Reading between the lines of media reports, it would appear that the demonstration was a draw between the two fighters. I applaud Kendall for placing himself in harm’s way, but the grandstanding performance served a purpose. It was very much a public endorsement of AI for airborne warfare.

Airborne warfare is certainly a viable application for AI, especially if it can save lives. But what about civilian use of AI aboard airliners? Are pilots ready to accept this technology as a part of its integration into the cockpit? Will it reduce the required crew of two to one plus AI? Will it eventually become the ultimate replacement for all airline pilots? And will passengers embrace the concept of a pilotless aircraft—some of the advanced air mobility concepts are headed that way, so will airliners follow?

Before beginning such a philosophical discussion, it’s best to gain at least a basic understanding of AI because it’s a complex topic that seems to be mostly discussed in general terms. We’ve all seen examples of the technology being used to remarkably replicate famous personalities via photo, video, and voice. With that concept embedded into our psyches, it’s no wonder we perceive a West World scenario of robots turning on their human creators as an end state.

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

In my nine years flying the Boeing 777, I always marveled at how consistent the automation was at landing the aircraft smoothly, especially the flare and touchdown. Because of the unstated rivalry between my performance and the machine’s, I would rarely allow the autoland system to complete its job all the way to the concrete unless weather conditions dictated otherwise. It was a love/hate relationship.

That said, the autoland function, which utilized three separate autopilots, was a very basic form of AI. The system operated under a specific set of parameters. Pilots had to instruct the system through switchology and the programming of the flight management computer (FMC). It was a routine practiced in recurrent training. In today’s vernacular, an autoland probably wouldn’t qualify as AI. 

Now AI is considered “generative.” Rather than just relying on human data input, generative AI utilizes predictive algorithms, a series of formulas or instructions, to create an action or multiple actions. In the case of text, the computer can generate original content—a novel, for example. These actions or creations are achieved through the extraction of numerous, and perhaps infinite, data sources, i.e. internet information.

It’s not a perfect system because sometimes the generated content can result in what’s called “hallucinations” in AI language. A portion of the material could be misinformation, just slightly wrong, or totally incorrect. Remember, some of the data is extracted from sources such as internet sites that are notoriously inaccurate in and of themselves.

• READ MORE: One ATC Sector of Separation

The VISTA F-16 developed its generative AI to maneuver in an aerial dogfight both through data obtained in specially equipped simulators and from the aircraft itself. Beyond that information, I’m certain the Air Force keeps a tight wrap on the project. But I’ll just make the safe assumption that hallucinations are kept out of the equation.

Artificial general intelligence (AGI) is the concept of the tech that most fear. For those of my vintage, AGI is the reason Yul Brynner’s 1973 gunslinger character of West World fame acts murderously outside of his human programming. But this phase of the technology is mostly theory. Computers aren’t quite capable of developing their own intelligence or personalities beyond the data that has been inputted or extracted.

So, how could generative AI assist and coexist in an airline cockpit? First, I hate to admit it, but airline pilots resist change. It’s in our nature to be skeptical. Introduce a new procedure or  cockpit system and we’ll find a problem with it. Introduce AI and eyebrows will raise.

When I transitioned to the Boeing 767 from the Jurassic Jet (B-727), an aircraft that was still controlled with pulleys, cables, and a cantankerous autopilot, the idea of operating a machine from switches in the eyebrow panel was foreign to my being. On one occasion during simulator training, I rebelled and clicked off the autopilot, expressing my frustration to our check airman. I compelled him to allow me the dignity of completing a one-engine landing with my own bare hands, promising to comply with airline automation protocol from that point forward. Eventually, I succumbed to the technology, but it was a struggle.

As a use for AI in an airline cockpit, consider the following scenario: Flight XYZ is 30 minutes from its arrival at John F. Kennedy International Airport (KJFK). The reported RVR is at minimums. If the approach is conducted and a go-around is necessary, does the flight make another attempt or proceed to the flight plan alternate, or somewhere else?

The scenario described above is not an untypical situation. If it’s managed by a proactive crew, the decision is already determined prior to beginning the approach. But if data, inclusive of weather, fuel, distance to alternates, gate availability, hotel availability, passenger connections, crew duty legalities, mechanical status, etc., is available to an onboard AI system, it becomes a computer algorithm problem.

