About two weeks had passed since that fateful day in 2001 that none of us will ever forget. In uniform, with my wife’s hand in mine, we approached a NYPD officer standing on the corner, a couple blocks away from Ground Zero. Pedestrian barricades surrounded the area.

“Can we go through?” I asked, motioning at a small gap. The police officer nodded, a solemn look on his face.

“Did you fly the kind of airplane that hit the towers?” the officer asked.

“Actually, I flew the airplane that hit the North Tower,” I said. “It’s in my logbook.” 

I had said those words in my head but repeating them out loud unexpectedly punctuated their significance with a lump in my throat. The police officer took a moment to process my statement and then remarked, “Oh, wow.” He gestured toward the gap and said simply, “Be careful.” 

I wasn’t quite sure if his statement was a warning for the physical hazards of the area or the emotional assimilation of the scene. After attempting to survey the surrealistic nature of the destruction, and understanding how many human lives were obliterated, I took the officer’s statement to mean both.

• READ MORE: Replacing Airline Pilots With AI

It’s been over two decades since the attacks on 9/11. All of us were seemingly connected in some way to the horrors of that day. Someone knew someone deeply affected by the shock of that terrible moment in history. As an airline pilot, I felt especially violated. The machines that we revered had become weapons of mass destruction. We had allowed our sanctuaries to be infiltrated.

Are we in a better place now? Are crews better able to protect our passengers from a terrorist threat? The short answer is yes, but it’s important to understand the evolution of why. Because the answer has many elements.

The day that U.S. airspace was opened to airline traffic after 9/11, I huddled my crew in an LAX jet bridge before we stepped through the entry door of our B-757 to begin preparation for our trip back home to New York. Trepidation was firmly anchored on the faces of our flight attendants. I did my best to assure them that the copilot and I would do everything in our power to keep us all safe, but we needed their eyes to report anything even slightly suspicious.

At that point, nothing had really changed in terms of security protocols. My airline hadn’t communicated much in the way of new procedures. Our union website was full of hyperbole and rudimentary ideas on how best to protect the cockpit. The most popular technique was to make certain one pilot had immediate access to the crash ax. We were mixed on how best to handle in-flight cockpit door access for lavatory breaks and crew meals.

• READ MORE: High Seas vs. Overseas Setup Has Similarities

But one important aspect had changed overnight—our mentality. We now understood our workplace had an unpredictable external threat that we hadn’t trained to manage. Airline protocol had been to cooperate with such threats. The outcomes of hijackings in the 1960’s and ’70s were mostly successful if the crew ceded to demands. 

Except for the brutal beating and execution of U.S. Navy diver Robert Stethem by Hezbollah terrorists, the 17-day hijacking ordeal of TWA Flight 847 on June 14, 1985, ended without further casualties because the late Captain John Testrake mostly cooperated. 

Perhaps partly through anger and grief, the old line of thinking transformed quickly into protecting the cockpit at all costs. With the U.S. government and airlines accepting the fact that private security firms had been inept at the passenger-screening process, the new mentality ushered in the formation of the Transportation Security Administration (TSA).

Type-A airline pilots weren’t going to sit on their laurels, especially since we were the last line of defense. Pilots’ unions lobbied and eventually won the ability to carry a loaded weapon into the cockpit. The voluntary Federal Flight Deck Officers (FFDO) program was born.

I resisted initially, thinking that the idea was a dangerous, knee-jerk response. But after interaction on a flight with my first FFDO copilot, I began to change my attitude. Despite having vocalized my concerns, the copilot’s calm and relaxed reaction convinced me that the FFDO screening process was selecting the right people.

• READ MORE: One ATC Sector of Separation

Regardless of my personal convictions about guns, I deemed a weapon one of the things in the toolbox to protect my passengers, so I applied for the program. That said, aside from the mechanics of self-defense and shooting the gun, the mindset required to protect the cockpit was one of the most significant aspects of the air marshal-conducted, FFDO training. The mindset came to me in an epiphany during a scenario-based exercise that I will never forget.

Another piece to the new mentality was strategically significant. It originated from an extremely important source. Rather than become victims to the terrorist threat, passengers were beginning to understand that their participation was essential. The heroics aboard United Airlines Flight 93 that crashed near Shanksville, Pennsylvania, became a rallying cry. It wasn’t long before reports of passengers subduing lunatics aboard flights circulated. These lunatics weren’t terrorists, but it proved people weren’t going to sit idly by while someone attempted to take control of their flight.

Beyond the post-9/11 public attitude adjustment, other security measures were being put into place. Aside from the U.S. initiative of terrorist hunting, the TSA was defining its protocols. Granted, we started with confiscation of nail clippers and moved on to 3-ounce restrictions on toothpaste, but it was a work in progress.

Eventually, TSA refined its procedures and now seems to be performing the screening process in a reasonable and certainly much safer manner. Behind the scenes, we have a much more robust system of security threat identification, with the no-fly list being a good example. Having acknowledged the failures of communication reported pre-9/11, intelligence agencies within the U.S. and across the world are sharing more information. 

At my airline, many of us will always remember the resounding clunk of the aluminum bar that swung across the cockpit door as it locked into place. The bar was the first initiative in maintaining physical cockpit security after 9/11. It was a symbolic and sad reflection of having crossed the threshold into the dawning of a new age in aviation.

Before, opening the cockpit door was a simple matter of using a key that pilots and flight attendants all had in their possession—a key that, at least on Boeing aircraft, opened any airplane’s cockpit door.

Now, the flight deck door is constructed with reinforced Kevlar panels. A code must be entered in an electronic keypad for the door to unlock. The pilots control entry electronically regardless of the code.

Additionally, all airlines have procedures and protocols for in-flight access to the cockpit. And finally, don’t assume your flight attendants will become submissive to an act of aggression. Many have been trained in self-defense tactics beyond that required during their recurrent training—the same for pilots.

Has the airline industry mitigated the terrorist threat after 9/11? Yes, but it’s an evolving process that requires everyone’s participation. For those airline pilots that aren’t old enough to remember that awful day, please learn from our mistakes. Complacency is one of our worst enemies.

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

The post A Perspective on Cockpit Security since 9/11 appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The Horizon Air pilots’ immediate response to Emerson’s shocking act averted a serious emergency situation. They are to be commended. Conducting a dual engine failure checklist for real is not a walk in the park.

The remaining circumstances of Emerson’s exit from the cockpit and into the cabin were a head-scratcher. He admitted to his dastardly deed and insisted that he be restrained. While restrained with flex cuffs and sitting in an aft flight attendant jumpseat, he attempted to move the handle of an emergency exit door during descent. At some point, he confessed to a myriad of issues that involved consuming psychedelic mushrooms, sleep deprivation, mourning the death of his best man after six years, and suffering from depression. Yikes.

Should we be concerned that the event described could become a new threat trend among the airline pilot profession? No matter how ludicrous this incident is, do we dismiss it simply as an anomaly, or do we have a responsibility to the flying public to evaluate our medical certification protocols? Putting aside the politics of mass shootings for a moment, isn’t it a very similar mental health issue if someone uses an airplane for the same indescribable, horrific purpose?

