Flying with non-pilots always brings up interesting questions. Tony isn’t all that interested in planes; however he was quick to notice after only a few flights that there was some important difference between my licence and Cliff’s. He’s right: Cliff is instrument rated and I am not, I can only fly in visual conditions.

Cliff’s gone through additional training to fly using instruments for reference. I have a simple PPL which means that I require visual contact with the horizon and the ground in order to fly safely. Imagine driving your car with all the windows blacked out, so you could only drive with reference to the dashboard gauges (for example the speedometer and compass) and a GPS. It could work, but it wouldn’t be easy and there’d be a pretty big risk of an accident. That’s a pretty simplistic analogy but it comes down to this: Cliff has gone through extensive training so he doesn’t have to look out the window except on take-off and landing. If I can’t see out the window, I have to land.

Most of my blog posts about accidents involve instrument rated pilots. That’s not because instrument rated pilots are less safe. It’s simply that they offer more for discussion and learning.

So many fatal PPL accidents start with non-instrument rated pilots flying into instrument conditions that it’s depressing. In 2003, 69% of fatal weather-related accidents were the result of pilots without instrument ratings flying into instrument conditions. Spatial disorientation occurs when you can’t see out the window. 91% of spatial disorientation accidents between 1994 and 2013 were fatal. It is one of the biggest killers of General Aviation pilots. And the lesson to be learned is simple: do not fly into cloud or low visibility conditions unless you have your instrument rating.

The practical benefit of having an instrument rating is straight-forward: Cliff can fly in marginal or bad weather. I am limited to sunny days.

That’s the main aspect that I expected Tony to notice after a few flights across Europe. If the weather is not clear, I grumble a bit and then explain that Cliff will be flying instead of me, once again. It turns out that Tony’s picked up on a lot more than just that.

He says that it’s obvious who is going to fly the plane a few days before the flight. Our flight planning processes are very different.

Cliff sits down with a laptop and loads up Flitestar, looking at the airways. IFR planning always strikes me as a bit of a dot-to-dot game, where you are looking for the best route to get to your location. I could plan my VFR flights using the same software if I wanted to.

But I don’t feel like I get a strong enough understanding of my route doing that. I have big laminated maps with 1:500,000 views of Europe. I plot on the map, drawing red lines and planning a route so far around airspace that Cliff scowls in frustration when he sees my maps. He’ll always plot the straight-through route and presume he’ll be given permission to cross. After years of VFR in Spain, I presume they’ll tell me to go away and make me go miles out of my way.

My flight planning is a much longer process but it takes the stress away during the flight, which is critical for a VFR flight when you need to be able to react quickly. This process forces me to focus on the route and the surrounding area while I’m on the ground. That means I have much better spatial awareness when I’m in the air than I would if I let the software simply offer me a proposed route from A to B.

I also have a full list of radio frequencies that I expect to occur en route so I know who to talk to as I go. On an IFR flight, you are constantly told who to talk to. It’s pretty common to be handed off VFR as well, especially in the UK. Still, I’ve had my share of controllers end our friendship with “Free call next station” with not even a hint as to who I should speak to next.

If I already know the frequencies on my route this all becomes trivial. It also means I can key in the stations from my flight planning in advance. This way, if a controller tells me where to go next, I am not scribbling down numbers and then entering them every time. Mostly, I’m just verifying that the frequency I’ve been given matches the frequency I’ve already keyed into the radio.

“Sylvia can’t fly through cloud” is the other aspect that Tony has picked up on. Cliff plans flights at 10,000 feet so the first thing he generally does is take us straight through the clouds to get to his sweet spot in the sky. This gives us max speed and fuel efficiency and of course, he isn’t worried about getting trapped above the clouds. Meanwhile, I see a single fluffy cloud on the horizon and start talking about what I’m going to do to avoid it.

Tony’s also noticed that I tend to chug along between 4,000 and 5,000 feet, even in clear blue sky, despite the loss of efficiency. I always claim I have to do this so that I don’t have to worry about changing cloud above/below me as we go. But I’ll tell you honestly, it’s really because I like the better view of the countryside. Just don’t tell Cliff that, as he’s the one who pays the fuel bill.

Ken White is a flight instructor at Tailwheels in Florida and an amazing pilot. The son of a pilot and A&P mechanic, he’s spent time in the U.S Air Force as a cargo transportation specialist, contingency response group (CRG) member, and currently serves with the Florida Air National Guard as a jet propulsion technician for F100 series engines. Ken earned his flight ratings by being the jack of all trades at just about every airport he’s been around. From pumping 100 low lead and Jet A on the flight line, to serving tables at airport diners, he’s built his time and reputation one hour at a time. He completed the restoration of a well-abused Cessna 150 in 2009 and has been behind its yoke ever since.

He’s also brave enough to admit when he makes a mistake. Here’s his story of flying VFR as a low-hour pilot into bad weather while under pressure to get home.

First let’s set the stage. I fly in Florida and at the time, might have had about 200 hours total, just enough to feel slightly invincible. I was flying an old school Cessna 172 Skyhawk with a STOL kit (short take off and landing modifications) that I had come to love. I can park that plane anywhere. Onboard were myself and the girlfriend. We had just flown down to Venice, Florida for some sun and surf as the beach and Sharky’s, a great restaurant, are a short walk from the airport.

