The Long Road to Giving Back

Public Benefit Flying

I flew my first Angel Flight on July 1, 2026. It was a milestone that was a long time coming.

AOPA (Aviation Owners and Pilots Association) calls this segment of aviation "public benefit flying", which is an apt name. There are many ways that aircraft owners can use their airplanes for the greater good. Examples include flying supplies into areas struck by disaster, ferrying companion animals to new homes across state lines ("The Human Chain: How Dougall Got His Wings"), and transporting medical patients in cases where the journey is a barrier to treatment. The latter is where Angel Flight comes in.

I have been drawn to medical transport flights for as long as I have been aware of them. People suffering from rare or complicated disorders must often travel to treatment centers that specialize in managing their conditions. Sometimes, those medical centers are too far from home for the drive to be reasonable and commercial flights are financially out of reach for the patient. However, general aviation aircraft excel in providing timely regional transport. Several organizations coordinate these services, but one of the best known is Angel Flight, an umbrella organization with multiple regional "wings" operating across the country. Angel Flights are not air ambulance services for emergency transport. Instead, they support qualifying patients with non-urgent, but still important, travel needs who are sufficiently ambulatory to board a light aircraft.

Where Angels Fear to Tread

My first discussion around this kind of flying occurred circa 2005. I was an inexperienced VFR-only pilot that had just become an aircraft owner and I was unprepared when the subject of medical transport flying was raised by my barber. He had been cutting my hair since before I was a pilot, throughout my flight training, and during the process of buying Warrior 481. With clippers in hand, he had listened to stories of my progression over the years. In 2005, his wife needed treatment at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN, which was not an easy commute from Kalamazoo, MI. He broached the subject with me while I was sitting in his chair and described how challenging the travel would be for her. "I know that sometimes pilots fly patients in airplanes like yours. Do you think you could fly her in your airplane?"

Moments like these are why the phrase "deer in the headlights" was coined. I was a green aircraft owner with limited cross country experience. Kristy and I had not yet undertaken our foundational "once in a lifetime" (how naive!) flight from South Haven, MI to Fort Myers, FL ("An Aerial Road Trip to Fort Myers or How Kristy Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Airplane"). And it was March in the Great Lakes region, a season fraught with unpredictable weather. I was not routinely conversant with cross country flying and not equipped to manage any significant weather along the way. Even twenty years later and as an experienced instrument rated pilot, making a flight from Kalamazoo, MI to Rochester, MN in March would give me pause. Whether he realized it or not, this was a big ask.

My desire to help was aspirational, but not practical and I realized that it was beyond my capability. There are good reasons why medical transport charities often require their volunteer pilots to hold instrument ratings. I saw such profound dismay in his face when I told him. Though I tried to explain the pitfalls from my perspective as a newbie aircraft owner, I think he was only able to process my refusal to help. His disappointment was so palpable that memory of it still stings twenty years later.

It was the right decision at the time, but I aspired to be better positioned to help someday.

Clipped Wings

In the summer of 2012, I was introduced to the founder of a regional aviation medical transport charity that I will not identify here (the Organization That Shall Not Be Named). We met beneath a scorching sun at the Greatest Show on Turf airshow in Geneseo, NY while World War II aircraft roared overhead. The introduction was made by Ed V, a mutual friend who described me as a proficient pilot and experienced aircraft owner. At this, the fellow's interest was piqued and he squinted at me with a more critical eye. 

"Are you instrument rated?"

I was exactly three lessons into training for my instrument rating and told him so. He reached out to shake my hand and looked me in the eye. "You call me when you have that instrument ticket. We're always looking for good pilots to help our patients get the treatments they need." I was excited by this meeting because it aligned exactly with my aspirations.

Months later, still toiling away on the instrument rating, still occasionally forgetting to start that damn timer on approaches, I asked Ed V how his volunteer medical transport flying was going. Never one to mince words, Ed V practically spat his response.

"Stay away from those guys." He explained that the Organization That Shall Not Be Named frequently put pressure on him to fly missions in weather conditions that he judged unsafe. After butting heads on this point too many times with the very same founder he'd introduced me to, Ed walked away from that organization and ultimately started flying for a regional airline. I knew Ed well and knew that he was someone who liked to help others; he once helped me rescue Warrior 481 after we had to abandon her in Michigan due to weather and came to the rescue again the day Darrell and I had the carburetor fire in Hudson, NY.

Disillusioned and deeply concerned by Ed V's experience, I put my aspirations aside.

Workin' Them Angels

Years passed. My friend Ed C began flying for some of the medical transport charities operating in the northeast, including a pair of Angel Flight wings. Particularly noteworthy to me was that he did not fly for the Organization That Shall Not Be Named and, from what I could see, his experiences appeared to be very positive.

So I asked him about them. It was 2024 and I specifically questioned him about how the organizations operated and their safety cultures. As background for my questioning, I shared the story of the Organization That Shall Not Be Named. Ed C explained that his experiences were not at all like what Ed V described and that there was a tremendous emphasis placed on safety and support for Pilot in Command decision making. Moreover, he validated Ed V's observations by sharing that he once flew with a patient familiar with the Organization That Shall Not Be Named. That patient echoed similar concerns to Ed V.

Over the holidays between 2024 and 2025, I applied to a pair of regional Angel Flight wings. My applications passed muster with both groups and the next step was to provide documentation, including insurance. Because my insurance renews in early March and one of the organizations wanted to be named on my insurance, I waited until I had a new insurance certificate to share.

Before that, March 4, 2025 happened. "You're diabetic. Here, take this drug," said the PA, thus disqualifying me from exercising my existing third class medical certificate for a time ("Warrior 481 Gets a Useful Load Increase"). My biggest project in 2025 was managing the condition, getting off the drug entirely, and switching from a third class medical to BasicMed. Unfortunately, I had gotten it into my head that BasicMed would not qualify me to fly for these organizations and I put the dream aside yet again.

In early 2025, I received a "Hey Chris, whatever happened to you?" query from the coordinator at Angel Flight Northeast. I explained my situation. "I completely understand," the coordinator responded. "I've been down that road myself. But if you're flying on BasicMed, you can absolutely fly for us."

Fantastic! I was in! I collected the rest of the required paperwork, did the necessary on-line training, and qualified as a command pilot for Angel Flight Northeast. As part of my welcome to the organization, I received my very own unique callsign for use when transporting a patient, Angel Flight 1096.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

With the airplane unavailable in early 2026 for annual inspection and avionics installation, by March I was working to familiarize myself with the GTN 650 Xi. Is it still called "buttonology" when there are virtually no buttons? Finally, by April, I was ready to engage

Angel Flight Northeast notifies their volunteer pilots of missions in a website portal, providing information about the date and time, origin and destination airports, and total weight (combined for the patient, anyone accompanying the patient, and luggage). When too many missions remain pilotless too long, the organization sends an email prompt to pilots highlighting unmet needs. In more urgent cases, I receive direct texts about missions in search of pilots. While I don't know the specific algorithm used for these direct texts, they seem to target immediate needs for flights with origin or destination airports close to home.

I perused the portal, read the emails, and explored the text messages.  I struggled to find missions of reasonable distance for a Cherokee, within Warrior 481's weight limitations, or at a time that I could accommodate with my schedule. Finally, I found the perfect mission. It was on a Sunday (no work conflict) from Buffalo to Philadelphia. Both airports were in a reasonable operational geography for me and I had landed at both more than once. I bid on the mission and got it.

Once confirmed as pilot for the mission, Angel Flight NE provides an itinerary with all of the details and urges the volunteer pilot to contact the patient to confirm details and build rapport. I was unprepared for the reaction I received when I made that phone call.

