Take the angst out of airplane ownership! Cut your expenses in half! Take on a partner!
Is the hype about partnering just that — hype? Does it really cut in half — or thirds, or quarters — the cost of owning and operating an airplane? What are the inevitable downsides? How do I pick a compatible partner?
These are some of the FAQs — frequently asked questions — concerning sharing the keys, and costs, of an airplane. Obviously, splitting the expenses lessens the burden on each participant. Partnership may be the only affordable way to ownership. Or, it could be the means to stepping up to a higher-performance airplane than sole ownership can allow.
I've gone both routes, sole ownership and co-ownership, and I can report that both have worked superbly for me.
I bought an airplane by myself, and was the only owner for the first couple of years. Then things changed. We put our house on the market and moved halfway across the country, where we bought another home. Unfortunately, the beer and the peanuts didn't run out at the same time. We closed on our new house before we had sold our old one. Two mortgages is a mighty burden for a growing family, so I had to come up with some temporary financial tourniquets until the payoff from our old house came through.
One of those treatments was cutting my airplane expenses. I found a partner. Doug was my friend before he was my airplane partner, so I had a good idea what I was getting. It was my first experience at co-ownership, but Doug was a veteran at it. He'd owned varying fractions of several airplanes, including Piper Twin Comanches and even a Cessna 421. He probably considered his investment in my 172 as Monopoly money, but it got me out of a squeeze play.
It's one thing to enter into a partnership when the two (or three or more) of you are going out and buying an airplane together. It's quite another when the airplane being partnered is the one you've had sole possession of until now. It's terribly hard to let go of that wonderful feeling of possessiveness, the total control that comes with sole ownership. I had made all of the decisions about who maintained it, what new gizmos went into the panel, when the junk stuffed in the seat pockets got cleaned out, where the airplane was kept, and how it was flown. Now I had to consult a partner.
All the good advice on airplane partnering says that you should think of everything that can go wrong, figure out how to resolve the problems, and put it all on paper for each partner to sign before committing to the marriage. Call it a prenuptial.
Well, my wife and I threw caution to the wind when we got married by not agreeing beforehand on the disposition of assets (such as the airplane) in the event our partnership doesn't work out. Then I was remiss all over again when I agreed to a three-way marriage between myself, my airplane, and Doug. No laying out of detailed terms, no written partnership agreement, no prenuptials. When Doug and I started talking about partnering we shook our heads "yes," but I'm not sure we even shook hands. We just did it.
It worked. Doug was a terrific partner, and he once commented that I wasn't so bad, either. Our mutually informal approach was perfectly in sync. We agreed on all the important issues, from maintenance to equipment to a philosophy of flying. Doug is an experienced pilot, with a couple of turbojet type ratings, turboprop time, and plenty of piston hours (single and multi) logged.
However, more important in my mind than his experience is his talent behind the yoke. A Cessna 172 is almost embarrassingly simple compared to a turboprop or jet, but it's still a powered airplane that can be hurt, and hurt back, if it's not flown properly. Doug has the ability to feel an airplane, to read the language of dynamic feedback and use it to fly smoothly and seemingly effortlessly. I knew my — our — airplane was in good hands when Doug was at the controls. Conversely, a coarse, ham-fisted pilot would be the worst sort of partner for me.
Thinking back, it was my confidence in Doug as a pilot that obviated the need for a formal partnership structure. The qualities he demonstrated in the cockpit gave me an assurance that this guy was a keeper.
I can think of only one disagreement we had, and one bad aspect of our partnership. The disagreement was over wheelpants. Doug wanted them on; I didn't. And since they were stored up in the rafters of my garage, I controlled the situation.
The bad aspect? It surfaced on the day I went flying with Doug and my then-6-year-old son. I flew first, then switched to the backseat and let my son sit up front. Just after Doug touched down on his first landing, my son made an objective observation that was destined to be reinforced many times: "Daddy, he lands better than you."
Doug was my trouble-free partner for a couple of years. Then my family and I packed up and moved again. I bought back Doug's share, and now I can call it my airplane once again. As before, I love the feeling, even though my cost of ownership doubled. Doug, meanwhile, got the fever big time and bought a Twin Comanche. His name alone is on the registration slip.
In the end, two people who shared an airplane parted ways with a smile, then became sole owners. Maybe that's the ultimate measure of success in a partnership.
