Flying to the ocean is one of the greatest joys that general aviation provides me. In 2014 I made three trips to the beach. Each one was memorable, but for different reasons.
In January I joined a group of pilots who have been trekking from Virginia to the Bahamas for the past several years. This group, spearheaded by Aviation Adventures in Manassas, started traveling together because they wanted, well, an adventure—and there are few things more adventurous than flying over open water to another country. We flew from Manassas to South Carolina to Florida, then on to the Out Islands (see “Bahamas Bound,” May 2014 Flight Training). Although I was a back-seater much of the time, I got to experience my first multiengine time in a Piper Twin Comanche. And the beach? It was simply amazing—more so because we had flown ourselves there. We hadn’t been passively jammed onto an Airbus and unceremoniously unloaded at a commercial airport. We had planned the flight, talked to ATC, flown the route, and touched down on the 4,980-foot runway at New Bight Airport, carved out of the greenery of Cat Island.
I’m a Marylander, and the Atlantic Ocean is a part of my genetic makeup. Each summer, my family would make the four-hour drive to Ocean City. Four hours if we were fortunate—five or more if we encountered beach-bound traffic on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, which was a single lane in each direction until 1973. There we would spend three, four, or five precious days digging for sand crabs, wandering the boardwalk, and tumbling around in the ocean surf. Decades later, something feels off if I don’t get to the beach at least once a year. Luckily, I no longer have to endure the five-hour drive. Flying to Ocean City cuts the trip in half, and I can get my fix in a few hours’ time.
In April, lured by warm weather and anxious to see the ocean again, I flew to Ocean City Municipal Airport in Maryland—this time in my airplane. The most direct route from Frederick means getting cleared into the Washington, D.C. Special Flight Rules Area (SFRA), remaining clear of Class B airspace, and talking to air traffic control while you thread the needle that is the VFR corridor between Baltimore-Washington International Airport and the Flight Restricted Zone. It’s not my favorite thing to do, but when I popped out of the SFRA over the Chesapeake Bay and continued east, I knew it had been worth the few moments of anxiety.
Approaching Ocean City, I had to watch carefully for parachute jumpers, and sure enough one dropped right onto the field as I was approaching. At the FBO, I rented a car for a few hours, which was plenty of time to drive the two miles to the boardwalk, eat lunch, enjoy the brisk breeze off the water, and get back. I didn’t even mind the return trip through the SFRA.
I got in one final trip to the ocean in September, this time heading northeast to Ocean City Municipal Airport (26N) in Ocean City, New Jersey. En route, I spotted two military jets heading in my direction—possibly from Patuxent River Naval Air Station—and had a brief surge of adrenaline. Had I strayed into the wrong airspace? Though my charts and GPS said no, and there had been no warnings on 121.5, I held my breath as they zipped past.
A brisk crosswind on 26N’s single runway made the approach and landing even more fun. Once parked, it was time for lunch at the airport diner (cash only) and then a five-block walk to the beach.
I stood on the sand amid clusters of late-season visitors and took in the Atlantic. The water is gray, brown, and green here—not the cerulean expanse that enfolds the Bahamas—but it is still my ocean. Thanks to a pilot certificate, when the ocean calls, I can answer.
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