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. 

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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.

The post AOG: When an Airplane—or We—Can’t Fly appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Actually, I started out already feeling somewhat bummed. I’ve been licking my wounds ever since selling our Cessna Citation CJ1 jet. Insurance costs have increased dramatically, especially for older single-pilot ops in jets. Looking for a new (to me) airplane has been depressing. I’ve had it with the ominous, threatening letters from the Manager, Aerospace Medical Certification Division in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma (“You must promptly report any adverse changes…You are cautioned to abide by Title 14 of the Code of Federal Regulations…”), and have decided to transition to Basic Med. This limits the maximum takeoff weight (MTOW) to 6,000 pounds. I don’t remember meeting this doctor when I took the AME course several years ago, but I do remember the vibe of the class.

My thoughts turned to finding a Cessna 340 with fond memories of “6828 Charlie,” a beautiful 340 that my wife, Cathy, and I enjoyed from 1995 to 2000. The original certified MTOW was 5,990 pounds, which should qualify. The only trouble is almost all 340s have been improved with RAM programs that increase the MTOW to about 6,300 pounds. Is it the improved MTOW that counts or the originally certified weight? I am not going to be the guy to test that theory. Some A&Ps have suggested that the vortex generators installed to improve stall speed and increase MTOW could be removed and make a 340 eligible for Basic Med. What a thought.

Some friends have recommended the Beechcraft Baron. Though the airplane would have to be flown below 18,000 feet to qualify for Basic Med, a “kit” from Textron makes the slightly overweight airplane eligible for the program. Why Textron hasn’t provided a similar kit for the 340 is a puzzle. It is also clear that there are Baron lovers and there are 340 lovers.

The fact is, the insurance industry and the FAA have stimulated me to abandon a really safe turbine engine jet for a piston twin with the attendant excitement that comes with engines that have parts changing directions more than 30 times per second. Add to that the removal of the vortex generators designed to enhance safety. Now I’ll be plowing around in lower altitudes in weather with less reliable engines. How this improves the fortunes of my insurance company is not clear to me.

Armed with these ruminations, I joined Tom for the short flight. More grim news was immediately evident. Tom’s hangar lease at KVDF is not being renewed. Hangar space is scarce around these parts (the Tampa-St. Petersburg metro area), and losing a slot is a blow. Apparently, he parked a car in the hangar against the rules. I know from personal experience that the FBO at KVDF is big on rules.

Tom’s longtime repair shop, Aeromech at KLAL, is closing after 30 years. Kenny, the owner, told us, “I can’t get parts. I can’t get grease for bearings. Cylinder repair shops can’t get valves, can’t get vanes. There’s a shop in Indiana with hundreds of cylinders sitting on the bench (starving for) parts. Add to that my hangar rent is tripling. I’m going to go home and raise strawberries.”

He agreed to fit Tom in for an annual before closing day. His staff members were unsure as to what they planned to do next.

Many Cessna 340s and Barons are more than 40 years old. What about parts in the future, and what about the fate of avgas? I haven’t even begun to examine all the forces that seem to be wishing me to drive, not fly, into the sunset—in a recreational vehicle, not an airplane.

But the primitive desire to own an airplane is rearing its not-to-be-denied-or-disrespected head. At the moment, I am a hangarless, airplaneless 77-year-old who has enjoyed airplane ownership virtually without interruption for more than 50 years. There have been times when I could barely afford an airplane. There have been times when I just couldn’t fly very often. There have been times when I thought it was time to quit. Somehow, though, I just can’t see it ending now. I think back to that first airplane, a Musketeer, and its subsequent siblings: the Arrow, the Cessna 210, the P210, the 340, the Piper Cheyenne, the Raytheon Premier, and the CJ1. Each of these airplanes gave me purpose and pride. They coaxed me into relationships with amazing mechanics possessed of accumulated wisdom and, oftentimes, a gentle perspective on life. These airplanes and their A&Ps, the line guys and the ATC controllers, held my hand in times of woe.

There certainly is rich irony here. Just as my day job as a surgeon and my retirement job as a Part 135 Citation CJ3 pilot provided me with the money to own, and experience to fly, a CJ1, I’m being elbowed out of my dream airplane. I get the same sense of wistfulness at a high-end steakhouse. I can finally afford that 12-ounce filet mignon, but I can’t possibly eat it. Ain’t that something?