When the data is crunched, the crew can review the computer information, which might reinforce its decision, or the information might result in consideration of a different solution. The use of AI becomes collaborative, potentially reducing cockpit workload.

In July 1989, United Airlines DC-10 Captain Al Haynes famously coordinated one of the most significant moments involving crew resource management. When the airplane suffered a catastrophic, uncontained engine failure after a fan disc separated from the No. 2 (center) engine, severing all hydraulic lines, the airplane was only controllable through the use of differential power. Of the 296 passengers and crew on board, 184 survived the “impossible landing” in Sioux City, Iowa.

McDonnell Douglas indicated that the scenario of a complete hydraulic failure was impossible. Would AI have offered the same solution? Would AI have offered a better solution? Would AI have recommended the incredible crew coordination and ingenuity that was demonstrated? I am certainly no AI expert, but my answer would be negative.

Twenty years later, US Airways Flight 1549 landed on the Hudson River after a flock of geese were ingested into both engines at relatively low altitude causing a dual flameout. In my estimation, AI may have created a distraction that could have taken away from the succinct decisions and actions taken by Captain Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger and First Officer Jeffrey Skiles.

Based on the current status of AI technology, it would seem that a pilotless aircraft is not even in the distant future. Could AI be an asset to the cockpit in its present form? Sure, but not to replace one of the pilots. That’s fodder for a whole ’nother story

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

The post Replacing Airline Pilots With AI appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

We were told that our last port of call in the Falkland Islands would be canceled because of weather as per the captain’s decision. The new course would proceed directly back to our departure/arrival port of Buenos Aires, Argentina, which would give us two additional days at sea for a consecutive total of four.

We were checking the obligatory retirement cruise box along with 2,300 of our closest friends. The trip was enticing because of its primary mission to sail along the coastline of the northern Antarctica Peninsula. In addition, my wife and I were invited to be part of a diverse and colorful group of 17, mostly professionals, from various parts of the Caribbean, U.S., and Canada. The jury is still out on whether we are cruise material, but more on that later.

• READ MORE: One ATC Sector of Separation

The bypass decision was a maritime form of diversion to an alternate airport. Why this sudden change in itinerary? A ForeFlight dive into the current and forecast Falkland Islands weather gave no indication of an arrival problem. Was there more to the story? Was Norwegian Cruise Line dictating the diversion? And who was I to doubt the captain’s authority after my 34 years of airline service?

Although disappointing to us, the news was devastating to about 100 Argentine passengers who had booked their trip for the purpose of honoring their war dead from the 1982 conflict with the British. (Out of respect, I’ll reserve judgment for those who booked a two-week cruise that had maximum focus on an extraordinary part of the globe and not on a small, ancillary destination.)

The Argentines staged a protest in the ship’s atrium, flag waving included. The demonstration succeeded in compelling the captain to provide an explanation. He conceded to an onstage public appearance at the 1,100-seat theater the following morning.

Prior to the uprising, I had written a note to the captain requesting a visit to the bridge with the intention of comparing my former B-777 cockpit to that of a 965-foot ship. Most likely, the visit would be in jeopardy, with my note at a low priority because of the circumstances. Fortunately, I was wrong, and an invitation arrived for the last day of the cruise. But not before my wife and I were able to witness the spectacle at the theater. Perhaps the captain was concerned that the protest would escalate and possibly interfere with other passengers’ enjoyment, but I wouldn’t have subjected myself to the blatant abuse and disrespect displayed. As a matter of fact, using one of his crewmen as a translator from English to Spanish, the captain threatened to leave the stage because of the unruly behavior.

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

Apparently, the decision to bypass the Falkland Islands was due to the domino effect that the forecast weather for our departure from the harbor may have created. High winds were anticipated, and thus high seas. It was a mooring operation, so the tenders would have a difficult time docking at the port and then at the ship. In addition, two ships that weren’t originally expected to be moored in the harbor could become potential collision hazards if they became free of their anchor holds or swung in the wrong direction.

