From Landlubber to Commercial Helicopter Pilot

The background image on my laptop is that of me piloting ‘Six-Bravo-Charlie’ over Lake Lanier, an image that I shamelessly dangle as conversational bait when giving sales presentations to my customers. As an intended result, I’m often asked – “What exactly is it that compels a veteran Satcom sales guy to secure a commercial helicopter pilot’s license?” Of course, what they’re really asking – “Isn’t it a bit late for you to be embarking on a career change?” I’m always quick to point out that a career in the pilotage-of-rotorcraft-for-pay is not in my foreseeable future. Since occupational pay scales are inversely proportional to ‘fun’, my commercial flying is done strictly on a volunteer basis.

To me, flying helicopters is a fascinating subject and I occasionally lose sight of the fact that not everyone shares my passion. Not long into the espousal of my thousand-page mental diary, rife with the vestiges of aviation-related Hallmark moments, the wind is often surreptitiously evulsed from my sails and the conversation changed to subject matter that’s more riveting to the masses, like professional sports, national politics, or in some rare cases – Satcom.

Herein lies the beauty of social media. With a captive audience of a billion or so, I can tell my story without knowing for certain, that the vast majority of viewers elected to ignore my post and instead chose to scroll down to one of a hundred daily postings on the latest methodology that guarantees increased sales performance – as told by an MBA who makes a living writing articles on LinkedIn.

Fine, I can live with that. But for those who care to take a glimpse into the trials and tribulations I encountered on my trek from landlubber to commercial helicopter pilot, I will do my best to both inform and entertain.

Preface

In 2013, shortly after reaching the ripe old age of 60, I began pondering the emptiness of my bucket list. I flashed back to 1971, when I decided to join the Army to become a Cobra Helicopter Gunship pilot. I was motivated in part by my interest in helicopters – and in part by the fact that my draft number was four. The Vietnam War was burning pretty hot and screaming around in a turbine-powered gunship seemed more appetizing than hanging out in a foxhole. I did my best to prepare for the test – bought a few lessons in a Cessna 150 and hit the library for books on rotary aircraft. The Warrant Officer Entrance Exam was really hard. There were 400 possible points and it took 300 to pass. I received a 299 and was commensurately rejected. The next day, I joined the Navy.

There I was, four decades later, taking a tour of the Blue Ridge Helicopter facility at the Gwinnett County, Georgia airport. I told Ron, the proprietor, that I had no interest in obtaining a pilot’s license. I just wanted to learn how to hover, so I purchased ‘a few hours’ worth of instruction and scheduled my first lesson to take place the following week. I figured it wouldn’t take long to get this ‘flying thing’ out of my system.

The Hover

My training began with a couple of hours of ground school in a conference room, where my instructor started throwing terms at me – terms like Effective Translational Lift, Mast Bumping and Gyroscopic Precession. It was then that I realized I didn’t know anything about how helicopters worked. The first hour was offered as a general overview of how you fly one and the second was spent discussing the multitude of things that cause people to die in helicopters. This was the first of many times I would be told that crashes are almost always the result of pilot error – that they’re rarely the helicopter’s fault. ‘Pilot error’ is a term that’s common in NTSB crash reports.

From that point on, just about all of my training-time was spent at the controls of a Robinson R22 two-seat helicopter, with my CFI (Certified Flight Instructor) on my left. I had dived head-first into instruction with no prior study, so I had to learn everything the hard way – through experience. Initially, it was incredibly stressful. There was absolutely nothing related to piloting a helicopter that I could do well. I sucked at everything, so I was flying up to 5 hours a week – twice after work and once on the weekend.

The first milestone of ascension from ‘newbie student’ to ‘helicopter pilot’ is the ability to hold the ship in a stationary hover. Once accomplished, the bragging rights alone almost justify the ridiculous investment made up to that point – or conversely, there’s the shame of being left behind as the younger students surpass that milestone with relative ease, seeing it as nothing more than reaching the next level of a video game. Being plagued with diminished reflexes, ‘mature’ students like me have to work a little harder.