When I introduced myself as a volunteer pilot, the prospective passenger interjected aggressively. "Is this one of those little airplanes?" he queried gruffly. Then, before I could answer, "Because if it is, I don't want any part of that. You tell them...you call them and you tell them that I don't want any part of that."

I am not often stunned into silence, but I was in this case. I stammered out some well wishes for him, promised to relay his concerns to Angel Flight, and ended the call. When I shared the fellow's reaction with Angel Flight, they were also taken aback because all new patients are counseled on how the organization works and what types of aircraft are involved. "But we'll talk to him." Within a day, both the outgoing and return missions for that patient disappeared from the portal. I guess he really did not want any part of that.

Undaunted, I found another mission that met the same sorting criteria, applied for it, and received confirmation that I was assigned as the pilot. But when I attempted calling the patient, only a nine digit phone number was provided. When I reported this to Angel Flight, they verified that the same number was in their intake paperwork and reached out to the patient to correct the error.

"Well, here it is," responded the patient by email, "but when I didn't hear anything back from you right away, I scheduled my flight with PALS." PALS is another organization that operates in our region. Angel Flight NE sent "never mind" emails to me and the pilot attached to fly the return leg.

This was not going at all the way I envisioned.

Next, I signed up to pilot a flight on July 1 from Burke Lakefront (BKL) in Cleveland, OH to Essex County Airport (CDW) in Caldwell, NJ. The mission would describe a massive triangle from New York to Ohio to New Jersey. It would be a long day of flying, but I was familiar with both airports and it was scheduled on a day when my work calendar was generally open. I am not fond of cold calling people I do not know and still harbored some residual anxiety from my experience with the "I don't want any part of that" guy, but this patient -- I'll call her RF -- was delightful. She was an experienced Angel Flight flyer, absolutely understood how everything worked, and exercised a sharp sense of humor and optimistic enthusiasm that belied her ongoing battle with a chronic malady.

In the interim, I received an urgent text for a flight from Rochester to Baltimore on Saturday, June 27. I studied up on Baltimore, decided that it was a Bravo I was willing to tackle, and called Angel Flight about taking it. "Oh, sorry, another pilot called a minute before you did." It was Ed C. Small world, eh? For future reference, he gave Baltimore a thumbs up.

In the runup to July 1, I exchanged a few texts with RF. She was trying to manage multiple appointments during her time in Cleveland (our flight together would return her to home) and the schedule was dynamic. I had taken the entire day off as vacation, so I was flexible. My only concern was a late enough arrival at Caldwell that the solo flight home to Sodus would happen at night. I am fully capable of flying in the dark, but doing so significantly reduces options in an emergency. While there are several airports along the direct route to Sodus that would provide an "out" if needed, flying that route at night was not my preference.

Ready To Rock

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
01 Jul 2026	N21481	SDC (Sodus, NY) - BKL (Cleveland, OH)	2.3	3177.8

Warrior 481 powered smoothly through clear air above the haze and clouds in which I'd spent my only 0.1 hour of IMC time that day clearing. Surface temperatures in the mid 90 °F range seemed enough to physically melt the asphalt runway I departed from, but above the haze layer at 8,000 feet, 68 °F air blasted at me through the wide open vents. I brought (and drank) plenty of water to fend off the combined dehydrating effects of heat, elevation, and high cockpit airflow. I took no pictures inbound to Cleveland, the world below was drab and shrouded in haze.

Burke Lakefront Airport, photographed June 12, 2026.

"I hope you have comfortable traveling clothes, it's going to be a hot one," I cautioned RF during one of our text exchanges.

"I sure do!" she responded. As an experienced Angel Flight flyer, I wondered if she had prior experience with Piper Cherokee "air conditioning" (i.e., an open door during ground operations). We would find out.

Inbound, I contemplated the political challenges faced by Burke Lakefront Airport. The unique downtown lakeside facility is under threat from Cleveland's mayor, Justin Bibb, who claims that the facility is unused. My mission that day underscored exactly why Burke Lakefront is important; it is a mere three miles from the Cleveland Clinic.

Despite VFR conditions, I did not get a visual on massive runway 24R until about 12 miles out due to haze. When Cleveland Approach sent me direct to BOGGE to fly the ILS-24R approach, I was ready. I shared the airspace and frequency with multiple other aircraft inbound to Burke Lakefront. 

An airport that nobody uses, eh?

When I arrived on the Signature ramp, I was stunned by how full it was, from multiengine piston twins, turboprops, and light jets to a full on American Airlines airliner (a 737, I think). Inside, the FBO was bustling and the harried woman running the front desk took great care of me despite wearing many hats that afternoon. Because I was there for an Angel Flight mission, she waived all of the fees, including the local government $7 landing fee, and provided a $1/gallon fuel discount. I had plugged my iPad into a brick to recharge and she tucked it safely behind the counter while I ventured into the city for lunch.

Signature Aviation, Burke Lakefront.

Someone tell me daughter that I had an encounter with the ship that "hates" me.

I walked a half mile in the heat for a late lunch/early dinner at the Winking Lizard, but in spite of everything that their website claimed, the restaurant was closed. I did an about face, walked past the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame undergoing renovation, and had lunch at Nuevo Modern Mexican. My chimichanga looked fantastic, but if I'm being honest, it was a little bland.

While eating, I received a text from RF that she had been delayed further in her appointments. I've never had a medical appointment that wrapped up on time and did not expect that she would, either. "No problem! See you when you get here."

Back at the FBO, I recovered my iPad and brick, noting that the brick was starting to swell slightly. Time to stop using that. I checked email while waiting for RF. When I received her "I'm almost there" text, I responded, "Look for the nerd with the Wright Flyer blueprint t-shirt, that will be me." She laughed in response, but it worked and she knew me right off.

Warrior 481 can deliver, but this little guy might have been more capable.

I procured some bottled water for her from the Signature refrigerator and escorted her to the airplane. She seemed tired, which became more apparent when she described a grueling three days of visiting with different doctors in different offices while lugging her baggage from place to place. As I worked the 3D Tetris problem to fit her luggage into the baggage compartment, she marveled. "Oh, you've done that before!"

"A time or two, yes."

Chock & Roll Hall of Fame

I did the preflight inspection of the airplane before her arrival to expedite departure and minimize time in the heat. I explained Piper "air conditioning" and, while she gave me a dubious look, she was game. With baggage packed, seat belts fastened, and passenger briefing done, it was time to crank the engine.

Then I remembered. I had not removed the chocks from the main wheels, something that I normally attend to during preflight. Because I did the preflight early, I had left the airplane chocked.

Don't forget the chocks!

Facepalm. Well, might as well rip the Band-Aid right off.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to remove the wheel chocks and I have to ask you to get out again."

"The what?" responded my non-aviator passenger.

"I'll show you, but I have to ask you to get back out. I'm really sorry." I felt like such a goober. RF gamely extricated herself from the airplane and watched as I smoothly emerged and stepped lightly to the ground. 

"That's what twenty years of experience gets you!" she noted good naturedly, referring to my well practiced exit from the cockpit. With some embarrassment, I pulled the wheel chocks while trying to convince myself that it was not all bad because I discovered the lapse before starting the engine.

Once back in the airplane, RF had her book -- Sally Hepworth's The Things We Keep -- ready to go on her lap. I explained that the choice was hers. If she wanted to chat, we could do that. If she preferred to read, I could isolate her at the audio panel so that she did not have to listen to all the radio chatter. Once again, I noticed how tired she appeared to be and was unsurprised when she took to the idea of some quiet time.

