from the right seat

“This is so friggin’ cool,” Tom said as he flew through low clouds, mist and rain over the Eastern Shore of Maryland with me this morning. I have to agree with him — it was very cool to see the rain on the windscreen and hear it pelt the wings, to cruise through the clouds at 150 miles per hour, and experience the mental rush that comes from guiding an airplane from one place to another when you can’t see where you’re going out the window.

With a new vacuum pump installed in the airplane and all systems in the green, we took off around 8:15 a.m. and headed for Salisbury, Maryland. The goal of the lesson was to fly several instrument approaches and then return to base.

The photo above was taken on the approach into nearby Easton, Maryland. The tower controller there told us that there was a heavy rain shower over the airport moving toward us. As we approached the runway visibility in the rain shower dropped to about two miles, and while that was plenty for us to have have landed if we’d wanted to, instead we climbed back up into the clouds for some more fun.

Yesterday afternoon I sat at my desk using Microsoft Flight Simulator, attempting to generate an image of the instrument panel of a single-engine airplane in flight, after it had suffered the failure of its vacuum pump. I needed this image for a training module I’m developing. The timing of this project could not have been more perfect, because today I got to witness what it looks like in the cockpit when a vacuum pump fails in flight in a real airplane.

For those of you who don’t appreciate the significance of such an event: The engine driven vacuum pump in an airplane provides the suction that allows the gyroscopic flight instruments — the heading indicator and attitude indicator — to function. These instruments are necessary for a pilot flying in the clouds to maintain control of the airplane without the benefit of any visual reference to the natural horizon. So if the vacuum pump fails, the suction disappears, the gyroscopes stop spinning and the instruments can no longer provide accurate information about the airplane’s pitch, bank and direction of flight.

My student and I were returning to the Baltimore area from Lancaster, Pennsylvania this morning on a routine instrument training flight when, about 15 miles from the airport, he noticed that the heading indicator displayed its orange system failure flag. “That can’t be good,” I said out loud as we descended through the bases of the clouds toward the runway. I looked lower on the panel and saw that the suction gauge was reading zero, meaning that the vacuum pump had failed. If we were in the clouds at that moment with no easy way out, we would have had to declare an emergency to ATC.

Fortunately, we were already below the clouds with the airport in sight, and Tom could control the plane easily by orienting it visually with the natural horizon. What I found interesting about the failure was how long it took for the symptoms to fully develop. If I had to guess, I’d say about 3-4 minutes elapsed from the time Tom noticed the flag on the heading indicator until we landed with the heading indicator deflected about 40 degrees and the attitude indicator wobbling around like a beach ball floating on the water.

While I’m sorry that Tom has to spend money to replace the vacuum pump, I’m so glad that he got to experience this failure in his airplane in a relatively safe environment, clear of clouds and near his home airport. Hopefully he’ll never see this problem in this airplane again, but at least now he knows what it looks like. The best I can do during a training flight is to cover up the gyro instruments with sticky pad notes and say, “OK, your vacuum system just failed.” But there’s no way for me to simulate the slow death of this critical system in the airplane during flight. That’s the real value of computer simulation.

Haven’t you ever stopped to ask yourself, why do you do what you do? If you’re a doctor, why do you seek to cure the sick? If you’re a lawyer, why do you seek to defend the innocent and punish the guilty? If you’re a pilot, why do you fly?

Why did I pack my things into the back of a Cessna 182RG on Friday morning and take off for a weekend on the beach in Martha’s Vineyard with a group of friends? Well, partly because I really needed a little vacation from the stresses of everyday life, and flying myself (as opposed to taking the water taxi or an airline flight as the others did) was part of the fun. The trip was part of the experience, not just a means to an end.

To get from central Maryland to the Massachusetts coastline I navigated through some of the most complicated airspace in the nation, and had a blast doing it. Squeezing maximum value out of the system gives me an incredible rush, almost equal to the rush I got when I made what was probably the softest short-field landing of my life on Runway 10 at Block Island, RI (wheels down and off the runway in about 500 feet; I made the first taxiway). We stopped there for lunch (lobster roll sandwiches) and a walk on the rocky beach before heading east to Martha’s Vineyard.

