Pilotage

Why is it that rational, intelligent humans develop an emotional attachment to emotionless mechanical devices? I'm asking myself that question because I recently parted company with my airplane and, by gum, my heart is aching.

The facts can be condensed into an antiseptic few sentences. My flying needs changed. The time was right to sell. A buyer came along. We signed some papers. I cleaned out the airplane and gave him my keys. End of story. Beginning of remorse.

The 172 was my first airplane. Even though a quarter-century-old Skyhawk is worth less than a new sport-utility road warrior, I'd never thought of the airplane the same way I do a car. You drive a car hard for a few years, then sell or trade for a fresh one. You may develop a fondness for it based on styling or performance, but that's rubbed out instantly by the novelty of tooling around in the new wheels.

Not so a set of wings. Treated well, which means it's flown right and gets good health care, an airplane responds with uncomplaining service day or night, rain or shine, summer or winter.

I know, I know, it's childish to anthropomorphize a heap of parts. But when that collection of lightweight aluminum and cheap plastic takes you and your family safely home through the harsh night, well, it's hard not to feel something stir deep inside. After feeling that something a few times, I began to observe a little ritual whenever I completed a flight. After I had parked the airplane, lashed it down, and buttoned it up, I patted it gently on the nose and thanked it for yet another trouble-free adventure.

So why did I dump my good and loyal friend?

The Cessna was perfect for intrastate trips and local sightseeing jaunts. But things have changed. I have a need for speed. The mission now is longer flights — my destinations are 450 to 1,000 nm distant. That's a long, long way to go in a 108-knot fixed-gear single in which the autopilot and the pilot have the same name.

Meanwhile, a big expense, in the form of engine overhaul, loomed large. If I went ahead with the overhaul, I figured I'd have to hold onto the 172 for several years more before it would make economic sense to sell.

These thoughts were rattling around in my head for several months when two friends popped up with their own airplane needs. One needed to buy, another needed to sell. The buyer was thinking of buying his first airplane, a simple fixed-gear single. Mine was available, and he was interested. The seller had a sweet, older Mooney he'd grown out of and wasn't flying. It was available, and I was interested.

Suddenly I'd gone from casually wondering which way to go with my airplane, to having a buyer for mine and a seller of one I wanted. Things were moving fast.

Just as suddenly, they slowed. My potential-buyer friend called to say he had been having second thoughts, and in fact had decided to postpone buying an airplane until he felt certain about the move. Money wasn't the problem. In fact, he wasn't quite sure what the problem was, other than a gnawing feeling that he was rushing into something that deserved more deliberate thought. He also acknowledged the irony that he and his wife could decide over a pleasant weekend lunch to go out that afternoon and buy an expensive luxury car. But making the decision to buy an airplane, even one costing less than a luxury car, probably would take months.

My Mooney friend, however, was committed to sell. Since I could not be a buyer until I had been a seller, I struck a deal with a local aircraft broker, Greg Hewitt, to market my airplane. I signed a contract with Greg just before leaving on a six-day trip. The day after I returned, Greg called with the news that he had a qualified buyer. I reacted initially with silence. If I sounded less than enthusiastic, I explained, it was because I was less than enthusiastic. I was having second, third, fourth, and fifth thoughts about selling.

A contract is a contract, however, and the contract said that if the broker had a buyer willing and able to meet my price, I was obligated to sell or pay the broker his commission anyway. I placed my hand on the Skyhawk's nose one last time and signed the bill of sale.

The story ends here. The Mooney? My friend called to say that his accountant was recommending a quick sale. Tax time and all that. He wanted me to have it, but he also had received other very attractive offers. Even though I had sold my Cessna, I wasn't quite ready to step up to the plate and buy the Mooney. I had to secure financing, and I wanted to explore the potential for partnering. Things were again moving fast. Too fast. Reluctantly, I advised him to sell. He called a day or two later with the sad news that the Mooney was gone. The buyer had spent 30 minutes looking it over, then offered cash.

This is an unfamiliar phase in my aviation life. I'm between airplanes. Five years ago I bought the Skyhawk, and everything about the event was memorable. I bought it from a friend who wanted me to have it as much as I wanted to buy it. He and his wife lived in Northern California, so my first flight in it as owner was a transcontinental journey east. On the way I stopped at my in-laws' home in Indiana to pick up my wife and youngest son, and the three of us completed the storybook homecoming journey.

Now, not having my own airplane to fly anytime I want is an unsettling feeling. But I'm joining an established local flying group, the Cub Club. I'll fly the club's Cessna 172, Piper Archer, and Cessna Cardinal and take my time finding the right airplane to buy. Hopefully I'll also turn up a compatible partner, someone who will understand when I affectionately pat the airplane's nose in appreciation of a job well and safely done.