The engine seemed quite content to run at that reduced power setting; a scan of the oil pressure, oil temperature, cylinder heads and EGTs showed nothing out of the ordinary. There was no odd odor, no smoke, no roughness, no oil splatters on the windscreen. Normal, normal.

So why did the power just drop like that?

When something unusual like this changes things, my first question is a very simple one, and it’s not “What happened?” The answer to that question might or might not come with time. Instead, I’m more concerned with the answer to this question: “What do I have left to fly?”

First, I determine what is working correctly, and therefore, what is available to take me back to the airport, or at least get me safely back on the ground. In this case, I had what appeared to be a normally-running engine attached to an airframe quite capable of flying back to the runway for landing.

At his request, I took control of the aircraft from my client, and turned back toward the airport from which we had just departed, about four miles behind us. The engine continued to run just fine, but just in case something might suddenly change that, I maintained the power setting that the engine had dropped to, stayed a little higher and faster than normal coming into the traffic pattern, and while closely monitoring for any signs of change, flew a close downwind to the runway. This put me in a position to lose what was left of that engine and still make the runway, should that become necessary. In these situations, altitude and airspeed give you time and options; it’s best to give up either one grudgingly, and only after careful thought.

A Cessna 172 was ahead of us, flying much slower, and seemed intent on flying an extended downwind. I wasn’t willing to get that far away from the airport under the circumstances, so I told the Skyhawk pilot on CTAF that I was turning inside of him because of engine difficulty. He responded by offering to do a 360 on the downwind to allow us to take the lead. Nice gesture.

The resulting short approach and landing was uneventful and a few moments later, we pulled the cowling. This was our first flight in the Cessna since it had left the shop for several minor squawks that turned into a couple of weeks of work.

When the right cowl half was removed, the reason for our power loss was immediately obvious: a hose coupling in the induction tunnel had popped off, causing the engine to revert to non-turbocharged power settings. We reattached the hose coupling, talked to the mechanic that had made the mistake, and went right back out to fly that afternoon.

Losing a turbo is not a big deal as long as you’re not over tall rocks or trying to stay out of icy clouds below; the important thing to take away from this incident is the thought process that serves us best when these kinds of “abnormal” occurrences demand our full attention. Sure, determine as much as you can about the “abnormal” situation to make a proper assessment, but then establish what you have left to fly, and make a plan to get back on the ground, keeping your senses open for changes to the plan. Be stingy about altitude and airspeed too, until you can safely throw these life-giving commodities away.

Oh, and don’t forget to breathe.

Cheers!

Hello, and welcome to the new place on the ‘Net to talk about turning your passion for flying into a lifetime of excellence, about how to fly artfully with awareness and an openness to learning, and the “go to” place to discuss Artful Flying. Please connect…and let’s begin a wonderful dialog of discovery about something that matters — our life’s art. Michael Maya Charles

Don started with a little chalkboard time, asking me questions about the limitations of the ship. His first question was: What are the doors-off speed limits of the JetRanger? I couldn’t pull those limits from my foggy brain to save my butt; I remembered that there were different speed limits with the front or rear doors removed, and I took a stab at it, but my answer wasn’t correct. I have never flown a JetRanger with the doors off — the owner of the aircraft that I fly doesn’t want it operated that way. Yet Don regularly does, and often bumps up against these limits, so it was important to him that I know what they were.

This raised a question in my mind: Is it important that we know all the numbers in our aircraft’s limitations section?

That would spark a lively debate in most pilots lounges. I could take a position and argue for either side. On the one hand, a pilot should know all the limitations of the machine he’s flying. On the other, if he never runs doors-off, as in my case, why does it matter? And if he is familiar enough with the limitations to know that he needs to check the book when he intends to do something that has an “unfamiliar” limitation, wouldn’t that be enough?

One would hope.

Are there limitations you should know about the machine you’re flying – regardless of whether you think you’ll ever run up against them? Absolutely. Temp limits on turbines would be a good example. You just don’t have time to look them up when you are pushing those limits. But what about the many other limitations in our books? Is it necessary to know the minimum pressure of the tail skid strut on a 727, as I was required to know for an airline I once flew for? Um…no.