I learned pretty quickly that making an R22 sit dead-still a few feet above the ground is way harder than it looks. The fact is, it takes over twenty control inputs per second to hold it there and keep it from bouncing around like a rubber duck in a bathtub – a condition that was once my signature style. I think it’s fair to say that the need to process twenty inputs per second far exceeded my aged brain’s ability. If I was to master the hover, it would require a different technique. I had to learn how to feel my steed, anticipate every movement she was going to make and counter it before it got out of hand, with four separate controls – simultaneously!

The effort was brutal. I came real close to cancelling my training on several occasions. I was convinced that there are some people that just can’t get it no matter how hard they try – and I was one of them. Per training protocol, I was constantly being told that, once I relaxed, the ability to hover would simply appear one day, when I least expected it. I really didn’t believe it, but it was true. The day it happened, I was so busy stressing about some other aspect of my training that I didn’t even realize I was hovering. That was huge! It gave me the boost I needed to make it to the next major milestone – to solo!

The First Solo Flight

Yes, hovering for the first time was an experience that’s difficult to describe. One has to actually do it to appreciate, not only the moment itself, but the hours of gut-wrenching effort it takes to reach that level of ability. But as great as it was, it wasn’t nearly as exciting as the day my flight instructor left the helicopter for the first time, with the blades still spinning – and only me at the controls.

Let me back up a little bit. In preparation for my first solo, there was a list of things I had to do first. Even after I had accumulated the necessary number of flight hours, I had to take the FAA knowledge test – 60 questions pulled randomly from a list of over 900 that covered instrumentation, navigation, weather, flight controls, aerodynamics, airport protocol, signage, emergency procedures, flight maneuvers and FAA regulations. It was absolutely awful.

I had to take dozens of practice tests and submit three with 90% or higher scores to my flight instructor just to get an endorsement so I could take the actual test. This was followed by a pre-solo test administered by my flight school. In addition to the written part, I had to watch a series of gruesome crash videos – like the auto accident videos we were forced to watch in high school, back before schools became ‘comfort zones’.

In one of them, a British fellow and his wife were flying around in a pontoon-fitted version of the R22 (AKA Mariner) the week after he earned his private pilot’s license. According to the British version of the NTSB, it was determined that he failed to apply carburetor heat, which caused his engine to stop in mid-flight. During our training, we’re taught how to perform an ‘auto-rotation’ in such a circumstance, but apparently he missed that class. The craft dropped like a stone from around 500 feet, leaving two mangled bodies in a pile of wreckage. The cameraman spared no details when filming the aftermath. If the intent was to move an otherwise mundane task to the top of the priority list, hey – mission accomplished! I never forgot to apply carb heat after that.

The first solo flight consists of flying three patterns around the airport, which includes three takeoffs, three patterns and three landings. My airport is ‘Class D’, meaning that it has a control tower, and it can get pretty busy. Believe it or not, just talking to and taking directions from the tower can be tremendously stressful for the newbie pilot. Before Bill (my instructor) left the ship, he warned me that the absence of his body weight would cause the little R22 to lift up differently than I was accustomed to. “Put some forward pressure on the stick to keep the nose level as you raise collective”. He was right, of course. It was actually more abrupt than I thought it would be. In any event, the solo went great and I was one step closer to getting a license!

I’m sure that, by now, you can appreciate the fact that each flight-milestone requires many hours of physical and mental preparation/torture – to the point that anxiety is peaked by the time the event actually takes place. At least it is for me. The day that I was told I’d be piloting the ship without a highly experienced flight instructor on-board, I was profoundly excited and a bit nervous at the same time. Once it was over, I knew that some awesome flying experiences would soon be coming my way. Being the quintessential poet that I am, I did my best to capture the experience in verse.

Solo Flight

The day is just right for companion-less flight,

winds are calm with no clouds in the sky,

the critical gear has received the “all clear” –

now she’s fueled and deemed ready-to-fly.

