Yankee Alpha Foxtrot Bravo

Big Bird

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 06:05:00 +0000

Not much time to blog here at the moment, so I'll keep this short and … well, short, anyway. I'm sure I'll have more to say later, but I've started working with John on getting my high performance endorsement in the club's G1000-equipped Cessna 182. So far so good — it's all about power management, better attention to detail and landings, cowl flaps, endlessly trimming, trimming, trimming (this is a heavy-feeling airplane that lets your shoulder and leg muscles know when it's even slightly out of trim), and ginormous fuel bills — but then the fundamentals are pretty familiar to me (I've had a complex endorsement for many years now), and I enjoy a challenge (even if it's not quite the same sort of challenge as getting an instrument rating or learning aerobatics). More on all this later, for sure.

Otherwise, not much to say except to revel a bit in the joys of being on the North Field ramp at Oakland late evenings — the shiny private 757 parked at Kaiser looming over the Citations, Gulfstreams, Learjets and such (the ramp fees for the 757 must be enormous, especially since it's been there for weeks), the Airbus ACJ A320-derivative business jet further down the ramp looking small by comparison, the little fleet of Piaggios looking sleekly futuristic in a very retro way (especially so close-up), the Abex 767 creeping along taxiway Charlie in the dusk, the omnipresent Amflight twins arriving one after the other in the dark, the tart pink lemonade in the (very pleasant) Business Jet Center FBO, the cool Oakland night….

Flying To A T

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 15:52:00 +0000

The approach starts going a little awry just as it always does returning to Oakland at rush hour: after having successfully requested the practice ILS 27R back into Oakland (KOAK) from way out over the Central Valley with NorCal approach, with me under the Cone Of Stupidity and E. in the right seat as safety pilot, the closer we get to Oakland the more irritated and stressed the controllers sound, the more overloaded the frequencies are. Approaching GROVE intersection on the localiser at best forward speed and on vectors for the localiser, and several thousand feet above that leg's minimum altitude, a new voice on NorCal's frequency suddenly barks out "83Y! Right 360 for traffic; break; XYZ! heading 180, vectors for traffic, traffic is a Cessna at 2 o'clock, 5,000; break; ... ", and for hardly the first time I get to do a loping 360 right next to the extended ILS while under the hood, without a clue what's about to happen next. I can hear a series of re-adjustments going on for traffic on the ILS, and start wondering whether I'm about to be sent back out past SUNOL (the initial fix for the approach) for twenty minutes holding while NorCal sorts out what sounds like a few close calls with spacing.

As with the last time (that I can remember, at least), although I was implicitly asked to do only one orbit, I'm not sure whether to rejoin the vector onto the localiser or keep doing a 360. E. can see conflicting traffic barreling down the localiser about a mile away slightly below us; the frequency is absolutely jammed with traffic being vectored, cleared, acknowledged, and generally shepherded, and I haven't a hope in hell of getting through to the controller before the 360's complete. So I head back towards the localiser after the 360, after making damn sure E. can't see any conflicting traffic (I also take off the hood for a short time to do my own checking), and a few seconds later, just as I'm about to turn onto the localiser, I get cleared for the approach. Someone else (a Citation, if I remember correctly), is cleared for the same approach a few seconds later behind me. Too bad I'm nearly two thousand feet too high for the leg I joined, and that that leg ends in a mile or two with the glideslope intersection point coming up way too quickly….

Ah, home! I've grown to love this sort of thing. It's a challenge. And it's a nice VMC day, so I disengage the autopilot and decide to try to hand fly the plane the rest of the way, or at least until I can get the plane below the glideslope so the autopilot can couple properly (it won't couple to the glideslope from above). That's a shame, though, since part of the whole point of this approach for me was about keeping current with keeping on top of the G1000 and autopilot. Oh well — maybe next time. I get handed off very early to Oakland tower, and maintain best forward speed and a huge sink rate while trying to avoid ripping the wings off or exceeding any recommended airspeeds. In the ensuing rush I deliberately delay checking in with tower while I set the plane and instruments up a little more to my liking. Tower calls me after a short time sounding concerned — I hadn't checked out of NorCal's frequency and hadn't checked in to tower. Well, I had checked out from NorCal, but the frequency was so busy I was probably stepped on. Tower sounds a little short with me, but it's me that's flying, not him, and his frequency is a lot less crowded than NorCal's, so I just apologise and tell him we're fine. We get cleared to land number three a long way out from the runway.

I really never make it down to the glideslope until only about a mile out from the threshold, and have to hand-fly the plane the entire way to the ground. Good practice at real world IFR flying, of course, but if it had been IMC, I'd probably have gone missed a short time after joining the localiser: I really don't like the idea of plummeting like a rock in IMC with the terrain and traffic around Oakland. In any case I look up at about 400' (I'm worried about the traffic around us in the pattern); we're more-or-less right on the centreline and at the right altitude, if a little fast, and the landing's fine. We exit 27R at golf and breath again.

* * *

After having whined about barely flying in the past few months, I get to make a second flight in several days. Woohoo! This time it's another flight with E., one of John's students, and this time there's really no set agenda or purpose.

Since E.'s still working on the last stages of her instrument rating, I mentally plan a few alternatives: an IFR training flight to somewhere like Stockton or Sacramento with E. flying a bunch of approaches under the hood, a quick seat swap and me flying back and doing an approach into Oakland; or maybe a longer IFR flight to somewhere scenic like Monterey or Ukiah, with E. flying the outbound leg and approach under the hood, and me returning. Or something else — I don't know. The weather's clear Northern California VMC almost anywhere we're likely to fly, so that (for once) won't be a factor; even the evening stratus isn't forecast to return until around midnight. In any case I do a bunch of work with DUATS and such and am prepared for almost anything (except a trip to LA or Reno or Vegas :-)). We have 83Y, one of the club's G1000-equipped Cessna 172's, out for the afternoon.

So when E. gets to the hangar after I've preflighted 83Y (I got there early), my mind's fairly blank, and I let her chose what we'll do. The result turns out to be one of the more enjoyable flights I've done for a while: a nice VFR cross country to Pine Mountain Lake (Groveland, E45) and back, with my under-the-hood approach the only even vaguely IFR bit. E. flies out; I fly back, which suits me just fine: Pine Mountain Lake airport's a fun fly-in location with a slightly-challenging location, pattern, and runway, and it's nice to watch someone else discover the joys of heading out over the Tuolumne river canyon and back in the pattern towards the little scar on the ridge that's the runway….

At the airport itself we get out and wander around for a while. I particularly want to visit the wind T that's sitting up on the little hill next to the runway, a particularly nice spot for a picnic or planespotting. I'm also motivated by Aviatrix's posting from a while ago about the rarity of wind T's (amongst other things) — that post had reminded me of the airport and made me want to see it again sometime — and it turns out that E.'s never seen one before, from the air or up close like this. So we clamber around in the warm sunshine for a while exploring the place, and also meeting some locals, who seem uniformly friendly and approachable. Pine Mountain Lake's like that — small and friendly, and the airport's an integral part of the town (it's also one of those airports where houses with hangars are next to the runway). They're having an air show on 21 June; pity I can't attend. We get to see a couple of aerobatic Extra EZ's taxiing and taking off in formation (one of them German-registered); apparently the pilot in the orange Extra is someone famous in the aerobatics world, but I missed who it was. There was some excitement as what looked like a powered glider approached, engine off, and landed; this turned out to be the first Pipistrel Sinus (what a name — its sibling is the Virus) I — and everyone else standing around — had ever seen. An interesting looking plane, very much a long thin rather bendy glider wing attached to a light sports body, and very quiet even with the engine on. Quite a contrast to the Extras….

Review: ForeFlight for iPhone

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 01:36:00 +0000

[2008/7 Update: the new iPhone native app version of ForeFlight, ForeFlight Mobile 2.0, is now out and available through iTunes. I have the new version, and I'll probably review it in more detail later, but in summary, I like it a lot for pretty much all the same reasons I like the earlier version, and it has the added bonus of being a native iPhone app with an improved interface and interesting potential for off-line storage and working in the longer-term. Bear all that in mind when you read this review, but, basically, everything written below still stands…].

Yes, I have an iPhone. How sad is that? Well, my hand was forced last year when I came back from my Australian vacation and discovered that both my five-year-old mobile phone and my seven-year-old Palm Pilot no longer worked properly (I guess I was surprised they still worked at all, but never mind). So far, no regrets.

But it's not the iPhone that's the subject of this posting, it's ForeFlight for the iPhone, a great little flight planning application from fellow bloggers Vectors To Final. I've actually had the app for quite a while now and have been meaning to review (or at least mention) it here for ages, so my apologies to the ForeFlight crew for leaving it so late (and no, no one from ForeFlight has vetted this article or probably even knows I exist, in case you were wondering). And note: all screenshots shown here were stolen shamelessly from the ForeFlight web site, and do not necessarily represent the latest version of the software, etc.

In short, I like ForeFlight a lot, and would recommend it quite strongly if, like me, you have an iPhone, you fly VFR or IFR in the US (I do both), and you're realistic about some of the inherent limitations of any current iPhone app (think: you must be in range of WiFi or AT&T's Edge network in the US). It basically does most of what I want a flight planning app to do on my iPhone, and does it well; it doesn't entirely replace DUATS access (which I also have on my iPhone), but it's certainly complemented DUATS with a bunch of nice features (approach plates, airport information, etc.), and made DUATS feel clunky and graceless by comparison; it's also entirely replaced the A/FD for me. No, it doesn't do NOTAMS, but it can file flight plans.

Anyway, I'll let the extensive ForeFlight web site speak for itself about features, pricing, etc. (take a good look at the screen shots for an idea of what it can do), and simply discuss what I think are the good and bad sides of the app, and illustrate how I use it to give you some idea of why it's useful.

So what do I like about ForeFlight? Firstly, it fits into my planning workflow really well: I usually do the initial heavy lifting on my laptop, including filing a flight plan if I'm flying IFR, and then check again on the tarmac just before engine startup. Foreflight works really well for this last stage, where you can do a last-minute spot check or sanity check without lugging a laptop around or calling flight services. It's also great for informally checking weather, airport information, etc., for an intended flight whenever and wherever you are (a cafe, a hangar, a wireless-free (as opposed to a free wireless) FBO, an office…), and for prepping approaches informally before flying when you don't have the plates handy. And it'll let you file that last-minute flight plan, as long as you have a DUATS account.

Secondly, it's a good combination of information sources: a really convenient and well-presented subset of DUATS and the full AF/D. It's the presentation that makes all the difference to me: yes, I can read raw METARs and TAFs, and even the AF/D, but it's nice to see it in legible and nicely-formatted plain language, and in a package and layout that's intuitively easy to use and navigate. The information presented for each airport typically includes weather information, airport information (runway lengths, airport diagram if there is one, frequencies, etc.), chart abstracts, and full approach plates, at least.

