Not long after the Paris Trip I decided to take the same girlfriend to Perranporth on the north coast of Cornwall.  I hired a Grumman Tiger from LSF at Elstree.  The flight down was unexciting and we had a good weekend.

It was on the return journey we had problems.  For some reason, Perranporth had no fuel available.  I calculated what we’d burnt on the way down and worked out that we had just enough fuel to get back to Elstree and thence, if necessary, to divert to Luton.  At that stage of my flying career, I’m not sure if I had never learnt or if I had forgotten about "reserves" but in any case, it didn’t occur to me.

We take off and I’m talking to Plymouth who asked me whether I was flying North or South of Dartmoor.  I said I couldn’t see Dartmoor on the map to which I got the reply, "That large danger area right in front of you.  I assume you’re not going to fly right through it!"

I’d managed to overlook it completely and yes, had planned straight through it.  "North," I said, picking one at random.  Now I had to turn left and work out where I was going next.

All the way back, I was keeping a very close eye on the fuel and was surprised to see both tanks showed a quarter as we approached the outskirts of the London control zone, I’d expected less.  I had noticed, however, that there was a definite tendency for the right wing to drop when the plane was in trim which was very frustrating as it meant paying constant attention,

Just as we approached Greenham Common and I was about to call for MATZ penetration, the engine spluttered and started to die.  I switched to the right tank and it picked up again.  Back to the left and it spluttered.  The left tank was clearly empty though still showing a quarter.   The right tank also showed a quarter but I had no idea how much was actually in it.

I had been talking to London Information so called them and calmly asked for urgent permission to land at Greenham Common.  The controller was more panicked than I was: Greenham Common had nuclear missiles at the time and was at the highest level of security.

Meanwhile the plane was flying fine on the right tank but I still wanted to get down as soon as I could.  I downgraded the emergency and was transferred to London Radar.  They pointed out that I was almost overhead Booker (now Wycombe Air Park) and suggested I land there.  They said they’d rung them and the airfield was closed but that it would be OK to land there and they’d give me vectors.  You could hear the relief in the controller’s voice that I would not be flying into Greenham Common.

As taught when landing at an unmanned airfield, I carefully overflew the runway and did one circuit.  "Would you mind just landing it this time," asked my passenger on the second final approach.

Of course, with the airfield being closed, there was no fuel available so our romantic weekend away ended with a friend having to drive out to pick us up.  He grumbled all the way back.

I felt somewhat vindicated though.  I recalculated the fuel burn and found exactly what I’d expected but all in the right tank.  When I complained to the CFI at LSF, he simply shrugged it off with, "Fuel gauges are never that accurate."

Be sure to read Fly by Night: Part 1 first! This article was originally published in Piper Flyer Magazine.

A major issue when planning lessons is the timing. The weather in the winter is prohibitive for VFR flying and the sunsets in the main flying months are after the majority of airfields have shut for the day. In July and August, it is light until 9pm, long after the flying instructors have all been tucked into their beds. The key is to snatch a window in the late spring or early fall and hope for clear skies. November in England isn’t known for its clear starry nights, although with sunset before dinner it meant I should get a decent amount of flying each clear evening.

I got in touch with Albert, a helpful and patient instructor who I had flown with before, and booked five evenings to allow for a couple of nights of cancellations.

Albert chose to train me in a plane he knew well, a darling TB10. I immediately fell in love with the two seater. It was a friendly, light plane that seemed eager to please; not something I’d ever say about the Saratoga!

We started with basic day-time handling and getting used to the plane and then as the light grew dim we returned to Oxford for circuits. Albert stepped me through exercises meant to help me recognize how close to the ground I was. Watch for the runway lights to look like a string of pearls. When the lights are at shoulder height, flare, gently. The TB10 bounced right back up, it wanted to fly, more than any other plane I’ve been in.

Eventually I got the hang of both the plane and the viewpoint and we landed. The last thing on radio was the ATC controller: At twenty hundred hours, this airfield is now closed.

As we got out of the plane, everything was dark and silent. Albert pointed his torch around the plane — the chocks, the lock, the cover. We tidied it all up and then he pointed the torch at the ground so we could pick our way to the gate. I felt like a burglar.

The next evening we did navigation, looking out at lights with a map on my lap:

“What’s that up there?” Albert pointed out.

“Er, Oxford? No, no, give me a second. Banbury?”

“Yep, what’s that road up there then?”

It was a solid stripe of light and had to be a major freeway. “Um, the M4?”

“Correct again. Follow it.”

“OK.” I lined the plane up with the pretty twinkly red lights of stationary traffic and hoped that Albert wouldn’t make me turn off onto a roundabout.

My perspective of distance was totally out, cities miles away suddenly visible from low level as a glow of light. I learned to forget about rivers and railway lines and watch for roads instead. I scanned all around me, watching for black-outs: cloud or worse, a mountain. Albert stepped me through an engine failure but admitted that it was more for form. We couldn’t locate fields for landing on, we couldn’t see power cables, the chances of landing safely were minimal.