We tend to fall into a groove (some would call it a “rut”) in our flying. We repeat certain operations with the machinery, go to certain airports, fly only in certain weather conditions, all the while striving to make things comfortable for our machine and for ourselves.

But recurrent training isn’t about being comfortable; it’s about being asked to dig a little deeper, to get out of our comfort zone, think about things we rarely consider, and in the process, learn something new. Recurrent is also about dropping the ego, saying, “I don’t know.” If we do that, the doors to new learning swing open and new ideas, thoughts, and knowledge come pouring in. Often, there’s something in this “new” that we hadn’t even thought about, perhaps a connection to what we do that is quite relevant.

One of the true gifts of recurrent training is perspective. We ask another pilot to show us another way to view our world that has become so familiar, to encourage us to consider other ideas about ways to operate a machine that might be helpful, or to offer a different perspective that we’ve possibly never thought about.

I really enjoyed my session with Don. Recurrent training is not about answering every question perfectly; in fact, it’s better if you don’t. I’d rather not know “everything” than have a perfect score, because a good instructor will then go to work to supplement and flesh-out the gaps in your knowledge. And let’s face it, we ALL have those gaps in our knowledge.

Next time you have recurrent training to accomplish, view it as an opportunity to “not know,” to be a beginner at something, to be the one who doesn’t have all the answers. And your recurrent experience will not only be more enjoyable, but you’ll learn something. Guaranteed.

What does it say about an instructor who’s students crash? Is he a bad instructor?

Not necessarily. There are many reasons for accidents and even the best instructors and his best students have them. The difference is in what the instructor takes away from this experience. It seems there are two types of instructor in this kind of situation: One screams and yells and rants about the student, as in, “What the @Not necessarily. There are many reasons for accidents and even the best instructors and his best students have them. The difference is in what the instructor takes away from this experience. It seems there are two types of instructor in this kind of situation: One screams and yells and rants about the student, as in, “What the @Not necessarily. There are many reasons for accidents and even the best instructors and his best students have them. The difference is in what the instructor takes away from this experience. It seems there are two types of instructor in this kind of situation: One screams and yells and rants about the student, as in, “What the @Not necessarily. There are many reasons for accidents and even the best instructors and his best students have them. The difference is in what the instructor takes away from this experience. It seems there are two types of instructor in this kind of situation: One screams and yells and rants about the student, as in, “What the @$&&## hell was this dumbass thinking? I can’t believe he tore up a perfectly good aircraft like that!”

The other type of instructor begins quietly with a question: “What could I have done to prevent this tragedy?” Thus begins a healthy introspective process, where the instructor takes the opportunity to learn something about himself — and in so doing, becomes a better instructor. Teaching people to fly is a uniquely HUMAN process.

My friend was beating himself up when we talked, the day after the second student crashed. When he asked if I had any advice to help him through this difficult period right after an accident, I told him that I felt that he was doing exactly what good instructors do when they are confronted with such difficult challenges: they look within for that all-important learning edge. They ask questions. They honestly work to learn the lessons from the often embarrassing, heart-rending experiences — and then pass those lessons on to their next student.

There really is a difference in flight instructors. And that difference makes all the difference in the type of pilot you will turn out to be. Choose carefully.

Sometimes in these situations, I have a level of comfort with the part or machine and thus, easily offer an opinion; other times, I just don’t know. Though I’m a certificated mechanic, I don’t have any real experience working on Schweizer helicopters. So my default mode in these situations is this: if I don’t know, I don’t go – and I advise my questioner (who obviously doesn’t know either, or he wouldn’t have asked) to stay on the ground until we do know. We can’t be killed by an aircraft we don’t fly.

“Not knowing” is a common place for humans to find themselves; in spite of our best efforts, we just can’t know everything. So what do we do when we face this “unknown” chasm before us?

First, we gather new information: we call the experts, perhaps the mechanic who worked on the aircraft last, the mechanic who regularly maintains it, the pilot who last flew it, or the owner who has a history with the machine. We also consult the FARs, the service manual, service bulletins, and other supporting data that might provide clues. In other words, we research the issue.