Thirdly, it's nicely integrated into the iPhone. As described below, you can display the airport on Google Maps or call an ATIS or AWOS number with a single touch of the screen, and, being an iPhone app, it's just easy to use — the full power of the iPhone's gestural interface works nicely with ForeFlight (OK, I'm starting to sound like an iPhone Bore, so I'll just keep that part suppressed).

There's really nothing I don't like about ForeFlight, but you do need to be aware of some inherent limitations. Firstly, it's not an official briefing source: it's no substitute for DUATS or other official sources; in particular, it can't show NOTAMS. That just doesn't bother me, but it might be a problem for some. Secondly, of course, you have to be within range of a suitable data network (WiFi or AT&T's Edge network) to access ForeFlight — like all current iPhone apps it's actually a set of web pages with embedded Javascript, and can't access or show anything much when you can't get in touch with the main Foreflight servers. This hasn't been much of a limitation for me, but then I'm rarely out of range of a mobile phone tower at the airports I visit, and if I will be, I'll plan ahead accordingly.

Here's a typical example of how I use it, drawn from real life:

I'm at Oakland airport (KOAK), next to Cessna 83Y, doing final work for an informal VFR fun flight. We've done the pre-flight, we've agreed on where we're going (Groveland / Pine Mountain Lake, E45), and it's time to do a final weather check (it's been an hour or two since I did a full DUATS check). Firstly, what's the current weather at E45? I pull out the iPhone, access the quasi-public WiFi mysteriously available at the hangars, fire up ForeFlight on my browser, log in if I haven't logged in lately, and enter E45 for the airport. A few seconds later ForeFlight's got a nice screen with airport details (runways, altitude, location, frequencies, etc.) for Pine Mountain airport. I show the page to my copilot so she's familiar with the details (it's a tiny place, so there's not a lot to see :-)). I touch the link that says "View with Google Maps" to bring up a separate Google Maps page that I use to show my copilot the general vicinity of the airport. I also touch the "Charts" button to bring up a page showing the VFR and IFR chart extracts for the immediately surrounding area. I also touch the "Approaches" button to see the available approaches; I touch the one I want, and, voila, the relevant NACO plate is displayed, scalable and browsable like any other page on the iPhone (using the iPhone's excellent gestural interface). Very nice... and basically a convenient hand-held web-based combination of the old paper Blue Book, the AF/D, and some useful bits of DUATS.

ForeFlight reports that there's no weather available for the airport, which is expected, but there's also no ASOS or AWOS available (which is less expected, given the presence of what's always looked like an automated weather station near the wind T there). So I scroll down a bit and find the "Nearest airports" section; it lists a useful selection of airports, one of which is Columbia (O22), about 15 miles to the northwest, and in similar terrain and with similar weather patterns. I touch that link to bring up Columbia's page; it also says there's no weather reports, but it lists an AWOS frequency and phone number. I touch that phone number and the iPhone calls the Columbia AWOS; I listen in, hear that the weather's excellent, if a little cooler than I'd have expected for this time of year, and then exit the call back into ForeFlight. Time to go….

At Pine Mountain, we want to check whether Oakland's still VMC (it's an almost perfect day, but you never know at this distance…). Luckily, although there's no public WiFi at the airport (well, none that I'm going to hack into, anyway :-)), the iPhone's AT&T Edge network's available, and while it's quite a lot slower than WiFi, I'm able to use ForeFlight in the iPhone browser pretty much as described above. This time, though, since it's Oakland, there's copious weather details available on a separate linked ForeFlight page, including weather radar, plain English METARs, TAFs for the next day or so, etc. — i.e. pretty much what you'd see in DUATS, and really just what you need to make a decision at this distance on a day and flight like this.

Again, note that none of this replaces full DUATS briefings, or having real charts or approach plates available, but if you're hanging around an airport or somewhere where you want to get a spot check on the weather or your destination's runways, airport diagram, etc., and you've got an iPhone, and there's public WiFi or the Edge network available, it's a great resource.

Weather Whine

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Fri, 30 May 2008 04:17:00 +0000

I've barely flown lately: the weather's been weird and uncooperative (at least by Northern California coastal standards); my work schedule hasn't exactly given me much free time; and the cost of fuel and aircraft rentals keep increasing much quicker than my income… but none of this should really excuse me. And this time I have no excuse: the weather's OK (not great, but not malicious either), I have a few hours to spare, I have an enthusiastic passenger, and I can afford another hour or so in the air.

So I meet my passenger, J., a friend and colleague from San Jose, at my place, and we drive to the airport (Oakland, my home base, a short ten minute drive from my studio). J's never flown in anything as small as a C172 before, but she's keen, and the plan is to do a leisurely Bay Tour out over the Golden Gate, The City, Angel Island, etc., for maybe 45 minutes. I don't like the typical summer's-evening low-hanging stratus coming in from the Pacific, but that's what an instrument rating's for, no? But I don't really want to subject J. to the ILS back into Oakland in IMC on her first flight in a Cessna, so I'll keep a good look out and stay close to home.

And that's what happens — a nice low-key Bay Tour through the twilight as planned, and a quick run back as the clouds push in through the Golden Gate and over The City. We get back just as it goes marginal VFR or even IMC across much of the inner Bay Area; it's blustery and cold back on the ground (typical Bay Area coastal summer weather :-)). Not much else to say about the evening really except (once again) it's fun to fly VFR like this, and it's really fun having someone along who's new to flying and who ends up liking it so much she's already talking about the next flight. J. wants to fly again on a longer trip, maybe up the coast; I kinda like the idea, but I don't know when I'll get the chance. We shall see….

(Yet Another) Just Another Boring Bay Area Sunset

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 05:22:00 +0000

No big bumps today, but for a while before the flight I wonder what things are going to be like Up There, given that Down Here there's what feels like a minor gale blowing leaves and dust and small animals all over the place…. A couple of hours later, I'm sitting in the left seat of Cessna 051, the club's G1000-equipped Cessna 172, watching Just Another Boring Bay Area Sunset again over Alcatraz, Angel Island, and the Golden Gate on the Bay Tour. The air's mildly bumpy, but it's nothing that's going to spoil the flight. Which is a good thing: a friend of mine, A., is sitting in the right seat, enjoying her first GA flight, and a lot of bumps and roughness would have really spoiled this.

In any event, there's not a lot to say about this flight beyond the fact that A. appears to enjoy it a lot, and although the flight was short (less than an hour total Hobbs time), it's really refreshing just to potter around VFR over the Bay with flight following from NorCal Approach. So much of my flying is IFR nowadays, I tend to forget that I can just point the damn plane anywhere (within reason) locally and just … fly. It's fun. And with today's clear VFR weather, it's also scenic, and deeply relaxing. Perfect!

At one point while we're circling the Golden Gate, NorCal calls traffic at about 1 o'clock, distance 2 miles, "type and altitude unknown, appears to be maneuvering". I can't see any planes anywhere within about five miles of us in that general direction at any altitude, and reply with the usual "negative contact". But suspiciously enough, there's a small bulker heading briskly towards the bridge from the Pacific side with a pilot boat next to it, at my 1 o'clock and two miles away (and at sea level, surprisingly enough). A few moments later NorCal calls "traffic no factor" and we circle on. It wouldn't be the first time I've had ships on the Bay or on the approaches called as traffic….

* * *

051's been moved. It's still in one of the Port-A-Ports, but it's now a row closer to Hangar 7, and this Port-A-Port has a decidedly different way to open and close the hangar door (bits of old rope and springs rather than the thumb-crunching portcullis), and of getting the plane in and out. Just opening the main door almost proves beyond me: in the fading light I can see where the door is supposed to latch on each side when fully open, but nothing I do seems to be able to get the latches to actually latch. I'm not dragging an expensive plane out of the hangar with unlatched doors, that's for sure, especially not in the still rather blustery wind blowing around the apron. But after a bunch of attempts (and a lot of swearing), a combination of a long broom handle and help from A. gets it done. The whole thing feels like an intelligence test I fail — I can loop and roll and fly an airplane upside down, I can hand-fly an ILS to minimums in IMC, but I can't get a simple hangar door open. Humph. And in front of a GA novice, too :-).

* * *

My old nemesis, the combination lock on the paperwork lockbox outside the club, proves to be the one irritating blot on the evening. It opens first go on the way in to the apron, but when I have to return the book and fill out the paperwork, nothing I do over a ten minute span opens the damn thing again. Since A.'s sitting there getting cold in the wind (and she's cut her finger on the plane door earlier), I decide I'll just have to leave it and come back early tomorrow morning. So I drive off with A. and drop her off at her place, intending to go home and get up early next day to drop the books off. But on the spur of the moment I decide to go straight back out to the airport (it's very close to where I live), and try again. This time, of course, the bloody thing opens first try. Oh well.

A Few Small Bumps

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 05:21:00 +0000

We're cruising steadily at 5,000' in Cessna 051 (the club's G1000-equipped C172), on an IFR flight plan to Stockton (KSCK) for some IFR practice. The forecast has some scattered but benign IMC patches along our route. I've set up the G1000 and the autopilot to get us direct as cleared to JOTLI, a convenient IAF for Stockton's GPS 29R approach. The plan is to do that approach full pilot nav with the autopilot and G1000 coupled, as tonight's flight is supposed to be mostly about IFR systems flying rather than just a raw IFR workout (any excuse to watch the G1000 get us around the course reversal hold automatically again :-)). After the initial approach we'll try to get one or two more approaches in before returning to Oakland (KOAK), where we'll probably need a real clearance to get back in anyway, given the approaching cloud bank (I have one pre-filed just in case). I'm under the hood; E., one of John's instrument students, is doing safety pilot duties in the right seat. It's about 19.30 (7:30 pm for all y'all Americans), so it's dark(ish) outside, but it's easy enough to see the stratus a short distance ahead of us at our altitude. It's not particularly thick, extending maybe a few thousand feet (from about 4,500'), and doesn't extend more than a few miles along our route (at least according to the forecast).

We enter the clouds and I take off the hood. I turn off the strobes and the landing lights. Everything looks good to me: on course, at altitude, the approach has been set up, we've got the ATIS for Stockton. The cloud layer feels benign; the outside air temperature (OAT) is well above freezing. There's some very minor turbulence, but nothing very interesting.