• READ MORE: Like Copilot, Like Captain: The Importance of Left-Seat Mentoring

It’s difficult to just shrug the epaulets on our airline pilot shoulders considering other events from the past. On March 24, 2015, first officer Andreas Lubitz committed suicide with 144 passengers and five crewmembers by deliberately descending a GermanWings Airbus A320 into the French Alps. Lubitz had been suffering from diagnosed severe depression to the point that he paused his initial flight training. Numerous indications of his mental health were a road map to the tragedy, inclusive of depression medication and internet searches involving suicide methods.

And let’s not forget the bloody battle that ensued in the cockpit of a FedEx DC-10 on April 7, 1994, when Auburn Calloway attempted to murder the three-pilot crew for the purposes of crashing the airplane in order to collect on a $2.5 million insurance policy for his family. As a FedEx pilot, Calloway was an authorized jumpseat rider.

Knowing he would be facing a hearing the following day that would put his employment in jeopardy because he had lied about his flight time on the FedEx pilot application, Calloway filled a guitar case with numerous hammers and a spear gun. (Pre-9/11 freight carriers did not have the same security access restrictions as passenger carriers.) The injuries from the hammers were to be used as imitations for blunt force trauma resulting from the planned airplane crash.

Miraculously, the DC-10 crew survived the heinous attack, albeit with severe injuries. Despite skull fractures that were causing paralysis to one side of his body, the copilot executed a handful of unusual attitudes that eventually assisted in subduing Calloway while his fellow crewmembers battled the attacker outside of the cockpit. Suffice it to say, the event was an incredible display of heroism.

Even though a legal insanity defense and the motivation of suicide was utilized, it was not acknowledged by the court. Calloway was found guilty of attempted murder, air piracy, and interference with flight crew operations. That said, one certainly has to question mental health when a pilot plots to murder his fellow employees and crash a 580,000-pound airplane.

• READ MORE: Giving Your Airplane a Face-Lift and Tummy Tuck

Thankfully, in more than four decades of professional aviation, I have never been aware of sharing the cockpit with someone suffering from mental health issues that rose to the level described. But then, I wouldn’t consider myself competently trained to recognize the signs.

A few years back, a corporate pilot friend attempted suicide. He was suffering through a child custody battle with his wife and some other personal issues. Fortunately, friends were aware of an especially bad day in court, and one intervened on the scene while the other provided medical guidance after finding him unconscious inside an exhaust-filled automobile. They saved my friend’s life. Because of the suicide attempt, his medical certificate became invalid, although it has since been reinstated. A little over a year after the event, I asked my friend what brought him to such a decision. His answer: “I can’t explain it to you, but I saw no other solution.”

Even after having been trained in critical incident stress management (CISM) and understanding the dynamics of mitigating PTSD, depression is still a mystery to me. How many of us, airline pilot or not, reacted with genuine shock when we hear that someone defined as the definition of happiness has taken their own life?

Fortunately, the vast majority of airline pilots are resilient to the effects of stress external to the cockpit. We are employed by our companies because of a very scrutinized hiring process. We are stoic. We compartmentalize. We focus on the task of flying an airplane. But how many of us have actually made a sick call in the throes of divorce, in the midst of rescuing a troubled child, or in the aftermath of mourning a loved one? Have we been honest with ourselves and made that sick call when we innately sensed that a dark cloud of depression has descended into our lives?

Not only do we resist the stigma that depression implies, but we harbor trepidation that our livelihoods will be in jeopardy. Because the FAA requires us to self-disclose on our medical applications with the threat of certificate action for not doing so, some of us take the risk and don’t report. Or worse, some of us go untreated despite the relaxation of aeromedical treatment for mild forms of depression.

The solution? The FAA could require AMEs to administer some form of a more detailed mental health test. But if the test is subjective and without specific criteria, that opens up more issues. Education is probably the best solution. Educate pilots about the medical implications of reporting depression. Educate pilots to recognize signs of depression in their colleagues. Many pilot unions have active peer-to-peer mental health programs endorsed by the airlines.

I am certain that the threat posed by the Joseph Emerson of the industry is not an epidemic among airline pilots. Certainly, the world has become a chaotic place. Our consumption of information is far beyond what was available in years past. Social and mainstream media provide us with nonstop coverage of depressing events. Combine this with life’s inevitable personal challenges, and the state of our mental health can be affected.

All that said, I am confident enough to sit in the back of the airplane while my colleagues do the business of safely flying passengers from point A to point B.

Editor’s Note: FLYING offers the following resource for those who seek support from the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention.

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

The post Airline Pilots Must Not Dismiss Mental Well-Being appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Having never departed the UPS ramp, we shut down the three engines that had just been started. We waited for the just-out-of-college loading supervisor with the clipboard and stopwatch to climb up the portable airstairs/scaffolding.

The captain was incredulous that the young man had to be convinced of the fact our flight couldn’t just get off the highway at another exit without replanning and recalculating. (Jackson, Jacksonville…same thing, apparently.) My employer at the time was Evergreen International Airlines, one of the contract carriers flying UPS freight when the shipping company was in its aviation infancy.

So when my wife expressed an interest in flying our airplane to Louisville for a Kentucky Bourbon Trail tour, the above described 40-year-old memory evoked a snicker and a smile. I had survived that employment and gained invaluable experience that assisted in launching an enviable career with my dream airline. My only exposure to Louisville had been a nearby Holiday Inn and a pilot operations trailer on the UPS ramp in the darkness of night.

Our excursion more recently began with a visit to Greenwood, South Carolina (KGRD). The group of pilots and their wives who had conquered Iceland the year prior converged on Mike and Christa’s new lake house for a few days of water fun. We departed from separate Florida airports in separate airplanes with the goal of arriving at the same time. And thus began the process of threading the decision needle.

With Florida’s typical August spawning convective weather by early afternoon, it didn’t take much convincing that a morning departure was mandatory. Although my friend, Scott Roze, a retired colleague, wanted to coordinate departures in his Piper Dakota so that my wife and I arrived at KGRD via our Piper Arrow at the same time, it wasn’t one of my concerns.

Fortunately, Scott gathered his group for an earlier-than-planned wheels-up time that allowed them to avoid a band of convective weather rolling through the Jacksonville area. Despite his thousands of hours in all types of airplanes, Scott considers the Dakota and himself a VFR-only operation. Since retiring from the airline, he hasn’t maintained instrument proficiency to his satisfaction. Although I chide him about being a “Boy Scout” for following rules, I respect and admire him.

After our lake visit, my wife and I departed Greenwood for Louisville’s Bowman Field (KLOU). The 2-hour, 15-minute flight seemed simple enough for planning a direct routing, but a closer look revealed the Great Smoky Mountains as a terrain threat. Although the maximum sector elevation was 7,000 feet, it would be bad marital policy to subject my wife to potential orographic turbulence. To avoid such pain, I filed for a jog in the route farther to the south, nearer the lower elevations of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

In my former life, the mountains in South America, Latin America, and the U.S. required us to be situationally aware and vigilant of the terrain threat. In addition to our training, the airline designated certain areas of the world with specific alternate routing over mountainous terrain for an emergency or depressurization event.

Specific terrain-affected airports were also designated, requiring us to review idiosyncrasies in procedures, arrivals, and departures prior to our trip. In addition, some airports required a check airman to be on a captain’s initial flight. A 90-day currency was also a requirement. Tegucigalpa (MHTG) in Honduras is a good example.

