Waypoints

So there you are, sitting at a highway intersection waiting to pull out. The car approaching the intersection is at that critical distance — do you pull out or wait? You're a pilot (we are conservative in our safety decisions); you decide to wait. Suddenly you realize that the other driver is slowing. And finally, 10 yards from the intersection, on comes the turn signal. The other driver makes the turn beside you and drives on, never acknowledging your existence. Do you (a) whip out the Uzi, (b) arm the Ford-to-Ford missiles, or (c) shake your head and wonder what ever happened to common courtesy?

A lack of courtesy is not confined to the highways. It's everywhere. The other day I was walking into our office building. A fellow employee not three feet in front of me simply let the door close behind her, never offering to hold it open for me. It's hardly a big deal, but it makes you wonder. Are people rude, inconsiderate, and too self-absorbed to notice others, or are they ignorant of their actions?

The airport environment is not immune to rudeness. We've all seen pilots in two-place trainers flying 747-style patterns that force the rest of us to soldier downwind for an extra three miles. We've seen pilots fly straight-in approaches at airports with half a dozen other airplanes in the pattern. We've heard the self-righteous on the radio chewing out some underling who made an aerial gaffe.

On the other hand, most of us at one time or another have been on the giving end of rudeness, intended or not. AOPA member Mark Peters of Chandler, Arizona, recently sent us a letter imploring us to write something about ramp courtesy. In his letter, which he signed "Ramp Thrashed," Peters described a scene in which he was attempting to conduct an annual inspection on his Cessna 172 at his tiedown. After completing the annual, he writes, "I realized the most difficult task was avoiding damage from enemy aircraft. This year's casualties were heavy and the effects lasting." The pilot of a neighboring Piper twice trounced the work area around his 172 with prop wash. "His first synthetic sandstorm blew my cowling across the ramp [and] the seats and interior off the hood of my car, ruined a new can of bearing grease, and filled everything I owned with sand. With the rage of seven nuclear bombs, I calmly asked if he could please be aware of his prop wash. I spent the next two hours cleaning up." The next day the same pilot in the same airplane pulled the same stunt.

Peters notes that he's had twins and jets maneuver around him without raising a hair on his head, yet the little Piper closed him down. "That day after the sun set I stood on the ramp with bloodshot eyes and sand in my teeth and I just couldn't find reason to wave at the airplane taxiing by, blinding me with his strobe lights."

The letter from Peters set me to thinking about some of my own transgressions and made me blush to think of the times that I have made life difficult for someone else on the ramp.

Probably my most embarrassing moment relating to aviation occurred within weeks of earning my private pilot certificate. I was 18 and had just checked out in a 172 after completing training in a Cessna 150. Like every pilot, I wanted to fly a larger aircraft so that I could take friends and family for rides. On this occasion, my girlfriend and parents were along. I did the obligatory flight over our houses and around the neighborhood and then headed back to the airport to make a respectable landing. I was feeling pretty proud of myself, having just impressed the three most important people in my young life.

I taxied the 172 in front of the gang hangar and smartly spun it around so that it could be easily pushed back inside for the night. Seemingly before the prop had even stopped turning, the passenger door was yanked open by an angry maintenance man. He proceeded to read me the riot act for blowing his cleanly swept hangar full of dirt. He delivered his diatribe at about 85 decibels, all the while shaking his finger at me and suggesting that I ought to have to sweep the hangar for him. Didn't I know any better?

Well, actually, no, I didn't.

My ego was crushed and I sulked the whole way home. To this day, I don't think I've ever quite forgiven him for treating me that way in front of other people. (Can you tell?) He had the opportunity to teach me a little something about prop wash, but his cruel methods overshadowed the lesson. He thought I was rude for dusting his hangar, when

I was, in fact, simply ignorant of my actions. I, in turn, thought him the rudest, most ignorant person alive.

Unlike Peters' nemesis in the Piper, I did learn a lesson about strobe lights on the ramp. Some years after the incident with the 172 I made one of my first night cross-country flights, this time in a Piper Warrior. My wife — the former girlfriend — was along as we headed to Morristown, New Jersey, to visit a friend from college. We meandered northeast under the clear night sky. The lights of Philadelphia slid by our right wing. Ahead, the entire New York City metro area was aglow — a perfect night for flying. This was a really well-equipped Warrior for its time. It had area navigation equipment, an autopilot, and even air conditioning. Outside, wingtip recognition lights combined with the taxi and landing lights, beacon, and strobes made it look like an airliner when coming down final approach.

As we entered the busy New York airspace, I set all the lights ablazing; no one was going to run into us. We soon entered the pattern at Morristown and were cleared to land. I pulled off a nice touchdown and taxied toward one of the FBOs. It was my first time to the airport. As always, finding your way around an unfamiliar airport can be a challenge. Nighttime only adds to the confusion. I soon found the correct taxiway and headed for the ramp. A helpful (or perhaps hapless) lineboy directed me with lighted wands to a parking spot. I carefully followed his directions, and as I turned the airplane toward him, he was awash in light — like some glowing, squinting angel descended from heaven to lead us home.

After I shut down and crawled out, he quietly muttered, "Next time turn off the lights on the ramp." He then walked away, probably seeing stars for the rest of the night.

Again, ignorance on my part. I had never flown at night into a busy airport where the line crew actually directs you to parking. You can bet that now the strobes are off when I taxi onto a busy ramp and that the taxi and landing lights come off before I turn toward the line crew.

Sometimes lessons learned are forgotten. A couple of years ago, I was flying the first new prototype 172R from AOPA Expo '96 in San Jose, California, to Phoenix. A Cessna sales manager was also on board. A pair of Cessna employees left a few minutes behind us in one of the new prototype 182S airplanes. Their plan was to stop southwest of Palms Springs, California, in Borrego Springs, for lunch. We decided to follow suit, even though it wasn't exactly on the way to Phoenix.

Not surprisingly, the 182 crew beat us to the airport and parked in the gravel next to the taxiway. I taxied by the 182 and spun the 172 around next to it. Just as I made the turn I spied a shiny Extra aerobatic airplane about 50 yards down the ramp — and downwind from us. I could see what was about to happen and yanked the power back on the 172. Too late. A cloud of sand and dust went wafting down the ramp, drawn as if by a magnet toward the pretty airplane and its open canopy. We tied down and walked toward the restaurant. A man next to the Extra motioned us over, and I knew what was coming. "Which one of you was the pilot in command?" he interrogated. I fessed up. "Look inside and see what you did to my interior." Frankly, I didn't see any dust, but I'm sure he did. "Be more careful," he admonished.

I might have queried what he was doing with the canopy open on such a pretty airplane while sitting on a dusty desert airport, but common sense dictated otherwise. I apologized and moved on, feeling about an inch high.

While I confess to having been the inadvertent perpetrator of airport rudeness, I have also been the victim. Recently I had my 172 at a nearby airport for avionics work. It was sitting in front of the shop when I went to pick it up. I took out the control lock and began my usual preflight. As I was up on the wing step checking the fuel, an old Aerospatiale helicopter hover-taxied by and stopped within 20 feet of my airplane and numerous others. There he hovered for several minutes, all the while flipping the ailerons on my airplane from stop to stop and bouncing the entire airplane, as well as others nearby. I dashed over to hold the ailerons, while scowling at him. He eventually set the helicopter down to allow a passenger to disembark and then just as thoughtlessly lifted off and left, blissfully ignorant of the ruckus he had created.

So be careful out there and remember that sometimes rudeness is the result of ignorance, perhaps making it a bit more forgivable. And, one more thing — use your turn signal next time!