Suddenly there's a few small bumps, then an almighty series of crashing thumps as we're battered around by what I'd characterise as severe turbulence. The autopilot disengages automatically, but only milliseconds before I hit the disengage switch myself. My head hits the cockpit ceiling several times (we're wearing those bloody "smart" Cessna seat belts with the airbags); I lose my headset down the back of my neck. Over the next few seconds we gain and lose several hundred feet in each direction and get into some pretty unpleasant pitch and roll excursions. I grab the yoke with both hands and try to regain control, throttling back to about 2300 RPM (I do this by feel and instinct, since I can't actually see the engine instruments on the MFD at this point). It's clearly not going to get better quickly, and while I'm not having too much trouble keeping us more-or-less upright, we're in all sorts of trouble with the altitude excursions, and we're not going to be able to continue like this for long without a great deal of continuous effort on my part (and a lot of discomfort and the possibility of losing control in IMC). I decide we need to get below the clouds now: I know the area, there's nothing below us, and my guess is that even 1000' below us it's smoother. But I'm wondering how the hell I'm going to get the headset back on while keeping both hands on the yoke. At any rate we have little or no control over our altitude at this stage, so I start doing what I can to descend. It's getting slightly smoother, so I risk reaching back and sitting the headset back on my head, albeit a little off-kilter (understatement). It'll do for now. Both hands back on the yoke, I manage to blurt out something like "NorCal, 051's in heavy turbulence in IMC, any chance of 3,000 now?". We're at 4,500 by now anyway, and it's already smoothing out. "051, I can only give you 4,000. Descend and maintain 4,000". "051, We'll take it. Descend maintain 4,000. Thanks…". I level off in relatively smooth air, clear of the clouds, at 4,000, and start to look over the systems and controls. Everything looks fine, but I'm not going to trust it all immediately. The way ahead looks clear of clouds. My thinking at this stage is basically that even if it's not smoother down here, at least it's VMC, and losing control is a lot less likely. I'll hand fly for a while without the hood on just to see what happens. At least we're still probably on course (I'll check in a minute).

I look over to see if E. is still here. Thankfully, she is, but she's still holding onto the side of the cockpit, just in case. I ask if she's OK; she says she's fine. I'm not sure I believe her, but in any case there's not much we can do at the moment except recover the plane and then work out whether to continue on or do something else. It sure looks and feels benign under the clouds and all around us now. I spend a few seconds giving a mini-PIREP and explanation to NorCal, basically just saying we'd hit unforecast moderate-to-severe turbulence in IMC just back there, and it's a lot smoother at 4,000'. I probably sound a bit shaken on the radio at this point; the controller sounds a little concerned, and I'm actually gratified that he's taking it seriously.

E. and I discuss things for a short while as I recover the course (and my approach plates, which are now on the floor), and decide to press on to Stockton as planned. I mention the possibility of hitting the same thing on the way back, but since the return leg is a fair way to the south of where we are now, and somewhat higher, I decide to play that bit by ear (literally in some ways: I'll have my ear (figuratively) glued to the frequency for reports of any turbulence on the way back). There's no shortage of places to land below us on either leg, and it's basically a nice VMC evening below the clouds. I hope E. hasn't been scared off instrument flying (or flying right seat with me) for ever. She sounds O.K., but you never know, so I stress that I'd really be just as happy if we abandoned the flight as if we continue. But she's up for it. We press on.

* * *

The whole episode probably didn't last more than about ten seconds, and in reality the turbulence wasn't quite the worst I've ever experienced in a light plane. I think I'd characterise it as on the low end of "severe" by the FAA's definition (I had little or no control over altitude, and maintaining pitch and roll control was quite a struggle), but I'm also guessing it was fairly localised and would probably have petered out fairly quickly. It was in many ways a more sudden and prolonged IMC version of the encounter with turbulence I blogged about last year. My first thought after we'd leveled off at 4,000' was "wake turbulence!", but it continued on too long for that and there wasn't any likely culprit in the area (on-frequency, at least).

And it was unforecast, and happened in IMC, which always adds another dimension to things. At the time it just didn't seem too hard to right the plane, keep it under some sort of control, and keep flying with my eyes glued to the G1000. But I'd hate to have done it all with the crappy old mechanical AIs in an older 172 — the potential for losing control in that situation, or in partial panel with no PFD or MFD, is sobering. In any case, it's definitely not something to be complacent about, and, according to E., it was the worst turbulence she's experienced so far [and a few days later I still have a bruise on the top of my head from the experience].

* * *

Luckily, the rest of the flight feels pleasantly anticlimactic, and apart from some mild turbulence in actual IMC on the ILS back into Oakland, things go fairly smoothly and as-planned. E.'s a good safety pilot and keeps me on my toes; it's good having an instrument-savvy co-pilot, and apart from a few minor lapses on my part (below), things go about as well as you'd reasonably expect for someone (me) who really doesn't get to fly enough to be in perfect practice all the time.

The G1000 gets a good workout during the flight. Or, rather, I get a good workout in G1000 usage, and — as always with the G1000 — I'm reminded of what I dislike as well as what I really like about it. There's a lot to like, but when — as happened a couple of times during this flight — you get into an incomprehensible situation where no matter what you seem to be doing the G1000 just sits there presenting an unexpected menu or menu item, or won't let you do what you think you've always been able to do before, well, I think I'm slowly becoming an expert in G1000 workarounds.

For example, on the way out to Stockton (before The Bumps), I ask for and get direct JOTLI for the full pilot nav version of the GPS 29R approach. So I reach over and hit "proc" to load and activate the approach with JOTLI as the IAF, which should send us direct JOTLI. But no matter what I do it only gives me approaches back at Oakland. This ignites a few "WTF?" moments and responses from me, and both E. and myself notice that there's actually an extraneous KOAK at the end of the entered flight plan as well as at the beginning. How the hell did that get there? I think. But it doesn't matter, does it? What matters is how to get direct to JOTLI right now; so let's just scroll up to KSCK, hit "direct", then select the approach; this does the job (especially since at this range direct KSCK is roughly the same heading as "direct JOTLI"). Yes, a simple thing, but a few years ago I might have spent way too long sitting there dumbly wondering about the extraneous KOAK and how to clear the flight plan or how to dial in direct JOTLI while debugging the situation. By any means necessary, as I've learned over the years.

Later, on departing Stockton, no matter what I do, I'm absolutely unable to delete the current flight plan from the inset flight plan window so I can input the new one back to Oakland. Luckily, when we'd picked up the departure clearance midway through the previous approach I'd pre-set the VOR 2 receiver and OBS to give me the VOR version of the initial (30 nautical mile) leg along V195 from Manteca VOR, and when it quickly becomes obvious that the G1000 isn't going to cooperate, I just let the autopilot fly us to and then along the relevant VOR 2 radial. At my own leisure I then simply do a "direct KOAK" with the GPS, then get SUNOL (the end point of V195) from loading the KOAK ILS 27R (our intended approach, of which SUNOL is the IAF for arrivals from our direction). When actually on V195 (according to VOR 2), a simple "activate approach" gets the GPS in sync and in control once again. OK, standard instrument stuff, but (as John will confirm), quite a few instrument pilots seem to get complacent with the better GPS units and forget to setup a fall-back based on VORs or whatever. Again, a few years ago I'd probably have spent several increasingly tense minutes debugging the G1000, with only the initial ATC heading setup properly, and with only a hazy idea of where V195 actually was in relation to my current situation. I'd probably have blundered into the correct course eventually and without incident (but with a great deal of silent swearing :-)), but it's pleasing that I can actually keep cool enough (and think far enough ahead) nowadays that the whole Grace Under Pressure thing seems to be on the verge of happening (all this expensive instrument flying must count for something :-)).

About the only other thing of note was a PIREP to NorCal from a light GA plane of carburettor icing somewhere near Sacramento Exec (KSAC) at roughly our altitude. When I hear this I guess I'm not surprised — the OAT's fairly high, the air's moist, and conditions for carb icing seem just about perfect. What is (pleasantly) surprising is that the pilot reported it at all, and that NorCal also took the report seriously. No, I haven't flown a carburetted plane for several years now, but hearing that someone else is experiencing it might help save a few tense moments (or worse) for someone out there.

* * *

Later, back in the impending drizzle at the Oakland Flyers parking lot, I ask E. (again) whether she was OK with the whole experience. She still insists that she enjoyed it and learned a lot; I hope so. I'm guessing that it was definitely a learning experience for both of us.

Other Than That

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 21:35:00 +0000

I sit there in the mid-evening darkness in the runup area just off Oakland's 27R thinking it's good to be back in the left seat again. As John points out, the Bay Area weather has been pretty dreadful for flying lately, IFR or VFR, and although I've been scheduled to fly since early January, this evening's the first time everything's come together well enough that I could actually fly without encountering ice or major winds or snow or whatever. In fact it's a perfect clear VMC California winter evening, meaning almost unlimited visibility, relative warmth (10C), an essentially cloudless sky, and no real wind.

The plan's simple: a short night IFR hop up to Napa (KAPC) and a few approaches and holds there to maintain currency, then a short VFR skip back for light relief. I've dragged my usual safety pilot Boyan along with me, and he's sitting in the right seat idly watching a Pilatus PC12 being towed across the ramp a hundred metres to our right. Tower clears me to depart on 27R and I start moving forward up to the flashing hold short line. Simultaneously as I look to my left I see the dark shape of (what I immediately recognise as) a Justice Department MD-80 bearing down on us as it crosses 27R inbound from runway 29, exiting at our location, and I hear tower's rushed "051! hold short of 27R!" (or something similar — I don't remember the actual words). I stop dead where I am just short of the hold-short line (if I remember correctly) and off to one side (the taxiway / runway interaction here is a little complicated), and the MD-80, now stopped on the threshold of 27R, has all its lights blazing away at us, and it's going to be a close thing. At this point I'm also worried about being blown back across Airport Drive if the MD-80 turns onto taxiway Charlie just in front of us. I don't (of course) hear the MD-80's side of the whole saga, but I call tower and tell him that the MD-80 can get around us — just — if he's careful as we're somewhat off to the side of the main runway entrance. My call isn't acknowledged. I don't move, because at this point any movement by us will bring us closer to the now-stopped MD-80, and might just confuse things. A few moments later the MD-80 gingerly lumbers past us, its wingtips only a few metres from us, and turns onto Charlie. We get rocked a little by the jet blast as it slowly taxis away from us, but basically nothing much else happens, and a short while later we're cleared (again) to depart 27R. This time it's all uneventful, and a few seconds later we're airborne and being vectored by NorCal towards Napa's LOC 36L approach. In all this time, there's been no apology, no real acknowledgment (to us, at least), nothing from tower at all. Just another night in Oakland, I guess. At least I didn't get shot (sorry, Oakland in-joke).