The weather was perfect, with excellent visibility and just a few fluffy white clouds to give the sky definition and visual depth. What struck me most about the view from 3,000 feet was the color of the water in the sound — shades of turquoise and emerald so clear you could see the sand bars below. If I was not looking at a map of New England I would have sworn I was somewhere in Florida.

On left downwind to land on Runway 10 at Block Island, RI.

In addition to the mental challenges of flight planning and navigation, one of the other things I really enjoy about flying is the physical challenge of controlling the airplane and making it do what I want it to do, when I want to do it. As I approached Martha’s Vineyard from the north, a large business jet was also approaching from the opposite side of the island. The tower controller told the jet pilot to make a wide left turn to get in line behind me to land, but I was in a position to help the guy out by keeping my approach very short, so that I could get off of the runway quickly. I sensed from both the pilot’s and the controller’s radio communications that they appreciated my efforts, and that made me feel really good about myself as a pilot.

The flight back to Maryland yesterday was relaxing and uneventful. We filed IFR and flew west over Long Island at 6,000 feet, then turned south past New York City and Asbury Park, New Jersey — which of course compelled me to play some Bruce Springsteen on the iPod. It was hotter and hazier than it was on Friday, but visibility was good enough that as we neared Baltimore we descended and flew low over Annapolis, Maryland before landing back home in Gaithersburg.

My next long flight is just two shorts weeks away, when I’ll join thousands of other pilots for a week of aviation exuberance in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.

As I flew north up the east shore of the Hudson River at around 12:30 p.m. on Friday, the Newark Tower controller advised me that I’d have to steer about a mile to the west, over Teterboro Airport, to avoid a temporary flight restriction over Yankee Stadium. Apparently the Bombers were playing an afternoon home game.

Was this factoid covered in my preflight briefing? Not exactly. There is a blanket “stadium TFR” that applies to large sporting events, during which airplanes are not supposed to fly within a 3-mile radius of the stadium up to 3,000 feet. The only way I would have known about the game in advance is if I followed Major League Baseball and, specifically, the Yankees — which I have not done in years.

Because I was flying inside the Class B airspace and talking to air traffic controllers, I was never in any danger of violating the TFR. Still, it bothers me that as a pilot I am required to keep up with professional sports in addition to worrying about more important things, like the weather and how my engine is running.

I’m sitting in the pilot’s lounge in Hagerstown, Maryland right now, while my IFR student has a mechanic check something on his airplane. The short flight here from Fort Meade was beautiful this morning, with crystal clear visibility and smooth, cool air. After a very hot and humid start to the summer, this is quite a refreshing break.

I’m really looking forward to my flight to Martha’s Vineyard on Friday for the Fourth of July weekend, especially since this fantastic weather is supposed to be with us for the next couple of days. We’re planning to take the scenic route to get there, beginning with a tour of New York City from the eastern shore of the Hudson River. From there, I’ll plan to stop on Block Island for lunch on the beach (lobster salad, perhaps?) before heading to our destination.

You know, it’s been way too long since I’ve taken a long cross country flight just for fun and recreation. This is going to be sweet.

I knew he was ready three flights ago, but the weather just hasn’t been cooperating. This morning, it finally did, and so with a light breeze blowing across Runway 34, Scott took to the sky by himself while I watched from the shade of a big corporate hangar. He soloed last summer but hasn’t flown in a long while. In just a few hours he got his groove back and did an excellent job today. Way to go, Scott! I’m looking forward to our first cross-country flight on Friday.

I could have titled this post, “A new rating” or “Passing a check ride,” but that’s not really what happened yesterday. Yes, it is true that I did fly a Piper Seminole with an FAA designated examiner, and I passed the required practical test to earn a new multiengine rating on my commercial pilot’s certificate. Yes, I studied and practiced and flew well. But it was so much more than that.

What really happened yesterday was that I experienced what can happen, what is possible, when a person opens their mind and heart to the flow of positive energy. It’s amazing what can be accomplished with a positive attitude.

