New Pilot

Flying camaraderie can help to keep your enthusiasm strong

Check out the next meeting of one of your local flying clubs and encounter the elixir of personalities that defines general aviation. This is something I don't do enough. I try to be a good club member, but there are times when meeting night for the University of Maine flying club in Orono comes and goes, and the first time I think about it is when Lori, our dedicated club secretary, sends out the newsletter. When I do attend, I see again the enthusiasm that even the tiniest turnout of pilots can generate for flying. It is a restoring process, even if the weather is soggy and the only things flying are the one-liners. Usually someone brings soda and snacks, there's always news to discuss or a video to play, and let's not forget the monthly drawing for a free flight hour.

Sometimes the meetings are graced by a potential new initiate, and, to a member, everyone tries to make the visitor feel at home.

Aviation's designated poets may declare that you will find the heart and soul of general aviation on a summer day at one of aviation's annual spectaculars, at a breakfast fly-in at a private strip, or in a Stearman flying low over a sunny beach. Sure. But other times - that is, most of the time - it is the hundreds of flying-based societies, in all their shapes and sizes, that keep aviation's pulse throbbing. Orono comes and goes and the first time I think about it is when Lori, our dedicated club secretary, sends out the newsletter. When I do attend, I see again the enthusiasm that even the tiniest turnout of pilots can generate for flying. It is a restoring process, even if the weather is soggy and the only things flying are the one-liners. Usually someone brings soda and snacks, there's always news to discuss or a video to play, and let's not forget the monthly drawing for a free flight hour.

Sometimes the meetings are graced by a potential initiate, and, to a member, everyone tries to make the visitor feel at home.

Aviation's designated poets may declare that you will find the heart and soul of general aviation on a summer day at one of aviation's annual spectaculars, at a breakfast fly-in at a private strip, or in a Stearman flying low over a sunny beach. Sure. But at other times - that is, most of the time - it is the hundreds of flying-based societies, in all their shapes and sizes, that keep aviation's pulse throbbing.

Although these organizations are different in mission and character, all of them deserve a place in the aviation hall of fame that exists in my imagination. Not just because they provide a venue for flight, but because of the role they all play in keeping aviation alive in pilots' hearts and minds. "Personal aviation," after all, is as much a social activity as it is a "hobby." An isolated pilot is an unhappy pilot; a potential dropout. If this pilot has no one with whom to share experiences, debate the meaning of regulations, explore new destinations, and catalog-shop for the latest gizmos, well, you know what happens next.

Clubs provide camaraderie for active pilots, bringing pilots of various experience levels together; but they also keep those who are not currently flying involved in the scene. Some may be immersed in a rebuilding project, "between airplanes" following a sale of the old steed, or even waiting for a medical nod from the FAA. But they are out at the field, riding shotgun on a breakfast flight, showing a newcomer around, or just helping to make sure that the rampside banter does not subside too soon. (Clubs can also get results when problems crop up. When an airspace dispute occurred some years back, it was the mobilization of one group's members that helped to reverse an adverse airspace design. More recently, an obscure notice concerning a television station's proposed construction of a transmission tower found its way into the hands of several flying groups, resulting in letters being written to oppose the plan.)

There is also the laid-back milieu clubs offer for learning, as a visit to a monthly meeting last winter demonstrated. This club, proud owner of a two-seat Cessna that has trained more pilots than have some small air forces, was boning up on GPS. One of our local high-timers had been invited in to demonstrate the hardware. The members gathered around in a tight circle to see the future of aviation. It was a small room and the atmosphere was close. But this was forgotten amid the oohs and ahs over the moving-map demonstration of a simulated flight in our local area, including depiction of Interstate 95, a large and familiar nearby lake, and the river that borders our home city on the east and south.

Later, someone was given the job of "looking into prices and making a recommendation," and as I write, the new unit is being installed. The result is that a number of pilots who might not have become acquainted with the technology on their own will benefit. They will also have a new reason to go out and fly.