Insert Awkward Call Sign Here

With RF isolated and the engine running, I listened to Burke Lakefront's ATIS before contacting ground. I knew that I was in a positive groove when the initial call up rolled out smoothly and professionally. "Lakefront Ground, Cherokee Two One Four Eight One at Signature with kilo, we have an IFR filed to Caldwell, Charlie Delta Whiskey."

"Cherokee Four Eight One, Lakefront Ground, standby while I look for that." With those words, my heart sank. I'd already blathered my tail number instead of my filed call sign, despite the fact that it was written directly at the top of my kneeboard in a place where I supposedly could not have missed it.

NGF1096

"Apologies, that flight plan will be under Angel Flight One Zero Niner Six." The syllables of the unfamiliar call sign tumbled out with awkward unfamiliarity. In that moment, I was glad that RF was isolated.

Lakefront Ground did not miss a beat, most likely because the strip was sitting directly in front of her. "Angel Flight Ten Ninety-Six, you're cleared to Caldwell as filed, climb and maintain 2,000 feet, expect 7,000 feet one zero minutes after departure..."

Ten Ninety-Six? That sounds way cooler than how I said it. Every controller I talked with, from Cleveland to New York and all points in between called me Ten Ninety-Six. 

I like it.

A Meditative State

 

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
01 Jul 2026	N21481	BKL (Cleveland, OH) - CDW (Caldwell, NJ)	3.4	3181.2

Taxi, run-up, and take off were all perfunctory. I coached RF through latching the door before the engine runup. On departure, Lakefront Tower put us on a heading toward the middle of Lake Erie and we rose skyward, atmospheric haze smudging water and sky into an undifferentiated azure vista. The view was suggestive of being confined within a ball. There were no ships, no clouds, no land, no horizon...just blue. Cleveland Departure took over from Tower, vectored us back toward shore, then cleared us direct to the Stillwater VOR, the only fix in my filed route to Caldwell. As noted in an earlier post, there is a dearth of airways between Cleveland and western New York/Pennsylvania. Going more or less direct was really the only viable way to go.

At 7,000 feet, we skimmed the top of the haze layer sped along by a 25 knot tailwind. In the days leading up to the flight, I worried that some forecast models predicted thunderstorms over Caldwell, but that risk diminished significantly by the day of the flight. I selected RF's position at the audio panel, explained that we were at our cruise altitude, provided an updated ETA into Caldwell, and expressed some relief at the lack of thunderstorms along our trajectory. I pointed out the massive anvil-shaped thunderhead far off of our left wing as an example of what I hoped to avoid that evening. Had I not been so focused on her comfort and this leg of the journey, I might have recognized that the thunderhead was in the direction of Buffalo and likely to impact my flight home that night.

To ensure a smooth ride, I engaged HAL and fell into a routine of monitoring systems, switching fuel tanks every thirty minutes, and making minor power adjustments as needed. We flew past many familiar airports, each having made an impact on my personal aviation story. Despite the familiarity of those landing sites, their order of appearance was definitively unfamiliar because of our eastbound heading. As a New York based pilot, Pennsylvania naturally seems like a state meant to be transited along a north-south axis. Traversing the Keystone state in an orthogonal direction just felt weird.

RF switched between reading and dozing. While she slept, I experienced the same sense of singular responsibility that I once felt when The Bear slept in flight as an infant. 

Later in the flight, once over eastern PA, I could see evidence of three thunderstorms ahead. One north of our trajectory, one south of our trajectory, and one seemingly straight ahead, but dissipating rapidly and not likely to be a factor. When Allentown descended us to 5,000 feet, RF awoke and wanted to chat. I pointed to the clouds and explained where the weather was relative our flight path. 

"I like this." She commented. "The engine sound is almost like white noise." She peered out the window at the passing Earth. "It's all very...meditative." "Meditative" was a lovely word that truly fit the moment.

I asked how she learned about Angel Flight. "A friend. Angel Flight has been such a blessing."

We descended into the damp embrace of heat and haze permeating New Jersey. New York Approach vectored us onto the RNAV-22 approach into Caldwell. I was grateful for this because it meant that I did not need to play the "where's the airport?" game in the haze with RF on board.

On the Air Bound ramp at Essex County Airport in Caldwell, NJ.

The landing was smooth and moments later we were marshalled to parking on the Air Bound Aviation ramp. I needed to wait for fuel because the FBO was fueling the fuel truck when we arrived. I unloaded RF's luggage from the back of the Warrior and escorted her inside where she requested an Uber. While we waited, we chatted further on the topics of being nerds, kids taking after their parents (and also being nerds), and healthcare.

"I have a surgery scheduled next week back in Cleveland," she disclosed. 

I did not want to pry and struggled to parse my next question. "Will it take care of you going forward?"

"Actually, it's to fix a mistake from an earlier surgery."

"Oh," I said, putting as much sympathetic weight into the word as I could. "That's the worst reason for surgery."

RF shrugged. "Doctors are human, too." Then she made a genuinely funny self deprecating joke. I complimented her on keeping a sense of humor in the face of a daunting chronic condition. She nodded.

"You have to. I've seen what happens when you don't." She paused. "It's not good." I knew from experience that she was absolutely right and could only nod quietly in response.

Her phone buzzed, announcing the arrival of her Uber. She thanked me again for the flight and for being flexible, offering that maybe we would fly together again sometime. I took that to mean I had done well by her. It was the most important bit of indirect feedback I received all day. She gathered her things and was gone.

Say! What's that cloud formation in the distance?

Act Three: Solo Again

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
01 July 2026	N21481	CDW (Caldwell, NJ) - SDC (Sodus, NY)	2.2	3183.4

It was not my intention to make the flight home after dark, but there I was, barreling down Caldwell's  runway 22 at 8:50 pm, about 20 minutes after sunset. The original plan was to be en route home by 6:30 pm, but between RF's morphing schedule, the delays in Cleveland, and the wait for fuel at Caldwell, I either needed to fly home in the dark or stay the night in New Jersey. I had foolishly planned to work the next day and was not prepared to stay the night anywhere.

I listened to the Caldwell ATIS more than once to fully understand that VFR departures to the northwest (like me) were advised to remain at or below 1,500 feet to avoid conflicting with arrivals on Morristown's RNAV-23 approach, which was in use at the time. Though it took me a couple of listens to parse the rapid-fire delivery of the recommendation, I was genuinely impressed with the level of coordination between towers at the airports situated seven miles apart.

Once past the final approach course to Morristown's runway 23, I climbed to 6,500 feet, hand flying in smooth air. Ahead loomed two thunderstorms topped by anvil-shaped heads, still backlit by residual twilight. What followed this sight was an unfortunate cascade of realizations.

I had been so focused on getting RF home safely that I had put very little effort into planning for the  final third flight leg home. I was VFR, not on flight following yet, aloft after sunset, and there was at least one storm cell between me and home. Moreover, a quick review of uplinked weather revealed multiple cells in New York, one of which was likely the thunderhead I saw off the wingtip on departure from Cleveland.

TYYLR was located right between these two well-separated storms.

I switched the autopilot back on and animated the storm depictions in ForeFlight to understand how they were tracking. Everything was generally moving to the southeast. I compared what I saw on the screen versus what towered over the countryside in my windshield. Then, I identified a fix north of Wilkes-Barre (TYYLR) that would carry me between the well-spaced cells and inserted it into the flight plan. As HAL turned the airplane westward toward TYYLR, I contacted Wilkes-Barre for flight following. Apparent against the twilight sky ahead was a layer of clouds at my altitude. I checked ceilings along the route and saw that 4,500 feet would be an adequate cruise altitude for both cloud and terrain clearance, so I descended to remain VFR.