Fortunately, our trek across the Smokies was accomplished with nary a bump. Aside from a handful of vectors through some cumulus attempting to go nimbus, our late morning arrival into Bowman Field was seamless. As fate would have it, the Uber driver was a flight instructor and airplane owner who had been encouraging his son to fulfill his airline pilot aspirations.

We kicked off the Kentucky Bourbon Trail with a tour of the Angel’s Envy Distillery, an easy walk from our boutique hotel. The tour became a valuable template for the remainder of the trip, imparting to us the necessary skill to properly taste bourbon.

It would have been un-American to not visit the racetrack at Churchill Downs, or not to tour the city, so we accomplished both the following day. After the Louisville visit and a couple more distillery tours, the next day’s plan was to return our rental car and fly 15 minutes to Bardstown, Kentucky (KBRY), where numerous distilleries and much cheaper 100LL was located.

Mother Nature decided to play her own cards with a line of convective weather. Although beating the thunderstorms was not out of the question, it seemed the right time for discretion to be the better part of valor. Keeping the rental car, we humbled ourselves with a 40-minute drive to Bardstown.

• READ MORE: So, You Can Actually Fly to Lunch?

Maintaining the long-standing tradition of cheap airline pilot, I awoke just before dawn and returned the rental car to Louisville. With thanks to my new friends at Bowman’s Executive Aviation, the Arrow was rolled out of a hangar for my short trip to Bardstown. I arrived through a thin, translucent cloud layer, reflecting later that maybe the RNAV (GPS) approach should have been requested despite the field technically reporting VFR conditions.

Tom, the affable Bardstown airport manager, greeted me with fueling assistance and our new rental car delivered right to the airplane at the tie-down spot. My wife had claimed never to have set foot in Kentucky, but we simultaneously had a déjà vu moment after entering a local restaurant for lunch. A later glance in the airplane logbook revealed a KBRY entry. Apparently, we had made a fuel/lunch stop at the airport six years ago when we brought the airplane home from Amarillo, Texas, shortly after its purchase.

After three days of touring the town and distilleries, we departed for home at sunrise in order to beat the usual Florida convective weather in the afternoon. Despite the capability to complete a four-hour flight with full wing tanks, my abundance of caution and our personal bladders don’t allow for such an operation. As it was, we had to thread the needle around a thin line of building convective weather that ForeFlight had displayed before departure. The technique of “looking into the light” got us through the line without a bump.

Aside from the typical frequency congestion through the Jacksonville area and the usual dive from the last assigned altitude, we arrived at Flagler, Florida (KFIN), no worse for the wear. It was a fun challenge to thread the decision needle, notwithstanding great memories and a newly stocked liquor closet.

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

The post Kentucky Bourbon Trail Proves Worthy of a Flying Adventure appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Although the statement may be a slight embellishment, it gave me pause for contemplation. Decision fatigue is one of Reeves’ iconic concepts. The theory is that humans, and more importantly pilots, have the capability of making only a finite number of good decisions in one day.

Well, I gotta admit not having to choose attire for every trip reduced my preflight workload. Perhaps my less-than-desirable landings at the end of a flight now have an explanation…or at least they have a new basis for rationalization. The decision fatigue theory is just one of many out-of-the-box concepts that Reeves presents.

Another favorite instructional concept from Reeves is to declare an emergency before the situation really becomes one. I couldn’t agree more. A higher-than-normal oil temperature may not be a major problem in the moment, but if the circumstance leads to a rapid loss in oil pressure, an engine failure is sure to follow.

So, who is the Guy in the Pink Shirt? Gary Dale Reeves has been instructing for more than two decades. One of his notable claims to fame is being named the 2019 national CFI of the year. He is also an FAA Safety Team lead representative. His focus is combining avionics technology with real-life IFR flying. He is a computer geek and a passionate flight instructor. He is an animated and entertaining public speaker. Garmin, Avidyne, ForeFlight, and Genesys S-Tec autopilots are all part of his expertise.

Reeves’ website offers videos of actual in-flight IFR instruction. His flagship product is a three-day course using a client’s airplane for the sole purpose of mastering the installed avionics to fly single pilot safely and comfortably in IFR conditions. He will come to you, or you can come to him.

Much of Reeves’ philosophy, “Mastery, Not Minimums,” is explained in his book, Single-Pilot IFR Pro Tips. For airline pilots engaging or reengaging in the general aviation world, this is a must-read. The book provides a perspective beyond traditional airline thinking, especially given the fact an experienced copilot is no longer part of the equation.

It’s not my intent for this column to be an infomercial, but for those of us having spent decades involved with professional flying, we encounter only a handful of instructors that make a lasting impression on our aviation psyche. Perhaps these folks share a common denominator.

In Reeves’ circumstance, a diverse background prior to establishing himself in his current vocation is most likely what defined some of his unique perspectives. His attraction to aviation was launched with a flight on Braniff Air Lines. While in grade school, his dad began taking flying lessons and allowed Reeves the opportunity to observe. On one notable flight aboard a Cessna 172, a stall was presented. Rather than recoil in fear at the experience, he asked for another demonstration.

Reeves began his career as a paramedic, which ultimately set the foundation for his methodical approach to handling high-stress situations. In his late 20s, an experience during an introductory ride with a reckless instructor who unexpectedly demonstrated a power-on stall discouraged his initial entry to aviation.

The event left an impression that most likely molded his conduct as a professional instructor. Despite the experience, he began to take flying lessons, eventually becoming a private pilot.

As an entrepreneur, Reeves saw a demand that no one thought to address and created an animal ambulance company. Although the company was successful, it consumed his life. Flying airplanes became his stress relief. At the ripe, old age of 32, he sold the business and escaped to Las Vegas after reading an ATP Flight School advertisement for a 10-day course that provided instruction to attain CFI, CFII, and MEI ratings.

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As well as being frequently self-deprecating with his anecdotal stories, Reeves didn’t give himself high marks as a first-year flight instructor. That said, he committed the ultimate aviation sin and bought a flight school, operating the business for six years. He began to realize that his forte was not teaching students how to perform a chandelle but rather the art of IFR. Combining his technology geekiness with real-life instrument flying, he found a niche.

After becoming an expert, instructing students on the Garmin GNS 430, Reeves was approached by Avidyne to be its authorized training representative. Genesys S-Tec autopilots and Aspen Avionics also became part of his repertoire. Although he considers John and Martha King friends, he distinguishes their video training as controlled studio productions versus his actual onboard-the-airplane slices of real life.

One of Reeves’ philosophical arguments is that there is no value in critical analysis of an accident. Analysis may shed light on the mistakes made, but it’s possible that with the same circumstances, another pilot might react exactly the same. Why? Because in an emergency situation a flood of adrenalin can cause a state of paralysis where logical reasoning is suppressed.

According to Reeves, a medical study compared this adrenalin influx to a blood-alcohol level 50 percent above the legal driving limit. In that regard, he is a huge proponent of using the autopilot whenever possible. Another concept that is difficult for even airline pilots to utter is “unable,” especially for a weather avoidance situation.

