Charged up and inspected (a post-buy I guess you could call it), I enjoyed flying this airplane for five years. I cruised at 110 knots and I got to fly fast eastbound and slow westbound. One flight from Chicago’s Meigs Field to St. Louis took over three hours at an average ground speed of 78 knots. At some point traffic on the interstate below appeared to outrun us. 

Time led to a succession of airplanes, each a little faster than its predecessor. A Piper Arrow gave way to a Cessna 210, which in turn was followed by a P210. The P210 could get up to the lower flight levels but was no faster, and maybe even a little slower, than the unpressurized 210.

This airplane was the winner for low flight. After a good tail wind on the east side of a cold front, I ran into furious headwinds out of the northwest after crossing the front. En route to Chicago, I descended to 10, then six, and then four thousand feet, watching the fuel reserves evaporate. Whew.

I flew that P210 for 13 years before buying a Cessna 340. Pressurized and faster, the 340 was flight planned for 190 knots true airspeed. It had the benefit of performing well at lower altitudes when we wanted to stay below strong headwinds and with turbocharged engines could climb into the lower FL 200s to take advantage of a strong tailwind. 

• READ MORE: That Sound of Music in the Air

It was when fortune shined upon me and I moved up to turbine-powered airplanes that altitude, speed and, for that matter, reliability became predictable. A Piper Cheyenne was arguably the best airplane for our needs. With a true airspeed of 230 knots and a penchant for lower flight levels (it was most comfortable at 23,000 feet), this airplane allowed nonstop flights from Tampa, Florida, to Lebanon, New Hampshire. Occasionally, though, that meant that a healthy boost from a quartering tailwind was required, but we did it more than once.

Over 17 happy years that airplane took us to Vancouver, San Francisco, Chicago, Colorado Springs, Miami, Key West, Marsh Harbor in the Bahamas and, of course, to our summer cottage in New Hampshire. The engines never hiccupped once. They were so reliable that flights across the Gulf of Mexico from Tampa to New Orleans were done without anxiety. 

All this turbine time allowed me to change careers at age 67 and be hired by a Part 135 operation where I flew Cessna CJ3s. Taught by some of the best and most patient captains, I became comfortable with true airspeeds of just over 400 knots and altitudes as high as FL 450. These weren’t my airplanes, though, so even though I was at the controls and became a captain, the special feeling you get from your airplane just wasn’t there.

The CJ3 experience gave me confidence to buy a single pilot jet when I retired. The Beechcraft Premier 1 was a real airplane, with sophisticated systems. MMO was .80. Two things about this airplane were really remarkable. As the sole occupant of the airplane, I occasionally found myself, alone, at FL 410—and the feeling was magnificent. And, yes, as a safety precaution, I always kept the oxygen mask nestled in my lap. 

• READ MORE: Riding in the Back of Some Nice Private Jets

The other remarkable thing about this Premier was its speed. My highest ground speed was 577 knots. A true airspeed of 450 and a quartering tailwind of 170 knots provided the push. These true airspeeds made headwinds less of a nuisance and made tailwinds a thrill. I have a picture of my daughter reading a magazine while the cabin information sign showed a ground speed of 629 mph. 

My fastest travel was, regrettably, as a passenger. Well, not too regrettably. In the 1990s you could cash in US Airways frequent-flyer points and book a Concorde flight. We didn’t have enough points for my wife, Cathy, and me to both fly Concorde, so she volunteered to fly to London the night before. I flew to New York, had dinner with a friend, and arrived the next morning at John F. Kennedy International Airport (KJFK) about an hour before British Airways was to launch a supersonic flight to London.

Stuffed with croissants and coffee, I got in line to board. When I got to the cabin door, I said to the flight attendant, “I would love to see the cockpit.” With a look of practiced disdain and a clipped British accent, she said, “Most of the children do.” Ouch.

I sulked to my seat and ordered a cognac. About half way across the ocean, the same flight attendant said that the captain would see me now. Armed with all sorts of Concorde trivia, including the facts that the airplane is longer at Mach 2 than on the ground as a consequence of friction-induced heat, that the airplane was trimmed by moving fuel backward and forward, and that, speaking of fuel, there would be very little left when we got London. 

• READ MORE: Taking the Grand Tour at Gulfstream Aerospace

As I entered the flight deck, the engineer greeted me. I knew if I was to stay there very long, I had to make a friend. The flight engineer was great. He told me of a time when he kissed his wife goodbye and reported for a New York morning flight. When he reached New York, the engineer on the return flight had “taken ill,” so he was assigned to head back to London. “When I got home, my wife had gone out with some friends. I was having a pipe when she walked in and said, ‘I thought you were going to New York?’ I answered, ‘Well, I did.’”

As he was telling this story, I noticed an altitude of 56,000-plus feet. “We float around up here. There isn’t any other traffic.” That is the highest and fastest I ever flew.

The flight attendant reappeared to drag me away. I pleaded to the flight engineer to return. He said he’d try.

Sure enough, a different flight attendant came back during descent and ushered me forward. I had scored the jumpseat for landing. ATC cleared us into a hold. The engineer said this was just for show: “We don’t have the fuel to hold, but other airlines complain that we get special treatment, so we have this little dance.”

We were then cleared direct to Heathrow (EGLL). After landing we were momentarily told to hold short of a runway from which a new (then) 747-400 was departing.

As Air China rotated just in front of us, the captain turned to the first officer and said, “It must be like flying a bloody brick.”

This column first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Half Century of Flight Has Included Some Altitude and Ground Speed appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

AOG means that even though the operator may have an extensive FAA-approved MEL (minimum equipment list) that allows for flight with certain mechanical discrepancies, it doesn’t apply to this situation. An AOG situation means the aircraft needs professional service to make it ready to fly. Until then, it’s grounded.

I can relate to being grounded as a bone marrow transplant for acute myeloid leukemia leaves a person in an AOG situation. After four months of “consolidation” chemotherapy, I was cleared for transplant at the Moffitt Cancer Center in Tampa, Florida. There was some special irony to this as I had served as the founding medical director of the institution and had worked there for more than 25 years before I retired 10 years ago. I hadn’t been back in the building since, but there’s still a picture of me in the lobby from back then when I had hair. 