Now let’s talk about Get-home-itus and how it can make you do some really stupid things. We’d finished dinner and were on our way back the field. The restaurant faces south south west so you get one hell of a sunset with your meal. That being said, as one would expect, it’s very dark when we get back to the airport. I had noticed some off-shore lightning on the walk back but didn’t think much of it. However the lightning that did get my attention was north and east of the field.

I spin up the GPS and sure enough, there are three cells in the previous mention directions forming up a nice horse shoe around central Florida but wide enough that we might make it back before they roll over the airport. My instincts are screaming at me, DO NOT FLY THIS OUT! The girlfriend, on the other hand, was extremely concerned about getting home as she had to work in the morning. She had started a new job and was ultra-concerned about making the right impressions…yadda yadda. Long story short, I gave in and we jumped in the hawk.

Right off the bat I knew this was a bad idea. We took off down wind (only four knots by the AWOS) to avoid flying over the black hole of the gulf of Mexico and to avoid the storm already closing in from that direction. So, long take off roll, reluctance to climb. Otherwise smooth. I expected this. I’m on the horn with Tampa ATC and immediately notice the surprise in the controllers voice that anyone would even be out in these conditions. Should have been a clue. I’m getting vectors north around the cells and thinking everything’s relatively cool although I can see lighting in all four directions. Ok, getting my attention but not sweating it yet.

ATC calls up and tells me he needs a turn to 090 to clear the way for a Mooney on a long 15 mile straight in final to Sarasota. Another invincible soul who thought he could sniff his way through the CB (cumulonimbus) clouds that night. This is when alarm bells start a faint whisper in my ear. Here’s another aircraft getting a 15 mile final straight into an airport. 15 miles out. I suppose it crossed my mind that if he can’t make a turn, or setup for a local pattern or approach then something must be very damn wrong with the weather since he hasn’t declared an emergency. ATC tells me that the nearest cell to me is 20 miles away and he will get me turned back on course before I get too close.

I’m about to learn a very important lesson about what ATC can and can’t see on their radar scopes.

Radar can only reflect falling precipitation. It can’t do anything for you as far as clouds are concerned and the sweeps are a bit delayed from reality. So what seems like a wide open hole in the sky could actually be a filled with all kinds of nasty weather.

I turn to 090 blindly accepting that ATC has the world completely under control. I’m at 2,500 feet at the time. Just as I roll level the world outside the window goes completely black. I’ve just flown into a wall of cloud and I’m completely in the soup. I immediately tell Tampa what’s going on and roll back into a left turn, intending to 180 out of there. Tampa is actually a lot more concerned about this as I am and starts rapid firing instructions to do exactly what I was already doing. I’m completely glued to the instrument through this. The outside world is starting to deteriorate rapidly however, the plane is getting bounced and is starting to roll uncommanded by the pilot.

Just as I break out we get hit. It must have been a downdraft just breaking over the crest of the cumulonimbus clouds it came from but it hit the Skyhawk full broadside while we were in a 30 plus degree bank. The bottom suddenly fell out from under the plane. The girlfriend is death-gripping the sides of her chair and the only part of the world I can even recognize are the instruments in front of me. The most alarming of which is the vertical speed indicator showing a 2000 feet per minute descent correlated by an altimeter which is spinning off just as rapidly…things have gone very very south.

The plane is still getting buffeted but I finally get her to level off around a grand, wings level and somehow under Va speed. I had just lost 1500 feet of precious altitude in the span of a few seconds. I have a white knuckle grip on the yoke and a laser focus on the panel in front of me. The rest of the planet as far as I’m concerned does not exist. Calm as a coma I key the mike and ask Tampa for a straight in to Sarasota, I’m completely done with this flight and want nothing more than to be on the ground. I get the request, switch to tower and make the smoothest landing I’ve ever performed in my flying career. I didn’t even realize I had landed, the wheels just started rolling. After I taxi and shut down I finally look to my significant other in the right seat. She’s completely pale, and still white knuckling the chair in both hands, and simply mutters “Nice landing”

We managed to get home later that night after waiting a solid two hours for the surrounding convection to burn off. Lessons learned were stark and profound:

• Never let the urge to complete the mission compromise the flight
• Never fly into box canyon formed by surrounding weather
• And never put your complete faith in ATC, they’re just as human as the pilots they direct

Pat Flannigan over at Aviation Chatter has created an interesting series of posts on manoeuvring speed and weight.

Why Does Maneuvering Speed Increase With Weight?

Aircraft maneuvering speed, increases as the airplane gets heavier. It’s a simple fact that most pilots are either blissfully unaware or simply take for granted, and I’ve honestly never given it much thought. But then one AskACFI user posed the question – why does maneuvering speed increase with weight?

Patrick diagrams the problem to help us understand how many G’s we could load before stalling the airplane:

I recommend reading the full article but the summary is killer:

Now think about the question: Why does maneuvering speed increase with weight? Recall that stall speed increases with weight. Since maneuvering speed is really just a stall speed at a higher G load, then maneuvering speed will also increase with weight!

Got that? Good, because there’s more. That post inspired Pat to research and write more on the subject.

A Closer Look at Maneuvering Speed

Last week’s piece on maneuvering speed inspired me to dig a little deeper into the topic of V_A. It really is an interesting topic that forces pilots to delve into aerodynamic theory. This week, let’s take a closer look at maneuvering speed.

