Pilotage

Aviation journalist Mark R. Twombly is the co-owner of a Piper Twin Comanche.

Florida's instrument-rated pilots must be among the best in the nation at shooting practice instrument approaches, because we don't get many opportunities to do the real thing, especially in the southern half of the state.

At my home field, Page Field in Fort Myers, we bask under the benign influence of a semipermanent high-pressure system that lounges over the Atlantic. The prevailing wind is from the east-northeast, and typically it ambles along at a civilized 5 to 10 miles an hour.

The northern half of the state is influenced more by mainland weather, especially the low-pressure systems that originate in the Texas and Louisiana gulf regions and stumble northeastward along their associated cold fronts.

The confluence of warm and moist high-pressure air in the southern part of the state and cooler, lower-pressure air in the north can generate weather in Florida's midriff region, from Tampa on the Gulf Coast northeastward to Daytona on the Atlantic Coast — in other words, along Interstate 4.

Midriff confluence was in full flower recently as I prepared for a business flight. The plan was to fly north to St. Petersburg-Clearwater International for dinner with Chester and his wife, Joanne. Chester and I hoped to depart early the next morning for Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport for a scheduled meeting. Then I would return Chester to St. Petersburg and make the 40-minute hop home.

Normally that's an interesting VFR flight that takes me up the Gulf Coast, then southeast over vast sugarcane fields, and finally into hyperactive Fort Lauderdale Executive just short of the Atlantic Ocean. This time, however, it was apparent that the only sightseeing I'd be doing would be of the instrument panel in my airplane. A strong cold front had swept into Florida, then slowed and deteriorated into a classic Florida midriff stationary front — with one difference. This front was generating widespread low ceilings and precipitation.

No doubt the soggy, flint-colored clouds added to the misery of the people caught in the crush of Disney World and Universal Studios traffic that, like the front, had stalled along I-4. It was dark by the time I lifted off from Page Field, but the weather was VFR. It didn't last long.

Alone in the cockpit at night in the clouds. Now is not the time to doubt your instrument flying skills. Recently I had spent several hours flying approaches under the hood. On one of these IFR tune-ups, the instructor "failed" the airplane's attitude indicator and horizontal situation indicator and then had me fly a series of partial-panel climbing, descending, and level turns. Good, confidence-building stuff. I was current on instruments when I entered the dark overcast that night, but more important, I was proficient.

The ATIS at St. Petersburg reported a matched temperature and dew point, with the ceiling at 700 feet. The VOR approach to Runway 17L was in use. If those conditions held, it meant I would enjoy a small cushion between the base of the ceiling and the minimum descent altitude.

Apparently, Tampa Approach controllers are not used to handling GA aircraft in instrument approach conditions. One pilot asked how long it might be before he was cleared for the approach, and the controller responded with, "I don't know. We have a semiemergency in progress. The ceilings are low and we've got a lot of propeller airplanes trying to land."

I emerged from the overcast at about 700 feet as promised in the ATIS, landed in a light rain, and saw Chester waiting under an overhang at the entrance to the FBO.

The low ceilings had risen to become a higher overcast when we started our takeoff roll on Runway 35R the next morning. We entered the clouds just east of Tampa Bay and remained in instrument conditions for the next hour. The weather ended short of Fort Lauderdale, and the only arrival challenge there was keeping an eye out for an approaching Cessna that the tower repeatedly described as "disoriented."

The flight back to St. Petersburg began in late-day sunshine, but within minutes we were vectored into cloud. The radar picture showed several embedded storm cells to the northwest of Fort Lauderdale, but the accommodating Miami-area controllers helped keep us out of harm's way.

Timing counts for a lot when flying in weather. Good timing means the worst conditions either precede you or follow in your wake. Our timing was good that day. It was dark as we approached the Tampa area from the south, and fog was beginning to obscure the streetlights and headlight beams. It hadn't yet closed in on St. Petersburg-Clearwater International, and I could see the runway from three miles out.

I taxied back for takeoff and the final leg of the trip but the ceiling had dropped to near VOR minimums. I held for an arriving Boeing 757, then scooted up through the fog. The higher overcast rapidly lowered, and I again found myself alone in the clouds. In 24 hours I had experienced more weather flying in Florida than I could remember.

I flew out of the overcast before turning final at Page Field and chatted with the tower controller while taxiing to the hangar. I shut down, opened the hangar door, and retrieved our nifty new electric tug. As I attached it to the nosewheel to back the airplane in, a soft rain began to fall.