Paper Hangar

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Double Trouble

Growing up in a house full of brothers with a single mother in the pilot seat was quite an experience. Mom, with her firm but loving hand, blessed me with a wonderful perspective on life. Further, she instilled in me the responsibility necessary to be a productive member of the world. Both she and my father worked diligently to provide for my brothers and me, but money was tight. I don’t begrudge our financial struggles in any way. They taught us all the value of a dollar and respect for the work it took to earn that dollar. In many ways, my parents’ challenges blessed me with a burning desire to do better than they did--to succeed financially in ways that weren’t available to them. I’m grateful for this drive. However, it set in motion an epic struggle within me.

At age forty-four, the battle rages on. Do what I love for low pay or make good money so I can do what I love? And as such, life decisions are often difficult to make. When I’m faced with one, I find myself thinking about past choices, attempting to draw from their successes and failures. But what if the right decision 10 years ago is the wrong decision today? What if today’s logical decision would have seemed ludicrous 10 years ago? Is this shift in perspective simply a product of aging and maturity or a change in circumstance allowing me to track a route less traveled?

A couple of weeks back, I awoke on a Saturday morning, downed some hot java and headed south on A1A to St. Augustine Airport. My objective was to meet with an instructor, fly a new airplane, and begin brushing up on my instrument flying. Further, the instructor I was flying with has a rating allowing him to instruct in a multi-engine aircraft. I wanted to get a feel for his teaching style. The flight went well although my instrument work was less than stellar. It was my first flight in a few months, and as always, getting back in the air invigorated me.

During each of the next two weeks, I found myself driving south, sliding into the cockpit and climbing effortlessly into the sky. I began reflecting on all of the wonderful experiences I’ve had in aviation. I contemplated whether the allure and love would remain if I tried to scratch out a living as a pilot for a few years. I also wondered what it would be like to enjoy going to work. Would the joy of flying really outweigh the satisfaction of a fat paycheck? I couldn’t answer the question, knowing the only way I would ever find out was to continue training and pushing further into the unknown.

As confidence in my instrument flying returned, I began rummaging through my closet and located a book I’d been holding onto for quite some time. It was a basic flight book with one chapter dedicated to multi-engine aircraft procedures. While grossly inadequate in terms of a training manual, it wetted my appetite for knowledge. After completing the chapter, I picked up the phone and scheduled my first flight behind the wheel of a multi-engine aircraft.

While waiting for that first flight, I spent a lot of time struggling with my decision. Since a multi-engine rating is useless to me unless I plan on making the transition to professional pilot, I had to grapple with the expense involved for the additional training.
That little voice inside my head kept telling me this choice wouldn’t be logical and you’ll waste both time and money. And because work has simply been about making money all of my life, I’ve always listened to that voice.

I found myself pondering carefree days growing up on Westview Street in Springfield, Missouri. My brothers and I were always broke. Yet those were golden years for us. While we had our growing pains, those penniless years are the ones we inevitably find ourselves reminiscing about. And why is that? The answer is simple. We enjoyed what we were doing. Money wasn’t as important as having fun.

When the day came to fly the twin, the money issues were still haunting me. That little voice was screaming at me again. I forged ahead, deciding that one flight doesn’t commit me to anything. After all, it wouldn’t be until I began three flights a week that the expense would become financially painful. So I drove south on A1A, and in no time, I was walking toward the plane, preparing to do my first pre-flight inspection on this complex, money-sucking juggernaught. It wasn’t long before I climbed behind the wheel and began going through the checklist in preparation for the flight. As we neared the engine start procedure, I felt that old, familiar tinge of childlike excitement. That feeling of having a first and knowing it can only happen once in your life. When it was time to start engine one, I turned it over and immediately felt it roar to life. I giggled when the checklist called for starting engine two.

We received clearance to taxi and within minutes were parked in the run-up area testing and re-testing all of the different systems. Once completed, I taxied to the hold-short line in front of Runway 13. As I looked down the 8,000-foot strip, I could barely see from the heat rising above the concrete. Sweat dripped from the brim of my hat and trickled down my face. Adrenaline poured through me as I rolled onto the runway. I grinned at my instructor while pushing not one, but two throttles to full power. As we lumbered down the runway, I could think of nothing except flying the airplane. When we lifted off, an intense feeling of freedom came over me. For the next hour, I pitched and banked, climbed and descended, slowly becoming one with this complicated piece of machinery. After a pair of touch-and-go landings, I taxied to the ramp and shut the engines down.