The mixture’s full-rich, I confirm that the pitch

will adjust as I move the controls –

and the tach isn’t fazed as collective is raised,

since the grip automatically rolls.

I pull it up slow – wonder which way she’ll go

until finally she’s light on the skids –

then I counter the yaw and correct for the draw

that could lead to what safety forbids.

She lists to the side as collective’s applied,

‘cause the fuel weighs a bit more than me –

but the wonderful gift of additional lift

makes the earth set the two of us free.

It’s hard to describe what it feels like to ride

on a cushion just feet from the ground

in an aerial sled – as the blades overhead

beat the air with a thunderous sound.

The pound of my heart when I’m cleared to depart,

makes me wonder if all that I’ve learned

will ensure I survive, that I’ll get back alive –

still intact when my flight is adjourned.

I know I’ve progressed and that leaving the nest

is a ritual all must transcend,

but I find it profound that there’s no one around,

if I panic – that might be the end!

I start on my roll with the cyclic control,

get in trim with the help of a string,

then I push for the shift to translational lift

and I climb like a bird on the wing.

I’m really content with my rate of ascent,

it’s much faster than any before –

the reduction in crew makes this R22

fly a lot like an R44.

I’ve reached AGL in my flying gazelle

and the tower has cleared me to land –

I’ve already seen that the gauges are green

and the cyclic is firmly in hand.

I reach by my seat and I pull in some heat

so my rotors continue to spin –

then I pilot my coach onto final approach

and the two of us softly descend.

I try to be neat with my hands and my feet,

keep her straight ‘till we come to a stop,

and I’m back to the stand where my journey began –

the experience – over the top.

My memory’s tossed to the hurdles I’ve crossed

and the times I was ready to quit –

the tasks I assailed and consistently failed,

and a few that I hate to admit.

This tunnel has light that is barely in sight

and there’s no turning back now for me –

I’ll stay on this course if it leads to divorce,

but a pilot – I’m destined to be!

Flying ‘cross-country’ – and all alone!

Now that I had successfully completed my first solo flight in the pattern, it was time for me to truly leave the nest. Just a few days later, on a beautiful sunny Sunday afternoon, I performed a pre-flight inspection of ‘2-3-3-4-Kilo’, an older, modestly equipped R22 in our fleet. She lacked GPS navigation, but I had my Android tablet running the Garmin Pilot application and a folded sectional chart in the pocket near my feet. It was perhaps the most excited I had been since I started training. I decided to fly up to the Habersham County Airport, about 50 miles to the northeast. Now, the ‘nest’ would be nowhere in sight. I would REALLY be on my own! My cyclic (right) hand was already numb with sweat. After requesting clearance from the tower, I was given the ‘okay to depart’ and away I went.

I started my roll from a hover at the threshold of Taxiway Yankee, by the book – 60 knots airspeed and an ascent-rate of 500 feet per minute to the pattern altitude of 1,500 feet. I made a smooth right bank, increased airspeed to 80 knots and performed my post-takeoff checks – warning lights out, gauges in the green, manifold pressure within limits and plenty of gas. Unfortunately, 5 minutes into the flight, my suction cup mount gave-way, causing the tablet to drop to the floor. I couldn’t let go of the controls to retrieve it, so I elected to use way-points and my compass for the time being. Eventually, the tablet slid close enough for me to grab it and place it on my lap for the remainder of the trip.

What a way to start my flying career! Albeit, with Lake Lanier, Stone Mountain and the steeple on the Mall of Georgia as visual references, it’s pretty hard to get lost. The round-trip took a little less than two hours and several times along the way, I would pause and say to myself – I'M ACTUALLY FLYING A HELICOPTER – BY MYSELF!! UNBELIEVABLE! And each time, I was hit with an indescribable feeling of accomplishment. I still had a long way to go, but I was well on my way. Needless to say, I made it safely back to the airport, set her down on the asphalt with a little bounce and walked away with a head the size of Saturn.