I won’t give away spoilers but we end up in close quarters with Aerodynamics for Naval Aviators and yet a third post which brings it all together.

The Myth of Maneuvering Speed

Most pilots and flight instructors understand V_A as the maximum speed at which the airplane will stall prior to structural damage, and that full deflection of the flight controls at or below this speed poses no risk to the airplane. This is a dangerous assumption and it is simply untrue.

Guilty as charged. And although I am really not very good at aerodynamics, I now feel that I understand a little bit better about the mechanics of the plane.

If you are a pilot (and especially if you are an instructor) then I recommend reading all three pieces on Aviation Chatter:

• Why Does Maneuvering Speed Increase With Weight?
• A Closer Look at Maneuvering Speed
• The Myth of Maneuvering Speed

Alistair Mayer is a brilliant science fiction writer and all around nice guy whose stories regularly grace the pages of Analog magazine. He shared this story from his flying days in Canada and kindly allowed me to share it with you here as a part of my I learned from that series. You can find out more about him on Alastair Mayer’s T-Space.

There were a bunch of us that regularly hung out at the local flying club, we’d gone through the same ground school together and were still pretty new pilots. We sometimes did some pretty stupid things. One guy, Terry, once came back with a small tree branch in his landing gear.

Anyway, one fine Saturday afternoon I was taking one of the planes out for some practise and invited Terry along. This was near a small town in southern Ontario, lots of farmland. I’d been practising approaches and — not sure whose idea it was, probably both of us — decided to try a soft-field landing on a large grassy field. The landing was no problem — except that as we rolled out I realized that there was a slight slope to the field and where we were headed was getting softer and muddier from the rain we’d had a day earlier. I was worried about getting stuck, so made a (in hindsight, ill-considered) decision to just turn around and take off before I lost more speed.

So, there we are, rolling along on a very soft, grassy field, slightly up-slope, trying to get flying speed. There are trees at the end of the field — not a problem on landing, potentially a serious problem trying to take off with the drag of the soft field and wet grass slowing us down. But there’s a nice wide gap in the trees, and I’ve almost got flying speed. Terry is starting to look nervous. Then I see the wire fence across the end of the field, between the gap in the trees. The kind that probably eats landing gear for breakfast. Crap.

Actually at that point I was pretty confident I had the airspeed to lift and clear the fence and maybe even the trees (but there was room to go between them), but Terry is getting really nervous. Just to bug him, I took one hand off the controls and crossed myself (I’m neither Catholic nor particularly religious), then pulled back and cleared the end of the field.

I’ll say one thing — I never heard any more stories of Terry coming back with leaves in his landing gear after that.

Bio: Alastair Mayer was born in England, raised in Canada and now lives in Colorado. He grew up reading science fiction, and got serious about writing it a couple of years ago. He builds on a good base: he majored in life sciences and computers in college, has sky-dived, earned his pilot’s licence and done hundreds of scuba dives, served in the reserves and been a member of the L5 Society, National Space Society, Planetary Society, and probably a few other things he doesn’t remember right now.

I “met” Joe Colletto through my aunt. He was a pilot, a sailor, a Marine during World War II and an excellent story teller. She worked with him for 25 years and loved to hear about his adventures. When I started posting essays about flying, she told him about Fear of Landing. He said that unfortunately, in his 80s he was relegated to “Hanger Flying” but he loved to share his memories. He had neuropathy in his hands but he didn’t let that stop him: he slowly typed out emails with two pencils.

Two years ago, he allowed me to post A Mexican Adventure, which quickly became one of the most popular stories on my website:

I knew we might have some trouble. There is no VFR night flying in Mexican airspace and we were running late. I was flying a single engine airplane and although the sky was still bright, the sun had officially set. I confirmed to the controller that I intended to continue inbound to Mazatlan.

Mazatlan: Zero 8 Quebec report downwind
Pilot: Zero 8 Quebec turning downwind.

The runway was clear in the dusk but as we turned downwind, every light in the airport – it seemed like every light for miles around – flashed on. My passengers recoiled from the window as I continued the circuit, confirming to the controller that I required fuel upon our arrival.

Mazatlan: Zero 8 Quebec you are cleared to land.

As we touched down, he gave me further instructions.

Mazatlan: Exit your passengers at the administration building, have them wait for the guards, then proceed to the gas pit and they will direct you to parking.
Pilot: Roger, will debark passengers at the administration building and proceed to the gas pit.

I stopped the plane in front of the building where we were surrounded by rifle-bearing troops. The two couples were escorted to a small, stuffy room and told that they must stay there. After fueling up and parking, I was marched into a dusty little office in the main building.

A severe-looking mustached administrator sitting at a dented metal desk asked me for every piece of paper that he could think of: passport, clearance into Mexico, proof of ownership of the plane. He stared at my license for a few moments and then cleared his throat.

He handed me my paperwork piece by piece as he spoke. “Señor, the lights, they is very expensive.”

I breathed a sigh of relief now that I knew what was going to happen. “The least I could do is to help to pay for them,” I told him with a smile.

The man nodded. “Señor, more or less 2,500 pesos for the lights,” about U.S. $10 at the time. He paused and then spoke again. “And the guards, Señor, they must be paid also.”