So that's one club. Another aviation shrine where you should look for me if I'm not at home is the headquarters of the airport association that runs operations at a handsome private strip owned by retired United Airlines Captain Wes Leighton. Wes, who is an enthusiastic general aviation pilot, leases his airstrip in Brewer, Maine, to the association, so here, being a tenant means making a "sweat equity" contribution to the effort. You can mow the grass, pump some fuel, roll the runway smooth in springtime, or pitch in at the annual open house, but don't just sit there. Catch a ride on a breakfast sortie, volunteer your labor on in-progress tinkering efforts, or hold up a scorecard with the other wags on the ramp to rate the latest arrival. Or take refuge here with a brown-bag lunch during a harried work week.

See the deer come out at dusk; come inside the hangar and inspect the photos on the office bulletin board; read the calling cards of visitors; check out the shirttails on the wall. Put 50 cents in the can and help yourself to a soda. If you happen to be approached by a guy driving a gray pickup, you may address him as Smitty and fear not - he barks a lot but doesn't really bite. (Some airports have a hound dog; we have Smitty.) Whatever you do, just make sure to get acquainted and have fun in this special sanctuary, which, like most of the others, is located just off the beaten path, a mere few minutes from home or the office.

Practice Area: Fatigue

BY WILLIAM K. KERSHNER

Fatigue is a malady faced by all pilots. Airline pilots deal with it all the time. Instructors also work odd hours - often flying sunrise to midnight. Even student pilots, facing a lesson after a long workday, are not spared the consequences of exhaustion. I remember well the effects of long days from my time as a test pilot at Piper Aircraft in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania.

In the fall of 1960, a few months after I started working at Piper, I was assigned to fly the twin-engine Apache to find the source of the vibrations in the newer 160-horsepower models.

Several airplanes were used, each having a different fix installed. (Some had engine mount shocks turned or replaced; others had control cables' tension adjusted, etc.) I would take the one at the head of the line, fly it, park the airplane at the end of the line, report on the success or failure of that fix, and then go to the head of the line for another one.

Usually, each flight was started with only 10 gallons of usable fuel in each main tank to get the "best" vibration effects.

The flight was only long enough to feather each propeller twice (and restart, of course) to check the results of the latest change.

Pressure was on to find a fix; airplanes were backing up on the production line, and so night flights were introduced. It was very interesting, particularly one night when there was a fairly low ceiling and I had to fly back and forth in the Lock Haven Valley between ridges, doing the feathering routine. A door popped open during a feathered-prop run. Nothing critical, but it was interesting to get the engine started, the prop unfeathered, and the door closed without flying into something or spinning in.

After a couple of more open-door incidents, a rare production glitch with that airplane, the door was replaced.

I found that the flying, particularly at night after doing tests during daylight, was especially fatiguing.

Sometimes, engineers would ride along on the tests, checking for possible vibration sources that I might miss, and I welcomed their help because I wanted to solve the problem as well as to go on to other projects.

On one occasion an engineer was sent down to fly with me, and it turned out that this particular flight was a critical one to see if the vibration was induced by aerodynamics or the engine(s). I learned later that this engineer didn't care all that much about flying.

As we climbed, he asked what this check was to include. After looking at my kneepad, I saw that he might be a little disappointed. "From 10,000 feet, I'll feather both props and approach the design dive speed." To say that he was not happy would indeed be an understatement. (I was not exactly happy, either.)

After the first dive, he indicated that he was very glad that was over. I started the engines, unfeathered the props, and climbed. I told him that several more dives were necessary in order to verify the results. It seemed that the problem was induced by the engine, because things were smooth in the dives. Back on the ground, as he walked away I heard a mutter that sounded like, "I'll never fly with that guy again." He kept his promise.

More tests were flown (51 hours total of single- and multiengine flying), and I once calculated that if I feathered propellers four times per 20-minute flight, I had flown on one engine in the Apache approximately 600 times. I was starting to get accustomed (a little) to seeing a stopped prop on one side or the other.

One night, fairly late, after a day of testing, I reentered the Lock Haven pattern as usual and knew that I had to do something before I landed. What was it? The checklist didn't make any sense even after I went through it twice. There was something I had to do before I landed. As I turned base, I remembered that it was traditional in aviation to extend the landing gear before landing, since that would make the landing less noisy and expensive. There was another Apache waiting to be flown, but I told the crew that was all for the night. I hadn't felt particularly tired the flight before that one, but fatigue had hit hard and suddenly.