The toughest woman I’ve ever known recently implored me to do what I love because we live only once and are allowed no do-overs. I’m grateful for that advice. Ten years ago, checking out of the working world for a low-paying dream job would not have been possible for me. I’ve always listened to that inner voice telling me I need more money and I should waste no time in getting it. But sometimes that little voice lies. It pushes us to do what’s logical while slowly killing our desires and passions. Sometimes we have to take a leap of faith in order to live a creative and satisfying life. So I’ll press on, accepting adventure as my salary and when that little voice pipes in, I’ll think about that happy-go-lucky high school kid living on Westview Street. While I expect this airway to be fraught with setbacks and difficulties, for now, the decision seems right--because if not now, when?

A Salty Winter Day

During 2009, I made a concerted effort to adopt some of the technological advances of the last 20 years. When my TV ceased to work without a digital converter box, it finally dawned on me that I needed to embrace the modern world. I discarded my cassette tapes, threw away my Sony Walkman, reluctantly gave away my VCR and I finally quit buying disposable 35 millimeter cameras. In one swoop, I purchased a new digital camera and an iPod. Although befuddling and frustrating at first, they quickly became standard fare for my daily life.

When it comes to flying, I’ve always worked diligently to embrace technology that will enhance the safety and convenience of a flight. As an aircraft renter, this task can be especially daunting. Avionics vary depending on the year a plane was manufactured. Combine that with the aftermarket upgrades by any particular aircraft’s various owners, and you have a hodgepodge of equipment with which you need to be familiar.

Recently, I was given the opportunity to sit right seat, co-pilot in an aircraft with one of the most modern avionics packages available. My friend Steve had just upgraded the instrument panel in his Mooney 252, and he wanted me to accompany him on a flight down south. His aircraft now possessed more glass-cased electronics than I’d ever seen from the cockpit vantage point. Steve was anxious to test his new Aspen Avionics Suite, which had just been installed at Sarasota Avionics a few days earlier. The system allows for nearly complete cockpit automation, requiring the pilot to simply takeoff and land. I was excited to see this new technology provide the fly-by-wire experience I’ve only read about. While I expected the new avionics to be helpful, I was humbled by their ability to enhance our adventure.

As always, there were many issues to address before departing--weather being the most critical. The winds were gusting at 28 knots directly off the north side of Runway 27 when we called to file our flight plan. This condition meant a 90-degree crosswind component as high as 28 knots at our destination airport. Although rarely lacking in chutzpah, Steve and I decided that 28 knots of crosswind component in a Mooney 252 is, well, suicidal! So with the forecast winds diminishing later in the day, we begrudgingly delayed our departure. Sadly, it was still possible the winds would be uncooperative at our scheduled arrival time. However, diverting to Naples or Fort Lauderdale for better runway alignment was far from a reason to be upset. But after enduring a hard negotiation for a one-day reprieve from the rigors of our everyday lives, getting that plane on the ground in Key West was Priority 1.

With nothing but adrenaline gushing through our veins, we departed into brilliant, blue Florida skies. Once airborne, Steve engaged the autopilot and began flying by simply pushing buttons. The entire flight plan had been pre-programmed into the Garmin GPS so all we had to do was sit back and make the changes required by the air traffic controllers. We were initially cleared to an altitude of 11,000 feet--and a short while later, 13,000 feet. We simply input the desired rate of climb and the aircraft did the work with no physical effort from the pilot. We enjoyed a ground speed of nearly 180 knots, which meant our flight time would barely exceed two hours.

While en route, we tested the different systems and familiarized ourselves with their complexities--all the while, eagerly anticipating our arrival in Key West.

We began our initial descent 80 miles north of the island. It was a long, gradual cruise descent, allowing us to reach speeds of more than 200 knots. Shortly thereafter, the Miami controllers handed us over to Key West approach.

There’s something poetic about hearing “cleared for approach” in the Conch Republic. It brings smiles, warm memories, and nostalgia to mind, as Key West is such a special place. This time even more so--especially since the airplane was still on autopilot!