A few observations and Wednesday-morning quarterbacking from the next day:

I'd switched from ground only a short time earlier, but I hadn't heard any exchange with the MD-80 before switching, so I wasn't aware of its existence at all. I pride myself on positional awareness through listening on-frequency, but this time either I completely missed a crucial exchange on-frequency (or at least half on-frequency), or any exchange happened solely on South Field ground. I don't know, but I suspect it all had something to do with the next point…
North Field tower (the usual tower for these runways in Oakland's split-field / two-tower setup) was temporarily closed, and there was a confusing set of frequencies and associated instructions in use. I was first on combined clearance, then North Field ground, and then South Field tower frequencies; I suspect the MD-80 was on South Field ground as a convenience to either the controller or the MD-80's crew.
When North Field tower's closed, South Field tower takes over, but it can't see parts of the North Field, and if I remember correctly, it's precisely the North Field runup area off 27R that it can't see. That's no excuse for losing situational awareness, of course.
I suspect the MD-80 was taxiing without its main lights on, presumably (and ironically) because the MD-80 crew saw us in the runup area from some distance away and didn't want to blind us with its main lights. Throughout this incident I'd guess that the MD-80 crew were at least as surprised as we were, and I'd also guess it was a call from the MD-80 that alerted the South Field controller to the situation (a call that we wouldn't have heard, of course).
Ironically, one of the reasons I didn't notice the MD-80 earlier was the brightness of the flashing hold short lights embedded in the taxiway just in front of us, which combined with the usual crappy Cessna windshield optics and the busy visual environment of that part of the airport (runways, taxiways, hangars, off-airport lighting, etc.), can make it difficult to see aircraft on the runways or the connecting taxiway Bravo.
A few minutes earlier ground had instructed us to taxi to 27R normally, but had omitted to mention that it would be immediately behind an Airborne Express 767 freighter that had just crossed in front of us (ground didn't call out that traffic at all; it's very unusual for Oakland ground controllers not to caution you about other taxiing traffic or to at least mention other aircraft in the area). Not a real safety issue in that I could easily see it, but just a foretaste of what was to come, I guess.
Yes, I should have done a much better job of looking before I started moving, but, again, while I glanced that way, I didn't see anything I didn't expect to see, and while it's no excuse, the visual environment at that point at that time of day can be rather confusing. And this is my home-town airport we're talking about, an environment and place I learned to fly in, and that's as familiar to me as large parts of the rest of my neighbourhood….

Of such things are NASA reports made, I guess.

* * *

Other than that little incident? A very pleasant and productive flight: alternating hand-flown with automated (G1000-driven) approaches is a lot of fun (I'm still amazed by just how well the new G1000 software drives the autopilot around holds, course reversals, etc.); the Oakland center controller's laid back, competent, and anticipatory ways work nicely with me on the Napa approaches; and the VFR flight back over San Pablo Bay and down along the line of the hills over Berkeley and Oakland back home is the usual wonderland of light and landscape.

All in all, an Interesting flight, at least in parts.

* * *

[Postscript (later the same day): prompted by John I called Oakland tower and spoke to a quality assurance guy there and gave him my side of what happened (and a small piece of my mind). He called back later after listening to the tapes, and while his version is a little different from mine (and he seemed to treat it a little less seriously with a sort of "shit happens" attitude by my reading), and his understanding of the relevant transmissions is slightly different), the agreed-to bottom line is that while no actual incursion occurred, I was wrongly cleared onto a runway that was already occupied, and that the relevant controller will be, ummm, re-educated. He noted that if I hadn't called they wouldn't have known any such incident had happened. He stated that North Tower was closed due to a leaking roof and associated problems, and that (sort of off the record…), yes, staffing issues were probably a contributory factor, especially given the South Tower blind spot. He didn't seem to take my wild complaints about the flashing hold short lights terribly seriously, but hell, I don't expect anyone to really (unless they have a lot of experience with crappy Cessna windshields :-)). I'm not really pleased with the outcome — the situation's inherently unsafe there — but I'm hoping that at least the NASA ASRS report will add some weight to any internal enquiry. Or not. I dunno…].

Silent Night

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Sat, 22 Dec 2007 06:57:00 +0000

There's something a little creepy about the silence tonight — it's a clear, still, cool Friday evening, perfect VFR flying weather, but … well, where is everyone? Even my passenger, Artist 1, notices it. We're the only active GA traffic at 7pm on a Friday evening at Oakland (KOAK), and we clearly wake up the poor tower controller at Napa (KAPC) when we call her over San Pablo Bay to tell her we're inbound for landing twenty minutes later (it's so clear I can easily see Napa's runway 18R from over Berkeley). What's up with everyone? It's Friday evening just before Christmas — this should be prime flying time, one way or another.

Oh well. I don't know what's going on, but for Artist 1 and me, it's all a pleasant surprise, a beautiful night VFR Bay Tour with a landing at Napa, and Artist 1 gets to fly again before going south to the OC with Artist 2 to visit the rels (what fun). It's so quiet (and the air so still) that when Napa tower asks me where we're parking after landing on runway 6, and I reply that I'd like to taxi back and do a downwind departure back to Oakland, she tells me that, well, I can have any runway I like (except 18L which isn't lighted) and any departure I want; my choice. I elect to keep pottering slowly down runway 6 in the dark and do a 180 at the end, with the straight out on 24 back towards the Bay. Which is exactly what we do (waking up the controller again after the 180 for the takeoff clearance). The entire time from first call to Oakland ground to some time after contacting NorCal Approach on the way back into Oakland some forty minutes later there's not another GA soul around (or at least on-air). I start to wonder about the likelihood of some sort of GA-specific neutron bomb or something.

And then things perk up, at least a little: just as we're over the shoreline heading for the Temple at 2,500', NorCal says she'll have to vector us and climb us a while for a mercy flight incoming from the east. Sounds good to me, and soon we're way up in the Class B on vectors while somewhere in front of us a helicopter heads low and fast towards Oakland Children's Hospital (I always get a terrible feeling of foreboding or sadness when I hear or see a medical helicopter heading in a hurry towards Children's Hospital). From the on-air calls, the pilot sounds unfamiliar with the landing spot; I've seen the landing pad many times from the ground, but I can imagine it's pretty difficult to spot from the air, surrounded by typical built-up urban density and confusing lights. We finally see the helicopter itself, crossing in front of and below us, and call traffic. NorCal sounds relieved, tells us to keep visual separation, to head for Oakland, own nav, and switch to tower. This leaves us crossing the Temple at 4,000', which locals will recognise as presenting an interesting altitude, airspeed, and energy management problem, but hell, it's a clear night, and once again we seem to be the only light GA traffic on (or above) Earth. I briefly wonder what'll happen if I request the Oakland trifecta (27L, 27R, and 33, all in one fun series of sidesteps and a single extended clearance) but think the better of it with a passenger. And that's about the extent of the excitement this evening, I'm afraid. Not much to write home about, but it's a very pleasant and relaxing flight overall: night VFR over the Bay and / or the City has to be one of my most enjoyable short just-do-it flights.

Back on the ramp in front of Kaiser, right where the old 737 was parked last time, and right next to the (now-working) fuel pumps, there's another 737, this one (I think) a New Zealand registered but otherwise anonymous new-gen plane that had been taxiing in from runway 29 when we departed. It looks like it's being prepped for departure as we park at the pumps — its APU is running, and there are two pilots (or pilot-like entities :-)) in the cockpit — so I don't wander over and take photos (and it'd be just like my luck to discover it belonged to the NZ equivalent of the CIA or something). A nice-looking plane; Artist 1 says it's probably one of Google's slumming it at Oakland, and they just haven't had time to change the registration. This seems as good an explanation as any; or maybe there just isn't enough room over the Bay at Moffett for all Google's owners' aircraft anymore.

Fame At Last!

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Sun, 16 Dec 2007 01:11:00 +0000

Or so I'm told. A month or two ago a freelancer connected with the Wall Street Journal emailed me, mentioning that he was going to write about Yankee Alpha Foxtrot Bravo (the blog you're reading now, for those not following along closely) in the WSJ's blogwatch section, and asked a few questions about me and the blog. Or something like that — while flattered by the attention, I was a little too preoccupied with the rest of my life at the time to do more than respond with a few quick answers, and I promptly forgot the whole thing.

Until, that is, a few days ago, when John called me and mentioned that one of his ex-students (and a mutual acquaintance — hello Andy!) had called him and told him "Hamish's blog was in the WSJ". Well, maybe it is, but since I don't subscribe the the WSJ, and no one else has mentioned it, and "Hamish's blog" could refer to at least four blogs under my own name or a pseudonym, I don't actually know when and where it appeared, let alone what was written about it (and googling "YAFB WSJ" or obvious permutations doesn't hit much, except self-referentially it'll soon probably start serving up this entry…). Anyone got any details? Or was it all a cruel hoax?! :-)

As with my fifteen minutes on BBC Radio a decade ago in connection with one of my other sites, this fame hasn't exactly rocked my world (or even made a spike in my readership as far as I can tell), but I'll try not to let it go to my head. Not yet, anyway….

And Nothing Went Horribly Wrong (Back in the Saddle)

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 07:27:00 +0000

It's been a while, that's for sure. I sit there in the darkness between the rows of Port-A-Port hangars on the ramp at Oakland, looking at the 172's G1000 glowing there in the cockpit in front of me, thinking "this sure looks familiar". Well, it had better, hadn't it? I'm about to trust my life — and that of Evan H., my safety pilot — to it in a night IFR practice flight in what looks like a bit of night IMC and the usual crowded airspace. The plan's simple: a pre-filed IFR flight plan out to Stockton (KSCK), a handful of practice approaches there, then another clearance back to Oakland for the RNAV approach with LPV minimums through the coastal stratus. Nothing too difficult, but I sure feel rusty, and while I'm not anywhere near getting out of instrument currency, I do get a little worried about proficiency now and then. I don't want to make too much of a fool of myself on the radio or on the approaches with Evan — who's not far from getting his instrument rating with John — sitting there eagle-eyed in the right seat.

The engine starts first go, which is always a good sign; I taxi out past the Port-A-Ports and stop before I get to the movement area. Time to call Deliverance for my clearance; at Oakland this can sometimes be a bit like joining a poetry slam mid-show since the controller's also doing South Field ground as well as giving both North Field (GA) and South Field (the airlines and the Big Boys) clearances (and you can't hear the responses to South Field ground, making it way too easy to step on someone). I like slams but sometimes I've had to struggle to get a word in edgewise, and once waited several minutes to read back my clearance, all the while thinking "they've forgotten me, they've forgotten me…". This time it's a snap — just one other plane, a Southwest 737, is on clearance frequency — and after copying down the clearance I start to feel better about things. Until I call ground, that is, and give our position as "the New T's", which is totally wrong (at least I didn't say "the Old T's", which would be even more wrong, but a lot more forgivable after all the years I spent based there). After a verbal nudge from Evan I amend it to "the Port-A-Ports", which is close enough for government work. We saunter out onto taxiway bravo.

