Will Helping Out Go Out the Window?
Last Saturday, one of my flying buddies called me on the phone just before I was to head out to another appointment.
“This is a loaded question,” he warned. “What are you doing right now?”
I told him I was a few moments away from heading to another engagement, but it wasn’t anything I had critical. I guessed he was asking because he wanted me to fly him somewhere...more than likely down to Galveston where his airplane was awaiting service.
“Well, I’m at a café near Pearland. I had planned to go down to Galveston and finish up my airplane today, but Bill says the bridge is closed. I’m almost in a panic.”
“I’m guessing you’d like me to fly you down there. Not a problem. Give me five or ten minutes to get my stuff together, and I’ll meet you out there.”
He thanked me as I hung up. I told my wife I’d be taking Jim down to Galveston to work on his plane. This was nothing new; Jim and I shared the same great mechanic, and we helped each other get down and back all the time. What was unusual was the last minute request and that neither of us had heard anything about the causeway bridge to Galveston being closed. We had planned to fly over to Lake Jackson’s airport and its Windsock Grill for lunch a bit later today; so, as I grabbed my flight bag, I told her I’d give her a call when I got to Galveston. She’d have about a half hour from then to meet me back at Pearland’s airport.
I had already used DUATS to get an area briefing for the lunchtime flight, just to check for TFR’s since there were hardly any clouds in the sky. The weather consisted of mainly a little haze and moderately warm temperatures. Driving out to the airport from my house took only about ten minutes, and I pulled onto the grass behind my airplane and its “carport” to await Jim’s little red Chevy truck. It was nowhere to be seen, but I knew he’d be along. Dragging my flight bag out to the airplane and perching it on its wing, I stepped up on the port wing, unlocked my Cheetah’s canopy and slid it back, and stepped into the cockpit to unlock the airplane’s flight controls and throttle. Master ON to check the battery, the flashing beacon perched on the tail, and glance quickly at the gas gauges. Everything looked good, so I flipped the Master back off and stepped down to begin my walkaround at the edge of the port flap, as my pilot’s manual recommends. As I stood in front of the port wingtip, folding up my fake-leather, red, pitot tube cover, Jim came walking toward me from the ramp while he was ending up a conversation on his cell phone.
“Well, I really appreciate this. Something like this and you get to know who your real friends are,” he said.
If that’s his litmus test, so be it. Mine’s a little more stringent. It goes: You can tell whom your real friends are when you get a divorce, lose a job, go bankrupt, get arrested, or catch a contagious, incurable disease.
The airplane was down to about half a load of gas, but that was enough to get to Galveston and back and even to Lake Jackson and back with lots of reserve. Jim asked if he could untie the starboard wing's tiedown rope as I rummaged through the engine compartment and checked the oil. Six quarts of oil out of eight said "no problems there". Down the starboard wing, I checked for cracks and dents, looked to see how much gas was in its tanks checking them for water and contaminates. I made sure the aileron and flap was hooked on right, before stepping back and looking at my rear fuselage, the vertical and horizontal tails, and the static pressure ports near them.
I walked back to the wing on the port side, stepping up and into the cockpit. As I strapped in, Jim asked if it was time for him to get aboard and I nodded. I plugged in my communications headset, its portable push-to-talk switch, and started mounting my Garmin GPSMAP 295 in its place, centered on us and the top of my instrument panel. We snapped our shoulder harnesses on, and while Jim hooked up his headset, I examined the power chord to the 295 to figure out the best way to route it. As I wound the excess around the unit’s base, I saw that Jim was ready to go, fetched my checklist, and ran through it toward engine start. Three squirts of primer, MASTER ON, AUX FUEL PUMP ON, check for fuel pressure, and we were ready to go.
“CLEAR PROP!” I yelled, checking visually to make sure it was, before hitting the Starter button. The prop in front of us eagerly spun around and then the engine caught, roaring to life.