“How much for the guards,” I said, pulling out my wallet.

“2,500 pesos. But also, Señor, the man upstairs. He is tough guy.” He pointed straight up. Did I need to bribe God as well? Or perhaps he just meant the controller.

I tried to look stern. “OK, how much for the guy upstairs?”

“Señor, 2,500 pesos.”

I peeled off the required amount and handed to the man who nodded seriously as he counted it. I grinned at him and he smiled back; we were friends now. “And for you, Señor,” I asked him. “How much for all your help?”

He gave me a shocked look and threw out his chest. “For me is nothing, Señor! Is my job!”

He ordered us a taxi and led me to the tiny waiting room where my passengers waited nervously, surrounded by the guards still clutching their rifles. I leant in close and whispered to the two couples that we were in serious trouble. I told them that I had failed to contact the American embassy and that we were probably going to have to spend the night in jail.

“They’ve arranged for a taxi to take us to the hotel, to pick up our personal belongings in case that we don’t get out tomorrow.” We drove to the hotel in silence, where I asked them to pack their cases and meet me in the bar in 20 minutes to wait for the taxi driver to pick us up and take us to the jail.

Once at the bar, I ordered a variety of snacks and a pitcher of margaritas: a final fling. The passengers returned from the rooms one by one, pale-faced and unhappy, and bolted down their margaritas. One of the women had tears in her eyes.

The taxi driver walked up to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Ready to go?”

The woman burst into sobs: “I don’t want to go to jail!”

The taxi driver looked stunned. “Jail? Oh no! Mr Joe fix everything good. You no going to jail, you going to dinner.”

That was the final straw: I started laughing and could not stop. No one else in my party seemed to think it was quite so funny.

Here’s something of a learning experience that he wrote out last year:

I had a few really blessed events …blessings from above.

I was flying to Mexico with the San Francisco Sheriff’s Squadron. It was a 4:30am departure from Fresno in the light rain. We were heading south. Bakerfield reported 7,500 feet overcast, LAX reported 13,000 overcast, so heading south looked good.

50 miles from Bakersfield, we entered the overcast. I thought I might try to get between the layers of clouds but there was no in between.

By Porteville at 6,500 feet I was in trouble. I ran into a thunderhead building up and it tumbled me to 16,000 feet. I hit hail in the center of that thunderhead, it chipped paint off all the leading edges of the wings and the engine cowl.

The Bonanza is such a clean airplane, if I ended up pointing down the airspeed could have built up and torn the wings straight off. I remember trying to put down the wheels and flaps, but with the centrifical forces, I couldn’t reach the flaps or gear switches.

After about 30-40 seconds of tumbling, I was tossed out of the cloud build-up … into crystal clear, smooth air at 16,000 feet.

That’s as close as I ever wanted to become a statistic.

Joe Colleto passed away peacefully on the 20th of March at the age of 84. I wanted to say something about this man whom I only knew from afar but in the end, his own words from one of the emails was more appropriate than anything I could add:

I am not a particularly religious person, however every flight returning safely from the “wild-blue-yonder,” includes skill, knowledge, understanding, an appreciation of what could happen, and a bit of God’s intervention (Sometimes way…more than others). When you see an aircraft engine taken apart for overhaul laid out on a table, and realize all of the pieces and parts your staying aloft is dependent upon, and which you have absolutely no control over – especially at IFR, night or flying over the mountains – when you do the final tie down, you have to simply look skyward and say “THANKS”….

Thanks for letting me share your stories, Joe, and I hope that you’re watching out for us now.

Joseph Colletto’s Obituary by Marin Independent Journal

If you enjoyed this post, you’ll probably like these:

• A Mexican Adventure
• The Last Flight
• FAA Approved?
• Cross Country Solo
• Drunk steals plane at airshow
• A Close Encounter with an Emu

It seems to be fairly well understood these days that planes have slots – it’s common for the flight crew to announce delays because the flight missed its slot or was given a bad slot. However, I’ve noticed a tendency to blame the airport, passengers mumbling about overcrowding and bad organisation. Slots are not about sharing the runway with other planes – I’ve flown from some very busy airfields including Málaga, and I have never been allocated a slot. That’s because I am VFR traffic, I fly visually and choose my route as I go, much like a sail boat. IFR flights, including but not limited to commercial passenger flights, are based on routes which they must apply for in advance and which are then approved. An IFR flight is not working on a basis of see-and-avoid and so the traffic must be managed to ensure that no two flights are at the same place at the same time. A slot time or a slot is a part of this flow management.

So if Cliff files a route to fly IFR from Málaga, he will be allocated a slot, even though he’s flying the same plane as I am out of the same airfield. He will be given specific clearance and expected to stick to his route. I am following instructions and getting permission to enter taxiways and use the runway at specific points, but I don’t have a detailed route. I am not given a slot, although I may cause someone else to miss their slot (by not getting out of the way in time).

I’ve struggled to explain this in the past (as I think you can tell) but this week I stumbled upon a perfectly brilliant explanation on the PPRuNe Forums.

A journalist asked about a rumour that an airline could not get enough ATC slots for the flights because the airline didn’t have enough staff available to man the planes due to staffing cuts. A further poster commented that an airline wouldn’t advertise a schedule unless they had already secured the ATC slots for the flights. This exhance shows fairly typical confusion regarding how slots are allocated for commercial flights. Luckily, Jumpseater came to the rescue and set everyone straight.