Since Evan's the IFR student and co-pilot, I pull rank and ask him if he'll program the G1000 for the clearance (hey, I can program the damn thing in my sleep nowadays, and I can always rationalise making him do it as "real world IFR training" or some such guff :-)). In any case, at this stage in his training he ought to be better at this than I am; he starts programming a plausible flight plan as we taxi off towards the 27R runup area. Almost immediately we hit taxiway delta ground asks us to cut over to 27R on golf and back-taxi down 27R to the runup area for traffic. We potter slowly down 27R and watch a Justice Department MD-80 and a FedEx Caravan cross 27R's threshold a few hundred metres in front of us, all flashing lights and movement in the darkness, both of them making a quick left onto the taxiway we've just vacated. This is entertaining, especially watching the little Caravan scurry along close behind the MD-80. And you don't get to back-taxi down 27R here that often, given the traffic (the last time I did it, I think, was when there was a plane sitting temporarily disabled on taxiway delta just next to 27R).

We get to the runup area and do the runup — all systems go! I look over Evan's G1000 program and apart from a minor disagreement about how to program the first leg of the clearance, it's identical to what I'd do; and this being NorCal Approach territory, we won't fly much of the programmed plan anyway, so the disagreement's pretty moot. Just pulling rank, you know…. We edge up to the hold short line, and I look around again. There's some coastal stratus around Oakland (which is currently IFR), but it doesn't extend very far inland, and it's pretty shallow. I start feeling pretty good about things — no real mistakes so far. This could actually be fun…

* * *

And so it is. There's just enough real IMC to make things visually interesting, and frankly, things under the Cone Of Stupidity (a.k.a. "the hood") felt comfortable the entire flight (well, at least Evan doesn't start screaming "we're all going to die!!!" at any point, or try to depart the plane on the ground at Stockton). I put the G1000 / autopilot combination through its paces for a couple of approaches, and hand-flew the others. No real problems to report with anything, but my hand flying isn't as sharp as it should be after the time off (but not outside PTS standards, which I count as reasonable). As happened the first time I flew the new version of the G1000 software, watching the G1000 command the autopilot around the full pilot nav version of the Stockton GPS 29R approach from Manteca VOR (ECA), including a full course reversal teardrop entry hold over the IAF (OXJEF), is, well, it's just magic. I don't think I'll ever be nostalgic for steam gauges, even though they were at the heart of my basic instrument training.

On the way back, after the somnolent-sounding NorCal sector over Stockton, NorCal's 125.35 sector over the Diablo Valley and into Oakland's a bit of a shock, a non-stop circus of requests, vectors, commands, and errors, and we hardly get noticed. But we're on a real IFR clearance, and even with the half-jammed frequency we get competent (if terse) vectors for the RNAV 27L (with LPV minimums) back into Oakland. At one stage the controller clears me "direct BAM[something]" (sounded a bit like "BAMPY"), which threw me — I know pretty much all the relevant intersections and waypoints for Oakland and Hayward approaches and associated airways, and I've never heard of this one. I fumble around uselessly with my charts and reply with "was that direct 'BAMPY'?". After a slight pause she returns with "051 never mind — cleared direct JUPAP", which makes a lot more sense [later: I still can't find any intersection or waypoint with a name like that in the area; at first I suspected she was clearing us for one of the runway 29 approaches, but none of them have fixes named something like that either]. A few minutes later she gives us a vector for the segment just outside JUPAP and clears us for the approach.

Then it's my turn to screw up: for some reason I reactivate the approach on the G1000 as we're getting close to JUPAP (the intermediate fix that's commonly used for vectoring). This has the predictable result of suddenly trying to send me to SUNOL, the IAF, an almost complete course reversal. I sit there for a few seconds wondering "what the hell?! Why's the needle suddenly swung around?" before it sunk in (with a little prompting from Evan). A few years ago I might have panicked or sat there a lot longer trying to intellectualise what was happening, but this time I don't spend much time thinking: I just put the autopilot into heading mode with the old heading (which was bugged, of course; and we hadn't deviated more than a few degrees at that point), then hit the flight plan window, scrolled to the SUNOL JUPAP leg, then hit "join the leg" (or whatever it's called). Voila! Back in business (well, that's the simplified form, anyway). Nothing dramatic, nothing special, nothing requiring any special airmanship or anything, but I think it does reflect how much a few years' experience flying IFR can make in recognising, debugging, and correcting mistakes like this in the real world.

Back on the ground there's an old privately-owned 737 sitting near the fuel pumps at Kaiser. We park right in front of it and wander off to wake up the fuel truck guys (the pumps are broken, apparently). I stroll up to the 737 in the dark and take a few pictures — it's a nice looking plane, and it has the old early-series low-bypass narrow engines — then go back to the fuel truck to watch $6-a-gallon being transferred swiftly from (my) wallet to fuel tank. Urgh. I sometimes wonder how much more flying I can really afford nowadays….

Out Of This World

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 22:29:00 +0000

No flying for a while — I'm on vacation in one of my hometowns. I'm sure you all recognize these things; I know I'm enough of a nerd that I can name the function of each of them (hint: not aeronautical). Yes, such a nerd. Back sometime November….

How Many Pilots Does It Take To

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Fri, 28 Sep 2007 05:33:00 +0000

Cessna 051 Being Pre-Flighted In The Hangar

I feel like a complete idiot. I'm standing in the fading light and early Autumn cold outside Oakland Flyers, trying to get the external lockbox open so I can retrieve the paperwork for my evening flight in Cessna 051, the G1000 / WAAS equipped 172 I've booked for a short VFR trip to Livermore (KLVK) and back. I know the combination for the lock. I've opened it before. But nothing I do will get the bloody thing open, and I can't fly until I get the paperwork out (it's one of those shocking and little-known insider secrets that planes don't fly without the correct paperwork).

In desperation I call John to see if someone's changed the combo or something. John turns out to be on the way to this very spot for a flight with Evan H., one of his students, in another of the club's 172s, so I wait a few minutes until he turns up. He can't get it open either; neither of us can no matter what song and dance or imprecations we make. Evan turns up a few moments later, and the combination of the three of us trying subtle and not-so-subtle variations on the usual theme doesn't work either. Just as someone makes the inevitable joke, Evan manages to get the bloody thing open (with exactly the same combo and sequence of twists and turns we've all been using for the past fifteen minutes). And of course, inside the lockbox is… nothing. The powers that be at Oakland Flyers have forgotten to leave 051's paperwork out for me.

Luckily, John's got a key to the (locked up, gone-home-for-the-day) office, and we eventually find the folder and paperwork inside. While doing this I ask what the others were planning — an IFR practice flight to Mather (KMHR) and back, apparently, as part of Evan's training to get his IFR rating. They're taking one of the crappy old non-GPS non-glass 172s, the only thing they could get on the day. I suggest we could swap planes, since I'm really only flying for VFR landing and circuit practice today, but it turns out I'm not technically checked out in the other plane (it has a few quirks to do with the fuel system that require a separate but minor checkout). So I suggest I'd be happy to share 051 and back seat for at least half the trip, as long as I get some flying and an approach and landing in, and the costs are shared appropriately.

And so that's what happens….

FedEx caravan Bearing Down on 051 Next to 27R, KOAK

IFR training's a lot easier when done from the back seat. I watch and listen as John and Evan go through the paces, a simulated SALAD 1 departure from Oakland and a simulated clearance along a plausible route to Mather, interrupted by an ad hoc hold John threw at Evan somewhere out towards OAKEY intersection. Evan handles it all pretty well, and the (night, VFR) practice approaches into Sacramento Executive (KSAC) and Livermore (KLVK) are basically smooth and well-flown. I kinda enjoy passively following along and monitoring things, and predicting or guessing what John's about to say in response to Evan's actions or some interesting indication on the panel. Evan's basic IFR skills seem to be very sound, but he's not so familiar with the glass panel or the autopilot, and there are some typically head-exploding moments over the Delta. But he copes better than I did at the same stage in my training….

Leaving The Sunset...

We do a full stop in the dark at Livermore to refuel the plane (it's a good 80 cents a gallon cheaper here than in Oakland, where it's above $5 a gallon now), and to let me take the left seat for the quick flight over the hills back into Oakland. I plan on a VFR departure under the cone of stupidity and a quick stab at the RNAV (GPS) 27L approach with LPV minimums, if ATC and the G1000 will cooperate. The ATIS for Oakland mentions a broken layer at 1,100 feet (the usual Bay Area summer evening coastal stratus), so we'll need a popup clearance in any case, and I'd like to get more familiar with the G1000 LPV setup. The whole thing shouldn't take more than twenty-five minutes, max. What could go wrong?

Not much, really, in the sense of any sort of emergency or incident, but we hadn't planned on the absolute mess that was NorCal Approach's 125.35 sector that evening, with all sort of overheard botched radio calls, vectors for spacing, misunderstood instructions, etc. (none of it by us, of course :-)). Not knowing what's coming, we depart into the night and I go under the hood, and John plays ATC and vectors me until we're high enough for radar contact and to not have to climb for the approach. We call NorCal, and after a couple of attempts get through with our request for the approach and clearance. The controller sounds irritated and overloaded, and estimates at least a ten minute delay before he can slot me in. In the meantime, he wants us to maintain VFR and loiter roughly where we are until he can fit us in (not quite his words, but more-or-less his intent).

John vectors me a bit more, then throws me an ad hoc hold that throws me: as transcribed from my kneepad, "hold northeast of a point 4 miles from JUPAP waypoint on the 025 bearing, left turns, 3,700 feet…". Now it's my turn to have the head-exploding moment, and I scramble to visualise what the hell it all means (if I remember correctly I had the presence of mind to ask "nautical or statute miles?!" at some point as a diversionary time-waster). Just as I work out what he's asking me to do (as we're rapidly approaching the holding fix, something I only woke up to at the very last second), NorCal barks a vector at me for joining the ILS. I try to query this, but the controller's got other things on his mind, and so I follow the vector, hoping he heard my request for clarification on the RNAV vs. ILS 27R thing. In the meantime we can hear a bunch of misunderstandings and missed calls on-frequency, and things start mentally heating up. We're definitely not the only traffic being held in the area, and it sounds like there's a whole series of spacing, ummm, "issues" being worked out with varying degrees of patience by controller and pilots. Not an ideal flying situation, but this sort of thing is great real-world practice, and a good occasion for snarky remarks from John, Evan, and myself. And I can't help noticing that there seems to be more than the normal helping of British accents out here tonight, earlier as well as now. It's not just me with the funny accent….

Eventually the controller gets back to me and gives me a quick vector to JUPAP (the RNAV approach IF) without mentioning the approach. We lumber towards JUPAP with me wondering what's next. Should I turn at JUPAP for the approach? What's on the controller's mind here? The frequency is a continuous traffic jam of requests and commands, and I'm just not going to be able to ask. I decide to turn, as, as John says, it's going to keep me out of the ILS for Oakland's runway 29 a bit further across from us, which has to be a plus from ATC's point of view. Just before JUPAP I unexpectedly get instructed to do a 360 for spacing. Just one, I wonder? As we complete the first I manage to ask whether he wants more and he just basically grunts "051 keep circling". I feel a little exposed, sitting there at 3,700' right off the main ILS and RNAV approach centrelines, but there's not a lot we can do: we can't go VFR because of the stratus, and at least we're in the system.