Aside from the safety risks, high seas would slow the movement of the tenders and significantly delay the departure time, which would jeopardize the reservation for the pilot boat arrival window into Buenos Aires, possibly forcing our ship to remain outside the port overnight. Passengers with airline connections would potentially miss their flights. It sounded all too familiar.

With the drama of the previous two days of Argentine dissent behind us, Carol and I were excited to take a tour of the bridge. Our escort tucked us into a line of people that were part of the behind-the-scenes tour.Granted, I didn’t expect to simply enter a larger version of a B-777 cockpit, but the expansive nature of the bridge caught me a little off guard.

No different than the reaction of visitors to my cockpit over the years, it took a few moments to assimilate the organization, stations, systems, and technology. In actuality, I wasn’t quite sure exactly what was in front of my face. But I am a boater, so most of it made sense.

The main bridge area contained a massive array of consoles with a spectacular panoramic view. Embedded into the consoles were large electronic navigation screens, communication equipment, and various switchology. I initially refrained from asking questions so as not to interrupt the tour group that we had followed. When the 20-something crewmember that was herding the group and providing brief narratives of various ship functions began to appear bored, I initiated a polite series of questions.

The number of engines was first on my mind. The answer was four diesels rated at approximately 20,000 hp. I also inquired as to how many bow thrusters were available, with three being the answer. I stumped my new friend with a question regarding the diameter of the propellers. What pilot wouldn’t want to know?

Apparently, my line of questions sparked enough curiosity that they eventually prompted the crewmember to ask if I had a professional marine background. Hardly. But I did reveal my former airline life to which he hesitantly accepted. When asked as to the timeline for him to mount four bars on his shoulders, he grinned. It would most likely be many years, perhaps 20. At one point, that same timeline was true for my airline.

With the official tour complete, Captain Luigi Gentile finished his last obligatory handshake. He strutted over to Carol and I with a broad smile. “So, you must be the retired airline pilot,” Gentile said. I nodded.

Soon, we were discussing his decision to divert from the Falkland Islands. I offered my admiration for Gentile to address passengers in a public forum. He wasn’t obligated to justify his decision, but he was a passionate man and wanted to dispel any notion that it was politically motivated. The fact that an Argentine first officer was part of his crew made him acutely aware of the cultural ramifications involved.

We compared notes regarding diversions and missed approaches, acknowledging the obvious that an airplane operation probably requires quicker decision time. At 39, having been a captain for almost six years, Gentile reminded me of my progression to the left seat at 33. In ship years, it was truly remarkable. He explained that he and his family had practically been born on the sea.

His first command came unexpectedly when the assigned captain fell unconscious from a cardiac event during the process of departing the pier. Gentile said he completed the cruise with a little sweat on his brow, never missing a beat.

Are the high seas different from overseas? Sure. But there are a lot of similarities. As for future cruises, I’ll let you know after November. The next cruise is with only 600 of our closest friends.

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

The post High Seas vs. Overseas Setup Has Similarities appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The theory, based on a 1929 short story, supposes that we are all connected by a chain of five other people. Essentially, it’s the small world philosophy. Airplanes make the world even smaller. Such was the case on a day that my flying coincided with a friend that lives miles away. In addition, it was the same day in January that an Alaska Airlines 737 Max 9 lost a door plug in the fuselage, providing a harrowing experience for both passengers and crew.

One of my favorite Florida airports is Albert Whitted (KSPG), situated on Tampa Bay in St. Petersburg. Its location is within arm’s reach of downtown. The airport’s history is a nostalgic mix of aviation’s golden age, U.S. Coast Guard operations, and military training. The restaurant provides a scorecard-worthy landing view of the prevailing runway, notwithstanding a great menu selection for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. So, when my friend, Joe Bailey, a Southwest Airlines copilot, needed a ride to pick up his Twin Comanche from its minor upholstery renovation, I was pleased to provide my ferry services.

The trip also provided an opportunity to spend some time with my friend and airplane interior designer, George Mitri. Accompanying me was my friend and neighbor, Jack Kurdock, one of my frequent flyers who has an inquisitive engineering mind and appetite for a good burger. I provided concierge service for Bailey, flying eight minutes nonstop from our home base of Flagler Executive Airport (KFIN) and picking him up at Ormond Beach Municipal Airport (KOMN), where his Comanche was currently residing. Typical for airline pilots after coming home from a long trip, Bailey was happy to sit in the back of my Piper Arrow rather than perform copilot duties.