We turned back towards Oxford, Albert slightly nervous about going too far afield as the airfield was specifically staying open for us. He told the story of another instructor who returned back to the airfield to find that the air traffic controller had forgotten about the night flight and simply shut down and gone home. It was with relief that I heard the cheerful answer from the controller who was waiting for us. The runway lights turned off behind us as we landed, it felt so final.

The third night I was doing a flapless landing in the dark, looking for my string of pearls, only half watching the PAPI.

“Two reds, that’s right. Don’t get too low. I mean it Sylvia, don’t lose that height.” There was an edge to Albert’s voice that was out of character. I did the touch and go and when we were back on downwind he said, “Ben had some trouble here, I’ll tell you on the ground. Just remember to maintain that height.”

I met Albert through a very competent instructor named Ben. Ben got a job flying a Citation and although he was still doing a bit of teaching on the side, his schedule and mine rarely meshed so I didn’t see much of him. He’s one of those instructors that makes me want to fly better than I do: he’s good with the plane, patient with the training, and likes to have a laugh.

Once we were on the ground, Albert told me about Ben’s last training flight.

“He was doing night flying, like this, and somehow they ended up a low on the approach. Flew straight into cables, right where you were dipping low.” I was relieved that I’d seen Ben briefly at the airfield that afternoon, so I knew he was OK. I had no idea there were cables there at all.

From the accident report:

An aircraft ahead in the circuit caused the trainee to extend the downwind leg before turning onto base leg and commencing the approach. The instructor stated that when the aircraft was approximately 400 meters from the threshold, he became aware of some power cables ahead which the aircraft then struck in the area of the nose-wheel. The instructor immediately took control of the aircraft and commenced a go-around whilst declaring a “mayday” to ATC.

After conducting a handling check overhead the airfield to check for normal control response and handling qualities, the instructor flew a circuit and low go-around to allow the AFRS an attempt at visually inspecting the aircraft using spotlights. They could not see any damage and the instructor rejoined the circuit. He then briefed the trainee for an emergency landing before commencing a final approach to the runway.

They landed just fine, despite damage to the nose landing gear and the wing. It sounds terrible, but I’m always cheered to hear success stories like this, proof of the resilience both of pilots and planes. The plane flew straight into power wires fifty feet above the ground and didn’t turn into a flaming fireball of death. I also liked the dryness of “became aware of some power cables,” as if it were comparable to becoming aware that it’s lunchtime.

It was a few weeks later when I ran into Tom, the man I blame for tricking me into doing my Private Pilot’s License, and we were talking about what made for good instruction. I mentioned instructors I’d flown with, including Ben.

“I don’t know him,” said Tom.
“He’s a good guy. I met him through Louise.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him, I think. I think he’s the guy who wrote off my plane on a night training.”

Ah, er, yes. That would be him. A change of subject might be in order.

Meanwhile, back in Oxford, I flew in the dark for one further evening, finishing my five take-off and landings. Oxford insist on full-stop landings at night which made this a time intensive process as the TB10 put-putted its way around the airfield to take off once more. Albert stayed on the ground, watching me from the warmth of the control tower. As I finished the fifth landing, I was struck again by the eery solitude of the airfield at night, the lights turned off. I used the torch to lock down the plane and then made my way to the parking lot where Albert was waiting to sign my log book.

The night breeze was icy, snow was forecast for the following evening. We had finished just in time but it was done: I had my night rating and I can now fly on instruments … but only if it’s dark.

Part One of Two – originally published in Piper Flyer

Flying feels different in the dark. Sitting in a commercial plane, looking at the black outside the window, the viewpoint strikes me as so completely different. This isn’t an issue during the day, I look out at cities and farmland and lakes and railway lines: they are real. At night it all changes: the twinkly lights that almost mirror a desert night sky have a sheen of unreality, an otherworldliness. It is harder to imagine the commuter and the tractor and the holiday makers and the train engineers when I look down at the lights below. The lit world of the jet is a distinct place, a separate world suspended between ground and sky. As I sip my gin and tonic, I imagine we are in orbit rather than just flying from Luton to Málaga on the late night flight.

Or perhaps I shouldn’t read science fiction novels while I wait for boarding to start.

The first time Cliff flew the Saratoga at night I was at home, pacing. I was a wreck. Would he find the airport? If he accidentally flew out to sea, how would he notice? What if he flew into a mountain? How can you tell the difference between the black of the mountain and the black of the sea, anyway? It seemed terribly dangerous, flying at night.

It wasn’t until he got his IFR licence that I relaxed … until the day came which my regular readers will already have anticipated: he asked me why I didn’t go and get my night rating as well.

In the UK, if you wish to fly at night you have to have a separate rating. Unlike the US, the training for the Private Pilot Licence carries no requirement at all for flying on instruments. You can’t complete a night rating as a part of your PPL: first you must have a minimum of 50 flying hours of which 20 hours must be as Pilot in Command and 10 of those hours must be post-qualification. It’s not a particularly onerous requirement but they do wish you to be comfortable with basic flying before learning a new viewpoint.

