Cruising westbound at FL 430 with just more than an hour to the destination, we’re chatting about our groundspeed, which is just tickling 400 knots, the headwinds, and, despite constant rearrangement of the sun visors, the annoying persistence of sun in both our faces.

Suddenly, BAM!

Stunned, I can’t make out what has happened, but whatever it is, it is catastrophic. The master warning is blaring, and I think I see some flashing lights, but the air is filled with condensation and junk. Sudden catastrophic decompression.

We wordlessly execute our memory items. Don oxygen mask, switch to mic oxy mask. With communication established, we go to the emergency descent memory items. Throttles to idle, speed brakes deployed, start with 15-degree nose down. If nothing seems to be falling off the airplane, accelerate to M_MO. Check pax oxygen. Go to the checklist.

This was not a dream, nor was it real, yet it was pretty much the equivalent of what happened over the summer. It wasn’t the airplane that had a problem—it was me.

• READ MORE: Taking the Grand Tour at Gulfstream Aerospace

After a leisurely hike with my wife, Cathy, son, and his family in the Ledges of New Hampshire, we went back to the cottage, sent the parents home to Boston, and had dinner. We had bought some chicken at a farm near us in Vermont. The chicken had led a coddled life; no hormones, nothing but the best feed, and plenty of room to roam. Cathy made a sheet pan chicken dinner.

I was really looking forward to the next week. The grandkids were great, and my flying friend, Bill Alpert, had invited me to copilot a Cessna Citation CJ2+ from Nantucket, Massachusetts, to Tampa, Florida, at the end of the week. Our Beechcraft P-Baron should’ve been out of its Florida annual by then, so I could fly it back to New Hampshire. What a package.

About an hour later, BAM!

Violent vomiting and other even less appealing gastrointestinal events alternated in bewildering fashion. We’ve all had the GIs at some point, but this was different. Cathy kept busy changing sheets and cleaning me up. The kids slept, obliviously.

By morning I had passed out twice, once on the bathroom floor, once next to the bed. The place was a mess. By late afternoon, I had not improved, had lost 5 to 7 liters of fluid, and Cathy called the fire department. The responders had a chair for just this kind of situation and took me down a flight of stairs as I waxed in and out of consciousness. “Keep your hands in,” I heard them say. In the ambulance they started an IV. Off we went to Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center, arriving just at shift change: 7 p.m.. Just another day at the office for my saviors.

• READ MORE: Pilot Learns Something New Even on Familiar Route

An initial assessment found I was perilously low on red blood cells that carry oxygen and white blood cells that fight infection. The diagnosis of B12 deficiency was entertained, I’m told, but I missed most of the discussion. I was out of it. By the time I was capable of understanding, more sinister diagnoses were being discussed by various consulting physicians. Resuscitated, I was fit to go home on day 5.

Over the next month, the diagnosis became clear: acute myeloid leukemia. The worst. Five-year survival rate for people over 20 is 28 percent. Not only that, but those survival statistics are for patients younger than me. And then this: The only known cure for my subtype is a bone marrow transplant. Don’t Google this. A month in the hospital is the least of it, and the therapy itself carries a 25 percent mortality rate, I’m told.

What the heck does this have to do with flying airplanes?

One, it is a reminder how your week, my week, anybody’s week can go from anticipating flight to hanging on for dear life. As a young surgeon, I learned this in the emergency rooms where I met that motorcycle jockey who left home one morning with high hopes and the feel of speed that made his T-shirt climb up his back but was now lying motionless in a bed with a bad spinal injury. Motorcycles are often referred to as “donor cycles” in hospitals.

Two, just as you are completely dependent on the expertise of the folks up front on the flight deck when you board an airliner, you are putting your life in the hands of people you just met. You better hope that the airline has rigorous selection policies, expert training, and superb maintenance, not to mention strict criteria for the mental health of the folks in the jumpseat. Same goes for these new doctors. They seem pretty young and sure of themselves. Oh, wait, that was once me.

Three, with luck, you are on a professional river from ground school to mastery to captain’s wings on a Boeing 787. These accomplishments, while impressive, are of little help in a situation like this. Like your progress in the profession, largely determined by hire date and seniority, you become a leaf on a river. It is flowing, and you have little ability to steer a course. Your doctors, your diagnosis, and the system of American healthcare now have you in its maw.