The Check Ride

I spent the better part of a year after my solo flight renting R22s and cruising all over north Georgia. On a few occasions, I was given the opportunity to pilot an R44, the larger four-seat model. In addition to having hydraulic controls (much smoother than the R22’s mechanical linkage), our R44s have air conditioning – a great feature for those hot Georgia summers. Flying the 44 is a totally different experience. So is the rental rate at two-times that of the R22. My main mission at that point was to log enough flight hours to meet the minimums required to take the private pilot check ride – the final step towards earning a license.

Before the check ride can take place, the FAA requires that the student log a specific number of solo, dual, daytime, nighttime and cross country hours. In addition, the pilot must be able to execute a variety of emergency procedures and all standard flight maneuvers.

The check ride involves bringing in an FAA-Designated Pilot Examiner (DPE) to perform the ritual. It begins with several hours of oral exam using a multitude of tools and documents to prove one’s ability to lay out a trip, calculate every aspect of it, such as heading, fuel burn, weight & balance, way-points, weather and navigation using console instruments and charts. After being grilled to the point of mental fatigue, the next step is to pre-flight a chopper and take the DPE on a test flight.

Remember what it was like taking your first driving test with a traffic cop sitting next to you and taking notes? Well, this is way worse. Half of what I’d learned during the prior year was forgotten in the first five minutes. Just the fact that my DPE is a highly skilled, ex-military pilot, whose experience included commanding a Cobra Gunship during the Vietnam War (how prophetic!) was daunting enough.

The check rides at Gwinnett involve flying from our home airport to the Winder, GA airport about 15 miles due east. Somewhere along the way, the DPE will reach down and chop the throttle so the rotor blades disengage from the engine, simulating engine failure during flight. My slow absorption-rate had prompted my flight instructor to hammer me with practice auto-rotations to the point that I could actually execute them with relative ease. Unfortunately, that wasn’t true for all of the required maneuvers.

Though I sailed through the toughest parts of the flight, I still failed it. There’s a procedure that involves simulating a condition where the helicopter is too heavy to hover, so you have to land it like an airplane. Instead of contacting the skids with the runway at a paltry 20 MPH (recommended velocity), I came screaming in at closer to 70 MPH. Rock & roll! I think he genuinely hated failing me, but he did so anyway. It only meant that I had to bring him back a few weeks later to re-perform that one maneuver. I aced it the second time around.

It felt great when he handed me my private pilot’s certificate, a key to the very exclusive club of licensed helicopter pilots – whoa! After a year of intense effort and thousands of dollars, I had finally arrived!

Robinson Safety Course

I was soon to learn that having my license really didn’t buy me much when it came to flying privileges. I still couldn’t have anyone in the cabin with me, unless they were also a licensed helicopter pilot. It’s the policy at Blue Ridge Helicopters (and the insurance company) that no private pilot can carry a non-licensed passenger until they’ve completed the four-day safety course held at the Robinson Helicopter factory in Torrance, California.

The main purpose of the course is to further drive home the fact that an operational helicopter deserves loads of respect and that survival depends on strict adherence to the rules and regulations that had been pounded into our heads since that first day in the conference room. And trust me, there is a long list of examples where pilots made the call to take a shortcut – or to circumvent the rules all together. The stories rarely ended well. It was brought to our attention that people who choose to pilot aircraft sit squarely in the ‘risk-taker’ category of human behavior.

Apparently, risk takers are notorious for rationalizing their way into unsafe conditions and the versatility of helicopters only accentuates the problem. Helicopter pilots are encouraged to take profile surveys that are designed to identify specific character traits that prompt risky behavior. ‘Impulsiveness’ (hurry up!) and ‘macho’ (hey, watch this!) top the list. The course included an hour of flight time under the guidance of a Robinson-certified flight instructor, conducted within the airspace of Los Angeles International Airport. By the time it was over, I could see why it was a requirement. It was an excellent experience.