Fortunately, our landing turned out to be a non-event, as the winds had calmed to a mere 10 knots. Interestingly, our decision for a later departure was validated by a Delta flight that was diverted to Miami earlier in the day due to high winds. Its disgruntled passengers were then bussed to Key West--ouch!

As always, Island City Flying Service made quick work of our ground transportation, and within an hour, we were making our way down Duval Street on rented bicycles in search of dinner and a frosty treat. It wasn’t long until we were reminiscing about past trips we’d made and about how in our younger days we couldn’t have imagined flying our own airplane to a destination like this. We reflected on our flight, marveling at the electronic gadgetry available to us.

The next day we lounged at Dante’s Poolside, eating oysters and basking in the Florida sun. We grumbled about having only 24 hours on the island, as we were needed in the real world again so soon. Then we snickered, knowing how lucky we were to have this one day. When it was time to depart, we pedaled our way toward the Southwinds Motel, returned our bikes and grabbed a cab to the airport.

We headed north towards Jacksonville around 5 p.m., and by the time our automated flying machine placed us over Tampa, we were privileged to witness a jaw-dropping sunset. With Steve’s confidence in the new instrument panel building, we had time to tinker with the newly installed stereo system. Before long, my iPod was blessing us with Kenny Chesney’s unique blend of island music. A short time later, with the moon rising in the east, Jacksonville Approach cleared us for our arrival into St. Augustine.

As the auto-pilot flew the approach procedure, I watched the lights of St. Augustine pass below while pondering the last 24 hours. I realized that when frustration with new technology turns to mastery, a deep sense of satisfaction combines to create a magical experience. In the moments just before landing, with the music playing and the moon rising, I experienced that realization, that epiphany, that sometimes in life we get it right--very, very right.

Island Intermezzo

I recently had the pleasure of waving goodbye to 2009 in Key West. It was long awaited and long overdue. After a tumultuous 18 months culminated in a five-week sabbatical from the world’s never-ending scourge of bad news, I packed up for what I thought was a two-night stay at my favorite little motel in Key West. When I awoke on departure day, I decided to extend for another twelve days. I know--twelve days? It’s a long story, but traveling with no reservations affords the luxury of a change in plans.

I spent the next two weeks reflecting on the non-stop deluge of bad news that seemed to perpetuate itself throughout 2009--banks going out of business, the “Great Recession,” housing crises, stock market meltdown and the loss of millions of jobs. All of this while the entire world seemed mired in an Obama-rama daze.

The year was tough. Nearly all industries were decimated--real estate and aviation were of particular concern to me. Between the two, job losses were stratospheric. Couple that with my investment accounts being clobbered and it’s easy to understand why I ended the year negative in the sleep column.

As I pedaled around the island, I never saw a hint of the carnage I dealt with in the working world during the previous 18 months. The only trouble I seemed to encounter was an occasional wind gust blowing my cowboy hat onto the street. With no deadlines, timelines or pushy people expecting things from me, I was finally able to unwind and look at life through a new pair of shades. With 20/20 hindsight, I can now see that all storms do pass--even the Category 5 variety.
When my two weeks in paradise began drawing to a close, I knew it was time to get back in the airplane. With all the turbulence of 2009, flying is something I’d put on the back burner, and I missed it terribly. I called Island City Flying Service and spoke with Rose. One of the things I love about the aviation community is the camaraderie. I hadn’t planned on being in Key West for two weeks so I hadn’t brought any flight gear. With Rose’s assistance, Island City supplied me with everything I needed.

With a flight scheduled, I called Eddie, the Southwind Motel’s assistant manager, and offered to take him up for a ride. He eagerly accepted and a short time later we were on our way to the airport.

Upon arrival, we were greeted with a 14-knot crosswind directly off the south side of Runway 9. The aircraft, a Cessna 172, is rated up to a 15-knot crosswind but with winds gusting even stronger, I knew I’d have my hands full. The instructor, Perry Jones, asked me how I liked crosswind landings. I smiled and told him a little practice never hurts.

We departed into windy skies and flew directly west to Ballast Key. It’s privately owned and consists of a primary beach house and a secondary guest house. Unfortunately, it lacks the length needed for a suitable runway, so we made a low pass and snapped some amazing pictures. Island rumor has it that Kenny Chesney is interested in purchasing it. Since it’s only accessible by boat or helicopter, the seclusion seems a perfect fit for him. The view was stunning, as it always is at low altitude in the Florida Keys. We flew for an hour--long enough to see a few islands and fill me with a delightful endorphin rush. Eddie was a champ. The landings didn’t seem to faze him, even as Perry and I were struggling to deal with crosswind gusts as high as 18 to 20 knots; I really wish there was an app for that!

