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John Deakin |
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| About the Author ... |
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John Deakin is a 35,000-hour pilot who worked his way up the aviation food chain
via charter, corporate, and cargo flying; spent five years in Southeast Asia
with Air America; 33 years with Japan Airlines, mostly as a 747 captain; and
now flies the Gulfstream IV for a West Coast operator.
He also flies his own
V35 Bonanza (N1BE) and is very active in the warbird and vintage aircraft
scene, flying the C-46, M-404, DC-3, F8F Bearcat, Constellation, B-29, and
others. He is also a National Designated Pilot Examiner (NDPER), able to give
type ratings and check rides on 43 different aircraft types.
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Every pilot out there is going to hate me
for this, but I cannot help but tell this story. To brag. To flaunt my pleasure
shamelessly. Please, cut me a little slack, for this has been one of the most wonderful
achievements of my flying career. I cannot stop grinning, every time I think of it. A
dream has come true, and I have touched and flown history.
Let it be hereby recorded that on August 8, 1999, Mrs. Deakin's little boy Johnny flew
a Connie. The real, honest to goodness, king, queen and prince of the props, a Lockheed
Constellation, and in command, at that.
To
be completely accurate, it's a Lockheed EC-121T "Warning Star," Bureau
Number 53-0548. It bears its original USAF markings on an all-over gray paint job, a tiny
FAA registration number of N548GF, and a Certificate of Airworthiness listing it in the
Experimental Exhibition category. It lives at the Camarillo airport in Southern
California. It bears with bemused dignity the huge belly radome that cannot quite
completely ruin the magnificent lines of this most graceful bird, but never mind, you
can't see that monstrous tumor from the cockpit. From the cockpit door ("Station
260") forward, it is a pure 1049G Super Constellation, with the very biggest Wright
R-3350 Turbo Compound engines, and do they ever sing! It is the only one of its kind still
flying in the world, and likely to remain so.
I had the incredible experience of being the PIC on the 3+05 test flight, without
benefit of any training whatsoever, and without ever having flown one before. I cannot
help but wonder if that makes me only the second person in history to fly a Connie
"cold." The copilot was a private pilot (the owner) with about 100 hours in the
bird over the past five years, and the FE was an FAA Maintenance Inspector, on his first
"solo" flight as a newly rated Recip FE. All legal, too, with FAA waivers and
everything. A bizarre situation, to say the least, but who says there's no adventure
left in aviation!
The
bird is interesting in its own right. Delivered to the USAF as an RC-121D in the Spring of
1955, it was modified to an EC-121T in 1970, then mothballed with four brand-new engines
and props in 1978. There is some mystery about possible spooky activities in her final
active days, and an unexplained 70 hours in the logs, but no one is talking. She ended up
in cocoon storage at Davis-Monthan, and eventually would have been reduced to cotter keys
but for the Pima Air & Space Museum, which purchased her along with several others in
about 1981. In 1994 the present owner, Wayne Jones, purchased her, and created the
"Global Aeronautical Foundation," a non-profit, tax-exempt foundation for the
purpose of displaying her to the public as a flying museum. The ship still contains all
the electronics gear, with all the crew stations for the long patrols, numerous radar
scopes, and other mysterious stuff, which packs the cabin from one end to the other. The
massive radar antenna is still in the huge radome, and turns with the touch of a finger.
Wayne takes it to the occasional airshow if offered enough fuel, and it's a fascinating
tour, if you ever get a chance to go through it. Well worth the few bucks donation he asks
to help pay for a little fuel. At 500 to 600 gallons per hour, the donations are needed!
The previous pilot, Frank Butorac, was a very old ex-Lockheed test pilot on Connies.
But for some reason, he became angry last summer, and wrote several critical letters to
the FAA, grounding the airplane. He died shortly thereafter, leaving the airplane without
a crew, and leaving some recordkeeping issues. The FAA informed the owner that unless he
got some professionally trained crews, and instituted professional recordkeeping and
maintenance, the airplane would remain on the ground. While the airplane is still in
magnificent shape, a few ADs and required maintenance had probably slipped by or had not
been recorded properly.
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Oil is truly added by the barrel, into a
"Reserve" tank in the left wing root. Later, it is transferred to the individual
engine tanks by a large hydraulic motor, or with a backup electrical pump.
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Tery McMaster, the FAA maintenance Inspector (who is also a C-130 FE in the Guard) took
the project under his wing, soon got hooked personally (a Connie will do that!) and began
working on the airplane on his own time. He cleaned up the records and now has everything
beautifully organized. All the ADs and bulletins are up-to-date, and he really put the
airplane in tip-top shape over the past year, with a lot of volunteer help. Thanks Lord,
for volunteers, for without them we'd never be able to fly these old birds. This one is a
special challenge, due to the sheer size! It's a day's work just to service it,
and when oil is added, it's by the barrel.
As the time approached for a test flight to return the aircraft to service, the FAA
assigned a Flight Inspector from the Van Nuys FSDO named Gary Hunt to the project, and set
up some requirements that had to be met. An early problem was that there is no way the FAA
will consider it a Connie, it's an EC-121, for which there is no type rating at all.