Whereas the consolidating chemo was well tolerated, transplant is another matter. For the first six days I received more chemotherapy and on day five was given total body irradiation. 

• READ MORE: That Sound of Music in the Air

On day six at about 2 p.m., a clear plastic bag arrived with donor stem cells designed to replace my own obliterated bone marrow with donor cells. The bag was cold and looked to contain a cup and a half of orange slush, about 7 million stem cells. 

About 10 p.m., long after the last cells had been transfused, all hell broke loose. It turned out that my donor cells and my original cells got into a fistfight. Fever, fatigue, and overwhelming weakness prevailed. Cytokine release syndrome, they called it. For the remainder of my 32-day hospital stay I was essentially bedridden—AOG. Since discharge I’ve been doing rehab. They say for every day lying in bed it takes three to recover. 

What does this have to do with airplanes? It reminds me that anything can happen, anytime, anywhere. Everything in life is fragile—our health, our machines, our planet.

Aircraft are complex pieces of equipment. A small spill in the lav can lead to a corrosion inspection that might find damage requiring extensive repair, or in some instances, make the aircraft unfit to fly. Even though a previous crew may have felt it left the airplane in fine shape, things happen. My own Part 135 flying experience saw a couple of notable aircraft-on-ground situations..  

While preparing to fly from Naples, Florida (KAPF), to Teterboro, New Jersey (KTEB), with two passengers in the Cessna CJ3, the flap handle came off in my hand. A surprise! We called maintenance, which was based across the state in West Palm Beach, Florida (KPBI) and dispatch, located in California. A rescue ship was sent to pick up our passengers, and a maintenance tech drove across the state to repair the aircraft while we went back to the hotel. It was expensive due to peak season.

• READ MORE: Riding in the Back of Some Nice Private Jets

Sometimes aircraft damage requires a ferry flight to a more robust maintenance facility. I read recently about a cargo 767 that suffered a hard landing in Portsmouth, New Hampshire (KPSM), with significant structural damage. A ferry permit was issued, and the plane was apparently flown to a major repair facility, but the ferry flight was restricted to 10,000 feet and 250 knots. 

I once had to ferry an aircraft for maintenance that had been flagged AOG. It went something like this.

I got a call from the chief pilot, “Dick, you’re the best pilot for this assignment. Actually, you are the only captain available. Someone has drilled a hole in the wing spar of one of our airplanes. The hole is too big to be serviceable, and the airplane has to be ferried to Wichita, Kansas (KICT), from Teterboro, New Jersey. The flight has to be done when no turbulence is predicted and VFR weather is forecast for the departure and  destination airport. Tomorrow looks good.”

And so a great first officer and I went to dinner that night, not quite sure what to expect of “holy spar.” The next day as we traversed the country, we joked around by asking each other every few minutes, “You still got a wing over there?”

This column first appeared in the July/August Issue 949 of the FLYING print edition.

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“To live is to fly, low and high. So shake the dust off your wings and the sleep out of your eyes,” is a line from the song “To Live Is to Fly,” written by a Texan, the late Townes Van Zandt, and made popular by another Texan, the late Guy Clark.

Those songs, along with Jerry Jeff Walker’s “Mr. Bojangles,” have been long-standing hits on my own aviation playlist. I say aviation playlist, though my ability to listen to music while flying has all but disappeared, and that, paradoxically, is a good thing. Back in the old days, when I flew mostly VFR, one could listen to uninterrupted music while flying. Once I got a Cessna P210 and headed for the flight levels, music in the air became much harder to appreciate.

Multiple panel-mounted music systems allowed for ATC communications to interrupt the songs, but that was frustrating. Nothing worse than bellowing along to the Eagles’ “Hotel California” only to be interrupted by a pilot who requires his rerouting to be repeated three times with phonetic spelling. By the time the music comes back on, all you hear is “…but you can never leave.”

I bought the Cessna P210 right about the time Hank Williams Jr. released a song called “High and Pressurized.” In my day job as a cancer surgeon, I played this song in the operating room, the car, and the house. We were going up, up to those flight levels. “It don’t take long to get there, if you’re high and pressurized. It ain’t very far from nowhere, if you’re high and pressurized.” There’s a line about the mile-high club, but that’s for a different day and different magazine.

• READ MORE: Riding in the Back of Some Nice Private Jets

Just as with the P210, I finally twigged to the fact that music in operating rooms inhibited communication. Though there aren’t many thrills that can match performing a complicated cancer operation while listening to some Jimmy Buffett, I gave it up. I am down to listening at home or in the car. This is a real but necessary loss. I had noticed that when we closed a patient’s incision after a big operation, the residents and fellows seemed to work a little faster if Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” was playing.

No doubt I’m dating (aging?) myself with these titles, but the music my kids listen to seems to reflect the times: dirge, lament, and depression. Many surgeons play classical music while operating. That wasn’t for me. I was more into the Eagles than Gustav Mahler. Interestingly, the effect of music on surgical task performance has been studied. A report in the International Journal of Surgery compared multiple studies and concluded that “classic music when played at low to medium volume can improve surgical task performance by increasing accuracy and speed. The distracting effect of music (should be considered) when playing loud or high beat type of music.” OK then.

“Eight Miles High” by the Byrds was thought to be a drug song, but to me it represented a band of young musicians who had discovered the private jet and thrill of rocking westbound at 43,000 feet. Can you imagine such a thrill? Come to think of it, altitude always seems to provide perspective and release from earthly concerns.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Foo Fighters, and Pink Floyd all recorded songs called “Learning to Fly,” but they aren’t about learning to fly actually. They are metaphors quite easily understood by any pilot. They are about recovery and restoration, victory and perseverance. Isn’t that what learning to fly is really all about?

The album that captures the romance of commercial flight was made in the 1950s. Come Fly With Me by Frank Sinatra featured songs about Chicago, New York, Brazil, and Paris.