When we finished flying, I felt rejuvenated. I hadn’t had that “I can do anything” feeling for a long time and it felt good. I knew it was time to turn the tables on 2009 and go on the offensive again. Further, aviation must play a bigger role in my future. So with mixed emotions, I headed north on U.S. 1 towards Jacksonville, started a new job and thrust my head into the jaws of life.

Perspective has a way of changing when you’re at sea level with a few weeks to relax and let the world pass you by. For the last couple of years, quality downtime has eluded me, and allowing that to happen was a big mistake. Thanks to warm temperatures, a few Kenny Chesney songs and some time to reflect, the sun is shining brightly once again. Time away seems to soothe that uncomfortable feeling of not knowing what to do, when to do it, or how to fix the mistakes already made. Sometimes we just have to slow down, decompress and slide into that old blue chair Kenny’s so fond of. It’s funny how an airplane and a tiny American island can turn out to be the ultimate medicine.

Low and Slow !

Once, on a solo training flight, my airplane popped up off the runway at an alarmingly slow airspeed. It wouldn’t climb and barely maneuvered. I wasn’t overly concerned until the runway disappeared behind me. Suddenly, I realized how serious the situation was. Fear set in, and the adrenaline pumping through my veins should have exploded my heart. It wasn’t until I turned to the final approach course and felt assured of a safe landing that my near uncontrollable shaking began to subside. I’d missed a key checklist component and initiated the takeoff roll with my wing flaps fully deployed. The resultant trip around the airport at barely controllable airspeed was nearly disastrous. Upon arriving home that day, I spent time reflecting upon my mistake. I then filed away the experience, hoping it was behind me, but ironically, it likely saved my life.

On a hot July Friday a few years back, I bounced out of work early and headed for the airport. I was living in Topeka, Kansas, and had managed to befriend the owner of a flight school located at Forbes Field. He had two Cessnas, one of which I had reserved for a short flight to Salem, Missouri. I was excited to meet my brother and his wife for a weekend float trip on the Ozark National Scenic River Ways. When I arrived at Forbes Field, I was disappointed to learn the plane I had reserved was down for maintenance. Fortunately, they offered me an alternate -- but there was a catch. The alternate had just returned from maintenance with a new engine and had acquired just 6 hours of flight time. I was not comfortable with this situation, especially when I’d been told on many occasions not to fly a plane with a recently overhauled engine. I struggled with the decision, as I had no desire to become a test pilot. However, I wanted to make the flight, and the weather was perfect. Ultimately, I put on my “it won’t happen to me” hat and began preparing for the flight.

Being extra vigilant during my pre-flight run up, I tested and retested all of the aircraft’s systems. The engine ran smoothly, so I departed Forbes Field into the clearest skies a summer has to offer. I set the engine speed low and ran the mixture slightly rich just as I had been instructed before departing. The engine gave me no cause for concern as I headed southeast at a comfortable 5,500 feet. I contacted Kansas City Center for radar service and settled in for the 2-hour-and-15 minute flight.

As I approached Fort Leonard Wood, the controllers cleared me through the military’s restricted airspace. At this point, I began to feel some minor engine roughness and noticed a slight RPM drop. Since carburetor ice is common in highly humid conditions, I simply applied carburetor heat. I was getting close to my waypoint, the Maples VOR, which was approximately 10 miles from my destination. I throttled back and began a slow cruise descent into Salem. The next 10 miles were peaceful as I watched the ground moving higher on the horizon. Upon having Salem Airport in sight, I cancelled radar service and prepared to land.

When I crossed over the top of the airport, my altitude was too high. I pulled the throttle back further and began descending at a quicker pace. I flew around the airport, lining up for the final approach course--still too high. At this point, I slowed the aircraft to an acceptable approach speed while continuing the descent. As I neared the runway, the necessity to initiate a missed approach became evident. Salem’s runway is 3,000 feet long, providing ample length, but only if your airspeed and altitude is appropriate. Mine were not. A missed approach is common and safe so I decided to go around for a second attempt.