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

With the interior inspection and lunch complete at KSPG, we made certain that all was well with Bailey’s airplane, waiting until both props were spinning and he taxied away. Although the weather was severe blue and white skies, I filed IFR, which takes the stress out of navigating

Tampa and Orlando’s Class B airspace as a VFR operation. That said, we had to accept the consequences of holding for a release, which took painfully longer than anticipated. Four decades of practicing my airline pilot voice did nothing to expedite the process.

Once airborne we proceeded via the typical waypoints and ATC sectors until an unusual handoff. With the frequency change, the controller advised that the next Orlando sector was very busy and to allow some time before checking in. An emergency was in progress at KMCO. “No worries,” I replied, thinking that my request for a shortcut on the route would not be in the cards. The emergency aircraft was mentioned, but it never transmitted on our frequency.

Unbeknownst to me, a serendipitous and unrelated phone call about a week later to my friend and Cessna Citation M2 owner, Tom Torti, revealed that it was he who had declared the emergency after experiencing two loud bangs at FL 340 en route to my former hometown airport of Danbury, Connecticut (KDXR). It turns out that the incident was an interesting set of circumstances.

• READ MORE: Airline Pilots Must Not Dismiss Mental Well-Being

Approximately 80 miles off the Florida coastline, shortly after leveling off, a loud bang rattled the airplane. It felt as if something had struck the M2. In the cabin, the wide eyes of both Torti’s wife and their golden retriever reflected the intensity of the event. Two to three minutes later, another bang was experienced. This time their furry family member thought it safer to take refuge off the floor and onto a seat.

No abnormal engine indications were noted. A little yaw “dance” occurred but subsided. A pressurization problem perhaps? Torti declared an emergency and requested direct to KMCO, knowing it was a Citation service center. Responding to the controller’s request as to the nature of the emergency, and not quite sure on how to define the problem, Torti replied that he was working through a controllability issue.

Requesting to remain at FL 340 until within gliding distance of the coastline, Torti mentally added a handful of shoreline airports as contingencies in the event the situation got worse. They landed without issues on Runway 18R at KMCO and taxied directly to the service center ramp.

Having experienced a similar situation in a Boeing 727 many years ago, I was fairly confident on what occurred. But let’s rewind back to Torti’s departure from Miami-Opa Locka Executive Airport (KOPF).

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

While holding for departure on Runway 9L, some type of bird with a 1-foot wingspan made a swooping dive at the M2. A thump was heard and then feathers appeared out the right-side window. Torti requested and was granted a taxi clearance to park away from the runway so that a visual inspection could be conducted.

All parts of the airplane were inspected with a focus on the right engine. Nothing that provided evidence of a bird strike or ingestion was found. Torti departed without abnormalities right up until the big bang at FL 340.

Fast-forwarding to the Citation service center, the techs performed a preliminary inspection on the ramp, looking at various parts and pieces related to pressurization or anything else that could have caused the event. One tech had a hunch. He peered into the left engine. Lo and behold, the remnants of a suicidal bird were found distributed throughout the compressor section. A subsequent borescope inspection discovered bird innards.

Torti blamed himself for not spending more time scanning the left engine. I assured him that most of us would have made the same assumptions after witnessing feathers appear on the right side and the thump seeming to originate on the right side as well.

So, what happened? It was simply a compressor stall. The bird ingestion created an irregular airflow throughout the left engine, causing erratic surges. Although Torti and I joke that the M2’s Williams engine is just an expensive hair dryer, it can be susceptible to compressor stalls from even small sources of foreign object debris. Large fan engines are much less susceptible, unless, of course, your airplane is flying over the Hudson River and a flock of geese are encountered.

The fix was simply a compressor wash, which was much less than the $675,000 cost of the bird ingestion that destroyed an engine on Torti’s Mustang when one of his airplane partners had an encounter on short final.

At the end of the day, despite not diagnosing the problem, declaring an emergency was the prudent decision. Had Torti continued the flight, destroying the engine was a real possibility. I’m sure he would have handled the situation without difficulty, but no one needs the challenge of operating on one engine for real, especially over water.