I checked for oil pressure, listened to the automatic weather broadcast, set my altimeter and directional gyro, and we were ready to taxi. Brakes off, throttle up a little and stick back to lighten the load on the nosegear in the grass; right brake to spin us right onto the taxiway. Following its yellow centerstripe, I taxied us toward the ramp, turning us left in between its parked rows of airplane as we got there. Down to the ramp’s north end, we went, turning briefly right before arching left into a run-up area. Performing the run-up as part of the Before Takeoff checklist, we checked the engine, flaps, and flight controls, set the radios and transponder and both my panel mounted Honeywell KLN-89B and handheld GPSMAP 295 GPS units. I could fly to Galveston with my eyes closed and didn’t need either of them; but I wanted to check the 295 out, and part of that was seeing how it and the KLN-89B differed. Pushing the throttle forward, I taxied us out of the run-up area and up to runway 14’s parallel taxiway. Down toward the approach end of One-Four, we went, running along at a fast jog, just enough to let my rudder work to steer the nose and save me from having to use the brakes.
I taxied down to the very end of the runway, stopping at the hold-short to close up the canopy and perform a quick last minute check before calling on the radio we were departing runway OneFour at Pearland to the Southeast. I pushed the throttle in, the engine revved up, and we accelerated down the centerstripe. When my airspeed indicator hit 60, I pulled back a little on the stick to rotate; a few more miles per hour later, we lifted off, slowly climbing into the sky.
While the air on the ground had been calm, at about a thousand feet we started getting bumped around and I found myself steering the nose about ten degrees left to hold a straight course. I turned off the fuel pump as I checked the GPS courseline on both units. They agreed pretty well, though there were a few knots difference in calculated groundspeeds. Initially, I had thought I’d give control of the airplane to Jim and play with the GPSMAP 295 myself; but I apparently took a little too long.
“Well, I hate just sitting,” he said. “So, if I’m not flying, how `bout me showing you about your 295?”
I nodded as I switched my communications radio over to Houston Approach. It would be nice to have flight following; but it was a clear day, and we do, after all, now have to be conscious about how much we ask Air Traffic Control to do. Every time we call and ask for help, even if it’s in everyone’s best interest, it’s logged as an “operation” and falls into the morass of costs the FAA says we’re not paying enough of. It’s too bad I’ve got to think about not adding to any justification the FAA and the Air Transport Association has to call for user fees instead of safety, but that’s how it is. The safety line has always been “use ATC services; it’s safer”; little did we small plane pilots know that when it came to justifying user fees, it would be used against us.
Jim showed me the 295’s “Nearest” function and what data was stored about an airport in its database; I noticed that the Houston Approach frequency it listed was incorrect, corresponding to one instead used on the northwest side of town. He continued to talk and tell me this and that, which was making listening to Houston Approach a bit difficult. Still, I heard the controller clear a Cessna for the ILS approach to runway 13 at Galveston. That meant he was just miles to the east of us, and we were converging. I looked but couldn’t see him anywhere. We’d have to keep an eye out.
The round tanks and sharp, fiery spires of the Texas City refinery slid past us on the ground to our left along with the four, grey lanes of Interstate 45, dotted with moving traffic also. Switching the radio over to Galveston Tower, I gave them a call. After they acknowledged me, I told them where I was and I was there for landing. They told me I could choose either runway 13 or 17 for landing; we were closer to 13, so I picked that. They asked me to report a two mile right base for runway 13, which I acknowledged. Then, we heard the airplane on the ILS approach call the tower. They were somewhere beside us. The tower called their position to us but I reported “no joy”.
In a slight descent, we flew across the bay, turning onto a right base for 13 as the tower told us the ILS airplane was on final. I finally saw him, a little grey airborne shark shape, nose-down, and headed toward the same runway we were. To keep my spacing right, I kept the nose straight ahead and slowed down, waiting until the very last moment to square a right corner and point the nose down runway 13’s length. The ILS airplane waved it off, and I dropped him out of my list of mental priorities as I concentrated on wing down into the crosswind and opposite rudder to keep the nose straight, adding power as we began to sink a little, and making a decision to fly the VASI lights a little low to be able to turn off on the first taxiway. The grey lip of the runway floated under us, and I flared to keep us from touching down, which we did with just a gentle bump. I already had the engine power all the way back, so I got on the brakes, yoke back, to get us slow enough to turn off on the waiting taxiway Delta.
“November Niner Eight Four Eight Uniform, off on Delta, cross 17, taxi to parking this frequency,” the tower instructed.
“Roger, off on Delta, cross 17, and taxi to parking this freak,” I parroted back, taxiing us down Delta at a moderate clip, cleaning up the flaps, turning off the electric fuel pump, and cracking the canopy to get some fresh air.