It seemed a shame that the guide would only be available on PPRuNe. I contacted Jumpseater, who blogs at Norven Munky’s Weblog, and he kindly allowed me to share his explanation with the rest of the world.

Idiot’s Guide to ATC Slots

by Jumpseater

ATC slots are issued as a function of airspace capacity.

It’s very simple: if you have a room that holds ten idiots, you can’t put eleven idiots in the room, as much as you might like to.

Idiot number eleven has to wait until one or more idiots come out or the room is made bigger, so the idiot (No11) is given a slot time. This is the time the idiot has to present himself to commence his journey to the room.

If there’s only seven idiots in the room, then you can get three further idiots in there without restricting their progress at all, but the fourth idiot and any subsequent idiots will have to wait their turn.

If that room is in fact a corridor joining two rooms, then you can only get so many idiots down that corridor at any one time, even if the room at either end has a limitless supply of idiot capacity. Therefore any idiot wishing to pass through the corridor may get a slot time for the corridor, depending on how many idiots wish to use the corridor at any given time.

If there is another different corridor joining the rooms, you can send the idiots down those corridors, which may mean that the idiots will not be restricted at all.

So using the above Idiot’s Guide, you should be able to see that ATC SLOTS do not get secured by an airlines schedule or their staffing levels, they are a tactical daily/hourly response to airspace capacity.

Any questions?

Dear November 666 Echo X-ray,

This past year has not been good for flying, for either of us. If I’m honest, the past two years have been pretty grim. Keeping up-to-date and flying takes a lot of time and both Cliff and I have been so busy, it’s difficult to make time for you. And then when I’ve wanted to fly, you’ve invariably been in the wrong place: sunning yourself at Málaga airport when we had a weekend free in Scotland, passing the time at North Weald when we were sitting in Málaga and so on and so forth. I’m not trying to put the blame on you, but from a logistical point of view, it’s been a bit of a nightmare.

I haven’t actually flown at all in 2010. Twice this year, I managed to align the stars such that you and I were in the same country at the same time with spare time to go on a trip and both times, the weather has been such that you didn’t want to go. Sure, I could have put in the time to get my instrument licence but I didn’t want to complicate things. Anyway, it’s not just about the weather.

Meanwhile, you started to act starved for attention, insisting on regular maintenance even though we weren’t flying – or even wanting extra maintenance because we weren’t flying. You’ve not made a big secret of it. Engineers who I barely know have told me that you need to go flying more, that you are feeling neglected. It has been clear for a while now that our relationship isn’t fulfilling your needs.

Sometimes it is difficult to make a change. I’ve felt for a while like I was stuck in a rut but it was just too much effort to do something about it. Sometimes people stay in a relationship not because it’s good but because it’s convenient.

After all these years together, I was used to you and your quirks. I loved taking you to new airfields, showing you off. Every pilot was jealous that you were with me, it was a buzz. But in the end, we weren’t going anywhere, we weren’t doing anything. Our relationship was based on nostalgia, not passion.

There’s no easy way to say this. I think it’s for the best if we don’t see each other any more.

It’s not someone else – no one could ever replace you! I will enjoy being without a commitment, I think. It’ll be nice to be able to try out a number of different planes, a few lessons here, a few hours there. A lot more convenient and a lot less pressure. I’ll be hanging out at the clubs to see what I think, maybe have a fling with an aerobatic plane. But you probably don’t want to hear about that.

It’s not you, it’s me. I know you want a commitment, someone who wants to fly you all the time. And that’s not right for me, not right now. Maybe someday.

So, it seems like this is goodbye. I’ve loved being with you, don’t you ever forget that. Do you remember the time the autopilot broke right as we were flying over the Alps with my mother in the back-seat trying to work out what was happening? Or how about when I took a wrong turn and you ended up half a foot deep in mud? And then that time when I missed the runway and we took out a landing light at Oxford. Yeah, good times. We had a lot of good times.

Well, I guess this is it. I’m sure you’ll be really happy with your new pilot. He seems a nice bloke, down to earth. He’s really crazy about you.

You take care of yourself, OK? And if you find yourself at a loose end, give me a call. I’d love to get together for a quick circuit or two, find out how you are doing.

I’ve got to go. I just, I got a bit of dust in my eye. I’ll be fine. You go on, get flying. You’ve been on the ground too long.

Love,

* Sylvia *

After much discussion, Cliff and I have decided to sell the Saratoga II TC. The plane was snapped up by a Dutch pilot who was looking for a cruiser and loves Pipers and I’m sure he’ll be very happy with the Saratoga. Meanwhile, I’m looking forward to exploring different options and hopefully spending more time flying and less time worrying about maintenance and paperwork issues.

(Something from the archives: a 2008 post about Air Traffic Service Units in the UK and my native ability to talk too much. I’ll be back with fresh content next week.)

Air/Ground Radio Airfields with A/G Radio offer an information service with a radio operator who are not licensed and not under close CAA supervision. They identify themselves by saying the airfield name followed by the word radio. It could just be a guy on a mobile radio with no other support. They will offer a basic information service and report known traffic to you.

