The examiner was cordial, but it was clear he was all business. Not a small man, his imposing frame and New York accent signaled a certain directness. Ten minutes later I was in tears. So was he.
As Joe Puglia and I sniffed and wiped our eyes, we quickly sought to make it clear that we were manly men, aviators of great experience and fearless in our approach to airplanes and life in general. Joe reassured me that he had been a New York City cop, and I told him of my young life in the city and how I went to medical school there. We were a couple of tough New Yorkers simpering like a pair of teenage Lindsay Lohan fans. How did this lachrymose scene happen, this undoing of two men of a certain age?
It started about a year ago when I got into my head that I wanted to fly for hire. I set my sights on a commercial multiengine ticket and held hope for a job as a first officer on a Lear 31. Many readers wrote to tell me that I was nuts. Notwithstanding their thoughtful catalog of the errors inherent in my thinking, I got started by passing the commercial written by way too many points, thanks to the Kings and the Gleims of the world. I had wanted a grade of 71 since 70 is passing.
Next I sought flight training, which proved to be complicated for a private pilot with 40-plus years of experience, 4,500 hours total, including 2,500 multi and 1,500 turbine. Many training centers were very helpful, but in the end they wanted four full days of time and $3,000. It was the time commitment that got me.
I went to Clearwater Aviation at St. Petersburg International (KPIE) and ran into Travis Fox, son of the owner. Understandably, he made no firm commitments. How could he? How could he know if I could hold a heading or altitude? He did say that he thought we could do all the training in a weekend and take the check ride on a Monday morning. He quoted a price slightly higher than the others, but the flight training would be in a Beechcraft Baron. This completely met my needs: time tailored to what I had available and an iconic airplane to boot. Besides, I liked the down-home feel to the place.
Disaster loomed on Day One. The ceiling was 600 feet and the visibility was a mile — not conducive to much in the way of steep turns. It did give me time to meet Paul Shoemaker, an obvious veteran of all kinds of flying. I immediately liked him and he treated me like a peer, not like a novice, for which I was appreciative. We swapped hangar stories, and during them I found myself hearing what I might be asked to do on the check ride.
Day Two went well. We launched and headed out to a practice area just off the west coast of Florida. I had to reacquaint myself with all the crazy airspace names and restrictions, things that an IFR Cheyenne operator just doesn’t factor in for most flights. I had memorized various speeds, including the Vmc of 81 knots, Vyse of 102 and Vxse of 96. Luckily, gear and flap extension speeds were identical (152 knots for first flaps).
We did some steep turns at 4,000 feet. They were a snap. I had never flown a Baron, and even though it was an old one, it was a beautiful machine. Power on, power off, dirty, clean and in-between stalls were straightforward. I blew the Vmc demonstration, though. With the props at 2,500 rpm and power at 15 inches, I brought the left engine, the “critical one,” to idle and gradually advanced the power on the right while slowing the airplane by increasing the pitch. When the airplane began to roll and fall off its heading, I added rudder but instinctively added aileron too. This is a rookie mistake. Just as in a V1 cut in a jet, rudder is the key. In the jet, aileron will deploy lift-defeating boards on top of the wing, further exacerbating a tenuous climb-out. I should have known better and been better prepared. We survived, however, and lived to try it again with better results. An hour later we did a touch-and-go and headed for the barn.
Our next flight was more like the real world. Paul said we’d be heading over to Clearwater Air Park (KCLW) for fuel immediately after takeoff. It is only 5½ nautical miles from KPIE and the gas there is cheap. Besides, this errand would get me comfortable in the Baron when all the engines were working. I took his word on the amount of gas we had in the tanks.
We took off, climbed only to 1,200 feet and headed to the air park, which I could not see. It seemed like Paul was pointing to a housing development, but he kept saying, “See it? See it?” Finally I spotted what looked like somebody’s long driveway nestled among the one-story homes.
“You’re kidding me,” I said. “That’s a driveway, man!”
Reassured as you can only be with an experienced instructor who has seen it all, I set up for the straight in.
We landed without accident and taxied back for gas. Inside the homey building was a gaggle of Sunday morning aviators, sitting around a big table, drinking coffee and telling lies. It looked like it was out of a movie set — just as it should.
As I listened in to the stories, Paul paid the bill and we saddled up to repeat our maneuvers from the first flight. Only the left tank read full while the right looked just like it did on the way in: close to empty. We called the fueler, who announced the truck had run out of gas and that more would be delivered later. This was a problem because I was about 18 hours away from the check ride with a grand total of one hour of instruction under my belt. Hey, I wanted a compact course, didn’t I?
After much discussion we headed back to KPIE with lots of aileron — exactly the kind of thing you would do only with an experienced instructor in the right seat. If then, even. Refueled on both sides, we did another 1.3 hours. It was going to have to be enough.
Check ride day dawned clear with light winds. There is a God. I met Joe Puglia and signed into the Integrated Airman Certification and/or Rating Application, where I had previously registered. This site puts the recommending instructor, the airman applicant and the certifying officer (FAA or designated examiner) on the same page. Joe and I retreated to a small conference room, where he began to review the practical test standards. Joe was thorough. We covered a lot quickly: currency requirements, required class of medical, airworthiness directives, minimum equipment lists and just had gotten into weather when Joe said, without looking up, “Where were you on 9-11?”
I felt a chill. I had been in the air, halfway between Rome and Atlanta. It was a life marker for me. I had a daughter getting married on the 15th; my wife and I got stranded on an island in the Atlantic Ocean; it was emotional. I started to get a catch in my voice when Joe stopped me.
“At the time I was a captain for United on the B737-300,” he said. “I was laying over in Boston the 10th of September. … I had flown with Vic Saracini on numerous occasions while I was copilot on the B767. We were both based at JFK at that time. I had run into Vic at the terminal briefly on the 10th as he was laying over too. The next morning, when I saw the second airplane hit the tower, I knew it was one of ours. Within two hours I learned that it was Vic. It crushed me. I now looked back on the time we spent flying together across the country from JFK to LAX, SFO, etc. The conversations we had about our families, how proud he was of his children, the times we ate in California. He used to say to me, ‘I like laying over with you, a former New York City cop; we can go anywhere we want in the city and eat.’ He meant it was like having a bodyguard.”
Joe opened his wallet and carefully extracted a dog-eared color picture of a young, inexcusably handsome helicopter pilot and the mayor of New York. It was Ed Koch and Joe Puglia on a sunny morning in New York. Joe said, “I later learned that at least three police officers who were in my graduating class at the police academy were in the towers and lost their lives that day. It hit home on two fronts.”
With that we went outside and did our thing. We preflighted and we took off. I wanted to nail this. Things went well. We did the maneuvers I had practiced. We did simulated engine-out go-arounds and a short field landing, and then Joe said with an air of finality, “Bring it around for a full stop.”
The Hobbs read 1.3 hours. In the end Travis charged me about half of what he had quoted. The training had been just what I wanted.
The examination had been fair, efficient and thorough. Joe had been a complete professional and I had done the best I could to honor the process, the airplane and the privilege of the commercial rating. As Joe signed the logbooks and made out a temporary license, I had the feeling we had both strived to be the best we could, to hold up our end of the bargain with fidelity. More than that, though, was this: What had started out as an intimidating flight check had turned into an exercise of appreciation by two grateful airmen.