I also felt real fatigue when our night fighter team was doing field carrier landing practice (FCLP) one hazy night in 1954 at Naval Air Station Miramar, California. We were getting ready for deployment and flying day and night, but I didn't feel that I was tired since the adrenaline produced during the landing exercises kept me "up."

The haze and scattered lights off the departure end of the runway made for problems in orientation, and as I climbed out after making a touch-and-go FCLP, another airplane came into the break overhead. His nav lights and my fatigue convinced me that the other airplane was descending and about to hit me from above.

At about 300 feet I reacted by pushing the nose over abruptly and then, realizing what I had done, pulled up again and heard sounds that you hear with a car window open when passing utility poles. Some things were going by on each side. After climbing back up to FCLP pattern altitude, I realized how tired I was. The other airplane was well above me, and there was no danger except in my reaction to it. I was dog-tired but didn't realize it, and when the other airplane appeared, it was as if I suddenly bolted awake - and badly overreacted.

The next day, doing day landings, I was very glad that the trees had been cleared in a swath off the departure end of that runway. The only thing that I could figure was that the sound I'd heard was that of the trees passing on each side. I must have pushed over exactly straight ahead and flown between the tree lines. The Lord takes care of children and ensigns.

But back to the Apache testing and fatigue. One night after the flight test hangar had been secured and I was at home up on the side of the mountain overlooking the airport, my wife said, "There are a lot of red lights running up and down by the runway."

I knew that it was not our crew but figured that I had better get down there.

It turned out that famed pilot and record-setter Max Conrad had taken off in his long-range Comanche N110LF (Let's Fly) and was over Lock Haven when the engine quit. N110LF had a complex fuel system, but I was never sure that was the problem. (Max had set a nonstop long-distance record of nearly 8,000 miles from Casablanca to Los Angeles in June of the previous year.)

The Comanche must have cleared our row of parked Apaches by inches and landed in weeds and tall grass parallel to the runway. He couldn't quite complete the turn to the runway and so elected to land gear-up, making the best of a bad situation.

The airplane had suffered prop, cowling, and engine damage; and when the airport manager, I, and others got to the scene, there was no sign of Max. We were very concerned that he might have been stunned, somehow gotten out of the airplane, and then passed out in the weeds somewhere.

What made the situation much worse was that somebody (some said later that it was the local radio station) had put out the word about "an airplane crash at the airport." Well, that brought everybody out, and soon cars were driving all over the area. We were quite concerned that one of the idiots would run over Conrad's inert body somewhere in the weeds.

While looking for Max, I was also taking license numbers of the folks playing stock car on the airport; it was like the Oklahoma Land Rush out there. (In the book Mr. Piper and His Cubs, there's a picture of me standing by the airplane with the license list in my back pocket.)

Finally, with the help of the police, the cars departed and the search for Max continued, with no success. We moved across the runway to the airport office and were discussing the next steps in finding him, when one of the Piper salesmen who, because of the publicity, had come to the airport, said, "If you're looking for Max, I saw him going upstairs in the hotel a couple of hours ago. He said that he was going to bed."

He had figured that it was late and nobody had been hurt; so, not to cause anybody a bother, he had retired and would straighten things out in the morning. That was like Max. He later came to the experimental flight test office several times, and I always enjoyed talking to him. Someone once said (I should have asked Max) that he wouldn't sleep a couple of days before starting on one of his long-distance flights in order to get prepared to stay awake. It was nothing for him to take off from Lock Haven on an extended flight to visit with his family in Arizona or some distant place.

After my family and I moved to Sewanee, Tennessee, we were at a friend's house when the airport attendant called on the telephone and said that Max Conrad had called on the unicom to say hello as he was on his way from Mexico City to Baltimore. He was prevailed upon to take a break at Sewanee.

We never did find out whether physical fatigue was related to a fuel selection mixup that late night in Lock Haven.