• READ MORE: Taking the Grand Tour at Gulfstream Aerospace

The cover showed the jaunty crooner with a come-hither gesture. In the background lurks a Constellation in TWA colors. Given that Connies flew nonstop from San Francisco to Paris in the ’50s, I can’t imagine a more romantic image.

You want lonely? Try “Early Morning Rain” by Gordon Lightfoot. “Big 707 set to go…She’ll be flyin’ o’er my home in about three hours time.” If that doesn’t conjure up a lonely, barely sober dude by the side of the runway, I don’t know what does. You want wistful? In “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” John Denver, contrite but not reformed, sings of separation and regret. He promises a wedding ring, but we’re not convinced.

Whereas songs about commercial travel are redolent of separation, loss, and loneliness, tunes about flying are exuberant and, well, uplifting. It is all about becoming airborne. My flying friends, when queried, came up with some great tunes. The theme from the 1954 movie The High and the Mighty is all strings and whistling—just like that ancient pelican John Wayne whistles about in the cockpit. One suggested “Born to Be Wild” by Steppenwolf. I’m confident you’ve got a few.

Every friend mentioned the song that captures the exuberance and challenge of flight: “Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins. If you were alive in 1986, had an interest in flying and a pulse, you could not get this melody out of your head. I don’t know how old you were when that movie, Top Gun, came out, but anybody over 8 will remember the ripped bodies, grave bravado, amazing flight scenes, and the iconic line, “I feel the need…the need for speed!”

As the movie opens, we watch fighters launch off a carrier deck, steam curling up, the quick salute, and then the cannon shot. The P210 didn’t fly like that, but it was close enough for me. I felt exhilarated as if I were Pete Mitchell, Tom Cruise’s character.

A need for speed indeed.

This column first appeared in the May 2024/Issue 948 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post That Sound of Music in the Air appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I’ve been a lucky passenger on five such flights, and I have found them to be exciting and fun, but frustrating. The first was the most impressive. At dinner one night many years ago I offered how I was flying commercially from Tampa, Florida, to Chicago the next day. My dinner guests said they were too—only they were chartering a jet. Would I like to join them? Well, OK. I promised to bring sandwiches for lunch as partial (miniscule) compensation.

The next morning I arrived an hour early, loaded with expectations and roast beef sandwiches. I watched as the crew prepared the Challenger 604. There was a stain on one of the leather seats. The first officer arranged a blanket in an artful manner that hid the stain. Soon my friends arrived, the door was closed, and we started up. I sat as far forward as possible on a sideways-facing seat to get a glimpse of the cockpit.

Before I could stow the sandwiches, we were out of 6,000 feet msl and climbing. I spent the next two hours kneeling between the two pilots and occasionally making a big deal out of serving sandwiches to my hosts. I did not split my time evenly, and my behavior is best described as rude. I think they had to clean up the sandwich wrappers themselves. All too soon we were on the arrival into Chicago Midway (KMDW). My hosts wanted to know if I would like to join them in the limousine into town. Sure, I answered. Big mistake.

• READ MORE: Taking the Grand Tour at Gulfstream Aerospace

Straining against the seat belt, I watched as we landed and taxied in. The crew shut down, opened the door, and got the luggage. Handshakes all around. And then an unexpected disappointment: We got in the limo and turned onto the grimy streets of the South Side of Chicago. There was no time to linger. No time to put the pitot covers on, no time to savor the magnificence of flying 900 nm in a morning in absolute comfort at FL 380. I sat in the limo, straining again against the seat belt, looking forlornly out the back window as the FBO and my friends’ many thousands of dollars disappeared into the gloom. Wow.

A few years later the same benefactors offered my wife, Cathy, and I a flight from White Plains, New York, to Tampa. This trip was in a Beechjet, so the magnificent stairs thing wasn’t happening, but the airplane was plenty roomy, and I got that seat that allows for cockpit survey. I was glued to the flight deck and let Cathy handle the niceties of polite conversation. Did I notice low fuel lights? I was too naive then to know what they might look like.

Speaking of naive, I was totally out of it when John and Martha King (yes, John and Martha—you read that right) offered us a ride in their Falcon 10 from Lebanon, New Hampshire (KLEB), to Tampa (KTPA) with a stop in Savannah, Georgia (KSAV). Oh, do I wish I had been typed in that airplane, or any jet, when we took that flight. It was just as you have seen in their videos—except no one was taping the trip. Their interactions were textbook. Their generosity was overwhelming. I still remember arriving at KTPA, taxing into our home base. Yes, I’m with J&M, everybody.

• READ MORE: Bam! In Life and in the Air, Things Can Change in a Hurry

The latest (and greatest, so far) was the shortest. John Raskai took nine of us in his Embraer Phenom 300 from Tampa to Savannah to visit the Gulfstream factory. That’s right, there were 10 of us in total. The Phenom has seven seats, a belted lavatory, and two pilot positions up front.

Raskai is a story in his own right. Newly married out of high school and driving a delivery truck, his is the quintessential American dream that now has him flying his own Phenom. I had never met him, yet here he was, taking us to Georgia. This is the kind of unreal generosity that seems not unusual among self-made jet owner-operators. I’ve benefited from it before.

After introductions all around, we boarded. There was no rush. John and his copilot, Christophe, had flown together before. We were like school children on a field trip. Everyone in the back was a pilot—most were high time ATPs. Raskai’s flying skills were about to be scrutinized by 100,000 collective hours of flight time.

Door closed and locked, I could hear the welcome litany of the checklist—in a French accent. Engine start was at 9:09 a.m. We took to Runway 1R at KTPA at 9:16 a.m. With 10 souls on board and 2,700 pounds of jet-A, we were still 2,000 pounds below MTOW and scheduled to land with a comfortable 1,300 pounds of fuel.