Therefore an L-1049 type rating will not suffice to fly it, and a Connie type rating
cannot be acquired in it. That is ridiculous, pure bureaucratic BS, but even the good
people in the FAA can't get past the paperwork on this one. It must be flown under an
FAA Letter of Authorization (LOA). While there are a couple of current Connie pilots
floating around, there were absolutely no EC-121 qualified people, since they're all
long out of service, except this one. The next best choice was to find someone with recent
big radial experience, used to a three-man cockpit, with recent CRM training, and someone
the FAA would be willing to designate as an instructor and check pilot. Somehow, for
reasons I still do not fully understand, and which I have absolutely no intention of
questioning, my name seemed to sorta float to the top (Some would say "kinda like
scum on the surface of the pilot pool," but they're just jealous!)
The basic proposition was for me to do the initial test flights under a temporary LOA,
and check myself out in the bird. Once I'm comfortable, the FAA has indicated they will
arrange for some sort of check ride, then issue me a permanent LOA, followed by a
"Letter of Operational Authority" (LOOA), which will entitle me to issue LOAs to
others on the beast. Since the standards are the same as a type rating, it's just
"examiner" and "type rating" under other names, as far as I'm
concerned. As soon as I'm comfortable doing so, I'll move to the right seat, and start the
training process for at least two more captains, and several copilots. They won't
have it as easy as I did, they'll have a fire-breathing monster in the right seat!
But at least I can be tamed, bribed, and distracted with suitable quantities of
chocolate-chip cookies and other goodies, applied frequently.
Once we get at least one legal crew up to speed, the airplane can once again attend
airshows, go on tours, and do movie work. We're already talking about taking it to
OSH next year. Lessee, that's only about 8,000 gallons of 100LL for the round trip.
Man, I sure am glad I just fly it, and don't have to feed it!
Now, if you find all this bizarre, just imagine how I felt! I made 'em repeat this
proposition a couple of times to make sure I had it straight. Then I gulped once or twice,
tried to keep a straight face and act nonchalant, and ever the fool, said, "Yeah,
sure, I can do that!"
As a kid (well, I'm still a kid, but you know what I mean), I had watched and
listened to these magnificent airplanes, and dreamed of the day I might fly one. Alas, the
jets came along, blowing the prop airliners out of the air with their kerosene stink and
their awful noise. The props never had a chance, for the jets are faster, safer, and more
economical, but no jet will ever raise goose bumps like a big radial does when it coughs
to life. To me, the Connie is still a flying wet dream.
The jets gave me new dreams to dream, and I've been lucky enough to have satisfied
most of those, although I've not flown the F-104 (yet!) But even with all those years
in jets, I never quite forgot the big radials and old airplanes, and especially the big
bird with the banana fuselage, the long, spindly nose gear, and the tiny cockpit windows.
I still remember that on every single Connie I've ever seen taking off, the landing
gear will come up fairly evenly, but at the last second, the left main, always the left
main, falls back down almost all the way, then it will slowly come back up again, and the
doors will close. I have wondered for more than 40 years what quirk of the hydraulic
system causes that, and I'm wondering still. Perhaps some reader can enlighten me? I
see nothing in the systems that would cause that.
I had not even seen a Connie in more than 20 years, when I happened to become involved
with the Southern California Wing of the Confederate Air Force at Camarillo a few years
ago, and the C-46 based there. While flying that, I became aware that there were two
flying Connies there, parked nose to nose on a remote corner of the airport. One is
"The Camarillo Connie," a beautiful blue and white C-121 converted to a civilian
configuration (and legal as a Connie, go figure!)
The other is locally referred to as "The Radar Connie." When I arrived at my
first airshow with the C-46 (El Toro), I spotted "The Camarillo Connie" already
there on display. In looking it over, I discovered it was being flown by my old friend
Chuck Grant, with whom I had worked at Air America and Japan Airlines, where he had been
one of my chiefs (one of the good ones). He gave me the tour, and I couldn't help
caressing the airplane when no one was looking. But there seemed to be no opening for me.
Later that day, I was standing by the taxiway when it taxied by, with those four giant
engines singing their siren song, and I am not ashamed to admit the tears were streaming
down my face at the sight and sound. What a magnificent machine! I didn't mind at all
getting spattered with a few drops of oil from the smoke it was still trailing after the
start, as the wingtip passed over my head.
After that show, by prearrangement, we flew along in formation for a few minutes, both
headed home for Camarillo, while some photographers on our C-46 shot up roll after roll of
film. What a sight! That big, graceful, curving shape — right there — right in my
window, filling it! So beautiful, with the gear tucked up!