The iPad had worked long and hard that day and was low on battery again. I plugged it into ship's power, which is incapable of actually charging it, but prevents the battery level from dropping. Moments later, the Sentry -- my portable ADS-B weather and traffic receiver -- gave a low battery indication, too. Crap! I spent a brief moment contemplating being adrift at night without any big picture weather guidance. I plugged the Sentry into my slightly convex power bank / brick, the same one that I had decided to retire earlier that day due to swelling, and hoped that it was not so far gone that it posed a fire hazard. After many years of dutiful service, that was the last time I used it before it was safely recycled.

Darkness, weather, battery issues... See how these risks stack right up?

Pyrotechnics

With the plan in place, I perched in the pilot seat and waited and monitored the situation while everything played out painstakingly slowly.

Thunderheads rose on either side with just enough daylight remaining to silhouette their towering profiles. Then there was a flash and an entire towering cumulus cloud was suddenly lit from within, every element of its popcorn texture highlighted in crisp detail. Only lasting a fleeting moment, the flash persists as an afterimage in memory. More instances of lightning followed, sometimes as brilliant but diffuse illumination within the storm itself, sometimes as infinitely thin lightning bolts arcing from the base of the weather to the ground. Resembling cracks in reality, it was a mesmerizing natural display of special effects and I was happy to be observing the entire show from a distance. I have ample experience flying at night or navigating around isolated thunderstorms, but this was the first time I had ever done both simultaneously. Fortunately, all the cells in my path were well isolated.

Before reaching TYYLR, Wilkes-Barre passed me to Binghamton Approach. Unlike the relatively hands-off Wilkes controller, the Binghamton controller actively helped me navigate around the cells using real time radar. While uplinked weather is valuable for developing a strategy, its inherent delay makes it a poor tactical tool. This is where ATC radar and the pilot's own eyes excel. Binghamton provided a series of vectors that I accepted while cross checking with what I saw floating outside above an increasingly darkened world. A cell south of Binghamton was particularly active with lightning, a stunning display rendered on such a vast natural canvas that a nearby local fireworks show was pitifully insignificant by comparison. I gaped at the storm cell as I cruised past at a safe distance, reminded of a scene in a science fiction movie where the plucky heroes surreptitiously fly their tiny ship alongside a massive interstellar leviathan crewed by the bad guys.

Image from FlightAware showing the path through the weather from Caldwell to Sodus.

"Cherokee Four Eight One, it looks like you can turn back on course to Sodus at your discretion. You're past all the cells," the Binghamton controller broke through my reverie. Hints of a rain shaft highlighted by the lights of a nearby town led me to disagree with his assessment and I continued the westward deviation until I was certain that I was past the weather.

"The tower guys say there's a lot of lighting in that cell," offered the Approach controller, puncturing the fragile silence again. With a sky largely devoid of local traffic, we only had each other and a radio wave connection.

Since he had broken from standard phraseology, I did too in my acknowledgement. "Ahh...yep."

Still at 4,500 feet, I turned direct to Sodus. I never departed visual conditions or experienced any turbulence. Though the cells were very active with lightning, they were well isolated and relatively small. In the end, it was all fine. The real problem with the whole thing was that I had run myself out of options.

Warrior 481 delivered me to a well-lit runway in Sodus. Weather moved out shortly before my arrival and standing water steamed on pavement that was still hot from the heat dome. Parked in front of my hangar, I raised the door and drove my car out to make room for the airplane. I normally only park the car in the hangar when gone overnight, but given the intense heat of the day, I thought it would be better to park beneath the reflective white roof of the hangar and out of the sun. I did not realize at the time that I dodged a bullet. The airport had experienced a power outage and was running on a backup generator when I returned. It ultimately gave up some hours after I left the airport. Without the generator, I would not have been able to raise the hangar door to retrieve my car and would have been stuck at the airport late at night.

The Final Tally

When I reached home around 11:00 pm, I dutifully submitted my mission report. Total Hobbs time for the day was 7.9 hours with 3.4 hours operating under the Angel Flight call sign while RF was on board. From an Angel Flight perspective, all went as well as I had hoped. I was happy to have made a difference for someone and looked forward to the next opportunity to help out.

A big lesson for me was the danger of mission focus. I was so intent on the mission itself that I emphasized flight planning for the first two legs, but spent inadequate attention on the third post-mission leg home. I have the ability to fly at night and I am well experienced in avoiding isolated thunderstorm cells. Nothing ever rose to the level of a harried "there I was" kind of tale and everything worked out fine in the end. It was not that I put myself in an especially precarious position, but rather that I allowed my safety margins to erode. This was the true sin. Had anything gone wrong, my flight profile left few options.

The Fateful Call

Twenty years ago today, I bought an airplane. 

The first picture I ever captured of N21481, taken at Three Rivers, Dr. Haines Municipal Airport (KHAI) on 13 March 2004, the day after I flew her home from Guthrie, OK.

My first official act as an aircraft owner was cold calling Dad. "Hi Dad! I'm in Oklahoma and I just bought an airplane." It was a cocky way to blindside him with new information, but I had just conquered Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs as an early 30-something and needed to crow about it. After all, I was now the proud master of a "private aircraft", a beautiful, gleaming, (twenty-six year old) Piper Warrior II, a PA-28-161. (Or, to decode Piper's designation, Piper Aircraft design #28, 160 horsepower, semi-tapered wing.) Compared to the tired, 100 horsepower, 2-seat Cessna I did my training in, this airplane was a veritable beast and it had a great paintjob, too.

Less ostentatious, my first experience as a new aircraft owner was immersion into the glamorous world of rural airport courtesy cars. While Westchester County Airport in metropolitan New York has fancy Mercedes loaner cars, that is definitely not the case out in the sticks. In Guthrie, OK, I was privileged to helm the world's shakiest Ford Taurus from the airport to the local Best Western. "Don't drive it any farther than you want to walk," advised FBO owner Glen Crabtree. He was not kidding. Maintaining that wobbly sedan along a true course was a recipe for repetitive stress injury. But in the end, it served the need, the price was right, and I was grateful that I did not need to hoof it between airport and hotel.

Did you know that Guthrie was the original state capital of Oklahoma? Every local I encountered  boasted of that glorious sliver of time from 1907 to 1910, though little was mentioned about anything of note happening since. Guthrie's replacement as capital by Oklahoma City in a 1910 vote was surely a boon to elementary students everywhere facing that dreaded state capitals quiz.

My favorite new airplane accessory was a warped mutant of a tow bar, slightly bent with opposite ends twisted out of coplanarity and the prongs reattached by welds resembling the inflamed finger joints of an arthritic. It was a veteran tow bar. A survivor. (Barely.) Prior owner Bill was reticent to admit owning that deviant thing, but it served its purpose for ground handling during stops on the long flight home. After my first solo Warrior landing in Bolivar, MO (M17), I used it to pull the Warrior toward the fuel pump and nearly ran the left wingtip into a chain link fence. It was evidence that high wing pilots who buy low wing airplanes need to process their surroundings in a different way.

"Don't tell anyone I gave you that tow bar!" Bill admonished out of embarrassment. Where I was going, no one had ever heard of him and his secret shame was safe. Until now, I suppose. Surely we are beyond the statute of limitations for embarrassing tow bars. I bought a new one sometime in 2004, but kept Bill's as a trophy of sorts.

N21481's primitive instrument panel with a "high tech" handheld GPS velcroed to the yoke, 01 July 2004. Five of the instruments in this photo are now desk ornaments, but I still have that headset.