• READ MORE: Pilot Learns Something New Even on Familiar Route

The next few seconds were unlike any acceleration I had ever experienced. We were airborne in seconds. ForeFlight showed climb rates of up to 5,000 fpm. Rocket. As impressive as the jet was, the piloting was seamless. From the back I could see a knob turned (altitude preselect?), a button pushed (I’m guessing Flight Level Change), and then the gentle application of power until our deck angle had to be 20 degrees nose up. Our landing in Savannah on Runway 10 was smooth and right on the aiming point, allowing us to make the turnoff leading directly to the FBO. Pro all the way.

Our flight home left me staring out the window at a vivid sunset, thinking about airplanes and the people drawn to them. Everybody in that aircraft is romantic about them, and every one of them has been amazingly generous to me. We were treated to an instrument landing at KTPA. The light rain made the landing even sweeter. When we taxied in and shut down, I was suffused with a sense of well-being. I just sat there until everybody else had deplaned. Then I helped Raskai reset the seat belts the way any jet owner will understand—just so.

I was the last man out of the airplane, but nobody was in a hurry to leave. We hung around and watched John put on the pitot covers, stood around awkwardly, then reluctantly said goodbye.

This column first appeared in the April 2024/Issue 947 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Riding in the Back of Some Nice Private Jets appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Cruising westbound at FL 430 with just more than an hour to the destination, we’re chatting about our groundspeed, which is just tickling 400 knots, the headwinds, and, despite constant rearrangement of the sun visors, the annoying persistence of sun in both our faces.

Suddenly, BAM!

Stunned, I can’t make out what has happened, but whatever it is, it is catastrophic. The master warning is blaring, and I think I see some flashing lights, but the air is filled with condensation and junk. Sudden catastrophic decompression.

We wordlessly execute our memory items. Don oxygen mask, switch to mic oxy mask. With communication established, we go to the emergency descent memory items. Throttles to idle, speed brakes deployed, start with 15-degree nose down. If nothing seems to be falling off the airplane, accelerate to M_MO. Check pax oxygen. Go to the checklist.

This was not a dream, nor was it real, yet it was pretty much the equivalent of what happened over the summer. It wasn’t the airplane that had a problem—it was me.

• READ MORE: Taking the Grand Tour at Gulfstream Aerospace

After a leisurely hike with my wife, Cathy, son, and his family in the Ledges of New Hampshire, we went back to the cottage, sent the parents home to Boston, and had dinner. We had bought some chicken at a farm near us in Vermont. The chicken had led a coddled life; no hormones, nothing but the best feed, and plenty of room to roam. Cathy made a sheet pan chicken dinner.

I was really looking forward to the next week. The grandkids were great, and my flying friend, Bill Alpert, had invited me to copilot a Cessna Citation CJ2+ from Nantucket, Massachusetts, to Tampa, Florida, at the end of the week. Our Beechcraft P-Baron should’ve been out of its Florida annual by then, so I could fly it back to New Hampshire. What a package.

About an hour later, BAM!

Violent vomiting and other even less appealing gastrointestinal events alternated in bewildering fashion. We’ve all had the GIs at some point, but this was different. Cathy kept busy changing sheets and cleaning me up. The kids slept, obliviously.

By morning I had passed out twice, once on the bathroom floor, once next to the bed. The place was a mess. By late afternoon, I had not improved, had lost 5 to 7 liters of fluid, and Cathy called the fire department. The responders had a chair for just this kind of situation and took me down a flight of stairs as I waxed in and out of consciousness. “Keep your hands in,” I heard them say. In the ambulance they started an IV. Off we went to Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center, arriving just at shift change: 7 p.m.. Just another day at the office for my saviors.

• READ MORE: Pilot Learns Something New Even on Familiar Route

An initial assessment found I was perilously low on red blood cells that carry oxygen and white blood cells that fight infection. The diagnosis of B12 deficiency was entertained, I’m told, but I missed most of the discussion. I was out of it. By the time I was capable of understanding, more sinister diagnoses were being discussed by various consulting physicians. Resuscitated, I was fit to go home on day 5.

Over the next month, the diagnosis became clear: acute myeloid leukemia. The worst. Five-year survival rate for people over 20 is 28 percent. Not only that, but those survival statistics are for patients younger than me. And then this: The only known cure for my subtype is a bone marrow transplant. Don’t Google this. A month in the hospital is the least of it, and the therapy itself carries a 25 percent mortality rate, I’m told.

What the heck does this have to do with flying airplanes?

One, it is a reminder how your week, my week, anybody’s week can go from anticipating flight to hanging on for dear life. As a young surgeon, I learned this in the emergency rooms where I met that motorcycle jockey who left home one morning with high hopes and the feel of speed that made his T-shirt climb up his back but was now lying motionless in a bed with a bad spinal injury. Motorcycles are often referred to as “donor cycles” in hospitals.

Two, just as you are completely dependent on the expertise of the folks up front on the flight deck when you board an airliner, you are putting your life in the hands of people you just met. You better hope that the airline has rigorous selection policies, expert training, and superb maintenance, not to mention strict criteria for the mental health of the folks in the jumpseat. Same goes for these new doctors. They seem pretty young and sure of themselves. Oh, wait, that was once me.

Three, with luck, you are on a professional river from ground school to mastery to captain’s wings on a Boeing 787. These accomplishments, while impressive, are of little help in a situation like this. Like your progress in the profession, largely determined by hire date and seniority, you become a leaf on a river. It is flowing, and you have little ability to steer a course. Your doctors, your diagnosis, and the system of American healthcare now have you in its maw.

Four, you have friends and family who care about you way more than you had dared to hope. My group of male friends—doctors, lawyers, newspaper journalists, pilots, IT gurus, former NFL players, and mechanics—have stepped up with a platter of helpful and encouraging selections. Who knew that Graeter’s Ice Cream from Cincinnati is the best? I’ve got 10 1-pint containers straining the freezer door.

I’m confident that there will be more aviation themes to this “journey.” I’ll try to avoid the maudlin and tell you what it’s like. Such intel may come in handy someday.

Meanwhile, the Baron is up for sale.

