CFI's buttons and it will greatly affect what kind of a ride you get, how long it lasts, and whether the prospect of flying with you generates any enthusiasm at all. A short list of examples is in order.
Don't press the CFI's "time is on my side" button (typically pressed during a rental checkout or a flight review). The pilot reassures the CFI that he is a high-time aviator, thereby hoping to curtail the scope of the checkout. Why does the CFI suddenly look so grim? Perhaps he/she recalls the time he took such bait and nearly ran off the runway after relaxing in the presence of Captain Crosswind, whose assurances and bulging logbook had seemed so bulletproof. The CFI's postflight vow, "Never again," has just been recalled. Be assured that today's checkout will be extremely thorough.
Don't press his "Boston Red Sox" button. Here in New England there is a phenomenon we call Red Sox syndrome. Every year, right around midsummer, Dormant Student emerges from hibernation and announces that it is time to "finish up." (After all, how long could that take?) The student has been hanging around airports longer than The Curse of the Bambino has hung over Fenway Park, and his chances of overcoming it are about as good. Until yesterday he had not given aviation a thought, and he is shocked to learn how much has changed since his written test expired. By Labor Day the runs for the pennant — and the pilot certificate — are over.
Don't press the "just sign me off, please" button. Mr. Pilot schedules a biennial flight review. He meets his CFI at the airport at 7:30 a.m. They commence the required hour (perhaps more) of ground review and the CFI notices that Mr. P. is glancing at his watch. He asks if they can speed things up because he must be at work at 9. All he expected was to do three touch-and-goes and then fly for the next 2 years with the CFI's signature safely in his logbook.
The "blind ambition" button. Perry the Pilot has been climbing the ladder of aviation, and he wants to take his next checkride. But his former instructor has sprained his writing hand and can't seem to grip a pen long enough to sign the form. All the new CFI has to do is witness one or two maneuvers and then attest that the relevant practical test standards have been met. Having played tennis with his former CFI yesterday (and seen for himself that his opponent's wrist is fine), the new CFI explains that a signoff from him means that they have worked on Task A to Task Z together and that the student has performed them all as required. Then, and only then, will he sign. The pilot mumbles that a sprained wrist can't last forever and leaves.
"Big man, big button." Many CFIs have had a Mr. Big to deal with at one time or other. He wants to learn to fly but also needs the CFI to understand that he is a very busy man. Doesn't have time for common stuff like ground school, reading textbooks and regs, calling for weather briefings, and junk like that. Doesn't want to get his suit dirty and thinks the instructor should take care of the preflight. I kid you not.
These are some of the more egregious offenses committed by people who want the privileges of being a pilot but don't want to pay the dues. Other red flags include the pilot's asking telltale questions that betray bad habits or an "attitude" about flying. Two of my favorites are "What's the weather doing?" and "Do you want me to use the checklist?" (What is the CFI supposed to say? No?) With the technological age dawning, a new cautionary murmur has appeared on the wind: the pilot who claims that his lack of flight time is compensated by the hours he has put in flying his personal computer.
The flip side of all this is that the promising things pilots do are equally easily observed, and more common. In their effect on the CFI, they are the opposite of those invitations to disaster that can tempt the unwary or gullible instructor. Remember, a flight instructor's endorsement is a professional seal of approval, often rendered after a relatively brief period of observation and instruction. Even in the most profitable circumstances for a CFI, the potential risks of being wrong outweigh the gain derived from being right. That's why guys like Bud and Mr. Big stand out so vividly in our memories.
BY MARY BETH WHITMORE
I had read every article and listened to everybody's tales, but the eventual checkride was nothing like I expected. Two weeks earlier I had been sure that I would not satisfy my instructor with my short- and soft-field landings. He relayed that another student, just the week before, failed his checkride with the same FAA examiner because of poorly executed landings. At work, I was caught in the middle of management restructuring that would surely affect my position. The stress from this, coupled with nervous anticipation about the checkride, was definitely catching up to me. I was losing confidence that I had fought long and hard to build.
My instructor clearly noticed the confidence loss and tried to reassure me that the slump would pass — that every student, and even he, experiences these feelings and considers quitting. Oh, no, I would not quit. I reflected upon the accomplishments of the past 4 months. Overcoming such obstacles as the initial fear of stalls, turning back after seemingly getting lost on a solo cross-country flight, and experiencing that "something's not right" feeling were great confidence builders, and I was not going to be beaten.
I retreated for a couple of days, all the while practicing these tricky landings in my mind's eye. I was able to table the turmoil at work and made it clear to my boss that I deserved to complete my flying lessons. This seemed to reprioritize my current goals. I had learned a very important lesson about flying: You must be 100 percent free of distractions or illness, be they mental or physical. Even something that may seem inconsequential will affect your flying abilities.