Only after this crucial step is honored do we get our hands dirty. The unwritten methodology in maintenance is to start with the simple and inexpensive and work toward the complex and expensive. This might involve ever-more extensive disassembly or throwing increasingly expensive parts at the problem.

Start with a careful inspection of the suspect part. This might just begin with your fingernail and a good light for a crack like the one we had. Get a bright flashlight, though — and a mirror, if necessary. Lighting is critical here; a dark hangar won’t do, and surprisingly, a brightly-lit ramp might be just as bad because it’s often too bright and offers no contrast. A simple magnifying glass is often the perfect tool, or you might need some NDT (non-destructive testing) methodology like dye penetrant to “get deeper” into the problem. If that doesn’t solve the uncertainty to your satisfaction, you might have to remove more parts, inspection panels, or cowlings; paint might have to be stripped.

After a cursory inspection of the cracks, several phone calls were made. The mechanic who regularly cares for the machine offered to come look at it. After carefully inspecting it, he assured us that the paint was cracked because there are rubber shock grommets around the boom’s attach bolts, and they had been painted over some months ago; needless to say, the natural action of those grommets easily cracked the paint over time. So, what appeared to be potentially life-threatening cracks turned out to be “normal” and the little helicopter was good for flight.

But how would you know unless you asked? We simply don’t know what we don’t know. Would it have been worth it to fly the aircraft…and just hope that it was OK? I call that “whistling in the dark….”

Fly Artfully!

The week before, I watched as the pilot of an RV-7 started his engine in front of the FBO, initially blasting away at 15-1800 RPMs. Behind him, an open-doored (and untied) Luscombe began to move. But if that wasn’t enough, this thoughtless pilot then turned 90 degrees (with much power), blew the hats off a group of newly-made enemies standing in front of the terminal building, and directed his prop blast into the open door of the FBO. Papers flew everywhere.

A friend who runs a maintenance shop on this same field told me that pilots start their airplanes up in front of his open hangar door all the time, blowing cowlings, tool chests, dust, fine gravel, and loose parts across the floor of his shop.

Where is the awareness in these pilots? If they are this thoughtless on the ground, I have to wonder how aware they are in flight.

Here are a few reminders of ways we can operate our air-machines with more awareness — and to avoid making new enemies around the airport:

Before starting, it takes only a few seconds to take a look behind your aircraft to see what might be blown away by your prop blast. Do this before getting into your machine. You might decide to move your aircraft away from people or things that could be displaced or damaged after you start. If you are in a line of tiedowns with other aircraft tailed toward your own, pull your aircraft out of the tiedown spot and turn it 90 degrees to the row. This prevents damage to the flight controls of the aircraft tailed towards you.

Also, be aware of the slope that the airplane is parked on. If it’s pointed uphill, you might consider moving it slightly downhill or at least to level ground so that you will be able to begin taxiing with less power.

Before starting, make a final check behind your aircraft. When you yell “Clear!”, use that as a reminder to not only look around your propeller(s), but behind the aircraft, as well.

An engine wears considerably more without oil pressure (the time right after the engine starts). So try to start the engine at the lowest possible RPM, and run it there until all the internal parts are properly bathed in oil. This only takes a few minutes.

When you are ready to taxi, again check behind your aircraft for changes, especially pedestrians that might be passing behind your tail. Then smoothly throttle up…and wait. Give the aircraft a few seconds to move before adding more throttle (and prop blast). There are no awards for a fast getaway.

Next time you fly, think about that maelstrom you’re unleashing before you push that little black knob forward. One of the sure signs of an Artful Pilot is awareness, and your care and attention during ground operations are sure signs that someone in the cockpit is awake.

Fly Artfully!

It’s a word that most pilots hope to never hear from the FAA. To have your pilot certificate revoked means that the FAA takes your license away, cancels it, nullifies it. It’s as if you never even had a pilot’s license.

Today, the FAA revoked the certificates of Captain Cheney and First Officer Cole, pilots of Northwest Flight 188 from San Diego to Minneapolis on October 21st. The Airbus A-320 flew right past Minneapolis…and another 150 miles beyond, in spite of numerous calls from air traffic control and the airline. Neither pilot noticed the lack of communication from ATC for 78 minutes.

