Pilotage

Long flights in small airplanes sounds like a contradiction, Mr. Lindbergh notwithstanding. Most people say that 3, maybe 3.5 hours is plenty long enough to spend in the cramped cabin of a light airplane. At that point all aboard are more than ready to go to the restroom, take sustenance, and walk around to relax stiff muscles. True enough, but some compelling reasons exist to keep going until reaching the point of dipping into your personal reserves or the airplane's, whichever comes first.

On the practical side, significant time and fuel can be saved by going nonstop if it's possible. It may take only about 30 minutes to stop en route to defuel yourself and refuel the airplane, but a surprising amount of time is spent descending to and maneuvering for the airport, taxiing to the FBO, loading the airplane, getting departure information and a clearance, taxiing out, climbing back to altitude, and accelerating to cruise airspeed. Count on an extra hour in total trip time if you stop once for fuel — longer if the flight plan lists more than two souls aboard — and who knows how long if you pass up cheese and peanut butter crackers in favor of a restaurant meal during the fuel stop.

Practicality isn't the only justification for pressing on. There's something special about asking a small airplane to perform to its maximum endurance potential. Correction — it's you and not the airplane who's being asked to take it to the max. The airplane continues to run for as long as the fuel holds out. You're the one who has to plan the flight and monitor fuel consumption, the weather, and the physiological side of things.

I once flew a Piper Arrow from Vero Beach, Florida, to Frederick, Maryland, nonstop in 5 hours. A strong tailwind allowed me to throttle back to a low power setting and still enjoy turbocharged groundspeeds. That was my longest nonstop — until the Bonanza came into my life.

In the last couple of years I've been fortunate to occasionally fly an F33A Bonanza fitted with wingtip tanks. Standard fuel in the main tanks is 74 gallons usable. The tip tanks add 20 gallons each, for a total usable fuel capacity of 114 gallons. Plus, the tip tanks carry a bonus — a gross weight increase to 3,600 pounds, so the cabin can be loaded with nearly 600 pounds, even with all the tanks full.

One reason that I've taken a real shine to the Bonanza is those tip tanks. I've made a couple of 6.5-hour nonstops in the airplane from Kansas City to Fort Myers, Florida. Both were with my wife and youngest son. He and I were fortunate in that the airplane is equipped with a relief tube protruding from the floor at the base of the front seats. We made use of it. My long-suffering wife, bless her, remained prone in the back seat the entire time, tape player running and headphones in place, and never complained. I don't know how she did it.

My son and I had a ball. Went over every switch, instrument, gauge, and piece of gear on the panel. Got through the pilot's operating handbook, too. Seems like we talked to half the country's air traffic control and flight service station contingent. We received only three minor amendments to our original flight plan routing of Kansas City Downtown direct to Tallahassee VOR, direct Page Field in Fort Myers. Not bad for a trip of about 1,000 nm.

Recently I logged my longest nonstop ever — 7.3 hours, from Fort Myers to Oklahoma City. I was solo in the Bonanza and averaged 13 gallons per hour at 65-percent power. The tanks had nearly 2 hours of fuel remaining when I landed. If I'd flown with the throttle pulled back to 55 percent or even lower, I think I'd still be flying.

A trip like that gives you plenty of time to, well, to do whatever you want as long as it doesn't involve sleeping or getting up and walking around. I worked a bunch of hypothetical weight and balance problems, and played with all the digital devices in the cockpit — engine monitor, fuel flow, clock, and loran. I made some notes on random topics. For instance, my meal plan for the flight: a cup of coffee from the FBO, a bottle of water, a Pepsi, a granola bar, a bag of M&M chocolate-covered peanuts, a package of cheese and crackers, and several sticks of cinnamon gum. My notes also say that I desired a Big Mac, even though on the ground I never eat them.

I talked to good controllers, and to one other controller. A Jacksonville Center jock descended me from 10,000 feet to 8,000 because, he said, I was one of two airplanes scheduled to arrive at an intersection at the same time and at the same altitude. He didn't tell me that at first; I had to ask, "Why the descent?" I also asked — graciously, I thought — how he decided who got to stay at 10,000 and who drew the short straw to descend. "I flip a coin," he replied testily. I wanted to continue the line of questioning, but it sounded as if would be counterproductive. When he handed me off to the next controller, he added, "I guess this is just your unlucky day."

I checked in with the next controller with a request. "What can I do for you today?" he asked cheerily. I explained that the last guy sent me down into the tops of bumpy, building cumulus clouds and that I'd sure like to get back up on top. He went to work on it, and soon I was climbing back into smooth, clear air. With very few exceptions, the people on the other end of my com radio have been professional, patient, and accommodating.

The weather was VFR the entire distance (some slight deviation was necessary in the Florida panhandle to avoid thunderstorms), the airplane operated perfectly, and my elapsed time door-to-door was competitive with making the trip on the airlines.

Other than lasting almost an hour longer than my previous personal-best flight, the trip was remarkable for being so ordinary. And isn't that the point?