When I received the keys from Bill, they were accompanied by a tarnished brass disk embossed with "21481" and a hole punched through it for attachment to a keyring. It obviously predated Bill's ownership of the airplane and I wondered if it was a carryover from the Warrior's time on a flight line when keys to the entire training fleet would have hung together on a pegboard. Decades later, that round tag is still on my keyring.

Year one of ownership was enriched with an abundance of "learning opportunities". These began with the first time I engaged the Warrior's starter as owner. A rapidly diminishing groan came from the Warrior’s snout and the prop lurched through a half-hearted partial arc before stopping. The lessons? Too long with the master switch left on during a pre-purchase inspection can really kill a battery. Also, weak batteries cannot start airplanes. Quinn from Crabtree Aviation helped me jump start the plane, which I ran for a time to restore some oomph to the battery before shutting down at Guthrie's fuel pump. I had never personally fueled an airplane previously because the pumps in Three Rivers, MI (KHAI) were full serve only. It was a morning of many firsts. 

When I was ready to make my escape from balmy Guthrie for much colder Three Rivers, I was relieved that the starter turned the engine over without struggling. With March being one of those "you never know what you're going to get" months in the wintry north, I found myself creeping forward, state to state, VFR only, and hypervigilant of weather conditions. These were days before the proliferation of AWOS/ASOS stations and the advent of ADS-B (FIS-B) weather displayed on a tablet in the cockpit. (A tablet? What's that?) It was only my second time using GPS in an airplane, with credit to Kristy for realizing that it would be a useful cross country navigation tool before the thought occurred to me. That aerial journey home was six times longer than my longest flight to date and was made at the controls of an airplane in which I only had an hour in type. Given my minimal experience at the time, I am not sure if this made me intrepid or stupid beyond the actual fact of a successful outcome.

07 April 2004: Kristy got her first ride in our airplane. Photo by Arjo from Dave's Decathlon.

Knowing how to jump start the plane was a valuable skill, especially the first time Kristy and I flew to Dalton Airport (3DA) in Flushing, MI to visit my in-laws. Giddy to show off my beautiful airplane, I skimmed too quickly through the shut down checklist and left the master switch on over lunch. This reinforced the lesson about weak batteries being unable to start airplanes, but now I was well versed in jump starting the Warrior. Because of this incident, Penny suggested naming the plane "Charger", but the 1970s Chrysler OEM alternator in the plane was as close as I wanted to associate with the Dodge brand. (Appropriately enough, I later learned that the alternator was definitely a bit "dodgy".)

Warrior 481 at Dalton Airport with Terry about to get his first flight, 24 April 2004, photo by Kristy?

Leaving the master switch on is one of those actions accompanied by such mortifying embarrassment that it only happens once. Another comparable example from the "lack of attention to detail" bucket is starting an airplane and attempting to taxi out of a parking spot while still chocked, something that I have also done exactly once. Because it happened on a crowded ramp in front of a popular fly-in restaurant in St Mary's, PA (KOYM), I was guaranteed long lasting shame as a memory aid. Once is enough.

Kristy with Warrior 481 before embarking on our grand adventure to Florida in 2005.

On another flight to Dalton, we (i.e., Kristy) learned empirically that opening a tube of hand lotion at 5,500 feet can result in rapid self-dispensing. Because good science requires reproducibility, we (i.e., Kristy) demonstrated the same phenomenon in 2017 over the Smoky Mountains with a dip tube style water bottle. At least water eventually evaporates. Hand lotion is a messier problem.

Parked in front of my first hangar in South Haven, 05 April 2004. Nose strut inflation is a little low.

When I first brought the airplane home to her new hangar at the South Haven Area Regional Airport (0D1/KLWA), I was immediately faced with a geometric challenge. I needed to push an airplane with a 35 foot wingspan through an opening that was 40 feet wide. While the numbers certainly indicate that the goal was achievable, perspective can be a funny thing and those wingtips seemed awfully close to the sides of the hangar as I anxiously pushed the airplane inside with Bill's misshapen tow bar. 

Out darn (oil) spot! Soiled hangar floor visible at the South Haven Airport, 25 September 2004.

During that first year of ownership, my mentor Dave encouraged me to take control of my own maintenance and worked with me to accomplish my first oil change. Unlike the Lycoming O-360 in his Super Decathlon, the Warrior's oil pan did not possess a quick drain valve on the right side. These valves allow for clean and easy voiding of used oil from the engine through a hose and into a container. With my airplane apparently lacking such a convenience, we rigged a funnel in the mouth of a jug to catch the oil after removing a plug from the oil pan. This resulted in permanent recoloration of the hangar's concrete floor because the oil pan drained more quickly than the funnel, which overflowed almost immediately. In this case, the funnel was what we chemists call the "rate limiting step". 

To add further insult, while cleaning up the resulting mess, I noticed that there was a quick drain valve installed on the left side of my oil pan. Oil change padawan that I was, I revealed this to my chagrined Jedi Master and we both learned something useful about making assumptions across engine models. Despite crunching over kitty litter on the hangar floor for the next couple of weeks, a discernable localized stain persists to this day. At least all future oil changes went smoothly via the newly discovered quick drain.

When you have friends trained in the art of formation flying, they always want to practice. Whenever our airplanes were in the air together, Dave was always parked off my wing. 22 August 2004.

Another aerial incident emphasized the importance of an instrument scan that goes beyond the basic six pack of primary flight instruments. While flying southbound over the Lake Michigan shoreline with Dave in his Decathlon flying in close formation off my starboard wing, I lost transmitter capability. This was quickly followed by horrific screeching on the intercom and eventual loss of radio reception. Confused and annoyed, I returned to base at South Haven. While grumpily snapping off switches during the shut down flow, I reached for the avionics master switch and noticed for the first time that the ship's ammeter was pegged at zero. This meant that the alternator was no longer providing any current to the electrical system and that everything was powered on borrowed time until the battery gave up. Alternator failure was the natural outcome of my 1970s Chrysler alternator breaking loose from its mounting on the front of the engine and shaking around until its internal components disintegrated. (See? I said it was dodgy.) These kinds of events change a pilot's behavior. How many pilots grab the housing of their alternator to give it a good shake on every preflight? I've been doing that consistently for 20 years as a result of the Alternator Incident. Additionally, though it may be inconveniently placed on the lower right portion of the instrument panel, that ammeter remains in my scan all these years later.

Cell phone photo by Ross W from Dave's Decathlon in formation with Mark in 33P and me in Warrior 481 over South Haven, MI, 30 July 2005. Fun fact: Ross' grandfather Irving had been in aviation for so long that his 1926 pilot certificate was signed by Orville Wright. This photo was taken just nine days after Dave and I were laid off from "UberCo" along with 500 other scientists.

When I first took possession of Warrior 481, it quickly became obvious that my landing skills needed refinement. According to the official Cherokee Warrior II Information Manual, the recommended approach speed with full flaps is 63 knots. However, on the flight home from Guthrie, I made my approach at exactly 63 knots to the Kentland Municipal Airport (50I) in the midst of a windswept Indiana cornfield. When the wheels made contact, the airplane gently went airborne again before settling a second time. It was less of a bounce and more of a skip. "I liked your landing," said the old timer working the airport while grinning toothily. "Both of 'em!" When I reflect on meeting the fellow 20 years ago, all I remember is white hair and teeth.