The Terminal Building was about fifty yards away but directly in front of us and between us was a green, turbine-powered helicopter hovering inches above the ground. He edged toward us before the Tower called and asked him if he could see us. He answered in the affirmative; the Tower told him to give way to us. I added a little throttle to get out of his way a little quicker, turning left as we reached the main ramp and headed toward a row hangars on the north side of the field. Rows of airplanes and helicopters slide past us on the right as made our way toward Bill’s hangar. Its door was open and Jim’s Cessna 120, along with a red Pitts and another airplane, was sitting outside it.
I taxied us over to the Cessna and pulled past, pointing my tail away from it while stopping and then shutting my airplane’s engine down. Jim climbed out and went over to talk to Bill and take a look at his airplane. I unhooked myself and followed him over to the hangar. Borrowing his cell phone, I called Connie and let her know my mission was accomplished, and I’d be back at Pearland’s airport in half an hour.
A few minutes later, I was back in my airplane alone, taking off on Galveston’s runway 35. As I climbed away from the field, I thought about how good it felt to be able to help a friend out, a fellow pilot and aircraft owner, and how impossible it would have been to do it if the airport was charging user fees. How much would it have cost me to lend my friend a hand? Fifty bucks? That’s not something I would have likely been able to afford to do. And flying as a private pilot, FAA regulations would have forbidden me from asking him to pay them or accepting payment for them. How many flights like the one I’d just performed would be lost if user fees were charged here like they have been in Europe where general aviation has all but died? How many Angel Flights would be lost? How many charity runs after a hurricane? Would I even be able to afford to continue to use Bill as my mechanic, or would I have to take my business to a mechanic at an uncontrolled field who might or might not be as good? There’s almost no one in the general aviation community who will not be hurt if the FAA implements per-flight user fees like they want. Yet, our legislators continue to vote for them. But then they’ve never had to scrape by to hold onto their airplane or pay for their pilot’s license. Apparently, they think the pursuit of happiness is staying on the ground and needs to be, if it isn’t for you.
By the way, as I climbed out over the causeway, I looked down at the bridge. It was open.
“This is a loaded question,” he warned. “What are you doing right now?”
I told him I was a few moments away from heading to another engagement, but it wasn’t anything I had critical. I guessed he was asking because he wanted me to fly him somewhere...more than likely down to Galveston where his airplane was awaiting service.
“Well, I’m at a café near Pearland. I had planned to go down to Galveston and finish up my airplane today, but Bill says the bridge is closed. I’m almost in a panic.”
“I’m guessing you’d like me to fly you down there. Not a problem. Give me five or ten minutes to get my stuff together, and I’ll meet you out there.”
He thanked me as I hung up. I told my wife I’d be taking Jim down to Galveston to work on his plane. This was nothing new; Jim and I shared the same great mechanic, and we helped each other get down and back all the time. What was unusual was the last minute request and that neither of us had heard anything about the causeway bridge to Galveston being closed. We had planned to fly over to Lake Jackson’s airport and its Windsock Grill for lunch a bit later today; so, as I grabbed my flight bag, I told her I’d give her a call when I got to Galveston. She’d have about a half hour from then to meet me back at Pearland’s airport.
I had already used DUATS to get an area briefing for the lunchtime flight, just to check for TFR’s since there were hardly any clouds in the sky. The weather consisted of mainly a little haze and moderately warm temperatures. Driving out to the airport from my house took only about ten minutes, and I pulled onto the grass behind my airplane and its “carport” to await Jim’s little red Chevy truck. It was nowhere to be seen, but I knew he’d be along. Dragging my flight bag out to the airplane and perching it on its wing, I stepped up on the port wing, unlocked my Cheetah’s canopy and slid it back, and stepped into the cockpit to unlock the airplane’s flight controls and throttle. Master ON to check the battery, the flashing beacon perched on the tail, and glance quickly at the gas gauges. Everything looked good, so I flipped the Master back off and stepped down to begin my walkaround at the edge of the port flap, as my pilot’s manual recommends. As I stood in front of the port wingtip, folding up my fake-leather, red, pitot tube cover, Jim came walking toward me from the ramp while he was ending up a conversation on his cell phone.