Fatigue contributed (as did I) to my landing into a barrier on the carrier one night. Many of the pilots had been fighting a diarrhea and vomiting malady, blamed on drinking water contaminated with oil. It was my turn to fly, and I was having a little trouble standing upright and was very tired. As the "Pilots, man your planes!" came up on the teletype board, I remember saying, "You furnish the planes and I'll fly 'em."

It was hazy with no horizon and, after the catapult shot, I went into a fixed mode in which for two hours I flew and no matter what the instruments said, I felt better leaning far to the left. On the approach as I got the cut from the landing signal officer, it seemed that everything suddenly cleared up and even I could see now that I was high and hot. I caught a late wire that allowed me to engage the barrier very nicely. There is nothing quite like the sound of a propeller wrapping steel cable about itself and the cowling.

A spotlight from the island was shining on the results of my efforts as I crawled down, took off my helmet, and bowed to the unseen assemblage above. (Vulture's Row, as always, was full of day pilots when the F4U-5Ns were recovered at night.) I was so tired that frankly, my dear, I didn't give a damn, and I proceeded below and to my bunk. The accident report indicated pilot error. (Fatigue was not mentioned.)

But getting back one more time to the Apache problem, which was eventually solved, I was given a short assignment to work on vibration in the new Cherokee (brought up from Piper's then-new Vero Beach, Florida, factory).

Well, I'll tell you what the Apache and Cherokee vibration flights did for me: They ruined my flying enjoyment because even today, I remember the tiredness of some of those nights, and when flying any airplane, I spend too much time with my posterior trying to determine the source of that vibration I feel.

Fear of Flying: Second Time Around

A shock course in aerodynamic reality

BY PAUL F. DEVANEY

The second time around is not supposed to be what sticks in your mind. The first time you solo in an airplane, you join that small, elite group of people called pilots. The first solo is the one that even crusty old airline captains and military jet jocks fondly recall with a smile. The memory of my first solo is a blur overshadowed by what happened my second time out - with no instructor around to watch over me.

My airplane was a Bellanca Citabria, which spelled backward is "airbatic." It was a beautiful candy-red, fabric-covered aircraft with a white starburst design on the top and on the underside of the wings. Always kept out of the elements and in its hangar, it looked and smelled like a holy object. I treated it with due respect. The fabric stretched tight like a drum against the frame, giving the wings twice the strength at half the weight of any conventional metal wing. Although strong, the airplane was skittish, more like a sportscar or thoroughbred race horse than a truck or draft horse. It was made for playing hard, not hard work.

As I drove out to the airport on that fateful day of my second solo flight, I couldn't help smiling. It was a beautiful July morning with unlimited visibility. I found it difficult to keep "cool" when I went in to the office to check out the keys from the receptionist. My heart was pounding with excitement, and I was trying desperately to maintain my "serious look."

Keys in my hand, at last I realized that it was time to get down to business. As I walked out to the airplane it dawned on me that no one would be watching me, even from the ground.

My instructor wasn't even around for any last-minute advice. Nevertheless, I did a very thorough preflight inspection, the engine run up, radio check - a million things to remember. And then I was off.

The first thing that I noticed as I broke free from gravity was how quickly the airplane wanted to climb. On this cool morning, minus 200 pounds of nagging instructor, my Citabria easily powered its way higher and higher.

I continued my climb as I left the traffic pattern; up and up I lifted until I reached 10,000 feet. Any higher, I remember thinking, and I'll be needing oxygen. What a marvelous view I had! With the majestic Rocky Mountains out to the west I felt strangely at one with nature, despite the steady beat of the engine and propeller. I turned and darted my winged beast this way and that, sometimes quick, at other times slow and lazy. I felt like a cowboy testing out a horse, putting her through her paces, or a motorcycle racer seeing just what his machine is capable of. I didn't want it to end, but this was getting expensive, and I hadn't yet practiced any of the maneuvers needed for my practical test. I was just "punching holes in the sky," as the old-timers would put it.

I didn't have a plan that day, but since I was up so high I figured I'd practice my stalls. After a couple of clearing turns to look for traffic, I started an approach-to-landing stall: power to idle; keep coming back on the stick, simulating a landing. Feel the buffet as the airflow over the wing is disrupted and recover with the least amount of altitude loss. Full power, lower the nose slightly, nothing to it. I did a few more approach-to-landing stalls with no problem.