After a couple of orbits we're hurriedly vectored for, and cleared for, the RNAV approach. Immediately I join the approach the controller asks me for best possible forward speed (he's sandwiched us between a couple of jets, as he reminds us several times), and asks what speed we can do. The "120 knots" I give him isn't really enough, as he'll keep implying over the next few minutes, but hell, it's all we can safely do, really, and it's all I'll give him. The actual approach flying bits go fine (this is a very straightforward approach), but there's no vertical glideslope coupling yet with the G1000 and the autopilot; however, since the LPV glideslope's pretty easy to get right by dialing in a suitable vertical speed on the AP, the rest of it's easy. I'm told the G1000 / AP combination will properly couple "in the next release". Yeah, I've heard that before.

After being switched to Oakland tower I'm immediately cleared for landing … on the wrong runway (it must be catching). But the controller's good-humoured and rather laid-back, and after clearing this up I hand-fly the last part of the approach under the hood to about 150', with John watching like a hawk. It's always nice to be able to hand-fly an approach to below the minimums without any major deviations…. Nearly forty minutes after departing Livermore we're back on the ground at Oakland; Livermore airport is roughly eighteen nautical miles from Oakland airport.

Back at Oakland Flyers I file my paperwork and discuss the flight with John and Evan. A lot of fun, really. I should do this sort of thing more….

* * *

I know I've said this before, but 051 is the only airplane I've ever rented that's actually kept in a hangar. The climate around here is benign enough that outdoor tie-downs are just fine for most small planes, and the cost of a rented hangar here is high (and, more importantly, the waiting list for one is years, if not decades, long). The hangar itself is a pretty standard Port-A-Port thing, but the whole opening and closing the door thing is quite a process, and always reminds me of an old drawbridge / portcullis in Heath Robinsonesque (Rube Goldbergesque) style, with a lot of clanking and bits of wood and iron that don't seem to fit together quite right (when I was a kid in Britain I remember something like this in real life in Cornwall or Devon somewhere, I think). No matter what I do, I end up injuring one of my fingers or jamming the door or getting something wrong each time I use the thing; this time, not only do I manage to get grease all over my hands while cranking the door closed in the darkness after the flight, but I ding my thumb with the latch release mechanism. Hmmm. There's got to be a better way… (but it's nice that there's a hangar for this plane).

The Ritual

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Wed, 26 Sep 2007 03:53:00 +0000

I'm based at a busy high-security airport (Oakland, CA — KOAK). This means that to access even the non-airline ramps at the airport I have to have an official ramp pass or badge; this in turn means I have to be background-checked, finger-printed, indoctrinated in the finer points of airport security, and renew my badge every two years (this is probably the long-term future of GA in the US, at least for busier airports, even if they don't have quite the mixture of aircraft light and heavy, commercial and private, on the ramp that Oakland has).

And today it's my turn to go back in to the Port of Oakland's airport security badge office deep in the airport's main terminal buildings and claim my new badge after another two years. Nothing too onerous, and I've done it at least four times in the past, but there's always something that comes up…. In this case, the Port's belatedly discovered that they don't have my fingerprints on file, despite my having done the whole fingerprinting thing for them some time ago (I don't remember when — I've had them done so many times for various immigration and security agencies in the last two decades, that the individual experiences just blur into one). But in this context it's not such a big deal; all it really means is an added thirty minutes of hanging around and the chance to see the new fingerprinting systems in action (quite cool, really), and I'll survive. Yes, the ambiance is a bit like a cross between a second-rate university and a really noisy train station, and if you go in with the wrong mindset it can be a relentlessly depressing and demoralising experience, but the staff are unfailingly cheerful and helpful, and in the end I just sit or stand around watching the TSA folks do their job in the crowded concourse below me or catch a glimpse of the orange NorCal approach radar head going around and around out past the 737's, 757's, and Airbuses on the apron in front of Terminal One. Life goes on all around me, and if it weren't for the irritating sound environment — a never-ending confusion of canned security announcements, the clash and clang of the rollers and machines in the security checkpoints downstairs, barked orders, kids screaming, shouting cell phone and radio users, PA announcements — I could probably have kept sitting there for hours, reading or thinking about nothing in particular, getting up occasionally to have my mug shot taken or to put my prints (again) on the glass and watch them develop on the screen in front of me.

But I was getting hungry, and hadn't had any food or coffee yet, and I'd told everyone I'd be at work by 10am, so I was relieved when the clerk called my name again, gave me my new badge, and validated my parking (as the badge clerk says to me somewhat sardonically, "hey, you pay us $58 and give us an hour or two of your life, and we give you validated parking!"). Cool. Hourly parking here on the airline side of the airport isn't exactly cheap….

And just like the last time, after two hours of almost pure waiting (and five or ten minutes of fingerprints and form-filling) I leave with a new badge, and the world (or at least Metropolitan Oakland International Airport) is just that little bit safer because of it all, I'm sure.

The Duchess Of Oakland

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Sun, 16 Sep 2007 03:20:00 +0000

John calls me early this afternoon and asks whether I want to come along while he continues the left engine break-in on the Oakland Flyers Duchess. Well duh! I drop the work I'm supposed to be doing on a website for a friend (one of the Artists — sorry, Scott) and rush to Oakland's (KOAK) Old T's, where John's preflighting Duchess 15Q (above) in the tundra in front of Oakland Aircraft Maintenance (the shop that's helping with the break-in).

I've actually flown in Duchesses before, most memorably during my initial PP-ASEL training, with Edd ("short for 'Eddy'") P., a colleague of mine at the time who let me "fly" large parts of a relaxing flight along the coast and Peninsula, San Carlos (KSQL) to Salinas (KSNS) and back again while he maintained currency. I couldn't log that flight, of course, but I did learn the basics of how to keep the Duchess stable, upright, and on course, all at the right altitudes (there's a punchline in there somewhere).

This time the agenda is for a quick VFR flight down to King City (KKIC) and back, with some strict limitations due to the engine break-in: keep below 4,000'; keep both engines 24"/2500 RPM or lower except on take-off; throttle back to 18"/2300 RPM periodically for a few minutes; and don't lean the left engine (the refurbed one) at all. Nothing too onerous (I probably missed a few), but given the history with this particular rebuild (don't ask), it's crucial that we get this right. Sounds good to me, and I load my everything-plus-the-kitchen-sink flight bag into the plane and get into the right seat (John will fly left seat for this one, not his usual seat at all, of course). About the only potential fly in the ointment is the fact that NorCal's Oakland radar head is out for repairs (or whatever), and Oakland's normal Class C services are NOTAM'd inop today, meaning things like flight following and instrument approaches are iffy at best. In the end, this isn't a factor at all, but combined with unusual local parachute jumping NOTAMS and the aerobatics typically done out of King City (think "Sean Tucker", for whom Ben, my old (young) aerobatics instructor now flies…), it'll pay to keep our eyes especially well-peeled (or some such metaphor).

The plane looks and feels well-maintained and looked-after, and from the right seat the cockpit looks familiar, similar to the Duchess I flew all those years ago, except for the nice Garmin 530 / 430 panel on the right. Unlike the first time, this time pretty much everything on the panel and all the controls, etc., are familiar and make sense to me, and I feel well at home.

So after a careful startup we taxi towards 27R, and I program the 530 (VPCBT, KRHV, SNS, KKIC) while John does a careful runup. And then we're on our way…. Apart from a lot of bumps between Oakland and San Jose in both directions, the flight's uneventful, and I end up flying from the right seat enough to log a couple of hours dual, including a bunch of fun steep turns somewhere between Salinas and King City. This is a nice plane to fly, but as John notes, there's quite a difference between the roll and pitch sensitivities: you could roll this plane 30 degrees easily with a flick of the wrist, but in the pitch axis it's really quite a lot less responsive. Even so, the pitch trim (manual and electric) seems overly twitchy. But the ailerons feel a lot more natural than the Cirrus's, which may just be a reflection of that particular Cirrus (or it may reflect the spring-loaded system in the Cirrus that I'm really not sure I like all that much). A prominent missing feature that it'd be nice to have in this plane is an autopilot: I've become somewhat convinced that for single pilot IFR flying in serious sustained IMC, a good basic autopilot is essential (it doesn't have to be able to do much more than keep a heading or even just keep the wings level, if you ask me). Other than that, this plane is an instant hit with me — the steep turns are easy (I lose altitude and steepen the turn a little too much a couple of times mostly because being in the right seat I concentrate more on the horizon and flying by the seat of my pants than on the instruments I can't quite see over on the other side of the panel. "Welcome to my world…" as John says), the Garmins make casual IFR flying a lot more pleasant, the forward view from the cockpit is easily the best I've seen in a low-wing plane, and it basically just felt like a straightforward and safe aircraft.

We turn back a little before King City (we don't need to land, just do about two hours' tach time in the air), and shoot the ILS 27R back into Oakland, with John flying (no cone of stupidity for this, as I can't act as safety pilot on a twin).

Back on the ground at Oakland we do a magneto test again before refueling, and the results aren't promising — although the engines have been smooth and well-behaved in the air, back on the ground the left engine's running rough during the runup on single mags, and since we can't do the standard lean-it-and-rev-like-hell plug clearing on the new engine, it'll have to go back to Oakland Aircraft Maintenance for plug-pulling or worse.

I help refuel (to 40 gallons each side) and get a lesson in why, although this plane rents for "only" (ha!) about $120 per hour dry, it's never going to be my choice for pleasantly pottering about the Bay or Valley: we end up putting in about $200 worth of fuel, and that was nowhere near topping the plane off. In this case, at least, Oakland Flyers will reimburse John the expense (we hope), but it's still a shocker. And yet, and yet… learning to fly this thing and getting a multi rating would be a really enjoyable experience, and probably not too hard. But keeping current, especially to club rules, would be prohibitively expensive, and I'd probably want to get the multi add-on for IFR, and then there's the increased renter's insurance… and all this is yet another slippery financial slope I could really do without. We shall see.

Back in front of Oakland Aircraft Maintenance, Eric and his crew wander out and look the plane over. Apart from the rough-sounding left, there's a slight oil leak on the right cowl from the prop, and John and Eric agree it should be looked into. Eric's pessimistic about the left engine — he thinks it's probably one of the magnetos rather than the plugs, and he'll work on it on Monday. The good news is that the left engine barely used any oil during the two hours of use, and the actual break-in appears to be relatively successful. With (maybe) a new mag (or just a plug cleaning) and (probably) a new seal for the right prop, the Duchess should be in good condition to return online sometime next week.

