Dr. O
Pattern Altitude
So, when's the last time you did a circuit from the right seat?
It turns out is has been 5 or 6 years for me - where does the time go?
Anyway, the CFI that does my biennials - also known as Vlad the Impaler - was feeling the need for speed. And he feels the need for a biennial with me about every 6 months.
You see he retired from pushing corporate iron around the flight levels and became a mere mortal again after he retired. He has a Super Cruiser he flies, but he was desperate for the sensation of a fist full of throttles.
I wandered to the airport for a cup of free coffee - no one in their right mind would PAY for what the FBO euphemistically calls coffee - and what to my wondering eyes should appear but my airplane on the ramp with Vlad in the left seat with the left engine already idling.
"Get in." he growled.
I got in. You don't argue with Vlad. Even if it is before you have had coffee.
And away we go - with him verbally flogging me for my shortcomings as a First Officer.
I don't know anything about being a first officer and it shows.
We are hurtling down the cross wind runway - well, doing what passes for hurtling in a 150 horse Apache - and he growls:
"Vhat is V1?"
"Umm, a rocket Hitler developed to bomb England?", I offer.
"Nyet, dumbkoff." and he whips the back of my left hand with the edge of his chart plotter leaving a welt.
(for you electronic whippersnappers, shuffle over to the old guy in the pilot's lounge sitting by himself and ask him to show you a chart plotter)
"you know nothing, nothing." he screams, a fleck of foam in the corner of his mouth.
The rest of the way around the pattern it continues.
"Vhat is this?" - whack!
"Vhat is that?" - whack!
He greases the cross wind landing with a three squeaker.
"Now, you do it." His eyes are like lasers penetrating into my brain. And I know 'nothing'. I can't seem to find the trim handle from the right side. I try to turn onto taxiway B by turning the yoke - whack!
My mouth is dry. My rectal sphincter has retracted to somewhere above my navel.
I manage to get the ship off the ground with only a half dozen, or so, whacks. I stagger around the pattern with him disecting my ancestry in detail. On base I lean forward to look for the runway, he leans forward directly in my line of sight, looking at me.
"Feel the force, Schweinhund." he screams.
Finally, on short final I begin to feel good. I have a plan.
I will land right on the numbers, veer onto the grass - and roll out the door before he can grab me by the throat.
The wheels touch. It is a Two Squeaker.
The nose wheel touched simultaneously with the downwind main wheel. I landed flat.
His head turns to me. Fire flickers around his eyes.
"You need more crosswind practice from the right, Next week, then?" he says amiably.
"Next week." I agree, my tail between my legs.
denny-o and Fat Albert the Apache
It turns out is has been 5 or 6 years for me - where does the time go?
Anyway, the CFI that does my biennials - also known as Vlad the Impaler - was feeling the need for speed. And he feels the need for a biennial with me about every 6 months.
You see he retired from pushing corporate iron around the flight levels and became a mere mortal again after he retired. He has a Super Cruiser he flies, but he was desperate for the sensation of a fist full of throttles.
I wandered to the airport for a cup of free coffee - no one in their right mind would PAY for what the FBO euphemistically calls coffee - and what to my wondering eyes should appear but my airplane on the ramp with Vlad in the left seat with the left engine already idling.
"Get in." he growled.
I got in. You don't argue with Vlad. Even if it is before you have had coffee.
And away we go - with him verbally flogging me for my shortcomings as a First Officer.
I don't know anything about being a first officer and it shows.
We are hurtling down the cross wind runway - well, doing what passes for hurtling in a 150 horse Apache - and he growls:
"Vhat is V1?"
"Umm, a rocket Hitler developed to bomb England?", I offer.
"Nyet, dumbkoff." and he whips the back of my left hand with the edge of his chart plotter leaving a welt.
(for you electronic whippersnappers, shuffle over to the old guy in the pilot's lounge sitting by himself and ask him to show you a chart plotter)
"you know nothing, nothing." he screams, a fleck of foam in the corner of his mouth.
The rest of the way around the pattern it continues.
"Vhat is this?" - whack!
"Vhat is that?" - whack!
He greases the cross wind landing with a three squeaker.
"Now, you do it." His eyes are like lasers penetrating into my brain. And I know 'nothing'. I can't seem to find the trim handle from the right side. I try to turn onto taxiway B by turning the yoke - whack!
My mouth is dry. My rectal sphincter has retracted to somewhere above my navel.
I manage to get the ship off the ground with only a half dozen, or so, whacks. I stagger around the pattern with him disecting my ancestry in detail. On base I lean forward to look for the runway, he leans forward directly in my line of sight, looking at me.
"Feel the force, Schweinhund." he screams.
Finally, on short final I begin to feel good. I have a plan.
I will land right on the numbers, veer onto the grass - and roll out the door before he can grab me by the throat.
The wheels touch. It is a Two Squeaker.
The nose wheel touched simultaneously with the downwind main wheel. I landed flat.
His head turns to me. Fire flickers around his eyes.
"You need more crosswind practice from the right, Next week, then?" he says amiably.
"Next week." I agree, my tail between my legs.
denny-o and Fat Albert the Apache