Now I decided it was time to tackle departure stalls, simulating stalling after takeoff. I hadn't done any in a few weeks, and to be honest, I wasn't crazy about them because of the extreme nose-up attitude the airplane developed. I reasoned that, with the nose that high, anyone not recognizing a problem there had to be dumber than a box of rocks.

After doing my clearing turns, I gave the Citabria full power and started pulling the stick back into my gut. Steeper and steeper I climbed until I felt that the airplane must be vertical. It was worse than being on a rollercoaster as it suspensefully climbed that first monster hill. Only instead of the anticipation of the wild ride down, I was waiting to "feel the buffet," so I could lower the nose and end this ride.

Then it finally came. Only this time it was different from any that my instructor and I had practiced. My left wing stalled first and abruptly dipped down. I panicked, pushing the stick to the right as if I were in a car, using the steering wheel to go straight again. Definitely the wrong move. I should have used right rudder. A second after I pushed that stick to the right I went inverted. That shocking new direction lasted only another second. My next view seemed to last forever - a panoramic display of the ground, straight ahead and turning clockwise.

It was very unnerving to see nice, neat, square farmland filling my view out the windshield as I rotated around and around. Why, just seconds earlier I'd had a lovely view of clear blue sky and some fluffy soft clouds in the distance. Now I thought I was going to die. On one of my rotations I could see a farmer plowing with his tractor. I was seeing less and less of the sky and more and more of the ground. I hadn't given up, but clearly my brain was not in a calm, logical, functional state.

Every nerve ending in my body seemed to be on fire. The adrenal glands were working overtime. I would definitely explode before the airplane ever hit the ground. I felt very helpless, but like the cartoon character clawing at the air to prevent his fall, I continued my struggle.

My struggle was not with the aircraft, but with my own paralyzed brain. I've read about spins. Think! What do I do? Well, I'm spinning to the left; let's try opposite rudder and relax my deathgrip on the stick. Bingo! I've stopped rotating…but now I'm diving straight down! OK, pull back on the stick…easy now, don't panic and rip a wing off. (Yes, I forgot to reduce power.) Lots of G forces here. Oh, boy! Please stay together, little airplane. The blood is rushing from my brain to my posterior, where, at this point, I suspect my brains have been hiding all along. Slowly I pull the stick back. I am finally in normal straight-and-level flight now, and I didn't black out, and so far the airplane seems to be still in one piece.

For a moment I'm in total disbelief.

I listen, holding my breath - the Citabria's engine and prop are beating a steady contented purr. Nothing seems amiss, except me. This shock at cheating death is overwhelming. What is also overwhelming is my desire to be back on the ground.

I wasn't far from the airport, so I turned for home. I was still very shaken, and my first attempt at a landing was terrible, so I gave it full power and came around for another try. That landing wasn't pretty, but I was relieved and happy; the airplane and I were done for the day - and undamaged.

For years after I received my pilot certificate I avoided practicing stalls. I finally hooked up with an instructor who taught aerobatics, including spins. After a few hours, I actually started to enjoy doing spins, loops, and inverted flight. He taught me to be prepared and knowledgeable about aerobatic flight - it is nothing to be feared as long as you know what to do and are prepared to do it. We never took anything lightly, and the airplane was inspected with a fine-tooth comb before we left the ground. No loose-flying pencils or other objects were allowed - everything secured. We also got into the habit of performing a "personal preflight" - am I mentally and physically prepared for the task of flying this airplane today?

Aviation is fun and inherently safe; but, like the sea, it is unforgiving of any carelessness. The care and preparation that this instructor took with his airplane, both personally and mechanically, has stuck with me for years. I pass on this attitude to my own students now. I always tell my newly soloed students to have a lesson plan for what they will practice - before they actually get into the airplane for an unsupervised solo flight. If there is any maneuver they are not comfortable with, I advise them to tell me and we'll do it until they are comfortable. Finally, I make sure they are knowledgeable about spins.

Paul F. Devaney, AOPA 880818, of Loveland, Colorado, is an aircraft mechanic and flight instructor with more than 1,000 hours.