Four, you have friends and family who care about you way more than you had dared to hope. My group of male friends—doctors, lawyers, newspaper journalists, pilots, IT gurus, former NFL players, and mechanics—have stepped up with a platter of helpful and encouraging selections. Who knew that Graeter’s Ice Cream from Cincinnati is the best? I’ve got 10 1-pint containers straining the freezer door.

I’m confident that there will be more aviation themes to this “journey.” I’ll try to avoid the maudlin and tell you what it’s like. Such intel may come in handy someday.

Meanwhile, the Baron is up for sale.

This column first appeared in the January-February 2024/Issue 945 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Bam! In Life and in the Air, Things Can Change in a Hurry appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

For this pilot, the transition from a Cessna Citation CJ1, 2+, and 3 to a Beechcraft P-Baron was an eye-opener. Training is different. Jet training includes engine failure during takeoff, the so-called V₁ cut.

This is almost always accomplished in a simulator and usually easily handled by maintaining heading, retracting the gear, pitching to a speed called V₂, and climbing to a safe altitude. In a piston twin, this is “simulated” at a safe altitude by retarding power on one engine, the so-called V_MC (minimum controllable airspeed) demonstration.

• READ MORE: How to Make Sure Your Cross-Country Hours Count

As a practical matter, the Baron is a lot busier than the jet. Taking off with full power means reducing manifold pressure and propeller rpm soon after takeoff. This usually occurs just as the tower gives you a new heading, altitude, and frequency change. Once in cruise, there is the matter of leaning the engines by reducing the fuel flow to each engine while watching the cylinder head temperatures (all 12) and exhaust gas temps.

• READ MORE: What Should a Pilot Do if a Single Engine Quits in Cruise?

In typical jets, the red fuel lever is either on or off, no leaning involved. In descent the piston engine needs to be kept warm, so power reductions are done very gradually. This limits the rate of descent. In the jet, you just pull the power to idle and dial in 2,000 fpm (or more) down and don’t think twice about it.

This column first appeared in the January-February 2024/Issue 945 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post What Does It Take to Transition From a Jet to a Piston Airplane? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

On a route I’ve flown a zillion times, epiphany! Because of a painful, expensive, nine-week-long annual on our Beechcraft P-Baron in Florida, my family found itself in New Hampshire without a way home to Tampa, Florida (KTPA). I know that sounds ridiculous, but hear me out.

Our rescue lab mix is an aggressive dog not welcome on the airlines, so Rocco has become accustomed to (spoiled by?) the wonders of general aviation. He’s traveled in a variety of excellent airplanes, including the Baron, a turboprop, and two jets. He’s made the trip in fine style in this manner. Yet our airplane was more than 1,000 miles away. We needed help on a route I’ve come to know intimately.

I called Tom deBrocke and asked if he’d pick us up in his twin Aerostar. “Sure,” he said. DeBrocke’s an airline captain, an airplane nut, and an instructor, but most importantly a good friend. He’s gone coast to coast to help me out before.

It is close to 1,100 nm from Tampa to Lebanon, New Hampshire, but I doubt anybody has flown this route more than I have. At first, it was a Cessna P210 with stops in Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina, or Lynchburg, Virginia, northeast bound, or sometimes Norfolk, Virginia, and Charleston, South Carolina, heading the other way. The northeast trip averaged 6.3 hours, the southwest slog 7.4. Most recently, our Cessna Citation CJ1 could make the northeast-bound trip in less than three hours.

Since it had been more than 25 years since I had negotiated the northeast corridor in a piston airplane, I was full of questions about this trip in the normally aspirated Aerostar.

• READ MORE: Master of Airplanes: Rocco Is One Lucky Lab, Indeed

Lesson No. 1: Aerostars are amazing. Tom had told me he planned to land in Salisbury, Maryland (KSBY), on the way up, but when I turned on FlightAware, I saw he had already overflown KSBY at 13,500 feet. So muchhttps://www.flysbyairport.com/for normally aspirated. I scurried to the airport to meet him. He made the trip in 5 hours and 24 minutes. This pleased me as I was paying for the fuel.