This column first appeared in the January-February 2024/Issue 945 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Bam! In Life and in the Air, Things Can Change in a Hurry appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

If a car geek were to visit the Rolls-Royce factory, they might feel as we did while getting a private tour of Gulfstream Aerospace in Savannah, Georgia. We were met at the front door by Shafer’s friend, Jay Neely, vice president of law and public affairs at Gulfstream’s huge campus right on KSAV. It was a federal holiday, so we had the place to ourselves. Neely said he didn’t mind coming in on a day off because he loves showing off the place to fellow airplane lovers.

“At Gulfstream, we call them true believers,” Neely said.

Jay felt like a flying brother—one with a Piper Cheyenne IIXL. In a gleaming conference room where each of us received and immediately donned a Gulfstream cap, Jay walked us through the history of the iconic airplanes that carry the company name. Born in the 1950s at Grumman Aircraft Engineering Co. in Bethpage, New York, the GI was the first postwar aircraft designed for business use as opposed to those converted World War II military airplanes pressed into civilian service. The success of the GI prompted the development of a business jet called the GII and, in 1966, migration of the civilian component of Grumman to Savannah, where a steady supply of skilled workers and space to expand awaited.

The 1970s and ’80s saw the development of the GIII and GIV despite ownership changes. It was in the late ’90s that General Dynamics purchased Gulfstream.

• READ MORE: Pilot Learns Something New Even on Familiar Route

“Then we had the financing to really build advanced R&D and develop extraordinary airplanes,” said Jay.

We got a glimpse of the Integration Testing Facility. A working, fully decked out cockpit of the new G700 had almost 50,000 hours of testing on it. Gulfstream has worked to make the side-stick cockpit integrative so that the pilot monitoring can feel the pilot flying’s input. You will remember an Airbus accident where a contributing cause was the lack of understanding between crewmembers as to what the other pilot’s inputs were and who, exactly, was flying the airplane. Heads-up display (HUD) and EFVS (enhanced flight vision system) adorned both pilots’ positions.

While they were testing the cockpit, it occurred to Gulfstream engineers to test the cabin too. A fully functioning mock-up of the G700 cabin was constructed.

“We wanted to know if there was something that seemed appealing during the first few hours of flight that became less appealing on a 12-hour flight,” Jay said. “So we put a flight attendant in with some ‘stationary’ passengers, gave them laptops, served them dinner, and let them sleep as if on a real flight.”

That is some attention to detail. A Bentley coupe comes to mind.

In the actual airplane, quiet is the theme. As soundproofing and noise reduction have improved with each iteration, Gulfstreams are almost eerily quiet.

• READ MORE: Master of Airplanes: Rocco Is One Lucky Lab, Indeed

“You can sit at the back of the cabin and speak with someone in the front in a normal tone of voice,” said Jay. “The loudest sound in the cabin was made by the gasper fans to supply air to each seat, so we put a muffler on the fan.”

When you pick out the mahogany or cherry for your dining table, your tail number is attached to the actual log from which the interior will be made. The side rails will match. Same goes for leather choice. Jay had some interesting tales about various clients’ wishes for special touches, as you can imagine.

Space? You want space? The G700 fuselage is larger than the G600’s, and you can feel it. The classic Gulfstream windows are larger than any airplane window I’d ever seen. I couldn’t help but think of the pressure on them at altitude. At the back of the mock-up was a double bed. I just had a moment to contemplate what it would feel like to wake up in flight and look out that window.

Three of us got to experience the G700 simulator at the FlightSafety facility next door. Screens? They’ve got 10 touchscreens, HUDs, synthetic vision, enhanced electronic vision, and electronic checklists. The side stick is intuitive, and the ergonomics seemed perfect. This pilot’s performance? Less than perfect. The haptics, HUD, and excitement must have been too much. I resembled a man fighting off bees at a picnic.

The actual construction of the new G700 and G800 takes place in a dedicated building.

“You may notice that all our buildings except this one are arranged like stripes on a centerline, but this one sits at 45 degrees,” Jay said. “It turns out that all the permits and certifications were in place, and a few weeks before we were scheduled to break ground, the FAA said the new building would obstruct the tower’s view of the approach end of Runway 28. So we turned the building.”

If nothing else, you’ve got to be resilient to make a Gulfstream. As we walked in the production facility to see airplanes under various states of assembly, one of our gang said, “It smells like top quality in here.” Did it ever. Our mechanic friend, who works on other big jets, said these airplanes are built differently. “That bulkhead was milled, not stamped,” he said, marveling at it.

Portions of the fuselage are joined while mounted on cradles that sit on what look like railroad tracks and are so precisely built that the rivet holes, smaller than a No. 2 pencil, line up perfectly.

Toward the end of the building, fully assembled airplanes awaiting type certification were set to go. Standing under the massive wing, Jay explained the anhedral/dihedral design that allows these massive airplanes to land in less than 4,000 feet with no leading edge devices.

More importantly, they can depart high, hot airports, and fly real distances—no more jumping from Aspen, Colorado, to Denver to get gas before heading home to White Plains, New York. That just gets so old.

This column first appeared in the March 2024/Issue 946 of FLYING’s print edition.

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For this pilot, the transition from a Cessna Citation CJ1, 2+, and 3 to a Beechcraft P-Baron was an eye-opener. Training is different. Jet training includes engine failure during takeoff, the so-called V₁ cut.

This is almost always accomplished in a simulator and usually easily handled by maintaining heading, retracting the gear, pitching to a speed called V₂, and climbing to a safe altitude. In a piston twin, this is “simulated” at a safe altitude by retarding power on one engine, the so-called V_MC (minimum controllable airspeed) demonstration.

• READ MORE: How to Make Sure Your Cross-Country Hours Count

As a practical matter, the Baron is a lot busier than the jet. Taking off with full power means reducing manifold pressure and propeller rpm soon after takeoff. This usually occurs just as the tower gives you a new heading, altitude, and frequency change. Once in cruise, there is the matter of leaning the engines by reducing the fuel flow to each engine while watching the cylinder head temperatures (all 12) and exhaust gas temps.

• READ MORE: What Should a Pilot Do if a Single Engine Quits in Cruise?