For single-pilot IFR operations, as a change in mindset regarding alternate airport selection, Reeves’ recommended technique is to pick three airports rather than the legal requirement of usually just one. First, select a point on the route approximately halfway to the destination. Then locate an airport near that point with adequate facilities—fuel, hotels, dining, transportation, etc.

With today’s availability of obtaining onboard weather data, it shouldn’t come as a surprise if the destination’s ceiling or visibility begins to deteriorate. Why hassle with the stressful tasks of a potential holding pattern, a missed approach, and a flight to an unscheduled destination with less fuel in the tanks? Divert early to the halfway point airport instead.

Using this technique, the destination alternate is used as a contingency for a disabled airplane on the runway or other such unpredictable circumstance.

The third alternate airport is for takeoff. For airline operations, a takeoff alternate is only required if the weather is below landing minimums. With single-pilot IFR operations, a takeoff alternate is used if a mechanical or other such problem occurs and a return to the departure airport is not a practical option.

So, where did the pink shirt idea come from? Apparently, Reeves had decided to change his usual attire at EAA AirVenture in Oshkosh. Considering his flight instruction focus, someone appropriately called him “GPS”—Guy in the Pink Shirt.

Some may find fault with all or parts of Reeves’ techniques, but you have to agree that they are based in sound logic and practicality. He is certainly receptive to other opinions as he combines conventional aviation training with innovative thinking.

In that regard, that’s why pink is the new magenta.

This column first appeared in the September 2023/Issue 941 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post ‘Guy in the Pink Shirt’ Promotes Out-of-the-Box Thinking for Pilots appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

As we climbed into the faded-jeans color of a perfect Florida sky, I glanced at the vibrant display of a new JPI EDM 830 engine monitor. The No. 1 cylinder was indicating a steadily increasing cylinder head temperature (CHT). All other parameters were normal. I hoped the temperature would stabilize. It didn’t.

With the CHT approaching 400 degrees, I was concerned but not surprised, a sentiment verbalized to my wife. Fortunately, she’s never been a nail-biter. Reaching an altitude of 1,500 feet msl, I advised Daytona Approach Control that we would require a return to the airport. The response was immediate: “Do you require assistance?”

In my best airline pilot voice, I replied, “Negative.” This statement elicited an instruction for a heading and a climb, and to expect vectors for a visual approach. My primary goal was to retard the throttle, so as to prevent the CHT from increasing further. A turn and a climb wouldn’t be helpful.

Considering the CAVU weather, the problem was solved by canceling our IFR flight plan. I contacted KFIN tower, advising that we were entering a downwind leg. The approach and landing were accomplished without issues. I taxied to the maintenance shop with a wary eye on the No. 1 CHT. Keith, the mechanic who had spent countless hours meticulously installing the theoretical “plug-and-play” JPI, already anticipated my arrival. He greeted us under the open hangar door with his standard affable grin.

The day prior I had strategically dodged a line of early morning rain showers and flown to Baker Aviation at New Smyrna Beach Airport (KEVB) with the hope that a box of locally made donuts on a Monday could persuade the owner to have one of his avionics techs fix a problem I had created on the Arrow’s Garmin GNS 430W as a result of the JPI install.

In an attempt to solve a fuel communication issue between the GPS and the new JPI, I entered the sacrosanct 430’s initialization mode. Forgive me, for I have sinned. Thinking it to be a simple matter of selecting the correct entries of input/output, I armed myself with instructions from the 430 manual, the JPI manual, and some internet info. I proceeded to obliterate the original setup.

Not only did I accomplish the task of eliminating the majority of communication to and from the JPI, but it appeared that ADS-B info linked to the GPS was no longer available. A smart person would have taken a photo of the 430 screen before starting down the rabbit hole, but I wasn’t that person. Thus, a trip to the sympathetic heroes at Baker Aviation. Thankfully, I did bring my maintenance documentation, which assisted the technician with the initial restoration process.

After my self-inflicted destruction was repaired, I launched skyward toward home, relieved that our trip to Asheville the next day was no longer in jeopardy. But alas, the No. 1 CHT began to increase. The only solution was to cruise over the coastline at reduced power.

Upon touchdown at Flagler, I taxied directly to the maintenance shop. With my description of a slow, steady temperature climb and no erratic indication, Keith began a methodical troubleshooting process. Fuel injector check. Induction leak check. Nada. An engine run-up was conducted. No issues. Hmm.

Which brought us to the engine run-up on the morning of the trip. The No. 1 CHT was higher than the other cylinders but not significantly so. In VFR weather, it was worth a try that nothing could go wrong. Well, chalk one up for hope not being a good strategy. In any case, the only real cause was most likely a bad CHT probe. Keith swapped probes with the No. 2 cylinder.

Two hours after our original departure time, we repeated our efforts to begin the journey to Asheville. As predicted, the CHT problem transferred itself to the No. 2 cylinder.

Fortunately for my airline pilot sensitivities in exceeding limits, the cooler temperatures at cruise altitude didn’t manifest into a flashing warning on the JPI display. That said, I incorporated the JPI into my instrument scan.

For those that read the No. 937 issue’s “Jumpseat,” the No. 3 cylinder decided to self-destruct during a climbout from Waycross, Georgia, (KAYS) in January. As a result of the cylinder’s replacement, the break-in period was still in progress, with most shops recommending an operation at 75 percent power. Because of the power setting, the fuel consumption was higher on our trip to Asheville, notwithstanding a headwind component that averaged around 30 knots—greater than the original forecast.

• READ MORE: Engine Troubleshooting in Double Time

Although we would have legal IFR fuel plus some upon touchdown, watching the needles move closer toward the left side of the gauge was not comfortable. It was an exceptional VFR day, so nothing could go wrong.

Approximately 20 minutes from KAVL, about the time the northwest winds were roiling off the Blue Ridge Mountains and bringing some unpleasant moderate chop, we were issued holding instructions over a fix on the approach course to Runway 35. Why? A disabled airplane on the runway. Great.

I inquired as to an estimate for reinstating the runway and received a definitive “no idea.” Envisioning an NTSB report with my name on it, I declared “minimum fuel,” conveying that two turns in the holding pattern would be our limit. Although my original plan was a diversion airport 30 miles to the east, Hendersonville Airport (0A7) was almost directly below us.

One and a half circles later, and a vector away from a Cessna Citation holding below us, we entered the 0A7 traffic pattern, 9.5 miles from the approach end of Asheville’s Runway 35. Landing on a 3,000-foot runway with tall trees on both ends, we touched down on pavement that seemed to just fit the Arrow’s wheelbase.

An accommodating airport volunteer, who was looking for an excuse to get off the mowing tractor, returned from another end of the field with a van that took us to the restrooms of an aviation museum jammed with incredible airplanes of all vintages. Wishing I had more time to spend—my wife not so much—we returned to our airplane.

With Hendersonville no longer having fuel available, I had called the Asheville Tower directly in order to determine the runway status and when it would be optimal to launch and not suffer the angst of delaying vectors. Twenty minutes later, we were airborne. The radar contact confirmation and clearance to land was given by the approach controller in almost the same sentence. Flight time: five minutes.

As fate would have it, the disabled airplane had been flown by one of the participants attending the same conference, the primary purpose of our trip. A main gear tire on his Columbia decided to go flat on rollout.

Two diversions in one day. No problem.

This column first appeared in the August 2023/Issue 940 print edition of FLYING.