“Enstone, this is November 666 Echo X-ray.”

No response. I frowned.

“Enstone Radio, this is November 666 Echo X-ray, radio check.”

It had been a chaotic day and we were late leaving. And now that finally everyone was bundled up into the plane and ready to go, the youngster on the radio wasn’t responding. Technically, I didn’t have to request permission to start but it’s generally the polite thing to do. The last time I flew from this airfield, the chap called me just as I was entering the runway to let my know my son had left his bookbag in the cafeteria. Service like that is invaluable and so I didn’t like to risk upsetting anyone but it was frustrating to be sitting here waiting on someone who’d walked away from the mike.

I called a third time, no response. Had he gone for a cup of tea or what? Cliff frowned at me and I shrugged. I decided to try once more. This fourth call elicited a response: a confused voice came back over the radio.

“Are you talking to me?”

I winced. Who was playing with the radio, for god’s sake? That’s when Cliff’s mum piped up from the backseat.

“I don’t understand why you are saying Enstone Radio,” she said.

I started to snap back an answer when it sunk in. We were at Bembridge on the Isle of Wight. I’d been flying in and out of Enstone the previous week and we’d be landing there today but right now? We weren’t talking to them.

“Bembridge, this is November 666 Echo X-ray, request, uh … geography check.”

I could hear the relieved laughter as he responded. “November 666 Echo X-ray, confirmed, you are parked just outside of my window.”

“Thanks for that. Request start.”

“Nothing to affect,” he told me and we were finally on our way.

Flight Information Service Airfields with FIS are an information air traffic support unit staffed by licensed Flight Information Service Officers. They identify themselves by saying the airfield name followed by the word Information. Their function is to assist pilots to operate safely by offering a traffice service and helping with information regarding weather and aerodrome details.

The tricky thing about Information stations is how they let you know what you should be doing without ever actually telling you what to do.

“Shobdon, this is November 666 Echo X-ray, inbound to you.”

“November 666 Echo X-ray, this is Shobdon Information, go ahead.”

“November 666 Echo X-ray is a PA32 inbound to you, I’m looking to join the circuit downwind for runway 09, right hand.”

The response was immediate. “November 666 Echo X-ray we have three in the circuit, recommend an overhead join.”

I had already descended to 1,300 feet, too low for the manoeuvre that he was referring to, flying over the runway and then descending on the dead side. I also couldn’t see the point, I was perfectly set up to simply turn right and join the circuit in another mile.

He repeated the call. “November 666 Echo X-ray, recommend an overhead join.”

As I continued towards the airfield, I felt frustrated and confused: the advice that the Officer was giving me didn’t make sense. I didn’t like to argue with him, however, and I had to admit it wouldn’t make that much difference to me.

“November 666 Echo X-ray is climbing to 2,300 feet for overhead join.”

A moment later, it suddenly clicked. I was saying Runway 09 but I had been heading for the join for Runway 27, that is, the same runway going the opposite direction. I couldn’t possibly join downwind from my present position which is why he wanted me up and out of the way of his traffic.

I went overhead and joined downwind from a sensible position, much to the relief of Shobdon Information.

Air Traffic Control Airfields with an ATC service have an active control tower staffed by air traffic controllers and are under close CAA supervision. Only ATC are authorised to issue clearances. They identify themselves by saying the airfield name followed by their function (Ground, Tower, Approach, Director, Radar). They offer a variety of services including control, flight information and traffic.

The flight from Guernsey to Alderney was only notable in its simplicity: it took longer to get everyone into the plane than it did to make the journey. Only as we landed did it get hectic.

“Backtrack and exit at Alpha.”

I always feel a faint Top Gun thrill at phrases like that which sound so complicated but I now know are simple. “Wilco” I said with a knowing nod.

Except that having spun the plane around, I couldn’t find Alpha. There was a bit of a turn-in on my right but it disappeared into grass and with the wet weather I was worried about taking a wrong turn and getting stuck in the mud. I grabbed for my plate with a map of the airfield.

“Turn right,” said an impatient voice on the radio. “And expedite, I’ve got another one coming in.” Two planes at the airfield at once, this must be a veritable traffic jam by Alderney standards. I bit my lip and turned the plane right onto the grass and paused.

“Carry on,” said the voice again. “Straight ahead, between the two markers. I take it you’ve never been here before?”

“Affirm,” I said in my best professional pilot voice. Followed by “Sorry,” blowing away any semblance of radio competence.

“Just carry on straight. And expedite!”

Finally the map and the ground in front of me clicked into place, I wondered if the air traffic controller could see the small light bulb appearing over the cockpit as I made my way to the parking area. I had just chosen a nice easy spot to park when the voice came back.

“Pull forward to the blue markers, then face south and then west.”

I frowned as I pulled forward, was he trying to make it difficult?

“Which way is south,” I hissed at Cliff as I fumbled to get the map out again.

“Turn left,” he said. I turned then tried to picture a map in my head. If I am facing south then I’m looking towards Texas. California is west and on my right. Got it! I opened my eyes and looked around. “So west is to the right now, right?”

Cliff sighed at me. “Just use the Directional Indicator?”

I blushed and turned the plane until the DI pointed west.

“Just park there,” said the voice. The other plane had landed and radio silence descended. It would probably be at least an hour before they see any further traffic. I shut the engine down.