To my frustration, this kept happening, but only when I was flying solo. Realizing that 63 knots was intended for the airplane at its maximum gross weight, I started backing off on my landing speed when lightly loaded. Eventually, I settled for a fence crossing airspeed of 55 knots when solo, 60 knots when carrying one passenger, and 63 knots when loaded near maximum gross. Given the Warrior's propensity to float at higher approach speeds, these adjustments made my landings softer, shorter, smoother, and more consistent. This was affirmed by a total stranger one day at the Mason County Airport (KLDM) in Ludington, MI. Right after I touched down, a pilot waiting to depart was so moved by the grace of my refined landing technique that he offered this unsolicited commentary on the radio: "That was a really nice short landing for a Warrior!" It wasn't just the rando in Ludington who validated my technique, it has also withstood the scrutiny of many flight instructors over the years.

17 September 2003: riding back seat with Dave and looking down South Haven's grass runway 14.

With normal landings figured out, the next challenge was landing on South Haven's turf runway 32 that was normally favored by the wind off Lake Michigan. Although 3,260 feet is plenty of length to land a Cherokee, this was complicated by high trees on the approach end and an undesirably gopher infested surface for the latter half of the runway. Flying a steep approach while cranked around sideways in a full forward slip became the norm to get down and stopped before the runway midpoint. Just above the ground, all three axes of flight needed to be fixed before touchdown: wings leveled, rudder used to align the airplane with the runway, and a gentle pull on the elevator to ensure settling the airplane on its main gear. During one instance, we were hosting a cookout at Dave's hangar. I performed this landing maneuver in front of a large audience of other pilots while making all three attitude corrections in one fluid motion and settling to the grass light as a feather. It was pure poetry; all these years later I still remember exactly how that landing felt. Taxiing off the runway to run a gauntlet of witnesses, I was appalled to see Mark hold up a big sign with the number "6" on it. Once he knew that I'd seen it, he laughed and inverted the sign to read "9", then dropped the sign altogether and picked up another that read "10". Behind him, the others held up both hands with all fingers splayed, a perfect 10 from every judge and a welcome confidence boost for a newbie aviator.

The Bear on the controls for the first time. 1 September 2012.

Obviously, more learnings were to come. Increasingly longer cross country flights and the need to manage weather. Achievement of an instrument rating and the need to manage weather in a completely different way. Flying with first an infant, then a toddler ("Me fly in the Daddy airplane?"), and eventually a precocious youngster to whom I regrettably described the function of the Course Deviation Indicator ("Daddy, you're off course again.").

In Cortland, NY, 08 September 2014.

A house is a house and a car is a car, but buying an airplane in 2004 literally changed the course of my life. One new engine and several avionics upgrades later, she is still going strong. I have logged 2571.8 hours at her controls, we have visited 263 airports in 29 states and provinces together, and travelled a total distance of approximately 340,000 statue miles. I have seen many beautiful vistas, enjoyed wonderful adventures, happily shared the experience with others, stayed connected with far flung friends and family, and learned much along the way. It is often said that the cockpit is a poor classroom. While I agree with the sentiment underpinning this, airplanes and aviation are nonetheless excellent teachers.

Stagnation was the main motivation for venturing down the ownership pathway. By the end of 2003, I ran out of worthwhile adventures in the rental aircraft available to me in Three Rivers, MI. I was getting bored and I needed something new to do or else I would have stopped flying altogether. With Dave as a role model and concrete example that it was possible, I bought an airplane 20 years ago and never looked back. 

I guess the strategy worked, because here we are.

Hydrodynamic | Part 2, Float Flying

Monday, May 8, 2023: A New Way to Fly

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
08 May 2023	PA-12S N3071M	Silver Lake - Long Lake - Duck Lake - Green Lake - Silver Lake	3.8	2621.3

Seaplane training with Tom (Traverse Air) was a casual experience. We conducted ground school at his kitchen counter, the airplane was parked in his back yard, and Silver Lake served as our runway. Conveniently located just outside Cherry Capital's delta airspace, seaplane training ensued without any ATC entanglements. Tom is an excellent instructor and a true gentleman. I really enjoyed learning from him and getting to know him. And his airplane is a lot of fun to fly.

The aircraft in question is a modified 1947 Piper PA-12 Super Cruiser. These airplanes are descended from the iconic Piper J-3, the same type that I flew for my tailwheel endorsement. In many ways, Super Cruisers are simply big Cubs. The model is best known for the historic 1947 flight around the world conducted in a pair of Super Cruisers, The City of Washington and The City of the Angels. The adventure marked the first time a flight of this type was made by light personal aircraft. Fittingly, The City of the Angels is on display at the Piper Museum in Lock Haven, PA and its companion Super Cruiser hangs in the Udvar-Hazy Center of the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum.

Super Cruisers represent an evolution of the Piper J-3 Cub featuring more powerful engines (up to 100 horsepower), are soloed from the front seat rather than the back for much better visibility, and can accommodate three in a tandem configuration with the pilot in front and two passengers sitting on a wide back seat. The latter assumes reasonably slender passengers, of course.

Tom purchased this airplane 40 years ago and made numerous modifications to it over time. Exchanging wheels for a pair of straight EDO 2000 floats is the most significant and relevant modification. He replaced the original 100 hp engine with a 150 hp Lycoming O-320 (the low compression version of Warrior 481's powerplant). Tom correctly pointed out that he can run auto gas in his O-320 whereas I cannot in my higher compression variant. Addition of flaps, vortex generators, and a specialty propeller designed for seaplanes all make the airplane far more capable of pulling those draggy floats out of the water and into the air.

As Tom familiarized me with the aircraft, he pointed out the lack of additional ventral fin. Many production landplanes converted into seaplanes are modified with an extra ventral fin projecting below the empennage. This is done because floats are destabilizing in yaw while in flight. Extra vertical surface area acts as a keel to mitigate that instability. Tom's mechanic talked him out of installing the ventral fin because it can be easily damaged during docking. However, lacking the extra vertical surface area, Tom's aircraft requires assertive rudder use by the pilot to combat the resulting yaw instability.

A previous owner added a P-51 Mustang control stick complete with trigger to the Super Cruiser. Tom invited me to pull the trigger all I wanted; there were no guns to fire. This seems like a lost opportunity for dealing with jet skis.

The instrument panel is basic, but equipped with a radio (that we never used) and an electric starter. There are no gyroscopic instruments and, despite the presence of a turn coordinator, it is unpowered and apparently only installed for the inclinometer. The altimeter is simply zeroed to the surface of the lake before departure.

I loved flying Tom's seaplane. Not only did it reveal an entirely new universe of flight to me, it is a solid, honest airplane that is fun to fly. On top of that, you can't go wrong with blue and white.

As an add-on rating for an existing private pilot, training is focused on those elements of flying unique to seaplanes, mainly take-off, landing, and handling on the water. Tom was complimentary of my rudder use. "You're well coordinated with the rudder, usually I'm being swung around back here." I guess some of that tailwheel training with Damian actually stuck.

Another bit of positive skill transfer from tailwheel flying that I observed was taxiing with the water rudders down. Rudder inputs needed to be deliberately neutralized with opposite rudder in the floatplane much like when taxiing the Cub.

Seaplane on the step. From the FAA Seaplane, Skiplane, and Float/Ski Equipped Helicopter Operations Handbook, 2004 Edition.

During take-off, seaplane flying is a far more sensory experience than flying land planes. At full power with aft stick, the seaplane's nose rises as the airplane enters the plowing position. With additional speed, the deck angle increases even further due to hydrodynamic lift causing the floats to partially rise out of the water. After this second rise of the nose, forward stick brings the aircraft onto the step and lifts the aft portions of the floats completely out of the water (see the figure above from the FAA's seaplane operations handbook for an example). Being on the step reduces drag and allows the seaplane to accelerate more effectively for take-off. The pilot experiments with pitch to find the optimal position on the step, a sweet spot discernable by palpable acceleration. That sensation is incredibly rewarding, a product of physics conspiring with the airplane to signal "good job!" to the pilot. I had a goofy grin on my face every single time I found the sweet spot.