Six degrees of separation? Apparently, it’s possible within ATC sectors. Who woulda thought?

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

The post One ATC Sector of Separation 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.

When the airplane was first purchased seven and a half years ago, the exterior paint condition and design was a little dated.

Tongue-in-cheek, I told my wife that she would still look good in the airplane regardless. That remark garnered an eye roll, as many of my airplane-related costs often do. At that time, a complete paint do-over was not on my radar, well…maybe further out at the 200 nm range.

For those who have followed the Jumpseat column over the last few years, you probably recall my wing story of woe. As a recap, my A&P friend discovered a suspicious skin flex and squeak on the upper side of the right wing just above the landing gear. He deemed the repair from a previous hard landing before my purchase inadequate. It rendered the airplane unairworthy.

Fortunately, I had turned my pre-buy inspection of the Arrow into an annual inspection. Much to its dismay, the shop that had performed the annual had signed the logbook with a satisfactory grade. Left unsaid, the shop knew its liability position. A negotiation process ensued, with the seller, broker, and shop agreeing to purchase and deliver a salvage wing to my previous airport home in Danbury, Connecticut (KDXR).

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

The salvage wing was in superior shape. No corrosion. No dents. And the salvage yard had shipped the wing from California with the fuel tank, which became a blessing. Even though the airplane with the wing that had been removed was only two serial numbers apart from ours, the fuel tank’s attachment screw holes didn’t align. Who woulda thought?

I elected not to push for the reimbursement of labor costs to remove and replace the wing, theorizing that the alternative in attorney’s fees would have been far greater. Unfortunately, the additional labor expense didn’t bolster my negotiating position with my wife for what I was about to justify. Once it was installed, the replacement wing stuck out like a sore thumb. It was void of any design, or any personality for that matter.

The airplane had become Frankenstein…at least in my eyes. So, the options were to ignore the wing or paint it to match, or…. Well, I’m certain my fellow airplane owners know the last option. Yup, paint the entire airplane.

The justification process seemed totally rational. Why spend the money to just match an outdated design? Might as well go all-in. I soon became the recipient of a double eye roll. It didn’t get much better when I gave my wife an estimate north of $20,000. The final invoice was higher because of the fuel tank refurbishment and other assorted plastic replacement parts, etc. I incentivized the project further by enticing my wife that a new registration with a personalized N-number was in her future. I did get a meager smile, but only because she felt sorry for my lame attempt at rationalizing.

In the end, I was able to convince my favorite copilot. Most likely, she knew that the project was inevitable. At that time, I was still gainfully employed as a Boeing 777 captain, so our starvation was not likely. The finished product was beautiful. The airplane still looks as though it just rolled out of the paint shop. Which brings me to the next project.

• READ MORE: Kentucky Bourbon Trail Proves Worthy of a Flying Adventure

The airplane interior had been an 8 out of 10 when it was purchased, but it wasn’t the best of quality. The pilot seats were leather-ish with moderate comfort. The aft seats were fabric and showing signs of wear. The carpet, especially up front, was displaying the fatigue of being trampled by feet and leaked on by hydraulic fluid from the toe brakes. The fabric and vinyl side panels were aging at the same rate as my gray hair.

The plastic trim was cracking and yellowing in places. And the instrument panel brought back memories of my days flying Pipers at Purdue University…just after Amelia Earhart had been around campus I believe. I had already set the groundwork for refurbishing the interior by allocating some of my liquid retirement funds. In other words, it was already on the radar. But we unexpectedly jumped into retirement, building a house, and all the other expenses associated with such ventures. The airplane interior went to the bottom of the priority wish list.

By the time our finances were in a comfortable place, my wife had been subjected to periodic snippets of the interior redesign. I enticed her with the idea of more lumbar support and an extended bottom cushion for thigh support.

The search for a reputable airplane interior shop was becoming frustrating, however. But fate intervened. While George Mitri was looking for contact info to reconnect with me for other reasons, I discovered his old company listed in a Pipers Source Guide magazine. Mitri had completed an instrument panel redesign on our Cherokee Six more than 10 years prior. So, when we got on the phone together, it was like finding a long-lost friend.