“Well, I really appreciate this. Something like this and you get to know who your real friends are,” he said.
If that’s his litmus test, so be it. Mine’s a little more stringent. It goes: You can tell whom your real friends are when you get a divorce, lose a job, go bankrupt, get arrested, or catch a contagious, incurable disease.
The airplane was down to about half a load of gas, but that was enough to get to Galveston and back and even to Lake Jackson and back with lots of reserve. Jim asked if he could untie the starboard wing's tiedown rope as I rummaged through the engine compartment and checked the oil. Six quarts of oil out of eight said "no problems there". Down the starboard wing, I checked for cracks and dents, looked to see how much gas was in its tanks checking them for water and contaminates. I made sure the aileron and flap was hooked on right, before stepping back and looking at my rear fuselage, the vertical and horizontal tails, and the static pressure ports near them.
I walked back to the wing on the port side, stepping up and into the cockpit. As I strapped in, Jim asked if it was time for him to get aboard and I nodded. I plugged in my communications headset, its portable push-to-talk switch, and started mounting my Garmin GPSMAP 295 in its place, centered on us and the top of my instrument panel. We snapped our shoulder harnesses on, and while Jim hooked up his headset, I examined the power chord to the 295 to figure out the best way to route it. As I wound the excess around the unit’s base, I saw that Jim was ready to go, fetched my checklist, and ran through it toward engine start. Three squirts of primer, MASTER ON, AUX FUEL PUMP ON, check for fuel pressure, and we were ready to go.
“CLEAR PROP!” I yelled, checking visually to make sure it was, before hitting the Starter button. The prop in front of us eagerly spun around and then the engine caught, roaring to life.
I checked for oil pressure, listened to the automatic weather broadcast, set my altimeter and directional gyro, and we were ready to taxi. Brakes off, throttle up a little and stick back to lighten the load on the nosegear in the grass; right brake to spin us right onto the taxiway. Following its yellow centerstripe, I taxied us toward the ramp, turning us left in between its parked rows of airplane as we got there. Down to the ramp’s north end, we went, turning briefly right before arching left into a run-up area. Performing the run-up as part of the Before Takeoff checklist, we checked the engine, flaps, and flight controls, set the radios and transponder and both my panel mounted Honeywell KLN-89B and handheld GPSMAP 295 GPS units. I could fly to Galveston with my eyes closed and didn’t need either of them; but I wanted to check the 295 out, and part of that was seeing how it and the KLN-89B differed. Pushing the throttle forward, I taxied us out of the run-up area and up to runway 14’s parallel taxiway. Down toward the approach end of One-Four, we went, running along at a fast jog, just enough to let my rudder work to steer the nose and save me from having to use the brakes.
I taxied down to the very end of the runway, stopping at the hold-short to close up the canopy and perform a quick last minute check before calling on the radio we were departing runway OneFour at Pearland to the Southeast. I pushed the throttle in, the engine revved up, and we accelerated down the centerstripe. When my airspeed indicator hit 60, I pulled back a little on the stick to rotate; a few more miles per hour later, we lifted off, slowly climbing into the sky.
While the air on the ground had been calm, at about a thousand feet we started getting bumped around and I found myself steering the nose about ten degrees left to hold a straight course. I turned off the fuel pump as I checked the GPS courseline on both units. They agreed pretty well, though there were a few knots difference in calculated groundspeeds. Initially, I had thought I’d give control of the airplane to Jim and play with the GPSMAP 295 myself; but I apparently took a little too long.
“Well, I hate just sitting,” he said. “So, if I’m not flying, how `bout me showing you about your 295?”
I nodded as I switched my communications radio over to Houston Approach. It would be nice to have flight following; but it was a clear day, and we do, after all, now have to be conscious about how much we ask Air Traffic Control to do. Every time we call and ask for help, even if it’s in everyone’s best interest, it’s logged as an “operation” and falls into the morass of costs the FAA says we’re not paying enough of. It’s too bad I’ve got to think about not adding to any justification the FAA and the Air Transport Association has to call for user fees instead of safety, but that’s how it is. The safety line has always been “use ATC services; it’s safer”; little did we small plane pilots know that when it came to justifying user fees, it would be used against us.
