I settled into my first-row, starboard-side aisle seat in the Comair regional jet, fussed with my carry-on junk, then glanced over at the woman fidgeting in the seat beside me. Her face was screwed up in an apprehensive, deer-in-the-headlights look that presaged her one and only comment before lapsing into an uncomfortable silence that lasted the entire flight. "This sure is a little airplane," she said.
"Must be she's never spent 90 minutes imprisoned in a Metroliner," I thought. Then I chuckled to myself over the unintended irony in her observation.
The Canadair Regional Jet is a marvelous airplane that is leading the way in the transformation of regional airlines from operators of "puddle-jumper" turboprops to high-flying jets. Yet, this passenger's frame of reference is measured in Boeing-size dimensions. To her, the RJ's fuselage cross section, passenger seats, and overhead bins appear tiny in comparison with those in the 747s, MD–11s, 757/767s, 727s, and MD–88s she's probably used to flying.
No doubt she also knew the ride aboard the RJ and other "small" commercial jets and turboprops is different than that of the big airliners. The smaller airplanes feel more nimble, more maneuverable, more visceral than the heavy iron. These are characteristics most pilots love in an airplane, even as a paying passenger. The woman sitting beside me, however, might describe the RJ's ride in different terms—more affected by "air pockets," for example.
I imagine she would be surprised to learn that the RJ is the much bigger brother of two of the largest business jets flying, the Canadair Challenger and its newest progeny, the Global Express. The public's dim perception of the generic business jet is that it is a large and luxurious extravagance reserved for the traveling whims of the corporate elite. Granted, a corporate Challenger or Global Express is outfitted far more comfortably and luxuriously than a Comair RJ, but size does matter. Airline passengers who think that an old DC–9, much less an RJ, falls short of minimum acceptable size standards should know that the CEO of their company is flying around in a much smaller airplane.
Along with her dismay over what she saw as compromised comfort in an airplane of such modest proportions, the woman probably subscribes to the popular misperception that size is directly proportional to safety. As in, bigger is safer, smaller is less safe. That may be true on the highway—drivers of Excurbanator-category SUVs absolutely count on sustaining no more than a bruised bumper if they inadvertently flatten a defenseless subcompact while chatting on the cell phone—but it certainly is not the case with aircraft. Size cannot corrupt the democratic forces of lift, gravity, thrust, and drag, which exert proportional influence over flying objects. The bigger the airplane, the harder it falls. I know I'd rather face a dead-stick landing in a Cessna 172 than in a Boeing 777. My unhappy RJ seatmate should know that safety is a function primarily of the mechanical condition of the aircraft and the performance of the crew, not the size of the airframe.
That said, pilots must acknowledge that we, too, fall victim to the notion that the bigger airplane is the more desirable airplane. Given the choice (and the funds), which would you rather see when you open the doors to your hangar, a two-seat single or a cabin-class twin?
The lure of flying ever-heavier iron begins to tug at us the moment we begin primary flight training. If our first lessons are flown in a Cessna 152, it doesn't take long before our eyes begin wandering over to the 172 in the school's fleet. If we fly a 172 from the start, thoughts of a 182 soon begin filling our heads.
It's the same with low-wing types. From Warrior to Archer to Saratoga to Seneca, taking that next step up in airplane size and performance becomes a primary goal and a prime motivator for undertaking advanced training.
I'm as guilty as the next pilot of succumbing to the notion that bigger is better. I learned to fly in a Cherokee 140 even as I coveted the FBO's Cherokee 180. That led to Comanche 260 envy, and on and on.
At least I confined my desire to fly ever-bigger, ever-faster airplanes to general aviation. My brother Gerry realized early on that his appetite for big airplanes was more voracious. Soon after learning to fly in college, he began flying singles for a south Georgia FBO. That quickly led to a move north for a Piper Navajo ride, followed by a brief stint in the right seat of a Beech 99 for what used to be called a "commuter" airline. When an opportunity arose to fly a corporate Gulfstream and Falcon 50, he took it. It doesn't get much bigger than that, unless you look to the airlines. He did, and today he goes to work in the left seat of a 727.
That Comair RJ delivered me to Rochester, New York, where I met up with the big-airplane guy himself, Brother Gerry. He had just spent several hours flying his 182 to meet me, so he was highly qualified to contribute his own ironic observation about airplane size, but from the cockpit perspective. For some of us, he said, it takes heavy-iron experience to realize that the most fun you can have as a pilot is flying small airplanes.