Military Air Traffic Zones It goes without saying that you should be unfailingly polite to any controller who has fighter jets to back him up. In the UK, the pilot should contact the controller either 15 nautical miles or 5 minutes flying time from a military boundary, whichever is sooner, requesting penetration. To enter the central area (Aerodrome Traffic Zone) you must receive permission and comply with the controller’s instructions.

My first run-in with the military was actually in France.

We had landed at an airfield for refuelling but they were having technical difficulties and informed us that they would not be able to offer fuel for the rest of the day. A quick glance at book showed us another airfield on route that listed AVGAS 100L and so we jumped into the plane and went straight there, plotting the route as we went.

“Cognac, this is November 666 Echo X-ray.”

“November 666 Echo X-ray, pass your message.”

“November 666 Echo X-ray is a PA32 inbound to you, currently 20 miles to your NW at 4,000 feet, request airfield information and joining instructions.”

There was a brief pause.

“November 666 Echo X-ray can you state your intentions.”

“We’re inbound to you for refuelling.”

“November 666 Echo X-ray are you aware that this is a military airfield?”

“Oh. Uh, no. Negative. I was not aware.”

“November 666 Echo X-ray I say again, can you state your intentions?”

I bit my lip but silence seemed likely to get a missile aimed in my direction.

“Er, I intend to ask your advice on where we could go for refuelling in the local area?”

The controller was perfectly friendly about it, verifying that I was not in an emergency before recommending that I fly direct to Angouleme and even offering me a heading and a flight information service directly to the airfield. Anything, I guess, to keep me out of his zone.

Using the radio professionally has become an essential requirement in the modern aviation environment. Radio provides the interface between you and others, especially the Air Traffic Service Unit (ATSU) whose frequency you are using. You will make life more comfortable for yourself (and others) if you can use the radio efficiently.

When I first started my PPL, I was told that I had a real knack for using the radio. Getting my radio licence was the easiest part of the entire training. Little did I know that in the meantime, I would manage to mess up speaking to every different type of Air Traffic Service Unit in existence.

The cross country navigation exercise is required to complete the JAR private pilot’s licence. It is effectively the first time the pilot is left alone with the plane, dependent on the new skills learned over the past few weeks. It is now not simply a case of handling the plane but also juggling the full navigation and radio without someone to take over if it becomes hectic. This is a flight that I think every pilot remembers, regardless of how long ago it was.

Part One: Granada
Part Two: Almería

At Axarquía we made blind radio calls. There was no one officially manning the radio on the ground so the pilots using the airfield simply talked to each other. You can speak either in Spanish or English on the radio in Spain. That works fine when there is an air traffic controller speaking to the pilots and keeping everyone up-to-date but in a tiny airfield like Axarquía it could be somewhat confusing. I made a point of doing my calls in English, keeping to the specific set phrases we had learned, so any Spaniard who had studied English Radiotelephony (rather than English as a language) would have no problems understanding me.

I do speak Spanish, in a conversational sense. I speak enough to get by as long as I don’t drink too much red wine and I avoid deep philosophical conversations. But I am very reliant on context and body language. I knew I was prone to guessing words, filling in the blanks when then Spaniards began speaking quickly. So I did not admit to understanding Spanish when I was on the radio, trying to lessen the chance of a misunderstanding – or at least, to ensure that if there was one, it wasn’t my fault.

On this last leg of my solo cross country, I left Almería and followed the coast. I turned inland at Torre del Mar and called on the Axarquía frequency to say that I was inbound to the airfield. I didn’t expect a response. The afternoon wind always came in from the mountains, which meant it would be blowing straight down the runway towards me. I didn’t even have to do a circuit, I could fly straight in and land.

I was surprised to hear Mercedes, the woman from the office, make a call in rapid Spanish. She knew who I was – if her call were meant for me, she would speak more slowly, or even find someone to translate and pass me the message. I hadn’t heard anyone else in the air so she was likely to be speaking to someone on the ground. That fit with the few key words I’d understood: something about people on the left of the runway. I felt sorry for them, I had a tendency to land slightly to the left which would be loud and possibly nerve-wracking for whoever was on the grass. I didn’t give it any further thought as I started my downwind checks.

I set up the plane for my final approach and looked out to see who was on the field. It was Juan, mowing the grass alongside the runway. His granddaughter and the airfield guard dog were bounding in circles around him. They were far to the left and not in my way. I reduced power and continued my descent.

I was about 200 feet above the ground, just passing the threshold, when the dog – this dog who had spent his entire life on the airfield – inexplicably panicked at the sound of my engine. I was focused on the runway, willing myself to get the flare right and finish this expedition with a perfectly smooth landing. Oliver would be proud of me.

At that moment I saw … I’m not sure I knew what I saw, something brown and black cross my field of vision. The dog, I thought. The goddamn dog just cut across the runway right in front of me. I can’t believe it just ran into the runway.

That’s when I saw the girl chasing after it.

There was no time to breath, no time even to think. I put on full power and pushed the nose up up up, anything to get away from the runway suddenly filled with child.

I went straight into the circuit, turned onto crosswind and levelled out without conscious effort. I felt almost dizzy with adrenaline. My heart was still pounding with fear.