The fun begins

With a ‘Safety Course Completion Certificate’ in my file, I was ready to share my flying experiences with friends and family members. My wife, Gloria, was the first to step up to the plate. It was the week before Christmas and several of our friends were holding parties at their homes. Instead of driving around the county from house to house, I rented an R22 and flew us – hopping from one backyard to the next. What a hoot that was! Gloria was quite a trooper, considering the fact that it was my first time landing and taking off from a non-airport location. Swinging around trees and barns was awesome!

I took a number of my friends on flights over some of the most scenic parts of our state. I’m particularly fond of mountain flying – cruising through the valleys, over rivers, dams and picturesque little communities nestled in the various nooks and crannies of the north Georgia Mountains. There are places scattered across the state that have designated helicopter landing zones – and nothing gets attention like landing a helicopter in a restaurant parking lot during the lunch-time rush. No way around it, having a helicopter pilot’s license was nothing but cool!

As far as I was concerned – I was exactly where I wanted to be. No more tests (except for my annual flight reviews), no more instruction – and no more check rides! From here on out, I would be a ‘flying-for-leisure-only’ pilot. Or so I thought.

Commercial Pilot

That would have been the end of the story if I hadn’t struck up a close flying relationship with a fellow Blue Ridge Helicopter pilot. Chris had earned his private pilot certificate about a year before me. I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but instead of fighting over the only available R22 one beautiful Saturday morning, we decided to split the rental and fly it together, passing the controls back and forth during the flight. Come to find out, we really enjoyed flying together and it turned into a major habit. I’m sure we’ve logged well over a hundred hours together.

Being a bit more ambitious than me, he elected to go for his Commercial Rating so he could fly tours as a way to get free stick time. I couldn’t help but be a bit jealous when he and some of the other commercial pilots would grab an R44 and head out to one of the local air shows or county festivals to fly 10-minute tours. Sometimes, I was invited to be part of the ground crew, but it was really hard manning the cash box and strapping anxious, first-time flyers into the ship while the other pilots got to do all of the flying. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I made the decision to begin commercial training myself.

More hours, more tests, more instruction and another check ride. I thought ‘Private’ was hard. Commercial pilots are held to a much higher standard for obvious reasons. It’s like getting an aeronautical MBA. Up to that point, I had very little time piloting an R44, but that’s what commercial pilots fly, so that’s what I chose as my ship de jour. It was unbearably hard putting the student hat back on. For one, the emergency procedures required for the commercial check ride are much harder than for private. The most noteworthy is the ‘180 auto-rotation’.

The procedure is as follows – while flying downwind at an altitude of 800 feet above the ground and a sustained airspeed of 75 knots, once aligned with the targeted landing spot, lower the collective control to the floor, while adding a small about of right pedal to compensate for the ship’s tendency to nose-left, chop the throttle to disengage the rotors from the engine and apply pressure to the cyclic control to begin a 180 degree ‘U-turn’.

During the turn, the main rotor will speed up (a very bad thing) requiring the pilot to pull up on the collective control to dampen the speed with pitch and hold it in the green zone of the tachometer. Once aligned with the target, at an altitude of 40 feet, pull back on the cyclic to reduce speed, push forward on the cyclic to level the skids with the ground and at 10 feet above the ground, pull collective to reduce the rate of decent, while reengaging the engine with the throttle control before contacting the ground. The procedure is also laced with pedal movements I chose to omit.

The entire procedure has to be executed in less than a minute (unless you fancy making a crater) – and in that exact order. I know it sounds easy, but I’ve lost count of how many practice runs I made before I was prepared to do it for the DPE. But as they say, I “got her done”. To earn my commercial helicopter rating was, by far, the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Perhaps the greatest reward lies in the knowledge that I stuck it through and made it to the end – and yes, this time it really is the end.

Even after achieving commercial helicopter pilot status, it would be months before I would be trusted to fly a load of passengers in a half million dollar helicopter. But now I can - and I have to say that there's nothing quite like it. It's fun on a scale all its own.

So back to the original question, “What exactly is it that compels a veteran Satcom sales guy to secure a commercial helicopter pilot’s license?” LOL - aren’t you sorry you asked?