* * *

Earlier, as I'm walking across the ramp at the Old T's, I see Lou Fields's Thunderchicken in front of a hangar, and wander over to see if Lou himself is there as well. I haven't seen Lou for a while now, but he's still the same — he seems happy to see me; I'm definitely happy to see him, and we talk a while about the Thunderchicken (Lou's jokey name for his '46 Aeronca Champ, above, with Lou in front) and Oakland gossip. The champ's got radio problems, apparently; I say I'm surprised it's got any radios at all, but as it's based in Oakland, I guess it has to. He has a portable GPS in the cockpit — he wouldn't fly the thing without it, as he's said several times, but there's a panel-mounted radio in there too, somewhere.

It's always pleasant talking with Lou — as I've written elsewhere, over the years he's watched me get my private license, then let me rent his Arrow to get my complex endorsement (and later just to fly around for fun), he had some usefully-pithy advice when I was having trouble learning to do good wheel landings in the taildragger, he had similar things to say about my aerobatics training (until a few years ago he still taught aerobatics, and he got on well with Ben, my then-aerobatics instructor), and, until some health problems cropped up, he was slated to be my DE for the instrument rating a couple of years ago. He's been a constant background presence in my life at Oakland's Old T's, and I've always been grateful for his help and his sense of humour. Lou flew off carriers in the Pacific during WW2 and for many years after that, including Korea, and is something of an institution around here.

Where's That VOR?

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Fri, 07 Sep 2007 22:48:00 +0000

I saw it in the distance as I drove past it out in the Californian outback a dozen times in the decade before I learned to fly; even then I knew what a VOR was and how it worked (just not how to use one when it mattered). Such a nerd. I went out of my way to take a couple of photos of it back then, it seemed so unreal in context. It's still there, of course, and this image is from the same trip earlier this year that included the mystery town with both a Clown Motel and a Missile Test Firing Range (cool — my sort of town!)

A year's free YAFB subscription to the first reader in email or here who can identify which VOR it is, preferably because they've also seen it from the ground (or air) and / or can recognise the landscape (this should be easy…).

The Workout

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Sun, 12 Aug 2007 21:20:00 +0000

A short IFR workout with a bit of real IMC and a lot of the sort of landscapes and seascapes the Bay Area's known for: KOAK (Oakland) SABLO SGD KAPC (Napa), KAPC SGD REBAS KOAK (with suitable allowances for the approaches at both ends and the fact that in true NorCal style, I didn't fly more than a small percentage of the clearance as given), in the new G1000 C172 with Oakland Flyers. A workout designed to keep it brief and keep things happening one after the other, which is the way things happened. No trouble keeping on top of things, which was gratifying, even if it was mostly VMC.

About the only gripe about today is a relatively old one, one I think I've noted before: once again on the ILS with the G1000 properly programmed and set up, I sit there confused for a few seconds looking for the glideslope indicator bugs on the G1000's HSI display, wondering what the hell was wrong with the ILS...? And once again (after a few seconds), I wonder why on earth Garmin made the decision to put the glideslope indicator only on the altitude tape. I can understand it being there in addition to on the HSI because of the relationship to altitude, etc., but not being only there. There's always been something deeply satisfying to me about the human factors usability of the all-in-one HSI + glideslope combination. If only Garmin would put the bugs on the HSI as well as the tape…. Oh well; I just can't really believe I fell for this again, I guess.

The Cirrus Rescue Unit ("All Systems Go!!")

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Sat, 21 Jul 2007 03:59:00 +0000

I wake up stupifyingly early, maybe 7am, and have a quick breakfast at Javarama in Alameda. I'm not sure how today's going to sort itself out (or, indeed, if anything's going to be sorted out today at all), but I suspect there's going to be a fair bit of traveling involved if Alex has been successful with the alternator. Strangely, I feel physically pretty damn good, maybe a little too sunburned, but not especially tired or anything. I potter about my studio trying to blog the earlier bits of the trip, but since I don't know how the story ends yet, my heart's not really in it. I read email. I walk around the block for exercise a couple of times. I browse the blogs of the other Usual Suspects. I just know it's not worth actually doing anything sustained yet…

Sure enough, at about 11.30 Alex calls and says he's got good news — the alternator's been repaired. And could I drive to Sacramento to pick it up … right now? Sure, I think, I could actually enjoy doing that, especially if we can get 75T back this evening. And that's his plan, so at about midday I drive the 90 miles or so through the oppressive Central Valley heat to the electrical repair place way out the other side of Suburban Sacramento. I meet someone I'll call "Mike" in the repair place (he's been told ahead of time that I exist, apparently), and this rather engaging, odd, wild-haired older guy goes over the paperwork and tells me what happened. He's worked on quite a few Cirruses before, apparently (mostly at MacLellan), and he's impressed that Alex managed to get 800 hours out of the alternator — the ones he's familiar with don't usually last unrepaired more than about 500 hours, if that (I'd already heard similar things from other people). Plus he's never seen one of the older belt-drive alternators like this — they're mostly geared nowadays. Still, the alternator's ready to go, and the paperwork's properly signed sealed and delivered, and I call Alex and discover that he's arranged to fly the club's Mooney back to Skyblue at Camarillo (KCMA) with me and a student of his at 18.00. I'll ferry 75T back after he and the Skyblue A&P install the alternator. I'm up for this, too, so after a few minutes of electrical shoptalk (yes, I was an electrical engineer in a previous life, albeit in electronics rather than electrics) I drive the ninety miles back through the heat and traffic to Oakland.

An hour or so later I park at Hayward (KHWD) outside CalAir. I check out the keys for the Mooney, and go out to start preflighting. Although I have a complex endorsement and a bunch of hours in an Arrow, I'm not checked out by the club to fly the Mooney, but I might as well get acquainted with it ahead of time, and besides, I'm curious — I've never actually flown in one before.

The club's Mooney turns out to be an older version, with an absolutely classic of-its-time panel full of ADFs, LORAN, ancient radios, etc. No GPS. No DME. An autopilot that looks like it's entirely mechanical, or at least uses tubes for guidance. A confusing array of switches. A weird panel layout. Yes, this plane would be, umm, fun to fly IFR… luckily it's forecast clear VFR there and back. Not really my cup of tea, the Mooney, but I guess you can see why they have devoted fans. They're supposedly fast and efficient. We shall see….

Alex and his student Eric turn up around 18.00, and after the usual formalities and procedures, we're heading off into the wild blue-turning-yellow-and-purple Southern Californian yonder. Alex has arranged with Skyblue for one of their A&Ps to be around when we land (original ETA 8pm, which we're not likely to make). I'm in the back seat, which isn't as bad as I'd expected. The intercom isn't working for me in the back, but other than that, it's just enough space for someone of average height and average weight (i.e. me). The Mooney seems to fly nicely, if a little stiffly, and it's surely not the slowest plane I've ever flown in. For much of the next two hours or so Alex has Eric under the hood as part of his instrument training, and we track down towards Camarillo pretty much the route we'd do for an IFR flight plan; we get flight following with vectors for the firefighting TFRs, and I just sit in the back and watch the usual beautiful California landscape go by. Around Santa Barbara the smoke's as bad as it was for me a couple of days ago, but it's basically clear VMC away from the smoke.

We land at Camarillo and taxi to Skyblue. The next hour or so is taken up with reinstalling the alternator. As the Boys are putting the finishing touches on the alternator (photo above), I realise I'm bloody starving. I had a croissant for breakfast about 14 hours ago and a minimalist lunch at about 11.30 before driving to Sacto, and, well, dammit, it looks like more junk food for me this evening. I discover a packet of Kettle chips in the bottom of my backpack (I sort of suspected I'd be late and hungry today…), and I find the yogurt health (ha!) bars I'd stowed in my flight bag yesterday. Not too bad. They'll keep me going another six hours or so.

After a bunch of testing and paperwork, Alex flight tests the alternator and electrical system in the pattern for a while, then we're good to go. We discuss the plans for the return trip. We'll get flight following back as a loose flight of two, with me leading and navigating, and Alex in the Mooney doing the radios and squawking appropriately. We'll use the air-to-air frequency to communicate between us. Both Alex and I have done formation flying before, and as long as he stays a reasonable distance away from me, I'm up for this. Especially since I have the nice GPS for navigation, and it's good to have the Mooney around in case I have to land at King City or somewhere equally out of the way on the way back if the alternator fails again.

After refueling the Mooney we depart Camarillo at about 22.00. It's an almost moonless night, very dark, but the area's fairly well-known to me, we have flight following (with, again, vectors around the TFRs just to be sure), and both the GPS and the autopilot in 75T work wonderfully. Alex has Eric in the Mooney some distance behind me second guessing my course and doing VOR radial versions of my course and cross-checking my GPS distances and estimates with Eric's manual versions (I picked a course that would make it easy to follow along with VORs — what's the fun in Camarillo direct Hayward?!). About the only surprising thing about the return flight is that the Cirrus consistently seems to out-perform the Mooney, even with my rather conservative power settings. At somewhere around 2500 RPM / 23-25 inches MP the Cirrus slightly outclimbs and outcruises the Mooney, at least during this trip. This doesn't seem right to me, but the Mooney's quite old, and the Cirrus surely can't be called slow, even if it doesn't have quite the speed demon image that the average Mooney's supposed to have.

Nothing goes wrong with the electrical system, or anything else, for that matter, and we land back in the cool still air of Hayward sometime after midnight. It's good to be back. I park the Cirrus in its new spot on the Green Ramp and meet up with Alex and Eric at CalAir for the inevitable paperwork. I finally get home about 1am.

* * *

A few hours later I'm woken suddenly and violently by a fairly major tremor epicentered close to where I live in Oakland. It's been that sort of day for me now, a couple of days in a row…

I Can Think Of Worse Places To Be Stranded

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Fri, 20 Jul 2007 05:00:00 +0000

At about 2,500' and a few miles after departing Camarillo (KCMA) in beautiful warm late-morning VMC, Tower gives me the frequency change. Just as I'm about to call Point Mugu Approach for flight following up the coast past Santa Babara to San Luis Obispo (KSBP), I notice the low voltage annunciator come on in front of me on the panel.

What now?, I think. I don't panic (what's to panic about in a plane like this in clear sunny VMC five miles from a large towered airport?). I turn to the red side of my SR-20 checklist and look under "Low Volts Light On". I follow it to the letter (but I already know pretty much what it's going to say). After a minute or so it's obvious it's not a transient problem. I suspect the alternator's gone, but that's not a sure thing at this point.