I pushed the throttle to full and began to reconfigure the aircraft when suddenly the engine coughed and sputtered. I was still descending when I pulled the throttle back out and pushed it to full power again slowly. It sputtered and nearly died when I pushed past 1800 on the tachometer (rpm gauge). I then set the throttle to 1800 RPM realizing the engine would give me no additional performance.

A pilot has two friends while flying, altitude and airspeed. With altitude, you have the ability to glide, which gives you time and range. Airspeed is the energy keeping the plane aloft. Losing either component can cause problems to mount quickly. With only 200 feet of altitude and 55 knots of airspeed, my options were limited, leaving only seconds to make a decision. As these few seconds elapsed, I had over-flown the runway. With nothing but rolling hills and trees in the windshield, an off-airport landing was not a good option. The airspeed had dropped to a level barely capable of keeping me airborne. I was shocked and sickened at how quickly this flight had turned bad. Fear enveloped me, but somehow I was able to focus on keeping the aircraft aloft.

I chose to attempt a 180-degree turn. To me, missing the runway was a better option than hitting a tree. If I could keep the airspeed high enough to stay airborne, a controlled crash was possible--maybe even a safe landing. The turn would be extremely dangerous. As an aircraft turns, it naturally loses altitude. Pilots counteract this effect by pulling back on the yoke (steering wheel). Unfortunately in my case, pulling back on the yoke was not an option, as it meant losing airspeed. I would need to push forward, losing altitude, to keep the aircraft flying. I banked right to give myself enough room and began the slow process of making a wide left turn, with the ultimate goal of lining up for a landing, preferably on the runway. I continually pushed forward on the yoke to maintain airspeed and watched the ground getting closer and closer. Once lined up for landing, I closed the throttle and the wheels immediately hit the earth-- thankfully, on a beautiful 3,000-foot strip of asphalt.

With the engine sputtering, my feet shaking, and sweat pouring out of me, I taxied to the ramp and parked. I called the owner of the aircraft and informed him I would not be flying home.

The mechanic and an instructor flew to Salem three days later to diagnose the problem and make necessary repairs. They determined that I had lost one of the four cylinders in my aircraft. It was likely lost when I suspected carburetor ice over Fort Leonard Wood. I didn’t notice because I was descending and had no need to increase power until initiating the missed approach. When they returned the plane to Topeka, I was summoned for discussions about the incident. The problem was severe. They were surprised the plane was at an airport -- as it should have been parts in a salvage yard. When I explained how the incident unfolded, they agreed with my course of action.

The decision to attempt a 180-degree turn and land at the airport saved the plane and possibly my life. I was confident yet terrified while completing it. Thankfully, I had learned from my near disastrous full-flap takeoff. If not for that experience, the outcome in Salem would likely have been different. Then again, had I been successful in learning from the pilots who warned me about flying an aircraft with a new engine, this incident would have been avoided altogether. I don’t claim to know who should fly a plane fresh out of an engine overhaul, but I can say with certainty, not me.

Brian Kammerdiener and the Slam-Dunk

Someone once told me that on occasion, the best part of a flight would not be the flight at all, but the memory made while in the air. While I found this thought interesting, the gravity of the concept eluded me until years later.

I received the worst call of my life in late May 2008. It was a doctor in Las Vegas, Nevada. She was calling to discuss my brother’s deteriorating health. He’d been in the hospital for a week, but until now, testing had failed to reveal the cause of his symptoms. The doctor informed me that Brian had cancer and things didn’t look good. I was floored, as this was the first time a diagnosis had been confirmed. While I was worried when he fell ill, I hadn’t even contemplated a terminal diagnosis. I slammed my office door, clenched my fist and begged God for his recovery. My eyes watered and my hands shook as I tried to book an airline ticket. I called my dad, and by midnight we were in Las Vegas. When I saw my brother hooked up to machines with more tubes, levers, and pouches than I’d ever seen, my heart sank. My dad and I sat down, speechless and cried.

I pondered happier times with my brother and thought about the way he lived his life. It was not glamorous, luxurious or extravagant. Yet he was wealthy beyond most people’s comprehension. His occupation allowed him time to really live -- time he used to read, relax and enjoy friends and family. He had few attachments, which allowed him to live with minimal worries. Although his carefree lifestyle occasionally caused him difficulties, he had a way of persevering, and living on life’s terms with no pretense or animosity. Generosity and a humble demeanor endeared him to friends and acquaintances alike.