I turned parallel to the runway and made another radio call, downwind. No response. I could see the girl running across the apron, still chasing the dog, her grandfather trying to keep up with her. I completed the circuit and came in to land, still shaking.

Oliver and Cliff came running to the plane as I taxied to the parking spot. “Jesus,” Oliver said and then, belatedly, “well done.”

“I had visions of blood on the windshield.”

“We were up in the disused tower, I was screaming GO AROUND, GO AROUND”

“I couldn’t hear you,” I said. I was trembling.

“You did fine.” He hugged me. “You did it! You’ve done your cross country solo.” He turned back to Cliff. “She’s unbelievable. She just ran, right across the runway. Right in front of the plane! I’ve never seen anything like that.” Then he remembered me again. “You did it! You were great.”

“I did it. And now I want a beer.”

I sat in the dark gloom of the bar, watching the Andalucían men crowded around the ancient oak table, watching the news. Oliver chattered excitedly about the runway incursion, repeating again he’d never seen such a thing in all his years at small airfields. I sat at one of the low tables and sipped my beer. Juan sat in the darkness behind the bar with a small glass of brandy. The grass, he told me, could wait. I could see the little girl, playing with her dolls in the gravel of the parking lot. She was laughing. She had no idea.

One of the men tipped his head at me. “Pilota,” he said with a wink. I smiled back. Today, I had conquered my fears. I was flying.

The cross country navigation exercise is required to complete the JAR private pilot’s licence. It is effectively the first time the pilot is left alone with the plane, dependent on the new skills learned over the past few weeks. It is now not simply a case of handling the plane but also juggling the full navigation and radio without someone to take over if it becomes hectic. This is a flight that I think every pilot remembers, regardless of how long ago it was.

I learned to fly in Spain with English instructors from a flying school at Oxford. My first leg was Axarquia to Granada where I was fine in the air but then panicked at dealing with the people on the ground. I survived and made my way back to the plane for the next leg of my flight, from Granada to Almería.

The sun was shining and, although the horizon wasn’t as clear as I might have liked, I didn’t have to do any difficult manoeuvres. I’d survived Granada, now I just needed to fly back to the coast and then east to Almería. It was a quiet journey and no one seemed to want to speak to me at all. I was humming to myself by the time I called Almería to tell them I had them in sight. There was no one in the local area but me. The runway was huge: 3,200 metres. It was the biggest runway I’d ever seen from the left-hand seat and I had it all to myself.

I landed without incident and parked in the corner before realising that I was going to have to trek across the hot apron to find someone to speak to. Eventually I found a tired looking building with a black C on a yellow background over the doorway, the international symbol for “Pilots, come here first.”

A red-faced Spaniard sat a grey desk, grimacing at paperwork. A younger, short-haired man stood to the side of the desk, arms crossed against his skinny chest as if in self-defence. They both glanced up as I walked in.

“Buenos días,” I said with a bright smile and explained that I was here to pay my landing fees.

The unhappy official looked at me for a long tired moment. He said “I need to speak to the pilot,” in rapid Spanish and then returned his attention to the paperwork in front of him.

“That’s me!” I tried the bright smile again. He glanced up with a harassed look.

“I mean the person who flew the plane.”

“Sí. That’s me.”

He furrowed his brow but finally got up from the desk. His too-tight jacket rode up over his waist.

I waved the form in front of me. “I also need to get this signed by someone in the tower.”

He glanced at the paper in my outstretched hand but didn’t take it. Then he spoke to me in slow and concise English. “I need to speak to the pilot of the plane.”

The young man hovered behind the desk, twisting his hands.

“Yes.” I took a deep breath, trying to drown out the blood pumping through my ears. “I am the pilot of the plane.”

“You?”

“Me.”

He slipped back into Spanish. “¿Sola?” Alone?

My friendly smile had long since slipped off. “Sí, sola. Alone. Me. I am the pilot of the plane.”

He stepped past me and looked over towards the General Aviation parking.

“Where is the plane?”

I pointed. He stared at the Cessna as if perhaps I had some able-bodied young man hiding behind the wing. When no one appeared, he scowled, snatched the paper out of my hand and stormed out of the room.

The young assistant took a step to follow him and then paused. He glanced around before putting a hand on my shoulder to pull me closer. “I think that’s great!” he said in a whisper, and then turned to run after his boss.

The young man’s proud smile undid the knot in my throat. What I was doing was great! It didn’t matter what some overheated damn bureaucrat thought. I was doing a solo cross-country: how could that not be great? I was flying alone, in a foreign country, in command of a beautiful plane on a beautiful day in a … well, less than beautiful airport. But amazing, nevertheless.

By the time the man in the too-tight jacket returned, nothing could dampen my broad smile. He handed me the certificate with a grunt. Someone had signed to say that I had landed at the airfield, all I had to do now was make it back home. I clapped my hands in glee and chattered happily as I paid the landing fee, ignoring his stony silence.

I’d planned to stop for a coffee but I was in such a good mood, I saw no reason to delay the rest of my flight. Besides, this was the easy bit. I just needed to fly straight back to Torre del Mar and then make a right turn to Axarquia.

It was impossible to get lost as I just had to follow the coastline. The worst possible case was if I saw the rock of Gibraltar come into view which would mean I had gone too far.

There simply wasn’t anything left to go wrong…

Conclusion