The post Diversions Define a Day Trip appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

After waiting out the low visibility and low ceilings of early morning fog, a 35-minute flight in Mike’s V-tail Bonanza from Ormond Beach (KOMN) got us to the Lake Parker entry point for the arrival into Lakeland Linder International (KLAL). Let the fun begin. Though I had performed this arrival in my airplane, the lack of direct control from the copilot seat seemed to make the proce- dure more stressful. Or perhaps it was the uncomfortable proximity to other airplanes. Or perhaps it was the NTSB report I was envisioning: “Two ATP-rated pilots were…” On a side note, compliments to the controllers who volunteer for the event. They’ve developed a “show” vernacular that is explicit in the instructions, humorous in its tone, complimentary in its encouragement of correct performance without condescension, and welcoming in its message.

Mike performed a touchdown in close proximity to the green dot, despite some last-minute instructions. We survived without a scratch. The taxi and parking process can sometimes prove exciting, and in this circumstance, it met expectations. An “Exhibit” sign had been placed in the corner of the Bonanza windscreen based on this magazine being a sponsor.

We were allowed entry through the gate, but no parking space was available. I had innocently thought that a section of pavement or grass would be available for media, but a quick golf cart ride confirmed otherwise. We were unceremoniously towed out and offered parking elsewhere. At least we have the pictures to prove our 10-minute exhibitor status.

After losing the battle of dry earth vs. corkscrew tie-down stakes, we covered the airplane and set off on a mission to retrieve my media pass and wristband. Open- ing the door to the building that had previously housed the volunteers involved with media revealed an empty room. Uh oh. After an inquiry or two, we were directed across the street to a trailer in a parking lot.

Unfortunately, I was 10 minutes too late. Passes were now only being issued inside the exhibit area, where we had been almost an hour ago.

An attempt to re-enter was thwarted by the same security volunteers that had pointed us to the parking lot trailer. Despite displaying various forms of identification and pleading our case—well, maybe some airline pilot whining—we were denied entry. A text message and phone conversation later, we were rescued via a golf cart driven by editor-in-chief Julie Boatman, narrowly avoiding Sun ‘n Fun prison.

After spending a little time in the air-conditioned comfort of our magazine’s greeting tent, Mike and I thought it best to begin our trek through the hangar displays. The outside temperature of 91 degrees was our primary motivation. I conduct my hangar walk methodically, without missing an aisle of vendors. The process can lead to sensory overload, so it’s best to scan ahead before proceeding.

Having successfully accomplished that—inclusive of a very tasty chicken pita sandwich that I confess to having low expectations for—we sought refuge back in the FLYING Media Group tent, while we awaited the arrival of my Connecticut crowd and associates.

It was great to reunite with old friends—airline colleagues and GA pilots alike. Introductions were made, and within seconds the verbal abuse began. Like a fighter pilot, it’s best to begin as the aggressor, but inevitably you are shot with a missile or a fusillade of high-caliber rounds. I apologized to my fellow magazine staff members, who were caught in the crossfire. Day one ended with hotel check-in, a rushed shower, and dining at our standard tradition of Bonefish Grill.

Without a clue as to his job description, Mike had volunteered for some type of ops duty, beginning with a briefing at 07:30 the next morning. Having been extended an invitation by his fellow JetBlue check airman friend and air operations chairman, Sam Huffstetler, I attended. I had no doubts as to the organizational strength of Sun ‘n Fun, but it was a great experience to witness how some of the sausage was made. The professionalism of the volunteers was impressive. Sam was three weeks from leaving the airline and, as is typical for my colleagues, wanted assurances that he would sur- vive retirement. I confirmed that was almost certain. His immediate plans were to embark on a 3-month bicycle tour across the country and to grow his air boss business: www.flightleadairboss.com. Mike found his volunteer niche at the top of the announcer’s tower, talking on the advisory frequency. He shared duties with another JetBlue colleague, assisting airplanes on the taxiway that may have lost their way. It was a great vantage point. Unfortunately, he witnessed an Aeroshell T-6 ground loop after a rudder steering cable allegedly broke.

I managed a quick visit with my Jetmobile friend and his wife. As usual, he was engaged with an activity; on this occasion, it was an impromptu parade with his motorized 747 engine. Now both retired, Paul and Susie were not leaving much runway underneath their feet, traveling to various destinations almost biweekly.

After a Mexican lunch outside of the compound, my airline friends led the way into the comfort station tent of the Allied Pilots Association (APA), my former pilot union. As expected, I had close encounters with long- lost colleagues. In addition, I engaged in a refreshing conversation with the enthusiastic daughter of one our Boeing 737 pilots. At 25, she was a C-17 pilot in the Air Force reserves, soon to be on the fast track to my former employer.

Day two ended with our traditional dinner at Bern’s Steakhouse in Tampa. It’s always an experience, especially with a crowd of eight. The dessert room is required attendance by our group’s bylaws, with the price almost exceeding that of the steak just consumed.

Departure day was spent partly with my editor-in-chief, an unusual treat since her hair is usually on fire. As part of that, Julie coordinated for me the opportunity to meet Daher staff and sit in the TBM 960, an incredibly sophisticated machine.

We inhaled an early lunch of BBQ chicken and had the Bonanza’s engine started by 12:15. Our departure was without issue except for the delay caused by two Amazon 737 arrivals. After a successful navigation through Orlando’s Class-B airspace, we arrived in KOMN no worse for the wear.

Sun ‘n Fun is certainly about the airplanes, but it’s the people that define the experience.

The post An Airline Pilot’s Sun ‘n Fun Trek appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

With my Piper Arrow loaded to its full capacity of four people (including me, two journalists, and an environmental executive director), the Lycoming IO-360 engine decided it no longer wanted to participate at full power. Instead, the engine protested by shaking the airplane with a pronounced vibration barely five minutes into the climb out. As though to scold me, the digits of the engine monitor display began to flash high EGT and high CHT numbers on the number-3 cylinder. I cringed.

Although I would find out later that the damage was done before I reduced power, it seemed an appropriate course of action. Having contacted Jacksonville Center for flight following just moments prior, I informed the controller that we had an engine problem and would be returning to our nearby departure airport of Waycross (KAYS) in central Georgia. The controller seemed indifferent to our plight and simply acknowledged my intentions, instructing me to squawk VFR.

Meanwhile, passenger intercom chatter had gone silent. In my best airline captain voice, I informed my passengers that we would be returning to the airport out of an abundance of caution. Limiting my use of the throttle in the descent while pointing the airplane directly at the runway threshold, disregarding any semblance of a normal traffic pattern, we arrived back on terra firma without incident a mere 10 minutes after takeoff. I apologized for the abbreviated flight. The passengers responded with gratitude, grace, and understanding.

Taxiing toward a parking spot, I inquired via the unicom frequency as to the location of the maintenance shop. The reply: “We don’t have a maintenance shop on the field, but I’ve got a couple of numbers for local mechanics.”