Jim showed me the 295’s “Nearest” function and what data was stored about an airport in its database; I noticed that the Houston Approach frequency it listed was incorrect, corresponding to one instead used on the northwest side of town. He continued to talk and tell me this and that, which was making listening to Houston Approach a bit difficult. Still, I heard the controller clear a Cessna for the ILS approach to runway 13 at Galveston. That meant he was just miles to the east of us, and we were converging. I looked but couldn’t see him anywhere. We’d have to keep an eye out.
The round tanks and sharp, fiery spires of the Texas City refinery slid past us on the ground to our left along with the four, grey lanes of Interstate 45, dotted with moving traffic also. Switching the radio over to Galveston Tower, I gave them a call. After they acknowledged me, I told them where I was and I was there for landing. They told me I could choose either runway 13 or 17 for landing; we were closer to 13, so I picked that. They asked me to report a two mile right base for runway 13, which I acknowledged. Then, we heard the airplane on the ILS approach call the tower. They were somewhere beside us. The tower called their position to us but I reported “no joy”.
In a slight descent, we flew across the bay, turning onto a right base for 13 as the tower told us the ILS airplane was on final. I finally saw him, a little grey airborne shark shape, nose-down, and headed toward the same runway we were. To keep my spacing right, I kept the nose straight ahead and slowed down, waiting until the very last moment to square a right corner and point the nose down runway 13’s length. The ILS airplane waved it off, and I dropped him out of my list of mental priorities as I concentrated on wing down into the crosswind and opposite rudder to keep the nose straight, adding power as we began to sink a little, and making a decision to fly the VASI lights a little low to be able to turn off on the first taxiway. The grey lip of the runway floated under us, and I flared to keep us from touching down, which we did with just a gentle bump. I already had the engine power all the way back, so I got on the brakes, yoke back, to get us slow enough to turn off on the waiting taxiway Delta.
“November Niner Eight Four Eight Uniform, off on Delta, cross 17, taxi to parking this frequency,” the tower instructed.
“Roger, off on Delta, cross 17, and taxi to parking this freak,” I parroted back, taxiing us down Delta at a moderate clip, cleaning up the flaps, turning off the electric fuel pump, and cracking the canopy to get some fresh air.
The Terminal Building was about fifty yards away but directly in front of us and between us was a green, turbine-powered helicopter hovering inches above the ground. He edged toward us before the Tower called and asked him if he could see us. He answered in the affirmative; the Tower told him to give way to us. I added a little throttle to get out of his way a little quicker, turning left as we reached the main ramp and headed toward a row hangars on the north side of the field. Rows of airplanes and helicopters slide past us on the right as made our way toward Bill’s hangar. Its door was open and Jim’s Cessna 120, along with a red Pitts and another airplane, was sitting outside it.
I taxied us over to the Cessna and pulled past, pointing my tail away from it while stopping and then shutting my airplane’s engine down. Jim climbed out and went over to talk to Bill and take a look at his airplane. I unhooked myself and followed him over to the hangar. Borrowing his cell phone, I called Connie and let her know my mission was accomplished, and I’d be back at Pearland’s airport in half an hour.
A few minutes later, I was back in my airplane alone, taking off on Galveston’s runway 35. As I climbed away from the field, I thought about how good it felt to be able to help a friend out, a fellow pilot and aircraft owner, and how impossible it would have been to do it if the airport was charging user fees. How much would it have cost me to lend my friend a hand? Fifty bucks? That’s not something I would have likely been able to afford to do. And flying as a private pilot, FAA regulations would have forbidden me from asking him to pay them or accepting payment for them. How many flights like the one I’d just performed would be lost if user fees were charged here like they have been in Europe where general aviation has all but died? How many Angel Flights would be lost? How many charity runs after a hurricane? Would I even be able to afford to continue to use Bill as my mechanic, or would I have to take my business to a mechanic at an uncontrolled field who might or might not be as good? There’s almost no one in the general aviation community who will not be hurt if the FAA implements per-flight user fees like they want. Yet, our legislators continue to vote for them. But then they’ve never had to scrape by to hold onto their airplane or pay for their pilot’s license. Apparently, they think the pursuit of happiness is staying on the ground and needs to be, if it isn’t for you.
By the way, as I climbed out over the causeway, I looked down at the bridge. It was open.
posted by Andy Foster at 8:44 AM
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