I had just reached 100 hours as Pilot of Command so this was hardly an issue. However, getting the night rating wasn’t a priority for me: my home airfield of Málaga doesn’t allow VFR at night. Most of my flying is in the summer and the UK is far enough north that even South East England has sunsets around 9pm, long after I’ve left the airfield and gone out for a beer.

I had considered doing some instrument training but at a very basic level, I didn’t want to do this. The amount of theory was intimidating and I didn’t like to think about trying to land with a hood on. Also, flying by instruments felt a bit like cheating, looking inside instead of out, relying on machines to tell me what to do. I was afraid it might be difficult to tell the difference between the cockpit and Microsoft Flight Simulator. Realistically I knew that anything with that much studying and testing and hours and exams couldn’t possibly be as simple as being told how to fly but I couldn’t help but be wary of the idea. If I knew the plane could fly better than me, then why was I flying at all? It seemed better to avoid the existential questions along with the instrument rating.

On the other hand, I had pushed a lot of limits recently and it seemed time to move onto the next step. The night rating doesn’t need a heavy time/training commitment and could come in useful at some point. Flying with an instructor again would also catch some of the lazy habits I had no doubt fallen into. I had recently been made uncomfortably aware of how difficult I found it to fly the plane without an auto-pilot, a refresher was definitely in order. I decided I would get the rating.

I did what preparation I could: I spent some time reading up on instrument flying and watched out the window on late-night British Airways flights to Málaga, trying to identify the runway from the distance. This isn’t particularly a challenge: the runway is perpendicular to the coast and all 10,500 metres of it is surrounded by bright lights. Honestly, if you can’t find Málaga airfield at night, you may as well throw in the towel right now. But it was interesting to think of it as a navigation exercise, trying to recognize the cities along the route that I knew from my own flying in the area, without the ridges and rivers and lakes that I was used to. A simple route that I flew often as a passenger and fairly regularly as a pilot already looked completely cold and foreign. My map felt useless – why don’t they do separate night maps, showing the clusters of city lighting and the blackouts of the uninhabited areas, like a light box toy or the maps of the heavens. Approximate blobs for concentrated lights and dotted lines for the highways with the blackest of blacks for the water would make navigation much easier.

Still, fear of the ground hadn’t stopped me yet, this was just ground that I couldn’t see. Perhaps better not to think about that.

[...]

Part 2

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“A layover in Singapore,” he wrote in his blog. “A dream come true!”

He is a commercial pilot working for a major airline and has just started doing the major international routes. What surprised me was the deluge of comments he received, asking him about the after-hours fun, how many air hostesses he’d slept with and even a few snide comments referring to the naivety of his wife. He tried repeatedly to deny the accusations that a pilot’s night life was all about fine dining and cheap sex but to no avail. The commenters knew better, he was just covering up.

I suppose it is the allure of travel – exotic locations and the scent of foreign spices. How could you not be excited and aroused? The concept that someone might pay you for the pleasure of travel – well, for most of us, it’s just a dream come true. And while we are daydreaming, why not include those fantasies of high life and easy conquests?

But it really is just fantasy – like gynaecologists having only beautiful sexy patients and McDonald’s staff getting all the hamburgers they can eat. It’s not the way the job really works! I decided I wanted to write a rebuttal.

I have quite a few friends who are pilots so I started to write up a quick questionnaire. Have you ever slept with a crew member? Did a layover ever turn into a hotbed of passion? Give me the real scoop!

“What are you doing?” Cliff asked me. “Is it really appropriate to be asking our friends about their sex life? I don’t understand.”

I explained about the layover fantasy, the people who seemed to think that a pilot’s life was a great sexual adventure.

“Well, not commercial pilots so much,” he interrupted me. “But there is some truth to it.”

I frowned, even my boyfriend believed the stories! Could it get any worse?

“No, really,” he said, “isn’t that what you do?”

“What? What are you talking about?” I was squeaking.

“You.”

He had a funny little half-smile. “Travelling to exotic locations, finding the best restaurants, boozing it up before retiring to a hotel to have sex with the crew.”

The crew? I paused for a moment and then it clicked. “That’s you!”

I thought about his words for a moment while my mouth opened and closed again.

“I do, don’t I,” I said. The truth of the matter now laid plain for me.

You’ve got to feel sorry for commercial pilots – yeah, they get paid to fly but they work hard for the money and ask any one of them and they’ll say that a lot of the destinations are simply a place to rest up ready for the next flight. Chosen at random, just another route, a good place to get fuel.

Whereas we PPLers, we’re living the high life. Choosing our own travel routes and hand-picking our passengers – all optimised for maximum pleasure at our destinations.

So it seems that those commenters have got it right after all – they are just targeting the wrong pilots. In this particular case, it’s the amateurs living out the fantasies.