My first flight lesson in a Seminole was on September 18, 2009, but I didn’t really begin focusing on the training again until March. It was a very long and dark winter, with very little positive energy flowing around in my world. That made it difficult to focus on accomplishing my goal. But then something changed, the cosmic tide shifted, and before I knew it I was back in the cockpit, nestled between two engines, trying my best to make them purr.

I woke up yesterday to a beautiful blue sky, decorated with fluffy white clouds. I looked at the appointment on my calendar and smiled when I realized that I was going to have the chance to achieve a goal, to make a positive step forward. The day was mine, and I left the house with a checklist in my bag and a smile on my face. I was prepared, calm and confident that everything would be all right. It was going to be a good day, because I was going to make it so. I was not going to that airport to fail, I was going to succeed. But I knew that even if things didn’t go according to plan — if the airplane broke down, or if I made a critical mistake for some reason — it would be a learning experience, and at the end of the day, I would have spent a few hours doing what I love. It was, in my mind, literally impossible for it to be a bad day.

People often use the phrase “it’s just like riding a bike” to describe a skill that does not tend to atrophy with time. So when I saddled up on a recumbent bicycle yesterday, I thought to myself, how difficult can this possibly be? It’s just another two-wheeled land vehicle.

My friend who owns the bike — and who also happens to be a flight instructor — insisted upon giving me a bit of “dual instruction and a checkout” before taking it for a spin solo around the neighborhood, to avoid a possible trip to the emergency room. Now I understand why. This is no ordinary bicycle. Sure, it has two wheels driven by a chain and pedals, handlebars with hand brakes, and a way to shift gears. But the reclined seating position, combined with the fact that the front tire is positioned aft of the pedals, changes the feel of the controls and the center of gravity enough that you really do need to re-learn how to ride a bike on this bike.

It’s been, oh, probably five or six years since I’ve ridden a regular bicycle. I was rusty, and spent most of my time just trying to rediscover my balance. The experience of trying to make this seemingly simple vehicle propel forward over the ground without crashing made me think about the requirements that pilots must meet in order to keep flying — and how bare bones the minimum requirements really are.

A private pilot needs only fly one hour with an instructor every two years in order to be legal to fly solo in an airplane on a clear day; to take a passenger up for a ride, the pilot must also have made three takeoffs and landings within the preceding three months. That’s really not a whole lot of experience, and most people wisely do much more than that in order to feel safe and comfortable, not just meet the letter of the law. (The regulations for other types of pilots, including those who are authorized to fly in the clouds, are more stringent, but this gives you a sense of what’s required.)

So as I sat there wobbling around on this strange bicycle yesterday evening, I was humbled by how difficult it must be for a pilot to climb back into the cockpit after a long hiatus. It made me appreciate just how important it is for us pilots to keep our skills sharp. If riding this recumbent bicycle was not like riding a normal bicycle, then flying an airplane is definitely not like riding a bicycle!

Today was a very special day for my student, Mike, who passed his Private Pilot check ride in the Cessna 182 he bought a little over a year ago. His son, Adam, also learned to fly in that airplane with me in the right seat. They are part of a family of pilots, including Mike’s sister. I’m sure they are all going to have a lot of fun this summer!

Congratulations, Mike, and be safe up there.

I’m typing this from the cool shade of a large airplane hangar in southern Wisconsin, typing on my iPhone while the Thunderbirds blast off into the sunshine. I’m here to share the time honored aviation tradition of an air show–a singular genre of event that brings pilots together as friends. We arrived in a gleaming, polished silver 1957 Beech 18. I flew it for about an hour while the owner munched on a sandwich. What an amazing feeling it was to sit in the cockpit of such an incredibly beautiful work of art. We are parked next to a 1944 DC-3.

Over the last 48 hours I’ve met so many pilots and heard their stories of success and disappointment. But today we are celebrating the achievement of Doug the dirtbike racer, who passed his Commercial pilot checkride yesterday. He arrived this morning in his Cessna 182, with a big smile on his face. Sharing in his joyful moment is part of what makes aviation so great. It’s about community.