Learning Experiences

Don't forget the little things

As a child, I painstakingly painted and glued together plastic aircraft kits, mostly warbirds. I remember the soak-off decals sliding into place over glossy surfaces as I imagined a miniature me inside the cockpit. It would be many years before I sat in the left seat - not from lack of desire, but, you know, sometimes things don't happen as they ought to.

Still, as a professional cameraman, I was able to get close to aviation with some memorable assignments, especially being paid to shoot airshows. I followed the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps elite, the Blue Angels, to several performances, became friends with the pilots and ground crew, and stoked a flame within me that had been kindled two decades earlier.

The day after I completed the airshow filming, I ventured to Santa Monica Municipal Airport. I climbed into a Cessna 172, yelled "Clear!" a bit louder than necessary, and began my flight training. I relocated to Phoenix and took my checkride at Deer Valley Municipal Airport in a 1964 Piper Cherokee 235 - my Cherokee. It was from this airfield and in this aircraft that I learned a memorable and humbling lesson.

Five-One-Whiskey became mine after a series of rental frustrations. I longed for a cockpit I was familiar with, a powerplant that responded the way I wanted it to, and an aircraft that would always be waiting for me.

I kept the aircraft tied down at Falcon Field in Mesa, Arizona, and took off one afternoon to collect some instrument panel decals that I had ordered from a firm at Deer Valley. After collecting my package, I contacted ground control and asked for permission to taxi to the active runway. I soon found myself in a line of pilots idling their way to the departure end of Runway 8 Left.

I switched radio frequencies and said, "Deer Valley Tower, this is Cherokee Five-One-Whiskey ready to go with Information Charlie."

"Roger that, Five-One-Whiskey. Hold short for a Bonanza on final," I heard loud and clear.

"Five-One-Whiskey holding short. I have the traffic in sight." I just loved aviation lingo. I watched the Beechcraft touch down and wondered what kind of doctor was at the controls. As I was deciding between obstetrics and neurosurgery, my thoughts were interrupted.

"Five-One-Whiskey cleared for immediate takeoff. State destination."

The signal was weak. "Headed for Falcon Field," I replied. "Request a midfield right turn after takeoff."

"Five-One-Whiskey, you're sending carrier only."

The tower couldn't hear me! I had a portable four-place intercom, and I checked my headset connection. No problem. "Tower, do you read me?"

"Five-One-Whiskey, I'm getting carrier tone. Back taxi 'til you're squared away. There's quite a lineup behind you," the tower responded tersely.

Back taxi. That's like taking the ski lift down the mountain. I unpatched my headset from the intercom, which was powered by a nine-volt battery - or a no-volt battery in this case. I decided to bypass the unit. But in my harried state of mind, I mispatched the headset in the panel and still couldn't communicate.

The hand mic! From the Cherokee's side pocket, I retrieved the never-before-used-by-this-pilot handheld microphone and plugged it in. "Five-One-Whiskey," I spoke nervously, trying to gauge the best mouth-to-microphone distance, "Destination Falcon Field. Request a midfield right turn after departure."

"Right turn approved. Switch to One-One-Niner-Niner five miles out," Deer Valley Tower advised from the overhead speaker in my cockpit.

I taxied out onto Runway 8 Left, still holding the mic in my left hand, lined up on the centerline, and advanced the throttle. Soon I was airborne...situation normal.

Hardly! The massive powerplant, under full throttle, produced deafening decibels that assaulted my hearing. I couldn't think. I realized then that I had never flown in a light aircraft without headsets and had never given thought to the fact that all that lay between the engine and the cabin was the firewall.

I scanned the panel, then looked right and banked away from Deer Valley as I climbed into the sky. The hand mic now lay on the seat, resting between my legs. I set a course for Scottsdale and switched frequencies as the tower had instructed. "Scottsdale Tower, Cherokee Five-One-Whiskey is with you at 5,000," I announced loudly into the hand mic over the roar of the Lycoming's din.

"Five-One-Whiskey, Scottsdale Tower...[something unintelligible]," was the reply.

I cursed the 25-cent speaker above me and said, "Say again."

More radio chatter warbled from the overhead speaker, and I vaguely recognized my call sign. I'd flown this route before and knew that the tower would request I fly overhead. "Five-One-Whiskey having difficulty hearing comm...I'll fly over the tower, destination Falcon Field," I announced.

"Roger, Five-One-Whiskey, Falcon Tower is One-Two-Four-point-Six," I managed to hear.

"I will never, never do this again," became my mantra for the next few minutes. I felt as though I was a stranger in my own cockpit, my senses brutalized by the thrashing engine noise. This was, thankfully, a short flight, and I could hardly wait to taxi to my tiedown and shut off the engine. For now, I reminded myself, "Just fly the airplane."

"Falcon Tower, Cherokee Five-One-Whiskey inbound for landing," I said into the mic.

"Five-One-Whiskey, active is Two-Two-Left. Report over the river," shrieked the 30-year-old speaker above me.

The river was the Salt River, just north of the airfield. I'd never seen any water in the Salt, except for a few spatterings that were falling from the sky in front of me. It had begun to rain.

I descended to 2,200 feet mean sea level, pattern altitude for Falcon, and then announced that I was going over the river. The rain pelted, it was coming from the south, and I peered out in the direction of home sweet home as the sky grew darker by the minute - a combination of approaching dusk, rain, and low cloud cover. I was cleared to land with what I thought I heard to be a straight-in approach. I was prepared to cross the field, turn left to pick up downwind, and then fly base to final. That's how I'd always done it. I called back to confirm the approach and was told that there was no other traffic and I could fly a teardrop to final for Two-Two-Left. Anxious for the ride to be over, I decided to go for it.

I went through the landing checklist as I rolled out to line up with the numbers. I eased back on the throttle and, as the Cherokee slowed, I realized I was well above the glideslope. I deployed two notches of flaps, and the aircraft began to sink. As the runway approached, I was still too high, so I throttled all the way back and pushed the nose over until it was pointing at the tarmac. This worked well in one respect, but now I was picking up airspeed. I rarely landed with full flaps, but this was a rare occasion, and as I descended, now 50 feet above ground level, I leveled off to find myself drifting off the centerline.

In the unfamiliar circumstances of craning my ear to decipher the overhead speaker and trying to keep the mic nearby by clutching it between my knees, I'd failed to notice the crosswind from the southeast. I dipped a wing and skidded back on course and, just before ground contact, kicked a rudder pedal to square me up. The Cherokee slammed into the runway with all of the grace of a third wire carrier landing in heavy seas. Thankfully, the Cherokee's stout landing gear was designed to handle such abuse. I braked lightly and, as I rolled the full length of the runway, exhaled the breath I must have been holding for the past two minutes. Punctuating the peaceful moment of being on terra firma in one piece, I heard the tower from the overhead speaker, "Five-One-Whiskey... welcome to Earth!" I hung my head.

A grumpy old CFI had once told me that the two most useless things in aviation are altitude above you and runway behind you. I could now add to the list a portable intercom system with a dead battery. I resolved to carry a spare battery on each and every flight until I could afford a panel-mounted system.

Further, I learned that flying under less-than-optimum conditions, even when the problem is just a malfunctioning headset, compromises safety. Fortunately, I had no passengers to apologize to, but I felt foolish enough.