“Almost like a transcon at the airline, but I still have an hour’s worth of gas left,” deBrocke said upon stretching his legs. He collected his bags and checked the airplane, showing no interest in using the bathroom. Waving a portable john alarmingly close to my nose, I was relieved to hear that Tom hadn’t needed it. We arranged for hangar space as rain was predicted.

Lesson No. 2: There is no hurry. Usually, I’m running around wanting everybody to hurry up so as to get to Florida while it is still light and avoid any thunderstorms. Tom showed no such urgency. By the time we drove to breakfast, borrowed the crew car so we could leave our car at home, and returned to the airport, it was almost 11 a.m. After careful loading, explaining to my wife, Cathy, how the emergency exit worked and getting Rocco settled, we taxied out, did a fastidious run-up and took off. There was no rush. Tom was completely at ease. Our destination was Elizabethtown, North Carolina (KEYF), where it was said we could get 110LL for $5 per gallon.

Lesson No. 3: Just ask. I already knew that you almost never get the routing recommended by ForeFlight in this part of the world. But I watched with interest as Tom worked to get us headed in the right direction while level at 8,000 feet. First, he secured direct to Hartford (KHFD), saving about two minutes. When told we had to fly out over Long Island to fixes 40 miles over the Atlantic Ocean, Tom keyed the mic and said, “Hey, Approach. Any chance we could cancel here and climb to 8,500 and go direct to Richmond (KRIC)?”

“IFR cancellation received. Climb VFR to 8,500, keep the squawk.” Just like that, we were flying directly over JFK with Manhattan out the window. I had never had the nerve.

Lesson No. 4: VFR has special responsibilities not evident while flying IFR in jets. Having flown IFR almost exclusively since 1975, I was only distantly familiar with sectionals, military operations areas (MOAs), and restricted areas. Sure enough, Philadelphia Approach was kind enough to suggest heading to KSBY then JAMIE to avoid a restricted area around Washington, D.C. Patuxent Approach confirmed this wisdom. From then on, I watched as Tom sought to confirm the ceiling of various warning areas, MOAs, and Class B airspace.

• READ MORE: Learning (and Leaning) a New Airplane Is Always a Rich Experience

Lesson No. 5: Even the pros can miss something. As we started our VFR descent to KEYF, the AWOS announced winds favoring Runway 32. As we discussed how to enter the pattern, Fayetteville Approach asked if we were aware that all runways were closed at KEYF. What? No mention on the AWOS.

Not embarrassed, Tom said, “I must have missed that NOTAM, and it isn’t announced on the AWOS.”

“The closure is definitely in the NOTAMs. State your intentions,” came the rejoinder. “Standby,” said Tom. We quickly found Lumberton, North Carolina (KLBT), nearby with $5.50 gas. Though we could have entered the right base for Runway 31, Tom did the right thing. He overflew the airport and joined the left downwind. In no rush and at ease, he chirped her on.

“Oh, there’s the reason for the $5.50 gas,” said Tom, spotting a self-fueling spot. While Cathy and I walked the dog, Tom filled 114 gallons into three tanks via a choreography required to keep from tipping the airplane on its wing.

Only later did I look up KLBT on AirNav to see the full-serve and self-serve gas were both $5.50. When apprised of this, Tom didn’t miss a beat: “But I’m quicker.”

Lesson No. 6: It is so important to have really good friends. This is true, in general, but if you can find one who loves airplanes, that’s the best. I’ve been very lucky in this regard.

Gassed up and heading for home, we got the rest done IFR with an astoundingly favorable route. Tom had arranged for his Nissan Pathfinder to be on the Sheltair ramp, so unloading was easy.

Once all in the car, Tom drove us down to see our own long-lost Baron, snuggled in its hangar. As we swung back around to head for the exit gate, two line guys came roaring up in their golf cart: “Hey, you’re going the wrong way.” “Yeah,” said Tom. “This is the owner of 260 Alpha Romeo, and he just had to lay eyes on it.”

Ain’t that the truth.