Being involved in the AOPA Project Pilot program, I kept in close contact with my mentor. He was skeptical about my instructor's belief that my landings were not good enough to pass the checkride, but I knew that the instructor was right not to sign me off. My mentor took me flying and demonstrated some landings, which allowed me to really absorb the landing picture. I didn't have to worry about landing speed, just what the picture looked like. I learned another important lesson: If you are in control of your airplane, completely, you can easily perform either the short- or soft-field landing.
I took this mental image of the landing picture and proved to myself and to my instructor that I had it. Finally he signed me off, just 2 days before the checkride was scheduled. I started to worry about the other elements of the practical test standards. Great — now I could do the landings, but could I properly execute the steep turns, stalls, and emergency procedures? Then I worried about the verbal questions. It was never-ending, but I was as ready as I'd ever be.
I got to the field early because I knew that the airplane would need fuel. All of the articles I'd read and advice I'd received emphasized the need to appear professional, calm, and confident but not cocky. I was trying to master the appearance of all of the above. My examiner was to meet me at 9 a.m., but he was nowhere in sight. Then it was 9:10, 9:15, 9:20, and I asked if this guy was always late. The reply was "never." I got up to call him and I saw a man fitting the description of an FAA examiner walking across the parking lot. He had mistakenly been waiting at another flight school across the street. Off to a great start.
He immediately wanted me to read an article he had found while waiting in the wrong lobby. "Go ahead, read it now; I'll wait. I won't expect you to use these devices today, but it's one of the best articles I've ever read." Man, was I in trouble. Not only had I been sweating nervously waiting for this guy while he was sitting nearby, but now I had to block everything out and read an article while he waited for me.
The article was about the importance of mnemonics to aid the distracted or overwhelmed pilot when checklists are impractical. It specifically described a mnemonic, "lights, camera, action," that can be used for takeoff, cruise, landing, and after-landing checklists. After I had finished reading the article, we chatted briefly about the clear importance of checklists.
The examiner reviewed my knowledge of the regulations, the airplane logbooks and pilot's operating handbook, vertical speeds, and flight planning. Then he reviewed what the sequence of events would be on our flight. The questions during preflight were meant to test me on aircraft systems: gyros, mags, primer, and more. I knew the answers, but nervousness caused me to blurt out some wrong responses. I then had to backtrack by answering more fundamental questions in order to demonstrate that I knew the answer. I felt compelled to say "I'm not sure" sometimes, but then reported the information that I was sure of in a manner that seemed to satisfy the examiner.
After takeoff, the only thing I can say is that I was in the groove. Some may describe this feeling as lucky, others as living right. It felt right; I felt in control and competent. My short- and soft-field landings were the best I had ever done. S-turns, turns around a point, steep turns, engine-out simulation, and even pilotage and radio procedures went flawlessly.
As I turned off the runway on my first landing, the examiner called out "lights, camera, action." He was asking me to show what I had learned from our conversation prior to the exam. So I proceeded to go through my after-landing checklist, using the new mnemonic: lights = landing light off, camera = transponder to standby, action = flaps up. He, of course, was impressed. I pulled out my checklist and double-checked my memory. Then we took off again.
I kept thinking to myself, is this examiner going easy on me? Is he letting me get by? Then came the stalls. He directed me to slow to minimum controllable airspeed, enter a 10-degree turn, stall the airplane, and recover. Incredibly, I had never done this before. Somehow my instructor had failed me. For at this moment, all I could think was that it was going to be his fault that I did not pass my checkride for not training me for this scenario. My palms became sweaty; the sun suddenly seemed brighter and was glaring into my eyes. I may have nailed the coffin shut by angrily stating, "I've never done this before."
Alas, he did not let me out of it: In fact, he simply and correctly recited that this was the most common stall configuration in real life, either on departure for power-on or turning to final for power-off. I knew this, but I had never done it.
Two thoughts came into my mind as I slowed the airplane down: "Pull quickly for power-off and slowly for power-on" and "Let the airplane fly itself." These two simple reminders saved my checkride. Again, I set the airplane for the requested configurations, stalled, and recovered perfectly. Or at least what I would describe as perfectly.
We turned to go back to our home airport; he continued to quiz me on airspace minimums and the purpose of carburetor heat. After landing, he directed me to the tail of the airplane and took a Polaroid picture to commemorate my passing the examination and receiving my private pilot certificate.
We went into the office, where he completed the paperwork. Then, as I gathered my belongings, he said, "Hey, I found another great article earlier while you were getting your weather briefing." I grabbed it out of his hands, and when I saw the title, I thought, "This was all meant to be." It was titled "Hail, Mary."
This is the last in a series of three articles on the author's experiences in obtaining her private pilot certificate.
BY WILLIAM K. KERSHNER
The first airplane I ever saw land gear-up was a beautiful white Beech Staggerwing during an air tour in 1946. I was at the pad washing an airplane (where else?) when this airplane touched down at the far end of our 4,000-foot grass runway and slid to a rather abrupt stop.