George works mostly out of Zephyrhills, Florida (KZPH), but also has associations that allow him to operate out of Albert Whitted (KSPG) in St. Petersburg, which is where I left the Arrow a few months after I had flown in to discuss the details of the interior makeover. Knowing his schedule of nonstop clients, I was elated to get on the calendar.

It’s not often in life we meet special people, but George is one of them. Aside from his eye for design detail and sheer passion for a project, he has an incredible compassion for the human race, almost to a fault. His Lebanese background—being caught in the middle of a civil war as a child and then fleeing the conflict with his mother to Toronto—laid the foundation for his tenacity, perseverance, and work ethic. Being close enough to hear the sound of the propellers directing the missiles that exploded around him was part of his childhood. I can’t do his life story justice in this column because it will make your jaw drop.

Interestingly enough, George began his passion for aviation at 10 years old, observing the arrivals and memorizing the schedules of airlines flying into Beirut. The Boeing 747 was his favorite. To him, it was beautiful from every angle. I agree.

The product I was presented with after completion of the interior—including customized floor mats, extra seat pouches, rear-seat pillows, pump-up lumbar supports, and inlaid wood veneer—was spectacular. Our 51-year-old airplane has truly been transformed.

We can always find a rationale to justify the expense of our airplane improvements, but gaining another friend for life really makes it all worthwhile.

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

The post Giving Your Airplane a Face-Lift and Tummy Tuck appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

With a scowl on his face, Captain Dave turned to our wet-behind-the-ears flight engineer and said, “Call maintenance. The radar is spoking in the video band.”

Staring at the unit, I saw nothing but a green scan sweeping across the display. Hmm. What the heck was a video band? Thinking this seasoned captain could impart some valuable knowledge, I made the biggest mistake of the three-day trip. I asked the question out loud.

Dave’s response was curt and combative: “Look it up.” Despite my diplomatic efforts to explain that my question wasn’t challenging his authority, but rather an innocent attempt at an understanding, the cockpit temperature became icy cold. Various other benign interactions invoked similar results. The flight engineer and I determined it was best to follow the rule of speaking only when spoken to.

One of the layovers on the trip took us to Seattle, where I had the opportunity to visit with a friend who had been hired by Alaska Airlines after we had both been furloughed by now-defunct Wien Air Alaska. My friend became a therapist after I described bits and pieces of the Captain Dave experience. At pickup time, my friend got a glimpse of our boss as he descended to the hotel lobby in the glass elevator. His bright, white uniform shirt was starched with razor-edge creases, hat perfectly straight, and patent leather shoes shined to squint-worthy brightness.

The astonished expression on my friend’s face was confirmation that he understood my pain. He simply said, “No one ever loops a Bausch and Lomb sunglass case through their belt.”

• READ MORE: Kentucky Bourbon Trail Proves Worthy of a Flying Adventure

On the last leg of the trip to New York, our illustrious captain landed long on Runway 13 at LaGuardia (KLGA). Another arrival landed within seconds of our turn off the runway behind us. It was a dark night and, within an instant, I realized that the other arrival was about to exit via a high-speed taxiway, presenting a potential ground collision as we taxied from the opposite direction.

Keying the mic, I asked ground control if it wanted us to hold short of the high-speed taxiway that the other airplane was exiting. Unfortunately, the transmission was blocked. Captain Dave seemed unaware of the pending disaster, so I did my best to “suggest” that he stop the airplane. His wrath emerged, admonishing me for having the audacity to attempt communication with ATC without his approval. I was berated until the brakes were parked at the gate.

When the parking checklist was complete, I promptly picked up my flight bag, said goodbye to the flight engineer, and never spoke a word to Captain Dave as I exited the cockpit. I enjoyed a restless night’s sleep. Still on probation status with the airline, it seemed best to be preemptive and report my insubordinate discretions to our New York chief pilot, guilty or not. Perhaps he would have mercy on my soul.

With patience and a sympathetic ear, my chief pilot listened to the entire story of the trip from hell. I resisted revealing the name of the captain until he compelled me to utter it at the conclusion of my diatribe. After hearing the name, a brief moment of silence followed. My chief said, “Enjoy the rest of your career. Call me anytime.” To this day, the “video band” is still a mystery.