Brian lived for adventure. He once gave me a copy of Jimmy Buffet’s autobiography.
The book chronicles Jimmy’s island hopping exploits in a seaplane. This gift is how I learned of my brother’s affinity for aviation.

I thought back to a day when Brian came to visit me in Lee’s Summit, Missouri. The weather conditions left no doubt as to the manner in which I would pick him up from the airport. I reserved a plane and called Shawn, a gifted flight instructor, who since training me in the summer of 2000, had become one of my closest friends. He jumped at the chance to accompany me.

Shawn and I blasted off from Lee’s Summit into beautiful, cloudless skies en route to Kansas City International Airport. The flight was smooth and short. When we taxied to the terminal, Brian was waiting. He walked toward the plane with his usual “Lima Bean” strut, wearing his signature Hawaiian shirt, flip-flops and a grin from ear to ear. This flight was his first in a small plane. To Brian, it was traveling in style. No car rides; he was flying to Lee’s Summit in a “private plane.”

The sun had begun to set when we departed KCI so we illuminated the instrument panel and marveled at the night sky. The return flight was uneventful until approximately one mile north of Lee’s Summit. I had descended and was about to enter the traffic pattern when Shawn decided to simulate an engine failure. He turned and asked Brian if that would be OK. As always, Brian didn’t hold back, he gave a thumbs-up and said, “Go for it.” I immediately closed the throttle, turned to the final approach course, and quickly configured the aircraft for landing. The approach was steep, fast and exhilarating. We made a flawless touchdown and taxied to the ramp.

Shawn referred to the maneuver as a “slam-dunk” landing. It became a topic of conversation at family gatherings for years. Brian became a raving fan of the slam-dunk and never tired of discussions about it. Seeing his exhilaration made all of the training and expense I’d incurred learning to fly worthwhile. In retrospect, the slam-dunk seemed to have mirrored the part of Brian’s personality that never held back, that little voice inside of him that always said, “Go for it.” Subsequently, the memory remained strong.

The flight we took had no scary or dangerous moments. It was routine. Yet it allowed me the privilege of providing an enduring memory for my brother and me to share. My brother took his last flight out four days after I arrived in Las Vegas. I now believe what I’d been told years before. I can see with clarity how the real joy of flying is not always the act of flying. Unfortunately, the brutal realities of life tend to awaken us to what’s important. Looking back, it’s the smiles, excitement, and the memory that made it all worthwhile. Thanks for the flight, Brian. I love you, and I miss you.

Beach Bound !

In the spring of 2003, I had the opportunity to take my friend Brian up for a short flight. I always relish opening the skies to a potential aviation enthusiast, paying it forward as my friend Steve Ellis did for me many years ago. After our flight, Brian and I went out for a beer where he promptly decided to begin training to acquire his wings. His excitement was contagious and by the time our mugs were empty, I’d committed to a 12-day general aviation adventure, destination Key West. I was ecstatic to have the privilege of mentoring a close friend and share my passion for the skies. All he needed to do was complete his training.

When the summer of 2004 arrived, we acquired the use of a plane we’d both flown many times. It was a Cessna 172. We decided to depart Lee’s Summit, Missouri before sunrise on a mid-July morning. We wanted to avoid the late afternoon thunderstorms typical of a Southern summer afternoon. Also by leaving early, we could make Panama City, Florida, in time for oysters and a frosty mug of Anheuser Busch’s finest lager.

The sun was rising to beautiful clear blue skies when we departed Lee’s Summit. I gladly flew the first leg of the flight. Cool morning skies and a lack of air traffic make for an inviting and peaceful experience in the cockpit. It gives a pilot time to relax and take in the joy of flight. Life’s troubles seem to slide away when you’re at the controls of an airplane, as nothing but the task at hand really matters.

Our flight took us south over Springfield, Missouri, and then southeast toward a place called Walnut Ridge, Arkansas. We could pick up fuel and take in a short tour of the airport. One of the joys in general aviation is the ability to visit out-of-the-way places you would never otherwise encounter. Walnut Ridge is one of those places. The airport has historical significance dating back to World War II when it was a training field for bomber pilots. Its six interconnecting runways make landing a breeze, even if the winds are uncooperative. After our tour and refueling, we departed, destination Montgomery, Alabama. We’d need another splash of fuel and a weather report before making our final assault on the oysters and lager in Panama City.

