Reflections

In the early 1960s, what we now call “general aviation” was emerging from a period of low activity during Cold-War hysteria and limited new airplane production. Tailwheel airplanes, such as Twin Beech executive airplanes and DC–3 airliners, populated the nation’s airports. Paved runways were a luxury found only in larger cities.

The Cessna 140 in which I trained was state of the art, equipped with radios, lights, and electric starting. We flew from a turf runway measuring 200 by 2,600 feet, which was considered entirely adequate for the time. Our radios were heavy vacuum-tube devices, with their power supply sections located in the tailcone, only turned on when required for the mission. Unicom on 122.8 MHz was a new service at up-and-coming airports, but not ours. We simply scanned the skies for traffic, silently, leaving the hand-grenade-shape microphone on its doorpost hook.

As now, becoming a student pilot required a visit to a designated aviation medical examiner, found in just about any town that had an active airport. However, obtaining the medical certificate did not confer student pilot status; the dual-purpose certificate came later in the 1960s, until replaced by TSA-screened student pilot cards in 2016. In my day, the student pilot certificate was issued by an FAA inspector, upon application by one’s flight instructor. On the back were spaces for eventual endorsement for the pre-solo regulations test, solo flight, and cross-country.

The Federal Aviation Agency was only two years old in 1960, thus many of its inspectors were former Civil Aeronautics Administration staffers, invariably male and usually military veterans. Before the FAA was created, the CAA was part of the Department of Commerce. Renamed “Administration,” the FAA was wrapped into the new Department of Transportation created in 1967.

The early 1960s were a time of transition for flight training. Spin training hadn’t been required for student pilots for years, but many older instructors still insisted on including it in their curriculum, thinning the ranks of would-be pilots. Tricycle landing gear was rapidly becoming standard equipment on new airplane designs. To join the revolution, our flight school acquired a Cessna 150 in 1961.

On June 1, 1960, instrument training became a requirement for private pilot applicants. My Cessna 140 had only a turn needle and slip-ball instrument, its gyro powered by a venturi tube on the side of the fuselage. Prior to 1956, it had been legal to conduct IFR flight using only needle, ball, and airspeed. So, I learned how to stabilize airspeed for level flight, make one-needle-width timed turns, and keep the ball centered, sufficient for emergency weather extrications.

With the arrival of the Cessna 150, I readily embraced its gyro horizon and directional gyro, still powered by venturi-generated vacuum. They would make the checkride much easier to pass. And the tricycle gear was much friendlier than the old 140’s tailwheel. The 150’s massive flaps were considered risky for student pilots to handle when fully extended, so most landings were conducted in the manual lever’s second or third notch.

The 150 had a Narco Superhomer with nine transmitting channels, rather than the four of the 140’s radio. Receiving a reply required continuous tuning over a frequency dial, spinning the needle in the area of the desired number and rocking it back and forth to listen clearly. If the host station wasn’t transmitting, one could ask for “short count” and fine-tune to hear them say “one, two, three, four, five, out.”

We found our way around the open countryside by reading the town names on water towers and railroad depots.Most impressive was the Superhomer’s omnidirectional navigation, using the VOR stations scattered around the countryside. By tuning in the Morse code identifier, the sets nav needle would come to life and could be centered on a “to” or “from” course. Only a dozen years old, the VOR system was unaffected by convective weather, compared to the 140’s low-frequency nav receiver.

In the early 1960s, eight hours of dual were considered sufficient for a first solo flight. I had about 10 hours in the 140 when I soloed. Before long, I was given a route to lay out on my paper sectional charts, learning to measure courses and compute wind correction angles. The maps cost 25 cents and covered an area roughly 120 by 280 nautical miles, all on one side. The reverse was printed with airport information and flight rules. Back then, charts had fewer airspace designations and obstructions. AM radio stations were shown, used for ADF homing, along with low-frequency ranges.

VFR charts were all we had as a means of navigation. Students were taught to draw a line from departure to destination, measure the course, calculate wind effect, and mark off prominent landmarks. Wristwatches were needed to verify the time passing a checkpoint and make groundspeed checks.

We did have some resources. Manned flight service stations were located at most airports with VORs along the airways. One could radio for a live update on the weather or listen to a scheduled broadcast of reports over the VOR at 15 and 45 minutes past the hour. Filing a VFR flight plan was common procedure. We learned to “pad” the ETA to avoid being reported overdue, if we had headwinds or wandered off course. If out of radio range, a long-distance phone call was needed to close out the flight plan upon arrival.

We found our way around the open countryside by reading the town names on water towers and railroad depots. I was never truly lost, but I did resort to the VOR a time or two, to resolve ambiguities. Once signed off for solo cross-country flights, we were pretty much free to go anywhere we had the urge. Individual endorsements for each airport or trip weren’t required. I often made a landing at an airport that struck my fancy while I was out on a solo flight.

Nor was there a requirement to be signed off for solo every 90 days. It was simply expected that if you hadn’t been up with an instructor for a while, dual would have to be logged to assure competency. Everyone knew “perpetual students” who had been flying for years on a student license. They were tolerated so long as they didn’t attempt to carry passengers.

Today, as a CFI, I miss the simpler times of freedom from paperwork and training in airplanes with uncomplicated systems and panels. There’s much more to teach now, pushing the hours needed to complete training higher, and students can easily get lost in today’s maze of minutiae. However, with the more-capable equipment and better facilities we now have, the accident rate is a fraction of what it was when I learned to fly. Underneath it all, the basics haven’t changed; airplanes have to be flown correctly, the weather still rules, and good maintenance remains crucial.

LeRoy Cook is an airline transport pilot, instructor, and frequent contributor to AOPA publications.