The pilot, wanting to quickly remove the airplane as a landing obstacle, enlisted the aid of a farmer driving a tractor in an adjacent field. By the time the airport crew got to the scene, the pilot and the farmer had tied a rope around the fuselage just ahead of the fin and horizontal stabilizer and dragged it off the landing area. Since that part of the fuselage had many stringers (thin strips of wood that retain the fuselage shape), the result was a definite shrinkage and wrinkling of that part of the airplane. The overall, if disappointing, effect was that of an old, old man without his dentures. The initial damage was minimal until the pilot and tractor driver put their heads together.
A pilot-owner of a Culver LCA Cadet (the small, retractable-gear prewar airplane) borrowed the airport Cadet while his was being repaired.
His own airplane had a gear warning system different from that of the borrowed Cadet, which had a restriction on the throttle (it couldn't be closed) if the gear was not down and locked.
The pilot didn't realize this and, since the throttle was apparently "stuck," cut the ignition to make a dead-stick landing.
I was at my usual station, brush in hand, when I saw the airplane turning final around the corner of the hangar with the gear up. Dropping my brush, I ran out to the edge of the approach end of the grass landing area, waving my arms and shouting (unheard, of course).
The pilot, apparently assuming that I was giving a big hello and welcome, smiled and waved back as the airplane passed me and touched down. Again, the "roll" was short and — fortunately — as the airplane slowed up for the flare, the propeller had stopped windmilling and was in the horizontal position when the airplane landed.
The damage was slight, with a bent exhaust stack and scratches and grass stains on the belly.
When I got to the airplane, the pilot was out and I learned some interesting words that I had not heard before. (Remember that this was before television and the current R-rated movies — we were more naïve people then.)
There is nothing like bellying in a borrowed airplane.
Our night fighter team of F4U-5N Corsairs was on detachment to the Navy's ordnance station in Fallon, Nevada, practicing day and night bombing and rocketry in preparation for deployment. We had been away from our base at Naval Air Station Moffett Field, California, for 2 weeks, and having been married only a very few months, I was very eager to get back home for the coming weekend.
One of the more senior of our five night fighter pilots borrowed my airplane for a last night flight because his was getting some last-minute maintenance for the flight home the next morning.
It had been a very long day (and night), and the pilot in my airplane made a gear-up approach, discovering the problem (as did we spectators) when the propeller contacted the runway, giving a most spectacular display of sparks and noise. He was an outstanding pilot and kept the airplane airborne while he took it around (with a great deal of vibration), lowered the gear, landed, and taxied in. The propeller was no longer flyable, and so the next morning I was able to stand by my battered airplane and wave farewell to him (his airplane was ready to go) and the others who took off for home plate. I spent the next several days at Fallon, overseeing the repairs and sticking pins in a voodoo doll dressed like a lieutenant.
I demonstrated airplanes to the military while working as a contract sales engineer for Piper Aircraft between 1960 and 1964 and flew out of places like Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida; Fort Rucker, Alabama; and Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio.
Most of my assignments, however, were to fly to Washington National Airport and pick up some military aviators from the Pentagon to fly the Aztec or Twin Comanche and to encourage them to buy those airplanes for their service.
On one such occasion, a Navy commander and I were sitting near Runway 36 at National, when he directed my attention to a Fairchild F-27 on final with no gear showing. Fortunately, we were well back from the landing area.
As the airplane got closer, the tower said, "Zephyr Air 438 (not the real name and number), you have no gear." I wished that I could have gotten my cousin Bubba out there; he'd never seen a big airplane land on its belly — or a little one, either, for that matter.
"Zephyr Air 438, you have no landing gear!" (The landing flare was beginning.)
"Zephyr Air 438, you have no landing gear! Take it around!" There were a couple of seconds' silence, followed by a deep, cool airline-type growl, "Ahhh … Roguh …."
Now, I couldn't hear what was being told to the passengers, but my imagination filled it in: "Ahh, this is the captain speaking. If you look to the right, you'll see the small airplane parked out there that caused us to have to go around. We'll have another go at it, and maybe he'll be out of our way next time. Thanks for flying Zephyr Air."
Or maybe he said, "I forgot to put the landing gear down, folks." (Sure.)
In another incident the poor abused Culver Cadet was landed gear-up again (not the same man) right in the middle of the busiest runway at Nashville Berry Field (the big airport there), shutting off further operation for some time.
The main problem was that it was during the biggest prewar airshow ever seen at Nashville and the airport had been closed for 30 minutes. The pilot admitted later that he (sitting flat on the runway) hadn't "seen so many CAA men around one airplane in [his] lifetime."
This incident was not so surprising, since he was the same pilot who bet $5 that another pilot couldn't do a three-turn spin in a J-3 Cub from 500 feet without crashing, killing, or maiming himself. He then rode with the other pilot in a borrowed Cub to make sure that three full turns were completed. He won; they completed only two and a quarter.
The pilots shared the same hospital room. The airplane owner didn't visit or send flowers; his lawyer dropped by, though.