In typical jets, the red fuel lever is either on or off, no leaning involved. In descent the piston engine needs to be kept warm, so power reductions are done very gradually. This limits the rate of descent. In the jet, you just pull the power to idle and dial in 2,000 fpm (or more) down and don’t think twice about it.

This column first appeared in the January-February 2024/Issue 945 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post What Does It Take to Transition From a Jet to a Piston Airplane? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

On a route I’ve flown a zillion times, epiphany! Because of a painful, expensive, nine-week-long annual on our Beechcraft P-Baron in Florida, my family found itself in New Hampshire without a way home to Tampa, Florida (KTPA). I know that sounds ridiculous, but hear me out.

Our rescue lab mix is an aggressive dog not welcome on the airlines, so Rocco has become accustomed to (spoiled by?) the wonders of general aviation. He’s traveled in a variety of excellent airplanes, including the Baron, a turboprop, and two jets. He’s made the trip in fine style in this manner. Yet our airplane was more than 1,000 miles away. We needed help on a route I’ve come to know intimately.

I called Tom deBrocke and asked if he’d pick us up in his twin Aerostar. “Sure,” he said. DeBrocke’s an airline captain, an airplane nut, and an instructor, but most importantly a good friend. He’s gone coast to coast to help me out before.

It is close to 1,100 nm from Tampa to Lebanon, New Hampshire, but I doubt anybody has flown this route more than I have. At first, it was a Cessna P210 with stops in Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina, or Lynchburg, Virginia, northeast bound, or sometimes Norfolk, Virginia, and Charleston, South Carolina, heading the other way. The northeast trip averaged 6.3 hours, the southwest slog 7.4. Most recently, our Cessna Citation CJ1 could make the northeast-bound trip in less than three hours.

Since it had been more than 25 years since I had negotiated the northeast corridor in a piston airplane, I was full of questions about this trip in the normally aspirated Aerostar.

• READ MORE: Master of Airplanes: Rocco Is One Lucky Lab, Indeed

Lesson No. 1: Aerostars are amazing. Tom had told me he planned to land in Salisbury, Maryland (KSBY), on the way up, but when I turned on FlightAware, I saw he had already overflown KSBY at 13,500 feet. So muchhttps://www.flysbyairport.com/for normally aspirated. I scurried to the airport to meet him. He made the trip in 5 hours and 24 minutes. This pleased me as I was paying for the fuel.

“Almost like a transcon at the airline, but I still have an hour’s worth of gas left,” deBrocke said upon stretching his legs. He collected his bags and checked the airplane, showing no interest in using the bathroom. Waving a portable john alarmingly close to my nose, I was relieved to hear that Tom hadn’t needed it. We arranged for hangar space as rain was predicted.

Lesson No. 2: There is no hurry. Usually, I’m running around wanting everybody to hurry up so as to get to Florida while it is still light and avoid any thunderstorms. Tom showed no such urgency. By the time we drove to breakfast, borrowed the crew car so we could leave our car at home, and returned to the airport, it was almost 11 a.m. After careful loading, explaining to my wife, Cathy, how the emergency exit worked and getting Rocco settled, we taxied out, did a fastidious run-up and took off. There was no rush. Tom was completely at ease. Our destination was Elizabethtown, North Carolina (KEYF), where it was said we could get 110LL for $5 per gallon.

Lesson No. 3: Just ask. I already knew that you almost never get the routing recommended by ForeFlight in this part of the world. But I watched with interest as Tom worked to get us headed in the right direction while level at 8,000 feet. First, he secured direct to Hartford (KHFD), saving about two minutes. When told we had to fly out over Long Island to fixes 40 miles over the Atlantic Ocean, Tom keyed the mic and said, “Hey, Approach. Any chance we could cancel here and climb to 8,500 and go direct to Richmond (KRIC)?”

“IFR cancellation received. Climb VFR to 8,500, keep the squawk.” Just like that, we were flying directly over JFK with Manhattan out the window. I had never had the nerve.

Lesson No. 4: VFR has special responsibilities not evident while flying IFR in jets. Having flown IFR almost exclusively since 1975, I was only distantly familiar with sectionals, military operations areas (MOAs), and restricted areas. Sure enough, Philadelphia Approach was kind enough to suggest heading to KSBY then JAMIE to avoid a restricted area around Washington, D.C. Patuxent Approach confirmed this wisdom. From then on, I watched as Tom sought to confirm the ceiling of various warning areas, MOAs, and Class B airspace.

• READ MORE: Learning (and Leaning) a New Airplane Is Always a Rich Experience

Lesson No. 5: Even the pros can miss something. As we started our VFR descent to KEYF, the AWOS announced winds favoring Runway 32. As we discussed how to enter the pattern, Fayetteville Approach asked if we were aware that all runways were closed at KEYF. What? No mention on the AWOS.

Not embarrassed, Tom said, “I must have missed that NOTAM, and it isn’t announced on the AWOS.”

“The closure is definitely in the NOTAMs. State your intentions,” came the rejoinder. “Standby,” said Tom. We quickly found Lumberton, North Carolina (KLBT), nearby with $5.50 gas. Though we could have entered the right base for Runway 31, Tom did the right thing. He overflew the airport and joined the left downwind. In no rush and at ease, he chirped her on.

“Oh, there’s the reason for the $5.50 gas,” said Tom, spotting a self-fueling spot. While Cathy and I walked the dog, Tom filled 114 gallons into three tanks via a choreography required to keep from tipping the airplane on its wing.

Only later did I look up KLBT on AirNav to see the full-serve and self-serve gas were both $5.50. When apprised of this, Tom didn’t miss a beat: “But I’m quicker.”

Lesson No. 6: It is so important to have really good friends. This is true, in general, but if you can find one who loves airplanes, that’s the best. I’ve been very lucky in this regard.

Gassed up and heading for home, we got the rest done IFR with an astoundingly favorable route. Tom had arranged for his Nissan Pathfinder to be on the Sheltair ramp, so unloading was easy.

