Harvey Young Airport is a small airstrip in northeast Tulsa, Oklahoma. It was bristling with activity in 1979—the result of the GI Bill of that era; there were thousands of Vietnam veterans seeking advanced ratings through the program that paid 90 percent of their training costs. I earned advanced ratings and my instructor certificate through one of these programs at a Harvey Young flight school, and then stayed with the same school to train new candidates.It was a part-time job, so I usually worked evenings and weekends.
The ink on my temporary certificate was about two weeks old when I reported for work one summer evening. There was a visitor chatting with the boss at the reception desk. The stranger’s hair was cut close and neat, and his cleanshaven face was pink from the summer heat. The visitor was dressed in slacks and a sport shirt; his gig line was straight and starched. Like most veterans of the period, I noticed things like a gig line; it’s the line formed by the edges of the shirt flap, belt buckle, and zipper flap of the slacks. The neat and trim newcomer’s line was perfect.
He looked sharp. It was unusual to see someone so clean cut and neatly dressed in this era of long hair and platform shoes.
“This is Ed,” the boss told me as I joined them at the counter. "He’s visiting friends in town and would like to rent a Skyhawk to take them for a ride, so he needs an insurance ride.”
Ed’s firm handshake confirmed my first impression. I invited him into a training office for a preflight interview. Regular renters are familiar with the insurance qualification procedure where aircraft systems are reviewed, flight maneuvers and the stall series are demonstrated, and several takeoffs and landings are completed. My first question was about his flying background. “Have you been flying regularly?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. I’m in the Navy,” he replied.
“Oh? What do you fly?” I asked.
“The F-4.” There was no bravado in Ed’s voice. His answer was professional, matter-of-fact, without overstatement.
“That’s a lot of airplane compared to a Cessna. What’s it like to blast off the deck in one of those?”
“Well,” he told me, “you go from zero to 170 in about three seconds when the catapult releases. It really pins you to the seat. You can’t move your arms, so you start with your hands off the stick.”
“What are carrier landings like?”
“Night landings are the hardest. The landing deck can be rising or falling, and you can’t tell if it’s the airplane or the ship riding on ocean swells. You just set up the approach, follow the deck signals, then try to stick it on the spot.”
I was overwhelmed by his extraordinary experience. With only two weeks experience as a new instructor, I confessed, “You can probably teach me a few things. Have you ever flown a small airplane like the Cessna 172?”
“Not really,” he said. “About all my time is in military aircraft.”
After reviewing the systems and numbers, he completed the preflight checks and asked some great questions about the systems and mechanics. I thought to myself, There won’t be much to this checkout.
Ed flew the Cessna with precision. Stalls, steep turns, and slow flight were flawless.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Different,” he confessed, “but it’s a hoot. Gives you plenty of time to do a little sightseeing.”
“Are you planning to take your friends on a short trip?” I asked.
“We thought we would fly around one of the lakes with her friend. They’ve never been in a small airplane.”
“Well, let’s go back and do a few landings, then I think we can turn you lose to take them flying.”
Pattern entry was a precision event as Ed took the airplane through the numbers to short final. Everything was lined up, speed was perfect, and the approach angle was dead on. I relaxed, like many instructors do when riding with a proficient pilot. I folded my arms and became a spectator as Ed drove the airplane on a rope to the spot.
But he never flared.
Wham! Before I could react, we slammed onto the runway and bounced high. It felt like 50 feet at the time, but was actually about five feet or so. Still, it was very high.
“I’ve got it,” I told him as I took the controls and settled the Cessna to the turf.
“We’d better taxi back and check for damage,” I explained. “We hit pretty hard.”
“I’m really sorry,” Ed apologized. “I didn’t dream it would bounce like that.”
I realized that Ed was not accustomed to flaring for a landing. His carrier training and daily flying routine on a carrier deck was an entirely different type of flying from mine. He was a great pilot. He did what he was trained to do—he stuck it on the deck. On a ship, the arrestors and rugged landing gear take care of the rest.
After reviewing the differences in technique we selected a different Skyhawk for more practice. Of course, he picked it up in no time and was able to accomplish full-stall landings right out of the flight manual, so I signed him off for rental privileges.
I meekly walked to the maintenance hangar to check on the Cessna we had bounced. The boss was there, talking to the mechanic.
“What happened?” the boss asked.
I nervously told him. He said, “You’re in charge when you’re in the right seat. He’s a hot pilot, no doubt. But there are all kinds of flying. Each one is different and requires a different technique.”
I was despondent, but the boss said, “Don’t let a more experienced pilot intimidate you when you accept the responsibility of the right seat. You need to have confidence in yourself and stay on your toes.”
“Thanks,” I acknowledged with a whisper. “How’s the bird? Did we break it?”
“It’s OK,” was the mechanic’s good news. “No damage. These spring gear systems can take a lot of abuse. Maybe not as much as an F-4 gear, but they’re tough.”
Relieved, I realized on my drive home that I had learned a solid lesson for all pilots and instructors. Assume nothing, and have confidence in your training and experience.
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