Tom offered to let me fly his other Aerostar back to KVDF, but I just didn’t have the heart to accept this kindness. Flying is joyful, and I wasn’t feeling that way. So I looked out the window at the cows and homes and listened to the AWOS. I watched as a high-time airline pilot and Aerostar guru chirped his airplane safely home. We tugged the airplane into the hangar, and I watched with alarm as the hangar door cleared the nose by an inch. We agreed that we’d both live to fight another day.

The post Should We All Be Frightened of the GA Future Ahead? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

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It was to be a two-hour meeting in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada, in early October.

The preparation for the flight took longer than the meeting.

The U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP) information system, called the electronic advance passenger information system, or “eAPIS,” needed to be filled out. And, of course, my password had expired. Thanks COVID. A new password had new setting criteria, so this took a while.

I filled out an eAPIS for a 10:00 departure from Manchester, New Hampshire (KMHT), the nearest airport to the actual airport of departure, Lebanon, New Hampshire (KLEB). My passport information and license number had been preserved under the “crew” heading.

For some reason, my brain and the brain of the CBP eAPIS website run on different algorithms, and I found myself backtracking and redoing much of the information. For instance, I’ve never been able to figure out how to file a return eAPIS when I’m done filling out the departure eAPIS. Rather than Googling how to do this, I usually just start all over. Mind you, this was an out-and-back on the same day.

I filled out a return customs stop for what I thought was 1930Z, or 1530 local, into Buffalo, New York (KBUF).

Next, I called CanPass. This used to be simple—just provide passport numbers, route, arrival airport, and expected time of arrival with the bilingual agent answering the phone. When you arrived in Canada, you called that number, they took the info and said you were good to go.

This has changed. You must now fill out ArriveCAN. The website makes eAPIS look like kindergarten. I had already gotten my COVID test within 72 hours of arrival and I took a picture of the result (negative).

ArriveCAN is designed for commercial aircraft arrivals, but you can submit your tail number by selecting “Other” from the list of airlines. Then select the name of the operator under “Other Airline,” then submit the tail number under “Flight Number.”

This is just the start. You must upload your passport information, arrival information and proof of vaccination. You must also list a place where you would quarantine for 14 days (what?) and provide proof of a negative test.

Flummoxed by the quarantine location, I listed a Marriott Courtyard near the airport and the program accepted that address. Sure hoped they had a vacancy!

After an hour of futzing with the ArriveCAN page, I was awarded a “receipt” number.

Whew.

The next day, I took off on time. The 1½-mile 300 overcast weather was better than predicted when I arrived and the GPS Runway 6 worked great. The line guys at ONWARD were terrific. They called CanPass. CanPass wanted my receipt. What? Oh, yes, the ArriveCAN receipt. Sure. Here’s the number. My meeting partners were standing right there.

We traveled to company headquarters by car, arriving just after noon. So far, so good.

My hosts were welcoming and generous with their time. At 2:45, we headed back to CYHM. On the drive to the airport, I called Buffalo Customs and advised of a 3:45 arrival. The officer was perplexed. “You filed an eAPIS stating a 19:30 arrival.“”Yes,” I said, 1930 Zulu, 1530 local.” No, he said, “eAPIS is local time.” Sure enough, it is. I begged and apologized.

There was a whiff of “this guy’s a moron” in the officer’s voice.

Prior to departure, I showed off my airplane to my hosts. The biggest guy got into the right seat and declared it a tight fit, but once in the seat, it was comfortable (I’m 6′1″ and agree.)

I paid the fuel bill, started up, and took off for Buffalo, just 55 nm away. I was vectored for the ILS 5, which appeared to function normally despite the ATIS admonishment that the approach could not be flown “coupled.” I had heard this before—something about being inaccurate right or left of course.

I landed at 3:54 and taxied to TacAir and shut down. The line guys warned me to stay in the plane. I did. The officer came out promptly. He looked at my passport. When I showed him my vaccination card, he waved it away. I was cleared to exit the airplane. I paid TacAir $35 for using their ramp.

At 4:22, I took off for KLEB for the 58-minute flight home. I was parked by 5:20.

ArriveCAN, CanPass, US CBP eAPIS and three FBOs made it happen. The closest airline possibility was Manchester, New Hampshire (1+30 minute drive) to CYYZ Toronto (30-minute drive). This pairing began at 5:45 Am and included stops in Washington, (KIAD), and Raleigh, North Carolina (KRDU) and took seven hours and 15 minutes.

A business meeting in another country 335 nautical miles away at noon and home for dinner. All possible in a GA airplane. It was fun, too. The next day, we flew to Santa Fe. Lucky me.

The post Gear Up: Flying Into Canada in the Age of COVID-19 appeared first on FLYING Magazine.