Aviation writer Mark R. Twombly is a corporate pilot on a Citation II.
Sometimes the most difficult thing for a pilot to do is to do nothing. As in, whenever we're in an airplane piloted by someone else. If we're up front and know the left-seater, we may be granted some support role such as tuning the radios, but mostly we sit and watch. If we don't know the pilot, we can only do just that — sit and watch.
So it was for me recently. I didn't know the pilot of the Cessna 182 — he was employed by the charter company operating the airplane. Not much chance of striking up a friendly conversation, either. He was Costa Rican and knew about as much English as I do Spanish, which is to say pequeño.
A day earlier we had flown three people in a Citation II from Southwest Florida to Costa Rica's Juan Santamaria International Airport (MROC) outside the capital of San José, but our final destination was about 40 miles to the southwest on Costa Rica's beautiful central Pacific coast. It's a two-hour drive from the airport, winding slowly up into the mountains and back down to the coast. Our passengers, regular visitors to Costa Rica, had made that drive before — once. They much preferred to charter an airplane for a 20-minute flight, even if it was a piston single.
That's how I ended up in the front of the 182 with nothing to do but sit and watch. We were departing from Tobias Bolaños, Costa Rica's major general aviation airport, named for the first Costa Rican to fly in his native country. That was in December 1929.
The charter operator, Aerotour, is based at the airport, known locally as Pavas, the name of the surrounding community. Our party required two Aerotour airplanes, the 182 and a Cessna 206.
I gestured to the headsets hanging on my yoke. "Si," he nodded. They weren't the United Nations kind that translates long-winded foreign-language speeches into the wearer's tongue, so I recognized little of what was being said between the pilot and the female tower controller other than when he spoke the airplane's registration — "Tango-India-Victor-Alpha-Oscar." Costa Ricans call themselves Ticos, which seems to be the inspiration for the TI that leads all Costa Rican aircraft registrations.
With little to occupy my time other than observing, I judged the pilot a bit rough on the machinery but competent at his craft. Pavas sits in something of a pit, with a perennial easterly wind tumbling in over the crowded neighborhoods. We take off on the downhill slope of Runway 9 into turgid air. The pilot saws at the yoke to keep the wings in the vicinity of level.
We navigate to the coastal grass strip that is our destination by sneaking across the mountains through Parrita Pass, with higher peaks on our flanks and fluffy clouds overhead. There's a handheld GPS mounted on the left side of the panel, but the pilot is flying a compass heading to slide between the peaks and beneath the puffies. This guy has done this before.
I spend most of the flight looking down at the seriously rugged terrain. The brown hills are finely terraced with narrow paths tread by livestock that graze on the steep slopes. Small coffee farms grace the hillsides, but I'm less interested in the raw beauty of the land than in locating suitable emergency landing sites.
It's wasted effort. Other than pancaking onto one of the steeply raked slopes, I see no way we could emerge in good health from a dead-stick landing anywhere within gliding distance.
We've descended along the western face of the mountains, and now the vast Pacific stretches across the windshield. The pilot crosses over the deserted beach, banks right, and lines up on final to the narrow strip carved out of the tropical forest. The 182 plunks down and rolls heavily to a stop at the far end.
A few days later I again draw the right front seat for the return flight. This time it's in the 206, and the pilot speaks beautiful English. Luis Cantillano learned to fly in Lakeland, Florida, and eventually acquired all of the necessary ratings and certificates, including an airline transport pilot (ATP) certificate, to fly professionally. He was hired by a Costa Rican start-up airline and earned a Boeing 727 flight engineer rating before the carrier went bankrupt three months later. Now he's flying piston singles across the mountains for Aerotour while looking to move up.
Luis explains that he is going to take a slightly more circuitous route back to San José because it will be a more comfortable ride. The mountain slopes are hidden by the clouds below. Mercifully, I'm unable to search for places to put down if the engine has a stroke.
I sit and watch Luis instead. He is good. Easy on the controls, with a perceptive feel for the airplane and the air. Immediately after takeoff we begin a sustained climb to 6,500 feet msl in smooth air, whereupon Luis immediately begins a sustained descent into MROC, our destination.
We're number one to land, but Coco Approach asks Luis to keep his speed up because an ATR-42 is closing in. He keeps the power on to counter a gusty crosswind and expertly guides the 206 onto the runway.
Luis turns left onto Taxiway Golfo leading to the ramp, and shuts down next to our airplane. We've got two turbine engines, two covered life rafts, handheld marine search-and rescue radios, a satellite telephone, and other safety gear for the long over-water flight back. Luis waves so long, fires up the 206, and taxis away to another mountain crossing.