In interviews with the NTSB, the pilots said they had been distracted by use of their laptops, as the first officer explained the airline’s new crew scheduling program to the captain. That’s certainly an understandable scenario, had it not been for the fact that personal laptop usage is prohibited in the cockpit by their employer. And it certainly doesn’t honor the most important thing on our priority list: flying the airplane. That’s always “Job One.” No Matter What.

It’s amazing that the Airbus had enough fuel to fly 150 miles past their destination, then fly that same distance back to Minnie, with the reduced fuel loads dictated by fuel conservation that have become the norm these days. I’d bet there were a few moments of concern about fuel quantity on that return leg.

Though most pilots have missed a frequency change and experienced a bit of radio silence from time to time, it’s a little hard to understand how one could sit there — however preoccupied — for over an hour without wondering why you haven’t talked to someone on the ground. Perhaps there’s more to the story than the NTSB or FAA has reported.

Though the emergency revocation of both pilot certificates less than a week after the incident seems rather sudden, coming from an agency that is better known for its glacial speed than swift action, it reflects the FAA’s judgment that the two pilots were derelict in their duties to provide a safe flight for their 144 passengers and three flight attendants. It’s hard to argue that judgment.

There’s an old saying in this business that it only takes a few seconds to screw up a perfectly good 30-year airline career. Moral of the story: Don’t forget “Job One.”

Recently, after thinking about it for years, I decided to learn to play a stand-up bass. I found a little-used instrument online, bought it, and for the past month, have begun to realize what a great teacher the process of learning something totally new can be.

When I picked up this intimidating big violin for the first time, I was amazed how much I didn’t know: I didn’t know how to keep from hurting the bulky instrument when I picked it up. Can I lift it by the neck, or will that detune it? Does it hurt to pick it up by the f-holes? Once I had it standing up, I didn’t know how to hold and balance it so it wouldn’t fall over while I played it. I didn’t know how to find each of the four strings, and what they would sound like when I did. I didn’t know how to press the string against the neck to make a note without twisting the instrument or forgetting where my left thumb should be, or…oh yeah, not neglecting the proper right hand position in the process.

When done playing, should I lay the instrument on its side, or is it better to place it on its back – or prop it against the wall? I had dozens of questions.

This wonderful process of discovery is a great teaching for anyone; if we pay attention, we will undoubtedly observe that our ego soon wants to run off to more advanced stuff, wanting to immediately play like Jaco Pastorius, Edgar Meyer or Todd Phillips, when in fact, we first need to slowly crawl like a baby. We teach ourselves something as complex as a new instrument just by slowly repeating the basics over and over, developing muscle memory through that repetition. We learn new habits in the process of paying close attention to countless subtleties and nuances – and of course, listening completely and honestly while fully engaged in the moment.

We really only “know” a few things in a narrow niche. So how do we learn something new like making a pleasant sound come from an empty wooden box with four strings so that it the strings don’t buzz, and the notes aren’t sharp or flat? There are no keys, frets or “press here” markings on a stand-up bass. How do I relax and hold my arms, shoulders, hands and fingers without creating stress and fatigue? How do I keep that steady rhythm that bass players are expected to provide their fellow band members while managing so many little things…?

Does any of this sound like our first few hours in an airplane, or a new type aircraft – or better yet, something as complex as flying a helicopter?

I’m loving this process of going back to the beginning, to a place where I am without comfort and the familiar, where I must give up that ubiquitous place of non-learning called, “I know….” It’s certainly giving me a new appreciation for the complex and delicate process we humans learn as I fly with my current helicopter instrument student.

If I can make a recommendation to all pilots – especially flight instructors – go find something new to learn, something you’ve never done before. Not something that is “kinda like” what we do every day; something completely new. Become a rank beginner.

This isn’t to say that you shouldn’t simply seek a different kind of flying or a different aircraft; that’s valuable too. But to get the most out of this teaching, one needs to get completely out of the “yeah, this is a lot like…” mode in which we mostly live, and jump fully into a place where “I don’t know ANYTHING about this…” Face your fear of being a fool, that feeling of falling into the abyss of unknowns; accept that “I suck at this.”

The rewards are in that discomfort. There is magic and a possible new self in that Artful journey.