Once all in the car, Tom drove us down to see our own long-lost Baron, snuggled in its hangar. As we swung back around to head for the exit gate, two line guys came roaring up in their golf cart: “Hey, you’re going the wrong way.” “Yeah,” said Tom. “This is the owner of 260 Alpha Romeo, and he just had to lay eyes on it.”

Ain’t that the truth.

This column first appeared in the December 2023/Issue 944 of FLYING’s print edition.

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I first learned of Rocco from a video posted on a website called “Lucky Lab Rescue.” He looked like the lab mix he was reported to be. Tellingly, he had no “bio.” Usually dogs up for adoption have been fostered and their traits have been cataloged. “Needs lots of space to run” and “not good with children” are a couple of red flags. Rocco had none. He was cute, if a little “mouthy,” on the 20-second video, so my wife, Cathy, and I arranged to have him join a caravan of dogs being shipped from the Midwest to the good folks of New England. Apparently, there is a well-worn path for dogs abandoned at kill shelters to adoption facilities in the Northeast.

We have had excellent luck with labs and lab mixes. We knew Rocco first showed up in a kill shelter in Kentucky and was transferred to a veterinary technical school in Indiana. From the paperwork that accompanied him, we found that he had been used for students to practice putting him under anesthesia and drawing his blood. I’m thinking that might give a fellow an attitude.

It did. Surprisingly, his animosity is not toward humans but dogs. It took several surprise attacks against friends’ and neighborhood dogs before we learned to keep him separated from all canines. His vet hospital and human emergency department visit bills topped 10 grand before we got the picture. We spent similar amounts on dog training with the graduation certificates as proof.

“Why don’t you put him down?” We heard this a lot. There was one problem: We were falling in love. With the kids, grandkids, furnace repair guy, and the pest man, he was an enthusiastic lab love. Our vet said, “I will not put a dog down for dog aggression. Your job is to keep him safe.” That sealed it.

Rocco’s first flight and first airplane was in our 1980 Piper Cheyenne I. He acted like it was natural to scurry up the airstairs and to make himself comfortable in an empty seat. When that became uncomfortable, he’d come forward, put his front paws on the wing spar, and peer into the flight deck with a bemused expression. “Can’t this thing go any faster?” he seemed to say. He’d stare in hypnotic trance at the blinking reply light on the transponder.

It wasn’t long before we decided to buy a jet. Three years of Part 135 flying had finally taught me how, and I felt comfortable with single-pilot jet ops. We bought a Raytheon Premier 1. With its magnificent height, imposing airstairs, and lavish interior, not to mention Pro Line 21 avionics, I was in heaven.

Apparently, so was Rocco. It gradually dawned on us that perhaps this dog had been fibbing about his background. He climbed into the Premier and looked around as if to say, “This is all you got?” I wondered if he’d actually belonged to a family with a Gulfstream. We sent off his DNA to see if he was related to a Rockefeller, but no joy.

Still, he got awfully cozy awfully quickly, though he seemed to look askance at the ornate gold fixtures—not the kind of thing a well-bred dog would accept for haute couture.

• READ MORE: Rescue Dogs and Airplanes

When an errant pelican commuting at 4,500 feet dinged the wing, we sought the comfort of a Cessna Citation CJ1. Not quite as fast as the Premier, but never as maintenance needy, the airplane fit like a glove. Rocco claimed a seat, which we protected with a sheet. There was no question this was a smaller seat than the one to which he had been accustomed, but he took the indignity like a lab. He logged hundreds of trouble-free hours curled up in a ball and ready to party when he arrived.

Alas, my abilities as a dog aircraft provider atrophied with age, and we had to sell the CJ1 owing to insurance costs for “elderly” single-pilot jet ops. Looking to be “unleashed” myself from the aerospace medical boys and girls in Oklahoma City, I chose BasicMed. This led to a fine Beechcraft P-Baron.

And guess what? This is the most comfortable airplane for Rocco. He leaps easily into the back cabin, and the rear seats are so close together that he now effectively has a bench seat. This allows uninterrupted sleep for hours and hours. Rocco is good at this. It’s one of his finest skills. This is a good thing as his commute has become longer and regularly features a tech stop. At such interruptions, he parades around the FBO while Cathy and I keep an eye out for some unsuspecting fellow dog traveler.

We’d hate for him to have a rap sheet in another state. His countenance at the high-end FBOs could be best described as expectant. Just don’t let him spot a Chihuahua with a rhinestone collar—the fur will fly. So far, so good, though—just a dog and his airplane in harmony.

This column first appeared in the November 2023/Issue 943 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Master of Airplanes: Rocco Is One Lucky Lab, Indeed appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Any number of experts can help you buy a jet. Unfortunately, I am not one of them. But I did buy a jet — my first — recently, and the experience taught me some lessons. It is entirely possible that you and your company will employ an expert or two to help you find a turbofan-powered airplane and that my experience will seem bush league to you. It did not seem bush league to me. Since buying the jet, I’ve spent several hours listening to recorded messages when looking for information from Rockwell Collins (FMS database), CAMP (maintenance tracking) and Williams International (engines).

These phone calls include a lot of “press 1 for this,” “press 2 for that” instructions. So, picture my imaginary phone interactions with the Jet Buying Gurus (JBGs) when I set out to buy one: JBG: “Thank you for calling the Jet Buying Gurus. Press 1 if you need a jet. Press 2 if you want a jet. Press 3 if you don’t need a jet, but want one anyway.” Me: #3 JBG: “OK, I hear you want a jet but don’t need one. What kind of jet do you want but not need? Press 1 if your average mission is 500 nautical miles or less, 2 if 500 to 1,000 miles, 3 if greater than 1,000 and 4 if you don’t know.” Me: #4 JBG: “That’s fine. I understand you don’t know your typical mission. Are you going to be the pilot?” Me: “Yes.” JBG: “OK, I will assume you will fly your airplane single-pilot. If that is correct, press 1.” Me: #1 JBG: “One final question: Do you have any idea how much it costs to own and operate a single-pilot jet?” Me: “Obviously not!” And so it went.