Having failed my policy of packing an overnight bag for such contingencies, I shook my head. The first mechanic said that he was no longer operating freelance and had taken a full-time position for a flight department in St. Simon’s Island. Despite his new employment, the mechanic took 15 minutes to assist me in troubleshooting. The second call yielded a willing and able A&P, Kip McClelland, who offered up his more available A&P brother, Koby, but not before attempting to troubleshoot as well. Koby wasn’t available until late afternoon. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Following the troubleshooting guidance, I started the engine. A magneto check was normal, with the engine monitor indicating noticeably colder EGT and CHT temperatures on the number-3 cylinder. Toward the end of my engine run-up test, the pilots of a Falcon 900 crew parked nearby walked rapidly toward the Arrow. One of the pilots, who had an A&P certificate, described white smoke flowing out of the oil breather tube. Not good.

I called Savvy Aviation’s breakdown service for additional advice. With the footwork already accomplished in locating a mechanic, the phone conversation involved a final troubleshooting step, pulling the prop through a couple of rotations. This step revealed low compression, a symptom of a sick number-3 cylinder. The problem was becoming more expensive.

While commiserating with me, aspiring airline pilot and Marine vet James Kidd revealed that he was flying back and forth via a well-seasoned Cherokee 140 between Waycross and of all places, Flagler Executive Airport (KFIN)—my home turf. James was building flight time to qualify for a potential Spirit Airlines interview. He was departing shortly but would return later in the afternoon. Although my airline buddies had already promised a rescue flight, it was great to have another option.

Approaching noon, the very sympathetic and hospitable Waycross FBO staff offered me one of the crew cars. I sampled additional southern hospitality in the form of lunch at a local restaurant. Fried chicken isn’t high on my dietary list, but when in Waycross…

Koby McClelland arrived on the ramp earlier than promised. He had a cheerful demeanor as he described his troubleshooting plan of attack. A brief engine run-up, more white smoke, the removal of a very wet spark plug, and a borescope video revealed that the number-3 cylinder had experienced a destructive event. The valves were seated properly, but the top of the piston and cylinder walls indicated that something melted, most likely the rings. Great.

With cell phones to our ears, Koby and I shopped for refurbished cylinders. The task became problematic because of the apparent short supply. Fortunately, one shop could have a cylinder completed and shipped within the week, which I skeptically predicted would actually be the following week. Unfortunately, I was proven correct.

Another aspiring airline pilot, Zach Ballard, attempted to assist with temporary lodging for the sick airplane in one of the hangars in which his boss based a King Air operation, but the daily price offered was more conducive to tying the airplane down on the ramp. Shortly after my rescue posse arrived via retired United Airlines captain Kage Barton’s Mooney, the airport lineman who had been tolerating my tale of woe for most of the day offered an unoccupied T-hangar leased by a local pilot. The local pilot refused any compensation, not even a bottle of wine.

Once the new cylinder was installed, not quite two weeks later, I returned to Waycross with Kage and his Mooney. Knowing that I would be meeting Kip this time, I did a double take when he hopped out of the Cessna 150 he flew from his home base of Douglas Airport (KDQH). The McClelland brothers were identical twins with identical careers.

It wasn’t until that moment it occurred to me that I had met them both at another Georgia airport during a fuel stop where a faulty fuel servo that was later replaced was making my hot start technique irrelevant. The brothers offered diplomatic advice, which eventually got the engine started. Gotta be a small world when you meet twin A&Ps twice. The name on their company shirts should have clued me in: Twin Aviation Repair.

A former airline colleague, Boeing 777 check airman and designated pilot examiner Jay Smith, braved the one-hour mission home to Flagler with me, but not before we flew a 30-minute test flight, circling above Waycross Airport.

Savvy Aviation remained involved, analyzing data from the engine monitor. I was concerned that my operational habits led to the piston and cylinder destruction. It did not. An admired engineer friend noticed a slowly decreasing fuel flow in the data analysis graphs during the climbout. Combining that observation with finding no magneto, spark plug, or fuel flow issues, the most likely cause of cylinder detonation was momentary blockage of the fuel injector. An engine shop that I consulted agreed.

All things considered, the aftermath experience was relatively painless. Compassionate and accommodating people made the difference. That said, I could only imagine the possible outcomes had the intended environmental observation flight continued over the Okefenokee Swamp. Fortunately, the checkbook balance was the only casualty.

The post Engine Troubleshooting in Double Time appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Jumpseat privileges are typically available mere days after receiving your employee badge, yet some employers do a minimal job of instructing new hire pilots in their use. Jumpseating is an area where it’s very possible to step on toes and even get yourself in trouble if you run afoul of the rules and etiquette, so it’s worth becoming familiar with the process early on.

A jumpseat is an extra seat in the cockpit (or sometimes two, particularly on A320s and widebody aircraft) that is intended for use by check airmen conducting line checks, FAA observers, or relief pilots in an augmented crew. When jumpseats are empty, which is often, airlines in the U.S. and Canada make them available for use by off-duty pilots—both their own employees and those who fly for other airlines, for both commuting and for personal travel. This is important because normal non-revenue travel requires that a passenger seat be empty. In the post-COVID travel boom, it’s not at all unusual for flights to be 100 percent full, and then the jumpseat is the best seat on the plane—nevermind that it’s often cramped and poorly padded. Without the use of the jumpseat, commuting would be far more difficult.

• READ MORE: 6 Things to Know Before Launching Professional Flight Training

I should note that the seats in the cabin normally used by the flight attendants are also known as jumpseats. Many aircraft have more cabin jumpseats than standard flight attendant crew. The extras are usually available for use by commuting flight attendants—or, in their absence, by “on-line” pilots [e.g. those employed by the operating airline].

Jumpseating, as a verb, refers to more than occupying an available jumpseat. It encompasses the use of jumpseat privileges. This can be on your own airline or on another carrier with which your employer has a reciprocal jumpseat agreement. It can refer to use of the cockpit jumpseat, a cabin jumpseat, or “flowing back” to an available passenger seat. In every case, the use of jumpseat privileges is considered a professional courtesy extended by the flight’s captain at his or her discretion. This makes it distinct from non-revving, and is where a lot of the unwritten etiquette (and potential for ruffled feathers) comes into play. Additionally, when jumpseating you are considered an additional crew member, which is another area with potential pitfalls.

The first of these is dress. Here, airline policies vary somewhat. You will never go wrong jumpseating in uniform. Most airlines accept business wear. Many (but not all) accept business-casual and 95 percent of the time, you’ll be okay in slacks, a polo or button-down shirt, and reasonably dressy shoes. Wear sneakers and you’re straddling the line and might get called out. Do not be the schmuck who shows up in jeans and a T-shirt because the flight “unexpectedly filled up.” Also keep in mind that you are subject to the very same rules regarding alcohol as if you were working the flight. At some airlines, it is 12 hours from bottle to throttle—or bottle to jumpseat.

• READ MORE: How to Pace Your Flight Training Like a Pro

Procedures for “listing” for the jumpseat also vary. Some airlines allow you to simply show up at the gate and present your credentials to the gate agent, and they will list you on the spot. Others require you to list yourself online or by phone. You need to do your research beforehand, particularly when jumpseating on any carrier for the first time. The Air Line Pilots Association (ALPA) App, available for both iOS and Android, is an excellent resource for jumpseat policies and procedures. It can be used by any airline pilot, not just ALPA members.