For those of us that began our careers with captains who never heard of the concept of CRM (crew resource management) or dismissed the idea entirely, it wasn’t unusual to fly with a four-striper who wouldn’t exactly be invited to Mom’s dinner table. Despite the pain of surviving a trip with such captains, it was a learning experience. The captain described earlier silently demonstrated some 727 flying techniques with which I wasn’t familiar, so all was not lost.

Or there was Captain Jack, who was genuinely a decent guy, but his people skills were sorely lacking. On almost every trip, he managed to tweak the ire of the ground crew or flight attendants. I was often the buffer between his potential demise at the hands of a fellow employee and survival. Somehow, I remained on his good side, most likely because of my attempts at diplomacy. Except for one night.

After being rebuffed by our No. 1 flight attendant who was busy with passengers, Jack had wanted a face-to-face discussion that involved seat belt strategy in anticipation of turbulence ahead over the Rockies. Even in the darkened Boeing 767 cockpit, I watched his complexion transform toward a deeper shade of red.

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

Frustrated, Jack stabbed a button on his radio panel. Before I realized he had pressed the No. 1 VHF button and not the intended PA button (which is rarely used to summon a flight attendant anyhow), he transmitted on center frequency: “Lisa, come to the cockpit. I need you now!”

I cringed in anticipation of the inevitable. For a long minute, the frequency was alive with stand-up comics. “Lisa, I need you first!” “Lisa, come over here when you’re done!” “Lisa, don’t leave me!” And so on.

Although I was sympathetic to Captain Jack’s blunder, a smirk escaped from my face. To Jack’s credit, he smiled and bowed his head in resignation. He accepted the punishment and bought the first beer on the layover.

The experiences with all types of captain personalities were part of an informal but valuable mentoring process that helped define my own leadership skills. Good or bad, I filed away the best and worst. When it came time for me to add the fourth stripe, a switch in my brain activated that said I was ready, not only because of my level of comfort flying the airplane but because of the leadership traits experienced.

As of April, all Part 121 carriers are required to have in place a leadership and command program in addition to mentor training for captains. Back in the day, my airline offered a program dubbed “charm school.” We all received a leather-bound notebook with our names embossed, a vague idea on how to be a captain, and a lot of airline cheerleading. Most of us had already been flying in the left seat for a year, so it was easy to stick our chests out as “seasoned” captains. That said, charm school was a well-intended program. A version of it still exists.

With the airline industry now upgrading copilots to captains at warp speed, the opportunity for these pilots to experience all types of leadership remains limited. It is my hope that the leadership and command training, alongside the mentoring program, will be a sufficient supplement in filling our cockpits with adept captains.

A well-rounded copilot makes for a well-rounded captain.

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

The post Like Copilot, Like Captain: The Importance of Left-Seat Mentoring 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.

Apparently as a veteran airline pilot, I am a magnet for such exchanges because folks consider the profession an authority on all things aviation. In reality, no pilot is a complete authority, especially me. Maybe some of us just appear to have more credibility than others. It’s been many years since I’ve focused on the opportunity to share the flying experience—one of them being the iconic $100 hamburger, which we all know has probably doubled in price. Most nonpilots are familiar with the concept but have never really experienced it.

So, over my recent retirement years, with the intention of providing insight to my passion, I’ve invited a handful of friends on separate flights to various airport dining destinations. Unexpectedly, the flights have been a learning experience for me as well.

My friend Jack has an engineering background, with the Hubble Space Telescope having been a part of his repertoire. In earlier days, he and his son (now the chief engineer with a major international auto racing organization), invested time and money into amateur racing. He has an above-average understanding of the intricacies involved with reciprocating engines, including almost anything else that can be defined on a spreadsheet.

Having a naturally inquisitive nature, Jack asked intimate questions about airplane performance and operations, and ATC procedures. Our trip down Florida’s east coast through Daytona Beach airspace to New Smyrna Beach (KEVB) for lunch was all of 25 minutes. If I wasn’t responding to a controller, I was answering a question.