"Keep looking for that sweet spot," Tom would coach once I found it. "As you accelerate, it will change. Never assume you're still there." 

Take-off usually follows shortly after getting onto the step. In glassy water conditions, when it is more challenging to break the floats free from the water's surface tension, slight deflection of the stick to the side lifts the opposite float out of the water, thus halving the drag and facilitating take-off. I found myself using this technique whenever the airplane seemed hesitant to depart the water. When I did, Tom would comment, "There you go! And it's fun, too." He was right. It was.

We flew three times on the first day totaling just under four hours while hopping from Silver Lake to Duck, Long, and Green Lakes. (The latter being where the Interlochen Center for the Arts is located.) We did various types of turns in the water and drilled on different landing and take-off techniques tailored to fit various water surface conditions. I particularly enjoyed rough water take-offs that are the seaplane equivalent of soft field take-offs. In Tom's plane, these are performed with full flaps (40°) and an aggressive pull at 30 mph that launches the aircraft skyward. Between the upgraded engine, prop, vortex generators, and flaps, Tom's modified Super Cruiser performs beautifully during this maneuver.

As we flew, Tom shared a number of stories. My favorite was how, as an enthusiastic twenty-something new Super Cruiser owner, he wrote to famed Piper aircraft engineer Walter Jamouneau (the man who put the "J" in J-3) and received a multipage reply.

Bureaucratic Woes

Tom had a student from Cincinnati scheduled for her check ride on my first day of training. He did a review flight with her while I found lunch at Bubba's Burgers and Bar in Traverse City. I had the Haystack Burger that was probably incredibly unhealthy for me, but really, really good. Tom and I planned to fly again while the examiner conducted the oral exam with the other student, intending to return soon enough with the airplane that she could fly her check ride.

Before I could crank the engine, the examiner ran out on the dock and informed Tom that the student only had a copy of her medical certificate, not the official document. Without her medical certificate, the examiner could not begin the test. To his credit, he did everything he could for her, including calling other examiners in search of a solution as well as the FAA medical branch in Oklahoma City to request an official copy by email. The FAA refused to email a copy, which struck me as odd because they have emailed my medical certificates to me in the past. Sadly, the student had to return home to Cincinnati without taking her check ride or earning her seaplane rating. How disappointing!

Once she departed, Tom wanted to see my medical certificate. For some reason, he was not content to merely take my word that I had it. 

That night, after a wonderful dinner of fish and chips with a nut brown ale at North Peak Brewing Company, I settled in with the FAA's IACRA website (Integrated Airman Certification and Rating Application) for the first time since 2013 to submit my application for the seaplane rating. Once again, huge kudos to the developer of MyFlightbook for his inclusion of an 8710 function that tallies up all the key flight experiences in all the odd combinations required by IACRA.

Tuesday, May 9, 2023: Wrap Up and Check Ride

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
09 May 2023	PA-12S N3071M	Silver Lake - Long Lake - Duck Lake - Green Lake - Silver Lake	2.9	2624.2

The next day, Tom and I flew twice to polish everything up. I was on track to meet with the examiner at 1:00 for my check ride.

Kevin conducted the oral exam at the picnic table in Tom's back yard placed within feet of the water. The oral went well and in no time, we were climbing into the Super Cruiser. He had me do a confined area take off from Silver Lake and we flew over to Long Lake for additional take-offs and landings. While surveying Long Lake and discussing wind direction and where to land, Kevin pulled the power to simulate an engine failure and I performed a flawless dead stick landing. Everything seemed to be progressing well until he had me demonstrate a rough water landing. I flared too high and Kevin had to goose the throttle to keep us from coming down too hard.

DAMMIT! (Actual internal dialogue.)

"Let's talk through that a moment," Kevin said as we idled in the middle of the lake. Because he had to intervene, I would not pass the check ride that day. Obviously, I am not thrilled to recount this part of the story; failing what should have been the easiest check ride in history. But in keeping with the warts-and-all philosophy of this site, there it is. It happened.

Kevin offered me a choice. If I was too rattled by the failure, we could stop the test and return to Tom's. Or I could continue the test and demonstrate the remaining items on Kevin's list. If I completed the other areas of emphasis satisfactorily, the retake would involve demonstrating a single rough water landing and nothing else. I pulled myself together, opted to continue, and satisfactorily completed the remaining objectives including a good docking at Tom's back on Silver Lake.

Tom was baffled. "What happened? Your landings have been consistently good." I couldn't explain it. Somehow, I had grossly misjudged my height above the surface. In hindsight, the best explanation I can offer is test anxiety. I do well with written and oral tests, but the moment I have someone evaluating the way I do something, anxiety really kicks in and almost always affects my performance.

Kevin and Tom put their heads together to figure out how to quickly schedule some additional training and a retest. Tom planned to work with a multiengine student the following morning, but was available in the afternoon. Kevin could meet at 4:00 pm the next day with the caveat that he would be working in Cadillac, MI. Tom and I agreed to fly the Super Cruiser to Lake Missaukee (a 25 minute flight one way), meet Kevin on the public beach at the east end of the lake, and I would demonstrate a successful (in principle) rough water landing for him to wrap up my certification.

Ugh.

Tuesday, May 9, 2023: College Connections

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
09 May 2023	N21481	TVC (Traverse City, MI) - MKG (Muskegon, MI) - TVC	2.4	2626.6

To put it mildly, I was incredibly angry with myself. Fortunately, I was already scheduled to meet Chris, a former college housemate, in Muskegon that night for dinner. Muskegon was an hour flight southwest of Traverse City and the realignment of my mental resources to focus on that flight in the Warrior was exactly the right therapy for me in the moment.

Departure from Cherry Capital looking west over Boardman Lake (left) and the west branch of Grand Traverse Bay.

Within forty minutes of departing Tom's, I launched from Cherry Capital's runway 36 in the Warrior and turned southwest direct to Muskegon.

Traverse City's Cherry Capital Airport with the east branch of Grand Traverse Bay visible.

Silver Lake.

Departing Cherry Capital’s delta airspace to the southwest, I flew directly over Silver Lake, easily recognizing it from the many landings I made there in the seaplane over the past two days.

Duck Lake (center) and Green Lake (right of frame).

The air was not kind to me that afternoon. Under that beautiful blue sky, the atmosphere was so choppy and rough that I reduced power to minimize strain on the airframe.

Objects in Windscreen Are Larger Than They Appear

Partway to Muskegon at 4,500 feet, I observed a small dot in the distance that moved from right to left in my windscreen. Suddenly, its relative motion ceased and it began to increase in size. It was another aircraft at the same altitude coming right at me. Normally, it would be appropriate to break right, but the other airplane appeared to be turning slightly in that direction already and I did not want to turn into it.  Likewise, I did not want to turn to the left in case the other pilot actually saw me and broke to his right the way he was supposed to. Instead, I chopped the power and dove. The other airplane zoomed directly over me, close enough to discern that it was a large Piper twin. Looking out the back window, I saw it continue on toward the Lake Michigan shore, its trajectory unchanged and its pilot apparently oblivious to my presence. I glanced down at the traffic display to see if I could get a tail number, but no target appeared there. Was its transponder off? Sketchy.