Whether listed or not, identify yourself to the gate agent as a flight deck jumpseater. They will verify your employment credentials (I’m being intentionally vague here; the process is anyways fairly opaque to the pilot). Once checked in, wait nearby until the end of boarding unless the gate agent invites you to board earlier. If the pilots arrive at the gate after you, this is an excellent time to introduce yourself to the crew and ask the captain for a ride, so long as they’re not late and harried.

When there are multiple jumpseaters, each airline has a priority list to determine who gets the seat or seats. Check airmen and FAA observers get first whack at the flight deck jumpseat. After that comes on-line jumpseaters; these might be sorted by seniority, time of listing, or time of check-in. Next often comes pilots who work for associated carriers (regional pilots on their mainline partner or vice-versa). And finally, unassociated off-line jumpseaters, usually in order of check-in time.

Once all revenue and non-revenue standby passengers have been cleared, the gate agent will go down the list of jumpseaters. They will normally first fill any unused passenger seats (“flow-back”), then the flight deck jumpseat(s), and finally any extra cabin jumpseats (for on-line pilots only). In the case of both on-line and off-line jumpseaters, the gate agent may ask the on-line pilot if they’re willing to take a cabin jumpseat to get the others on. It’s good karma to accept—or better yet, volunteer. The entire system of jumpseating is essentially built on “we’re all in this together.”

No matter which seat you are assigned, so long as you are traveling on jumpseat authority (and haven’t switched over to a non-rev listing), you are still a jumpseater. This means that as you reach the aircraft door, introduce yourself to the lead flight attendant and ask to speak to the pilots. Entering the cockpit, wait for the crew to finish any checklists or briefings, then introduce yourself and ask the captain if you can catch a ride. Have your company ID, boarding pass/jumpseat form, and FAA certificate and medical all ready at hand. If you have been assigned the flight deck jumpseat and haven’t jumpseated on that model of aircraft before, tell the captain this so they can brief you on how to deploy and stow the jumpseat, use of the audio panel and oxygen mask, and emergency egress procedures.

• READ MORE: Soft and Short Field Operations: Relevant to Professional Pilots?

While jumpseating, you are considered part of the crew. In the flight deck, observe sterile cockpit below 10,000 feet and keep your phone off and stowed the entire time. Though not required, it’s good form to don a headset and monitor ATC as you observe the crew and scan for traffic. I’ve saved several crews from potential pilot deviations while jumpseating, and I’ve had several sharp jumpseaters save me from embarrassing mistakes. Falling asleep on the jumpseat is a bit of a faux pas, though it’s understandable when it happens to tired pilots who have just finished a trip.

If on a flight attendant jumpseat, you are an oddity to the passengers and are a prime candidate for a live stream. Don’t nap or read in passenger view, and keep the phone stowed. If you were lucky and snagged that last empty first class seat while wearing civvies, keep in mind that booze is off-limits even to jumpseaters in passenger seats.

Lastly, I will note that use of the flight deck jumpseat internationally is usually restricted to on-line pilots (except at some cargo carriers)—but off-line pilots can still jumpseat overseas if there are passenger seats open. You will have to check in at the ticket counter, outside of security, and you may need to get a supervisor involved as many overseas ticket agents are unfamiliar with jumpseat procedures.

Once you are hired at a carrier that has jumpseat agreements, your union’s jumpseat committee is an excellent source of information and can answer any questions you have. If the subject interests you, volunteering for the jumpseat committee is a low-pressure entry into union work. 

The post A Seat To Jump For appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

“Did you know that we were flying a 757 on this leg?” the captain asked with a sheepish expression.

“Yessir, it was on the bid sheet.” I gestured at the door threshold. “You have to step down in this airplane as opposed to stepping up in the 767,” I said with a grin.

The captain nodded an acknowledgment, gingerly walking toward the left seat.

As he slid his flight bag into position, he said, “It’s been a while since I read that differences bulletin, so maybe it’s best that I fly this leg to Orange County, and you give me guidance.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said more confidently than I felt, excited to try on a new pair of wings.

The airline had been flying the Boeing 767 for almost five years before the 757 entered service. Despite having the same type rating, most of us had never even flown the 757 simulator, let alone the actual airplane. A cursory glance in each cockpit didn’t reveal much to distinguish the two machines. But there were some subtle and not-so-subtle differences in their systems, notwithstanding gross weights and powerplants. The flight handling characteristics were noticeably different, with the 767 a Cadillac DeVille and the 757 a Chevy Corvette. The captain on that trip performed admirably, especially landing an unfamiliar airplane on a short runway.

Our departure from Orange County (KSNA) the following day included a deadheading McDonnell Douglas MD-80 crew riding in our jumpseats. They became anxious when we openly discussed a handful of unfamiliar items on the 757 checklist. They became quiet when we revealed that our total time on the airplane was about three hours and 30 minutes. They became quieter still when we were cleared for takeoff, and I had to diplomatically state to the captain that the power callout was EPR rather than N1.

Regardless of the dual type rating, our only real training on the 757 was a differences bulletin we received just prior to its introduction into service. Although we weren’t ecstatic about the lack of formal training, we reluctantly accepted the situation in the spirit of moving the airline forward during a period of rapid growth. In retrospect, it really wasn’t a good idea.

Unfortunately, it would seem history has repeated itself. 

Via a 36-page bulletin, American Airlines introduced a significant change to its standard operating procedures (SOPs). No simulator training. No distance (online) learning. Just read the bulletin. The new SOPs encompass a concept called “Fleet Harmonization.” While allowing for some differences among aircraft types, the objective is to incorporate a common set of procedures for all phases of flight such that pilots transitioning from one airplane to another are already familiar with the tasks. Considering the many aircraft types in service at American, and the current environment of perpetual transition training, fleet harmonization is a worthy goal.

What tasks are included in this change? Manipulation of flaps and gear. Management of navigation systems and mode control panel operations. Takeoff callouts. Landing callouts. Approach procedures. Category II/III operations. Go-arounds. Pushback operations. PA announcements. Seat belt sign operation. Landing light operation. Overall checklist protocols.

The new SOPs are numerous, representing a significant culture change. Although the Allied Pilots Association (APA) endorses fleet harmonization, its leadership is adamantly opposed to its presentation as a lengthy bulletin. The bulletin was introduced to line pilots on December 5 with an implementation date of January 3. Check airmen—the pilots assigned the task of maintaining the standards of the FAA and the airline—weren’t given much advance notice either. As a matter of fact, check airmen weren’t offered the opportunity to provide input on the new SOPs. Granted, the bulletin touts the contribution of subject matter experts who no doubt provided detailed evaluations and analysis, but wouldn’t it be prudent also to include frontline pilots involved with maintaining standards?

In a letter from the APA president to the vice president of flight—the chief pilot of the airline—it was stressed that, at the very least, distance learning was required under such circumstances as per contractual agreement. Ironically, the bulletin indicates that many of the SOP revisions were done to mitigate risk during vulnerable phases of flight. Wouldn’t that worthy goal command a training event that involves more than just a document review?

The bulletin further states that the airplane flight manuals should be consulted as an additional reference, implying that not everything is covered within the 36 pages. Despite the objection of APA, the airline’s POI (FAA principal operations inspector) deemed the bulletin satisfactory.