Based on these imaginary conversations, I concluded that the primary candidates were the Cessna Citation series of jets, the Hawker Beech Premier 1, the Embraer Phenom 100 and the Eclipse Jet. Older Citations (501 SP, Citation II) seemed like dinosaurs. Bigger, older airplanes (Citation Ultra, V) seemed too big and burned too much fuel. Newer, cooler airplanes (HondaJet, bigger CJs) were too expensive. What’s a guy gonna get for a million bucks? A CitationJet built in the 1990s, that’s what.

For $1.2 million, an older CJ1 or Premier 1 (but not the 1A) would be possible. That’s where I settled. That’s where I started to look. I was an entry-level guy with just barely entry-level money looking at the bottom rung — or close to it.

I had originally thought a CJ1 would make the most sense. The airplanes are plentiful, popular, easy to work on, have simple systems and are, well, just plain cool. I was already typed in the CE-525s and familiar with the Collins Pro Line 21 avionics found in most.

I originally dismissed the Beechcraft Premier 1 because of its complexity, the parent company’s financial woes (bankruptcy) and its sketchy reputation as a runway runaway. Surprisingly, I found Premier 1s to be priced similar to CJ1s of the same vintage. The Premier is 80 knots faster and doesn’t really burn that much more jet-A.

This is where the intricacies of jet buying clearly became more involved than anything I’d previously attempted. I quickly realized I needed help, and I found it in three places. I turned to an experienced light-jet broker for market assessment, a tax consultant for tax advice and for setting up an LLC (everybody says you need one, but most experienced lawyers claim they really don’t protect your assets that much), and a mechanical person to review every potential airplane’s maintenance past.

I found Mike Shafer, of Mercury Aircraft Sales, to be an invaluable resource. Mike sold our Piper Cheyenne and was experienced in purchasing these types of jets. As a broker, Mike had access to sales data and to airplane histories. He had a feel for the market. He cautioned me repeatedly about the significant increase in costs associated with buying a jet compared to the turboprop I had managed and flown for 17 years. He provided me with annual expense estimates for CJ1s compared to Premiers. He told me that the Premiers originally sold for 30 percent more than the CJs but the market had accounted for the concerns mentioned here.

I wore out controller.com every day. I got my head turned several times, only to be reined in by Mike. One airplane in South Africa had a flamboyant paint job and an unbelievable price. I was smitten until Mike told me that the airplane had once been written off for scrap after a hailstorm.

Gradually, I learned about engine programs. A few airplanes sold for hundreds of thousands less than others, but they weren’t on engine programs. Once the buy-in amounts and overhaul prices were figured in, they were still overpriced. Jim Mitchell, the highly experienced, highly successful salesperson at Elliott Jets, the venerable Midwest outfit, made this point vividly to me: “Dick,” he said, “you are buying two engines and an insurance policy for those engines. The fact that you get some seats and some radios and a coffee pot is just gravy.”

When I asked Mike for his guiding principles in helping a first-time jet buyer, he said, “With first-time jet buyers, the key is to understand the mission profile and anticipated usage. I focus on airplanes that match the requirements and compare them. It is critical to clearly state the costs of ownership — not just the price tag. If they aren’t scared away at this point, we get down to the meat of the matter once the proper ownership structure is established.”

A complete market survey, he said, should be conducted to provide a value analysis, including past trends and anticipated market forces. A select list of aircraft will eventually rise to the top, and a first choice will be selected. Proper planning and counsel throughout this process is vital. Along with a broker, assembling an experienced team consisting of a tax specialist as well as maintenance and legal representatives is essential to a successful transaction.

Daniel Cheung, at Aviation Tax Consultants, helped us navigate various states’ sales-tax laws. His company set up our LLC in about an hour. He lamented that we didn’t own a business that could own the airplane and thereby spend pretax dollars to fly. His advice to first-time airplane buyers wasn’t limited to jets, but it is good advice nonetheless.

“I network with Mike Shafer and many other brokers, as well as sales folks with the OEMs [original equipment manufacturers, such as Cessna and Gulfstream]. My biggest advice is to keep the customers from speaking with their regular CPAs and lawyers initially. There is simply too much bad information and bad advice given to potential airplane buyers that prevent many from moving forward with a legitimate business aircraft purchase. The analogy is if you need a heart valve, you don’t go to your family doctor, you need a cardiac surgeon.”

Pros deal with prospects and clients daily, and can provide sound initial advice, which sometimes might be not to buy an airplane for tax-deduction purposes. Or they can assess the situation and come up with some outside-the-box planning ideas to help justify the purchase of a business aircraft.

“Pretty early on in the process,” Daniel said, “we will request to speak to our client’s CPA and other advisers. We work closely with these advisers, who know the client better than we do. We simply focus on all aviation compliance matters to complement what the state sales/use tax or FAA regulations compliance requires.”

Brad Guyton was once the director of maintenance at Hawker Beechcraft and Raytheon. He now consults, helping buyers like me find the right airplane with the right history at the right price. I don’t intend to ever buy anything — not even a used toothbrush — without consulting Brad first.

When I asked him for an example of a nuance that might get by an inexperienced evaluator, Brad replied, “Sure. For example, a specific make and model aircraft is known to get corrosion cracking in certain areas of the fuselage. Instead of relying on standard inspections to catch it, spell it out specifically that you want those areas inspected.”

Though I didn’t seek out a particular seller, I was the beneficiary of Elliott Jets and the company’s salesman, Jim Mitchell. Elliott’s 80-year history and strong reputation in the industry was a great reassurance when minor discrepancies in engine times and other matters confounded my wife, Cathy, and me. In the end, we had to trust Elliott, and I am convinced that our faith was well-placed.

There you have it: one man’s experience of buying a jet for the first time. So far, the costs have been a bit startling, but the airplane has been magnificent beyond any of my most grandiose fantasies. Buying a jet is way more complicated than buying a house at a similar price point. You don’t just get a termite inspection and show up at closing. If done properly though, there will be few surprises with your new-to-you jet, except that amazing rate of climb and those incredible speeds at Flight Level 400.

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