I took a moment to catch my breath and allow my heart rate to lessen before contacting Great Lakes Approach for the arrival at Muskegon.

Muskegon Lake with Lake Michigan in the distance.

Muskegon was the towered airport included on the long solo cross country flight that I flew as a student pilot. Arriving there was my only truly negative experience during primary training. Not because I did not know how to handle the airplane. In fact, I specifically remember that the landing was glorious. But when I landed there twenty-one years ago, I lacked adequate training on radio and towered airport procedures. I was verbally all thumbs on the radio, could not process all the information thrown at me on take-off, and drew the ire of the departure controller. I was affected deeply by this and my current level of radio acumen developed as a direct reaction to the Muskegon incident. It seemed a cruel coincidence to return there on the same day as busting a check ride and nearly perishing in a midair collision. At least my radio work with Muskegon was flawless this time.

A Long Way from Branch Road

Me and Chris. Photo by Heath.

Chris was craving hibachi, so we zoomed off to Kazumi once he picked me up at Executive Air. We were joined by his colleague Heath who was interested in learning to fly and was looking for a new brain to pick on the subject. Dinner was good, though I declined the squirt bottle of sake aimed at my face by the hibachi chef because I still needed to fly back to Traverse City that night.

"It's pretty watered down," Chris offered. I passed anyway.

It was good to catch up with Chris. We spent part of the time trying to decide exactly how long it had been since our last meeting and concluded that it was sometime before The Bear was born. We actually avoided the trap of only reminiscing about old times, though we shared the famous wicked butter incident from Toronto with Heath. Otherwise, so much had happened to both of us in the years since we last met that there was a lot to talk about.

The RENK America building in Muskegon, MI photographed 12 May 2023.

Chris is an automotive engineer currently employed by RENK America. The facility was originally a Continental Motors factory that built aircraft engines during World War II. That 1940s Continental crate that I saw in Tuskegee, AL in 2021? It came from the facility where Chris currently works.

Continental Motors crate from Muskegon, MI on display at the Tuskegee Airmen National Historic Site, photographed 13 August 2021.

After dinner, Chris and I returned to the Muskegon airport and parted company on the ramp as the sun was beginning to set.

Ready at Muskegon's runway 24.

Muskegon Lake.

With the onset of night, the air finally calmed and the flight back to Traverse City was significantly more pleasant than the southbound flight had been. Lack of a near midair collision added to the soothing vibe of the return flight.

Returning to Cherry Capital Airport nearly an hour after sunset, I was pointed directly at a large mass of undifferentiated lights and unable to distinguish runways from the surrounding city. I was about to activate an instrument approach for guidance when Minneapolis Center passed me to Traverse City Tower.

Tower instructed me to continue inbound for runway 36 and thoughtfully brightened the runway lights for a moment to help me locate the airport. With the runway in sight, I lined up to land. However, on final approach, I could not remember if I had actually been cleared to land or not.

"Traverse City Tower, can you verify that Cherokee Four Eight One is cleared to land 36?" Tower affirmed that I was. Forgetting whether I had received a clearance to land or not was a moment of clarity revealing how incredibly tired I was. 

After all, it had been quite a day.

Parked on the AvFlight ramp at Cherry Capital Airport.

Wednesday, May 10, 2023: Second Chances and Silver Linings

I slept in to almost 8:00 am the next morning, which is rare for me. My original plan for Wednesday was an exploration of a few selected Upper Peninsula airports and an aerial tour of Pictured Rocks on the south shore of Lake Superior. Those things obviously did not happen given the need for a retest.

Instead, I cleaned up my logbooks, filled out a new IACRA application with updated flight and training times, read a book, and went for a walk. 

Boardwalk along Boardman Lake.

To clear my head, I walked the Boardman Lake Trail, a 4 mile path around the lake that varied from the pictured boardwalk to paths traversing neighborhoods and wooded areas. I already knew that I had gotten lucky with the weather for seaplane flying, but Wednesday was the most glorious day of the week with a high near 80°F, clear skies, and light wind. I even lost some of my winter pallor during the walk around Boardman Lake.

At lunch, I received instructions from Tom to return at 2:00 pm.

New Seaplane Pilot!

(Spoiler Alert)

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
10 May 2023	PA-12S N3071M	Silver Lake - Lake Missaukee - Silver Lake	2.6	2628.8

Tom and I launched from Silver Lake shortly after 2:00 and I performed a couple of perfectly satisfactory landings there. With Tom navigating by iPhone, I flew the plane to Lake Missaukee in Lake City east of Cadillac, MI. This was a cross country flight unlike any that I have undertaken recently. Low, slow, radio silent, and without any navigation in the panel beyond a jittery wet compass. Once Tom got me pointed in the correct direction, I chose a point in the distance and tracked to it, a navigation technique that I have not depended on in years. Due to yaw instability from the floats, I continued to actively work the rudders in cruise. Tom's airplane is fun to fly, but it is tiring as a cross country machine. My right knee ached when the day was done.

We located Lake Missaukee and the beach where Kevin wanted to meet. With some time to spare, we practiced six more landings. At least half of them were pure poetry, smoothly sliding the floats onto the water, cutting the throttle, and gently riding out the bow wave created by our landing. Only one was a little rough. "Don't do one like that with Kevin," Tom suggested.

I landed near shore, cut the engine, and we gently glided across the water to beach the Super Cruiser while a pair of kids playing on shore watched us with great suspicion.

On the beach at Lake Missaukee.

Kevin arrived on time, we hopped back into the airplane, and Tom shoved us off. Because the wind was calm, much of the lake surface was glassy, so Kevin and I explored the opposite end of the lake where some surface texture was visible to help gauge landing. I brought the airplane in for a passable rough water landing.

"OK. Take off again and let's get you your seaplane rating," Kevin prompted.

No more than 50 feet above the water, Kevin said, "My airplane." I surrendered the controls, made some flap and trim adjustments at Kevin's request, and we blasted across the deserted lake at full speed just tens of feet above the water. "I wouldn't expect you to fly this way," Kevin commented. "But it will get us back to the beach quicker and it's a lot more fun." He was definitely correct on both counts.

Newly certificated seaplane pilot. Photo by Tom.

Kevin completed his approval in IACRA and sent me an electronic copy of my temporary airman certificate by text. Lacking a printer on the beach, I would need to print it later. Just like that, I was a newly-rated airman again! As we parted company, I thanked him for all that he taught me.

Tom and I enjoyed another nice cross country flight back to Silver Lake with easy conversation about our past flight experiences. My landing near Tom's dock was perfection now that test anxiety was no longer a factor. I put the seaplane on a trajectory to intercept the dock, pulled the mixture to stop the engine, and we glided in silently.

As our momentum carried us to the dock, I shared with Tom that I genuinely enjoyed the extra time flying the Super Cruiser as well as the unplanned cross country flight. It was a silver lining to the previous day's failure. Tom chuckled and noted that he had past students threaten to fail intentionally so that they could spend more time flying the seaplane. While I completely understood that, I would have much preferred to pass the first time around.

We chatted in his kitchen for a while longer. As conversation dwindled, I thanked Tom for an excellent experience, said goodbye, and drove back to Traverse City. I celebrated with Thai food for dinner and enjoyed the most restful night's sleep of the entire week.

Mission Accomplished!

Since earning the rating, many have asked if I plan to buy a seaplane or put the Warrior on floats. The answer to both is no. Like earning the tailwheel endorsement, I came looking for a unique experience, an opportunity to do some fun flying in a different aircraft, a broadening of my skill set, and a means to satisfy a flight review without making another perfunctory flight with a CFI in the Warrior. Mission accomplished in every aspect!