Adding to the confusion was an ambiguous letter sent from upper-level pilot management indicating that the implementation could be integrated by utilizing old procedures with the new procedures on a revenue flight. No pilot would be expected or required to be proficient with the new SOPs. The resources of the Flight Training department, Flight Operations, and domicile chief pilots would provide support in the transition.

Unfortunately, one chief pilot didn’t get the proverbial memo. A captain delayed a flight at the gate to brief hiscrew on the new fleet harmonization SOPs. When the captain declared he wouldn’t depart until such time that he was confident in the safety of his flight, the chief pilot obliged him by removing the four-striper from his trip without pay. Although the financial aspect was partially resolved for the revolting captain, the event amplified angst among the troops.

The integration of old and new procedures creates an awkward cockpit and a potential recipe for disaster at critical moments. It’s pure speculation, but it will be interesting to read the NTSB report of the runway incursion that occurred on January 13 at KJFK when a Delta Boeing 737 had to reject its takeoff because of an improper crossing of an American Airlines Boeing 777. Were the new SOPs a contributing factor?

On a personal level, this training-by-bulletin strategy is disappointing to me. Among many attributes of the airline that was part of my life for 34 years, I felt a deep sense of pride in belonging to an elite group of aviators selected and trained to high standards. At one point during my tenure, I was responsible for maintaining those standards as a check airman.

It is indeed a balancing act to juggle safety and financial efficiency within a multi-billion-dollar corporation. But with an airline, safety has to be one of the most important products. A well-trained pilot produces that product. In this circumstance, with significant operational changes involved, paper training is not a solution.

This retired pilot and veteran of the airline asks that my alma mater reconsider the training strategy sooner rather than later.

This article was originally published in the April 2023, Issue 936 of  FLYING.

The post Paper Training appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The truck movement seemed hesitant, and the driver remained in the cab. A gate card is required for entrance, so I wasn’t overly concerned about security issues. That said, I thought it best to make a friendly inquiry. The driver, a young man in his early 30s, was picking up his uncle, who had just purchased a Mooney Ovation (M20R) and was en route from Houston. Having met the uncle months back, I recalled a shiny Beech Baron in his hangar. “Quite the transition,” I thought to myself. 

As was typical for the time of year at my Florida airport, the weather was deteriorating in a blanket of fog. The METAR, which was almost an hour old, reported 400 feet and three miles of visibility. It appeared worse. From home, the young man’s wife had been tracking the uncle’s route via FlightAware. I did the same after the wife had a concern about the airplane flying a “circle over the airport.”

My first reaction was reassurance that this was part of the approach procedure. Later, after a conversation with the uncle and studying the track data, I found that my theory was correct. As I continued a friendly discussion with the nephew, out of the gray darkness over the tree line, a set of bright lights pierced the gloom. The Mooney was nearing the runway threshold. Relief spread across the nephew’s face.

While the airplane taxied in toward our position at theT-hangars, I silently ruminated about the scenario: The purchase of an airplane with an unfamiliar maintenance history. Transition to a single-engine airplane with totally different flight characteristics and procedures. Avionics and navigation systems that require a new comfort level of operational understanding. A four-and-a-half-hour duration flight into night conditions and a low IFR forecast. It was a recipe for disaster.

To my surprise, the Mooney missed the entrance to our T-hangar row despite the intensity of LED landing lights illuminating almost everything in its path. The airplane immediately reversed course, and with a slightly uncomfortable amount of speed, arrived in front of the hangar door. Knowing that fatigue was probably a factor for the missed turn, I waited a few moments after the uncle opened the cockpit door before offering a greeting.

I chided, “It sure doesn’t look like a Baron. Long trip, I imagine?”

The uncle smirked. He paused before sliding out of his seat, saying, “Yeah…long trip. I haven’t flown at night in six years, and I haven’t flown in IFR conditions for six years.”

That statement was packed with a lot of information, most of it disturbing. He was blatantly admitting non-currency. As our conversation continued, the uncle also claimed that on the first approach attempt, the autopilot malfunctioned, but fixed itself on the second attempt. Wouldn’t reversion to a manual operation have solved the problem?

Additionally, ATC had intended vectors for an approach that landed to the west because of the prevailing winds. Despite a 10-knot tailwind, the uncle requested and received approach clearance that landed to the northeast, knowing that the LPV procedure on that runway provided for lower minimums.

Unfortunately, one important caveat was overlooked. A NOTAM issued almost one year ago made the LPV and LNAV/VNAV decision altitudes for the approach “not authorized.” The remaining procedure was only the LNAV approach for that runway. But those minimums were at the same 400-foot altitude as the last reported ceiling. Yikes.

As a knot tightened in my stomach, I assisted with opening the hangar doors and with pushing the airplane into its new home. I learned that the transition from Baron to Mooney was to exploit current market values while trading in a little less airspeed for a lot less fuel burn. The uncle exclaimed, “I always look for an excuse to buy a new toy.” New toy? Taken in another context the statement would have seemed benign, but in this instance, the remark highlighted a dangerous attitude. My knot tightened further.

Still disturbed by the demonstration of potentially dangerous aeronautical decision making, I investigated the event further. Using the combination of archived ATC Live recordings and FlightAware data for my research, the Mooney had begun one turn in the holding pattern as per a request for the course reversal even though it wasn’t required. According to the data, it didn’t appear that the course-reversal holding pattern was necessary, as the airplane altitude was appropriate for beginning the approach without requiring a high rate of descent.

Once inbound past the IAF (initial approach fix), the course headings appeared erratic, which explained themal functioning autopilot that was reported to ATC after declaring a missed approach. ATC vectored the Mooney in an irregular oval pattern to rejoin the final approach course approximately four miles from the FAF (final approach fix). Just prior to the FAF, the controller transmitted that the airplane appeared to be “left of course,” which would have placed the altitude at around 1,000 feet. The data indicated a correction was made. Despite the not-so-stable approach, the outcome was successful.

A rough calculation of fuel burn for the 1999 Mooney Ovation indicated that upon landing, he had approximately an hour and 30 minutes of fuel remaining, which would have put him very close to minimum IFR fuel requirements. Considering the fog conditions prevailing in central Florida at the time, a more distant alternate may have been necessary, so his options would have been limited.

Although anecdotal, a reliable source indicated that this type of behavior from the uncle was not a surprise. Years prior, an unrelated incident reflected an arrogant and cavalier attitude toward breaking the rules regardless of the potential consequences.

Driving home after the encounter, I felt conflicted. As a former check airman at the airline, it was my responsibility to ensure safety standards were upheld. Poor performance or poor judgment was corrected with additional training. Although not active, I am a current flight instructor as well. Did I shirk my duties by not verbalizing my concerns?

Unfortunately, it becomes a philosophical fine line. The potential for creating resentment by challenging a pilot’s mindset may have the opposite effect, even though the intention is to have that individual reflect on their decisions and how they might put their lives and the lives of others in jeopardy. As a check airman, such discussions were part of my job description. Fortunately, I only had to conduct that conversation once. Despite additional training, the pilot was forced to retire early. I still feel responsible for ending his career.

In any case, the decisions made by the new Mooney pilot comprised a recipe for disaster. Because the outcome was successful, I hope it doesn’t embolden him to challenge the surly bonds again in a similar fashion

This article was originally published in the March 2023 Issue 935 of  FLYING.

The post Recipe for Disaster appeared first on FLYING Magazine.