I had briefed Jack on the moderate crosswind and potential gusts we would most likely encounter. After applying a noticeable crab angle, the airplane began to buffet in a sea of choppy air. In monotone, I uttered, “Yippee-ki-yay” on short final. A Google search claims that the phrase is of Native American origin, meaning, “This is a good day to die.” It’s been one of my catch phrases for such circumstances over many years of flying. Perhaps I should keep it to myself. Jack remained uncharacteristically silent while I wrestled with the control yoke.

Elated by the entire experience, in addition to his meal, Jack expressed his gratitude. He painted a positive picture of the day to his wife, Kathy, but employed poetic license in describing the “hurricane force” winds that challenged my landing. He claimed it had been my intent to subject him to those conditions. Apparently, it was all forgotten when Kathy herself agreed to a lunch flight, which was flown on a spectacular VFR day without a bump.

Having not so subtly hinted at his desire for a ride, I next invited Ira to lunch. Ira is a colorful character. His background could fill the pages of this magazine. Suffice it to say his intelligence is only surpassed by his wandering attention. He has no patience for you to complete the answer to his question because he’s already armed with the next one.

Oftentimes, Ira is already discussing a new topic within the same sentence. He is a human sponge of information gathering. Beyond Ira’s full-throttle energy level, one of his best attributes is the benevolence of his time for family and friends. Translation: He’s got a big heart.

Needless to say, my takeoff briefing with Ira was slightly more thorough. I placed special emphasis on the need to remain silent when the aircraft call sign was spoken on the radio. Predictably, a raised index finger was the best solution for intercom silence…which wasn’t always successful.

Having spent a career dealing with the distractions of checklists, warning lights, computer entries, navigation, flight attendant interaction, weather deviations, and flying the airplane, I felt up to the task. With Albert Whitted Airport (KSPG) in St. Petersburg as the lunch destination, we would be transiting Orlando and Tampa Class B airspace, which always compels me to file IFR. I’d rather be directed around departure or arrival traffic than risk my analysis of VFR courses and altitudes that might get me in trouble if not cleared to enter Class B airspace, notwithstanding better traffic separation in a very busy area.

From the moment I started the airplane, Ira peppered me with questions. All of his inquiries were intelligent, involving subject matters that were topics my human database had long ago assimilated and now took for granted. His curiosity was insatiable. His questions ranged from, “Do we have to follow ATC instructions?” to “Why are we at this altitude?” and everything in between.

As anticipated for our return home, we began to encounter typical Florida afternoon weather. The ingredients for convection were at the early stages of transforming cumulus into cumulonimbus. Ira asked why we were zigging and zagging. Grinning, I told him that I was saving him the embarrassment of having to scream. He got the message when ATC assigned a mandatory heading that afforded us the opportunity to sample the inside of a cumulus cloud.

Ira had a preconceived notion that pilot tasks were simply to raise the nose off the runway, fly to cruise flight, and then land the airplane. He was astounded how much is really involved.

• READ MORE: Food for Flight Is the Way to Go

Ken was a former B-52 crew chief during the Vietnam era. Among the many hats he has worn was chairman of our city commission. He now focuses on being a feared hunter of fish. Ken enjoys the serenity of watching the scenery pass beneath the wings without uttering a word.

I’ve had the pleasure of Ken’s company at a Mecum car show auction in Kissimmee (KISM), a trip to Arcadia (X06) for “touch-and-go Tuesdays,” a low approach over the space shuttle landing strip that included a breakfast at Vero Beach (KVRB), and an early breakfast at Albert Whitted. A touchdown on Arcadia’s grass runway because of a repaving project on the main runway was one of Ken’s highlights, having never experienced such an operation.

The Albert Whitted arrival included a flat tire on rollout, an event we could have both done without. Following the efforts of an efficient and friendly maintenance shop, breakfast was not jeopardized. We were able to watch the pit stop tire tube change from the outside balcony of the restaurant.

What did I learn on these excursions? Judging by my friends’ continued jubilant accounts of their trips, just one flight can have a lasting impact on someone’s life experience. It was rewarding to be reminded of this again.

Can you actually fly to lunch? Yes, but it’s an even better experience with nonpilot friends.

This column first appeared in the October 2023/Issue 942 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post So, You Can Actually Fly to Lunch? 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.

• READ MORE: Webinar Aims to Help CFIs Help Airline Pilots Return to GA

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.