This column first appeared in the December 2023/Issue 944 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Pilot Learns Something New Even on Familiar Route appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I first learned of Rocco from a video posted on a website called “Lucky Lab Rescue.” He looked like the lab mix he was reported to be. Tellingly, he had no “bio.” Usually dogs up for adoption have been fostered and their traits have been cataloged. “Needs lots of space to run” and “not good with children” are a couple of red flags. Rocco had none. He was cute, if a little “mouthy,” on the 20-second video, so my wife, Cathy, and I arranged to have him join a caravan of dogs being shipped from the Midwest to the good folks of New England. Apparently, there is a well-worn path for dogs abandoned at kill shelters to adoption facilities in the Northeast.

We have had excellent luck with labs and lab mixes. We knew Rocco first showed up in a kill shelter in Kentucky and was transferred to a veterinary technical school in Indiana. From the paperwork that accompanied him, we found that he had been used for students to practice putting him under anesthesia and drawing his blood. I’m thinking that might give a fellow an attitude.

It did. Surprisingly, his animosity is not toward humans but dogs. It took several surprise attacks against friends’ and neighborhood dogs before we learned to keep him separated from all canines. His vet hospital and human emergency department visit bills topped 10 grand before we got the picture. We spent similar amounts on dog training with the graduation certificates as proof.

“Why don’t you put him down?” We heard this a lot. There was one problem: We were falling in love. With the kids, grandkids, furnace repair guy, and the pest man, he was an enthusiastic lab love. Our vet said, “I will not put a dog down for dog aggression. Your job is to keep him safe.” That sealed it.

Rocco’s first flight and first airplane was in our 1980 Piper Cheyenne I. He acted like it was natural to scurry up the airstairs and to make himself comfortable in an empty seat. When that became uncomfortable, he’d come forward, put his front paws on the wing spar, and peer into the flight deck with a bemused expression. “Can’t this thing go any faster?” he seemed to say. He’d stare in hypnotic trance at the blinking reply light on the transponder.

It wasn’t long before we decided to buy a jet. Three years of Part 135 flying had finally taught me how, and I felt comfortable with single-pilot jet ops. We bought a Raytheon Premier 1. With its magnificent height, imposing airstairs, and lavish interior, not to mention Pro Line 21 avionics, I was in heaven.

Apparently, so was Rocco. It gradually dawned on us that perhaps this dog had been fibbing about his background. He climbed into the Premier and looked around as if to say, “This is all you got?” I wondered if he’d actually belonged to a family with a Gulfstream. We sent off his DNA to see if he was related to a Rockefeller, but no joy.

Still, he got awfully cozy awfully quickly, though he seemed to look askance at the ornate gold fixtures—not the kind of thing a well-bred dog would accept for haute couture.

• READ MORE: Rescue Dogs and Airplanes

When an errant pelican commuting at 4,500 feet dinged the wing, we sought the comfort of a Cessna Citation CJ1. Not quite as fast as the Premier, but never as maintenance needy, the airplane fit like a glove. Rocco claimed a seat, which we protected with a sheet. There was no question this was a smaller seat than the one to which he had been accustomed, but he took the indignity like a lab. He logged hundreds of trouble-free hours curled up in a ball and ready to party when he arrived.

Alas, my abilities as a dog aircraft provider atrophied with age, and we had to sell the CJ1 owing to insurance costs for “elderly” single-pilot jet ops. Looking to be “unleashed” myself from the aerospace medical boys and girls in Oklahoma City, I chose BasicMed. This led to a fine Beechcraft P-Baron.

And guess what? This is the most comfortable airplane for Rocco. He leaps easily into the back cabin, and the rear seats are so close together that he now effectively has a bench seat. This allows uninterrupted sleep for hours and hours. Rocco is good at this. It’s one of his finest skills. This is a good thing as his commute has become longer and regularly features a tech stop. At such interruptions, he parades around the FBO while Cathy and I keep an eye out for some unsuspecting fellow dog traveler.

We’d hate for him to have a rap sheet in another state. His countenance at the high-end FBOs could be best described as expectant. Just don’t let him spot a Chihuahua with a rhinestone collar—the fur will fly. So far, so good, though—just a dog and his airplane in harmony.

This column first appeared in the November 2023/Issue 943 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Master of Airplanes: Rocco Is One Lucky Lab, Indeed appeared first on FLYING Magazine.