I was just settling into the marriage when I noticed to my great dismay that my partner has a roving eye.
We had been together for less than a year, so you can imagine my disappointment. Our relationship had started off well, and to my mind was unfolding nicely when, with absolutely no warning, subtle hints about moving on began to drop.
I could hardly believe my ears! I thought we had one of the most compatible ménage à trois arrangements going—me, my partner Doug 1,000 miles distant, and the Piper Twin Comanche that we time-share. One big reason the partnership works is that each of us has sole possession of the airplane for half of the year. Though unconventional, our long-distance partnership enables us to own and operate more airplane, or at least one more engine, than either of us could justify with sole ownership.
I for one have enjoyed every minute spent flying our airplane, talking about it, and working on it. We’ve discussed and agreed upon a number of upgrades—both functional and cosmetic—and sunk a fair amount of cash into the thing. I’ve adopted the same philosophy regarding the airplane that I follow with my 401(k) investments, and with my real marriage to my wife: I try not to get too exercised over the short-term up-and-down cycles, and instead focus on infinity. I’m in this for the long haul.
I thought that the same thing was true of Doug. He had given every indication of making a long-term commitment to the Twin Comanche. After all, he’s the one who bought it; I came into the picture later. That’s why I was taken aback when he began to make noises about an amicable parting, about moving on. Not from me, but from our airplane.
The first object of his restless affection was a Piper Navajo. He wasn’t so much interested in acquiring a specific Navajo that he had seen as he was infatuated with the idea of owning one in general. By the time he began to talk about it, his thinking had progressed to the point of focusing on a certain model, the PA–31-300, one of the so-called short-body Navajo models, as opposed to the stretched Chieftain version. Built only in 1968 and 1969, the 300 differs from all other Navajos in that it has normally aspirated 300-horsepower Lycoming IO-540 engines. All other unpressurized Navajos are powered by turbocharged 540-cubic-inch Lycomings.
Doug is smitten by the Navajo because of its generous walk-through cabin, impressive clamshell air stair door, and those 2,000-hour-TBO engines.
I’ll concede that I, too, could make productive use of all that cabin volume and seating, but my response to Doug’s infatuation was to start counting and comparing, as in 12 cylinders to the Twin Comanche’s eight; 1,080 cubic inches to the Twin Comanche’s 640; 600 hp to the Twin Comanche’s 320; somewhere around 34 gallons per hour to the Twin Comanche’s 17; and an annual maintenance expense that would be off the scale compared to our do-it-yourself Twin Comanche. In my eyes, the Twin Comanche’s numerical shortfall in every category added up to a huge advantage in the most important column—overall cost.
Doug must have agreed, because the Navajo talk eventually subsided. I should have known that the rubbernecking would start all over again. This time it was over the Piper Seneca. We agreed that the Seneca’s wide, comfortable, six-place interior would be a delightful step up from the Twin Comanche’s four-place closet of a cabin. But once again, all I could think about was the exponential increase in acquisition, operating, and maintenance costs.
Doug was exhibiting a common form of pilot behavior: the desire to move up to something that’s either bigger than the airplane you’re currently flying, or faster, or more powerful, or has another engine, or has a greater range or endurance, is newer, has more ramp appeal, more panel real estate to fit more avionics, or all of the above. Every airplane renter, borrower, and owner that I know—including me—has upgraded at least once, and if they haven’t, they’ll surely try.
In our case, the talk of eventually moving into a larger aircraft was based on our typical mission profile: long trips, often involving several passengers. We love the Twin Comanche’s efficiency and cost of operation, but it sure would be nice to make nonstop flights of 1,000 miles, or clock at least 180 knots, or offer our passengers more leg room, or….
No matter what you’re flying, there’s always an or. The desire to enlarge, expand, and improve what we fly is the engine that drives the buying and selling of aircraft. If we aren’t currently in the moving-up mode, and aren’t likely to be soon, at least we can fantasize about it.
Doug’s good at fantasizing. When the Seneca dropped off his radarscope, I braced for his next fling. I could hear him thinking, "How fine we would look flying around in a Beech Baron 58." But I was wrong about the next object of his aviation affection.
One day as we walked the ramp, checking out paint schemes that might look good on our Twin Comanche, Doug stopped in his tracks. "Now that’s the one we really need," he exclaimed. I looked to see exactly which airplane he was coveting this time, but there was no Baron, no Piper Malibu, no Socata TBM 700, not even a Beech King Air 90 to be seen. It wouldn’t have mattered if there were. Doug was staring at a Falcon 20.