We departed Walnut Ridge and headed toward Memphis where we encountered clouds at our altitude of 5,500 feet. Since this was Brian’s first long cross-country flight, he’d never seen 5,500 feet on an altimeter or a cloud layer that would make it necessary for him to make course deviations. It made him nervous. His eyes grew wide when we encountered rain. Since the weather was good for visual flight, I laughed, cracked a joke, and he immediately calmed down.

I watched him while reflecting upon my first cross country flight as a licensed pilot. Brian was smarter than I was. He delayed taking his maiden voyage until he had a more experienced pilot to assist him. On this flight, I had a job. I would be mentoring and providing insight and guidance when critical decisions were made. I relished the opportunity but hoped we wouldn’t encounter any difficulties. If we did, I hoped I was up to the task. We continued navigating through a maze of clouds. Brian enjoyed this leg of the flight, comparing the deviations to playing a video game. He looked at me with a big grin and all I could do was chuckle.

As we approached Montgomery, we checked the airport advisory frequency and called the Montgomery tower. They denied us permission to land due to an inoperable aircraft on the runway. We quickly located an alternate airport in Greenville, Alabama. We could top off our tanks, check weather and be on our way quickly. Greenville was situated perfectly. It allowed us to hit our waypoint (REBBA) and avoid entering the restricted airspace of Eglin Air Force base to the west and the military operations area of Tyndall Air Force base to the east.

With Greenville chosen, Brian began a descent to enter the traffic pattern. We did a quick airport briefing and he began preparations for a turn to the final approach course. His airspeed was fast and altitude high when he turned inbound. I said nothing and gave him time to correct. As we closed the distance, he closed the throttle and waited for the aircraft to sink onto the runway. When it did, the aircraft bounced and became airborne again. With the stall horn blaring, I assisted by pushing the throttle to full power and pushing the nose of the airplane forward in an effort to gain airspeed. I then retracted the flaps and trimmed the plane for climb out. I handed control of the aircraft back to Brian and told him not to worry, the next landing had to be better. We went around the airport for another try and made a nice landing. Upon deplaning, the airport attendant gave us a wry smirk and offered to fill our tanks. We thanked him and went inside. When we approached the plane for our last leg of the flight, the attendant pointed out a damaged tire. Apparently, the hard landing had left one tire lean on tread. It was airworthy but any added abuse might cause a problem. There was no mechanic available so we’d need to make Panama City for service. Our landing would need a gentle touch.

We decided I would fly the last leg of the flight due to the added complexities of the airspace, a control tower airport, and now, a questionable tire. We picked up radar service and hit our waypoint perfectly. During our descent into Panama City, the controller gave us instructions and clearance to land. His inviting Southern drawl and casual attitude made for much needed comic relief as we approached. I turned final and descended toward the runway. Holding the nose of the aircraft off of the ground for as long as possible, I slowed to a crawl and gently touched down. We taxied to the ramp and spoke with the attendant. He had fuel, a mechanic and a tire. We thanked him and told him we’d be back in two days.

Brian was not his usual chipper self. Pilots tend to be hard on themselves when they make a mistake. I know; I’ve made plenty. I didn’t worry much about him as we were headed to a bar, which generally works the stress and fatigue out of a long day of flying. We sat and recapped the day’s events. We agreed that Brian’s misstep most likely would not have resulted in an accident. Yet we agreed it could have seriously damaged the aircraft. Further, he agreed I did the right thing in taking control of the situation. Brian still couldn’t let it go. After a couple of frosty treats, it was evident I needed to launch a nuclear bomb by telling him about my taxiway-landing debacle. That would make his botched landing seem like small peanuts. It worked, and by the time the evening was over the joke was on me. We also decided that a written version of my taxiway-landing incident would be a good learning tool for new pilots.

When we departed Panama City, Brian elected to make an overnight stop in Cocoa Beach, Florida. His flight and landing were flawless; his confidence rebuilt. The next day, we made a non-stop flight to Key West. The view from low altitude is unbelievable in the Florida Keys, driving home the joys of general aviation. Enjoying the Duval crawl after hearing “cleared to land” in the Conch Republic is a marvelous experience. Brian and I were proud, for we had completed a plan 15 months in the making.