"Camarillo Tower, Cirrus 75 Tango, we're going to have to make an immediate return to the airfield. We've got an electrical problem up here…"
"75T, understood. Confirm that's you 5 northwest?"
"Affirmative, 75 Tango."
"75T do you need any assistance or want to declare an emergency?"
"75T… nah, I think we've just lost our alternator. We'll debug it on the ground. If you don't hear us again that'll be the reason."
"75T, understood. If you lose the radios, look for the lightgun."
"75T, will do, and thanks."
…
"75T, cleared to land 26, wind 240 at 15, traffic on the upwind is a Cessna in the pattern."
"75T, cleared to land 26, traffic in sight."
…
"75T, exit at Charlie, ground point eight, and, um, good luck…"
"75T, ground point eight, and thanks. I'm sure the owner's going to be thrilled…"

I exit 26 and taxi to transient. I shut the engine and electrical system down, then start everything back up again. No change. I try again. I make damn sure the breakers are all OK. I try again. No luck.

Now what? I'm stranded, I guess. I'm sure there are worse places….

* * *

I'd returned to Van Nuys (KVNY) at about 10am and dropped the rental car off at Skytrails.

Everything checked out on pre-flight, and I went back in to Skytrails to go over DUATS again for the TFRs and forecast. It was a beautiful sunny warm clear VMC day in Southern California, but, weirdly for this time of year, it wasn't just IMC back in the Bay Area, it was apparently raining (you don't know how odd "summer rain" sounds to a Californian unless you've lived here…). There'd been a rare front moving through, meaning the IMC wasn't just the usual low thin quick-clearing coastal stratus, but a more persistent layered set of clouds and rain extending much higher. At least the freezing levels were reported as being thousands of feet higher than I'd be flying. So I planned for a simple VFR-up-the-coast departure for San Luis Obispo for lunch, and filed a suitable IFR flight plan for the San Luis to Hayward leg after a decent lunch.

I taxied the full length of the airport from Skytrails to the 16L runup area, did the runup and GPS programming, then got a very rushed "75T cross 16L no delay cleared for takeoff 16R no delay traffic is a Citation on final right turn out approved" takeoff clearance. Nothing too unfamiliar to a pilot raised in Bay Area airspaces, I guess. Departure was routine out over the flood control basin, and I turned right towards Camarillo (KCMA), my first VFR waypoint. The view was perfect, a slightly hazy mix of mountains, urban sprawl, the ocean… at about 4,500' I leveled off, and thought "Hey, why don't I land at Camarillo?". It's dead ahead, it's apparently got some sort of air museum, and if it looks good I can come back next time. I'm in no real hurry now, it's good landing practice, and, yes, it's another airport to add to the logbook.

About eight miles out I called Camarillo Tower and got the straight in for runway 26. Closer up, I realised this was a bigger place than I'd expected, and by the time I'd taxied past the Commemorative Air Force hangars and the assorted warbirds on the ramp (and the Constellation being rebuilt near the runway), I'd definitely made up my mind to return.

So I departed runway 26, made a right crosswind departure, climbed to 2,500', got the frequency change, and… returned.

* * *

I park the plane in transient parking, then call the club to ask them what they want me to do. Keith runs through the obvious things (e.g. check the breakers…), then gives me the owner's mobile phone number, and says it's probably best to call the owner direct. Before I do that I call John just to make sure I haven't missed anything obvious — the last thing I want is to cause a huge hassle when it was something simple like a hidden breaker or fuse that I just didn't know about.

No such luck, so I call Alex, the owner. I briefly met him just before I pre-flighted the outbound flight to Van Nuys, and in retrospect, it was Alex who showed me the bullet mark in the Cirrus's wing a while back. He's an instructor, a young guy, and (apparently) an NPS grad. I suspect I'll get to know him a fair bit more over the next few days….

There's some sort of weird interference on my phone, and Alex can't hear a word I'm saying on the ramp, so I walk across the ramp towards what looks like a suitable FBO, Channel Island Aviation (yes, the CIA), and ask the guy behind the counter if I can use their phones because "I've got a broken Cirrus out there on the ramp…". Sure, he says (like everyone else I meet today, he's unfailingly helpful and friendly), and after a bit of maneuvering I'm on the landline to Alex in San Jose (Los Gatos, actually, but close enough).

I go through the symptoms with Alex, check off the obvious things, then Alex plugs me in to a conference call with Cirrus tech support. They basically run through the same checklist we've all been through already, and then suggest I find a suitable service center with an A&P who knows Cirruses and / or electrical systems. They don't suggest one, but the tech rep gives me his name, number, and cell phone if I find a service center that needs a Cirrus contact. Alex tells me to use my judgment and see what's available locally, and he'll wait for news from me. I tell him this might take an hour or two….

Once off the phone I think "where the hell am I going to find a Cirrus-savvy A&P in Camarillo?! Should've returned to Van Nuys…". I ask the CIA guy behind the counter. He looks at me a little oddly and says something like "well, you know Skyblue Air just up the ramp here is a Southern California Cirrus sales and service center…". Hmmm, so there are definitely worse places to be with a dead Cirrus.

I walk down to Skyblue ("just up the ramp" turns out to be a kilometre or so, in relentless Southern California sun, but never mind; on the way at least I get to see the on-airport Ventura County Fire Department depot and training center, with really impressive flames and smoke and gear being deployed or extinguished each time I pass it) and wander into their main office. I blurt out to the guy behind the counter that I've got a Cirrus up in transient with a low voltage indicator. He looks up at me, wanders over, shakes my hand, tells me he's "Larry", Skyblue's owner, and within a few minutes, he, "Tommy" (their main Cirrus A&P) and I are in a golf cart heading for transient. Tommy tells me it's almost certainly either the alternator (not cheap, but not too bad), or the MRU (really really expensive). It takes him about ten minutes to confirm that there's a real problem (i.e. it wasn't just me…), and we taxi 75T down to Skyblue. Tommy says it'll take maybe an hour to test the alternator properly, and I fill out a bunch of paperwork, call Alex with the good news, then tell Larry that if I'm not needed down here, I'll be back in an hour after getting some lunch at the airport cafe, a place called Waypoints back up near the CIA. I'm starving.

* * *

In the cafe over a pretty good burger I watch the LAPD and Ventura County Sheriff's Department cars careering around chasing each other in the shimmering haze out beyond the runway. There's apparently a special car chase training area on the airport. Alex has already called twice to see if there's been any progress. Suddenly there's a growing noise of military helicopters and out of nowhere three large grey-painted USMC CH-46 Sea Knights descend in formation into the heat at the far end of the ramp, out beyond the parked airplanes. The noise is deafening. They descend in a cloud of dust and blown-around trash, with all the smaller planes rocking around in the wash, and in a minute or so the crew chiefs lower the back ramps and three or four dozen marines in fatigues line up on the ramp. After what looks like a short briefing the marines stroll briskly across the ramp towards the cafe. I ask the cafe owner what's happening. "Oh", she says, "they've just flown in from Edwards. They've reserved the entire front patio. It's Tri-Tip treat day for them!". Cool, I think, as I watch them start to rush in like excited kids.

No, I've been in this part of the world a couple of decades and I didn't know what Tri-Tip was either.

* * *

Back at Skyblue I hear the bad news: yes, it's the alternator, and yes, it'll cost a lot to be replaced by the (Cirrus) book (the good news is that it wasn't the MRU, which would cost maybe $15K…) They give me a printed estimate, and I call Alex. He audibly blanches at the cost, and says he'll research alternatives if I can hang around another hour or so.

To cut a long story short, for the next seven hours I hang around Skyblue (and, for a short time mid-afternoon, Waypoints Cafe again), calling and being called by Alex, and lounging around on the bench outside the Skyblue office or on the sofa inside the office with various friendly and patient Skyblue staff. Alex and Larry negotiate some sort of deal on the phone; the upshot is that Alex is driving down from Los Gatos to pick me and the alternator up (ETA at Camarillo about 7pm if we're lucky), and he and I will drive straight back up 101 to Hayward (KHWD, 75T's home base up next to Oakland) later tonight (ETA about 2am tomorrow if we're really lucky). I can't complain (well, I don't complain (much)) — I'm on vacation, and the company's good (lots of gossip about a certain Hollywood dustup earlier that day involving someone personally known here), and while I'm occasionally bored, it's at least comfortable. It strikes me at one point that this is what freight dogs and Part 135 pilots go through, lounging around crew rooms and bad cafes (or eating out of vending machines, which so far today I've been able to avoid). Maybe this is some sort of initiation.

Alex arrives at about 8pm, and it doesn't take long to get the alternator completely off and 75T parked out of the way with its cowl back on. Alex's plan is to drop the alternator off at a suitable place in Sacramento early tomorrow morning after the drive back up tonight (i.e. he'll get up at some ungodly hour and drive a two-hundred mile round trip after the mad dash up and down 101 to and from Camarillo), and if it's a simple deal, we'll somehow return tomorrow or the next day to install the repaired alternator (or whatever) and fly 75T home. So that's the plan. It's doable, as long as everything goes OK; I'm just damn glad it's not me doing the driving.

After a bunch more paperwork Alex and I depart in his car and stop off at a local Applebee's for something to eat. Amazingly, given the time I've lived in this country, this is the first time I've eaten at an Applebee's; it turns out to be exactly what I expected…. We talk a lot over dinner — Alex can be a pretty entertaining guy with a similar set of interests and professional concerns as me — and I find out a lot more about the Cirrus and Alex's background.

After dinner we depart Camarillo on 101 north and for the next five hours or so we drive through the darkness in very familiar country, up through Santa Barbara, Santa Maria, San Luis Obispo, Paso Robles, King City, Soledad, Salinas, San Jose… the names just roll off the tongue after all these years of driving or flying that route. At one point just before Santa Maria I see a freeway exit sign for Orcutt, and suddenly I realise there's a "real" Orcutt somewhere below the ORCUTT intersection or waypoint I'm familiar with on the IFR version of California I've internalised and flown (no, I don't know why I hadn't noticed the real Orcutt before). The conversation about hi tech, warbirds, flying, instructing, etc., continues pretty much all the way back to Hayward.

At Hayward I discover my truck's still there in the external parking lot (be thankful for small mercies…), and Alex says he's going to sleep on the CalAir sofa before getting up in a few hours to drive to Sacramento. Better him than me. I get home about 3am, I think (I lost track). I'm pretty sure tomorrow's going to be just as long…

* * *

I want to thank all the Skyblue staff, especially Larry, Heather, Brian, Lorenn, and Tommy for their help, humour, and patience — what could have been an excruciatingly boring or stressful eight hours or so was actually a fairly pleasant time. They'd get my business if I actually owned a Cirrus….

Santa Monica

noreply@blogger.com (Hamish) — Wed, 18 Jul 2007 17:02:00 +0000

Santa Monica, my fave LA place (along with Venice). No, that's not me up there, just some random character from Harry Shearer's "Home Of The Homeless". Me, I get up early and stroll the old familiar haunts, trying not to get too sunburned or jaded… I can think of worse places to be.