But flying one still seemed a distant dream, for all the seats were taken — until
Wayne Jones and the FAA decided I could try this one on. I attended a meeting one day, and
that afternoon it was somehow decided that I should get to taxi the airplane around a bit,
and even accelerate to about 70 knots on the runway, then do a planned reject. They
didn't have to ask me twice! We couldn't legally fly that day, but no one will
ever know how tempted I was to just let it go! Everyone seemed to be pleased with how
I'd handled those simple chores, and shortly thereafter I was notified that I was to
be "The Man" for the initial flying, and that they hoped I'd do the
instructing on it. I acted suitably reluctant and bashful, but had a hard time not
slobbering all over the airplane, the people and the ramp.
Never fully believing it would
really happen, I went into a frenzy of study. I talked to Connie pilots and crews, and I
went through every manual I could find. I intended to know that airplane at least as well
as that other fool who first flew it in 1943. Better, in fact, for at least I knew
it would fly, and he didn't.
While the FAA seemed willing to stick any idiot into the captain's seat, they were
(properly) adamant that the Flight Engineer (FE) seat be occupied by a real FE with the
Recip rating, and who was current in recips, though not necessarily current in a Connie.
Our FAA man did not have the recip rating, though he is an active FE in C-130s in the
Guard, and knew this Connie rather intimately, having wrenched on it for over a year.
Accordingly, he was sent off to Kansas City, where the fine folks who run another Connie
("Save-A-Connie") gave him some training, and the FAA checkride. Good move, the
Connie is very much an FE's airplane. I've now proven that any hamburger can fly
it, but operating that panel is "something else." Somewhere in the back of my
mind, I'm thinking it would be "nice" to have the FE certificate, earned in
the Connie.
On that fateful Sunday, all the
players were in place and the airplane was ready, or so we thought. We took our places and
began running the checklists, with me worried that at any minute the FAA would would show
up and halt the show. Of course I wasn't really thinking of our very own FAA man,
flying with us, trusting fool that he is, for he's as nuts as I am.
With the first engine start, the secondary hydraulic system quantity dropped to zero.
Okay, no big surprise, fluid drains back into the reservoir while it's sitting, leaving
the pipes empty. So we shut down and refilled, putting two gallons of red stuff in, and
started up again. Oops, same thing, it needs even more. We shut down to do that, and
someone found the left main strut spurting hydraulic fluid and foam, maybe a blown strut
seal.
Oh, man! My heart sank, my dream of flying a Connie seeming to take wings without me,
for a blown strut seal is a lot of work to repair, and we'd not fly that day.
But wait. Foam? Waitaminnit guys, we shouldn't see foam unless there isn't enough fluid
in the strut in the first place. Maybe, just maybe, this is not a blown seal, and maybe
it's an easy quick fix ("Not a chance," said the mean little devil on my
left shoulder). Hoping, we let all the air out, and poured in four quarts
(that's a lot for a strut!) of red 5606 hydraulic fluid, then refilled the strut
with nitrogen, and there was only the tiniest seepage, good enough for flight. We figured
some flexing would reseat the seals, and sure enough, it did. Those seals may get
replaced, this winter.
Still fearful of seeing that FAA man running across the tarmac, waving his arms and
screaming "Stop, Stop, it's all a mistake!" we went through the checklists,
and fired the lady up for the third time that day. The hydraulic fluid level held solid
and steady! Another obstacle falls.
But the little devil on my shoulder was merciless, whispering in my ear "Ha,
you'll probably have a bad mag check, turkey." My heart was in my mouth, but all
eight mags and all systems checked out flawlessly, and we were ready. The tower cleared us
to taxi up the abandoned half of the runway to the threshold, and cleared us for takeoff
on the remaining 6,000 feet.
With a final glance around looking for that FAA man (who I'd have ignored at this
point), I grabbed a handful of throttles and marched them forward, bringing the big 3350s
to full-throated roaring fury. Well, not quite, we're limited to 52 inches of
manifold pressure and 2,880 HP with 100 octane fuel (100LL) instead of the 59.5 inches and
3,400 HP we could get with 115/145. 115/145 is no longer available, except for the big
Reno racers.
Somewhere around 35 inches, I called "engineer's throttles, max power,"
and the FAA man in the FE's seat pushed them on up to 52 inches, trimming them nicely
for me. The engines sound lovely, partly because the exhaust gasses pass through
"Power Recovery Turbines" (PRTs), the shafts of which are connected to the
engine's crankshaft by fluid drives, recovering something around 500 HP. Those
produce a muffling effect, giving the engine its unique sound, and making them much
quieter than the open stacks of most big radials. This is not without cost, however, for
those devices are also nicknamed "Parts Recovery Turbines" (and worse), and are
another source of failures, often nasty ones.
Acceleration
felt really good. The airspeed indicator came right off the peg, and with a glance across
the cockpit, I confirmed that both were reading the same value, and rising equally.
Initial steering on the takeoff is done by a nose gear steering wheel on the left
sidewall, and this is used until the rudder becomes fully effective at around 70 knots. It
is my habit to wiggle the rudder a little on this type of steering system, and when it
becomes effective, I move my left hand to the yoke, keeping my right hand on the throttles
just in case of a failure that might prompt an abort. I was only a little surprised when
the rudder pedals became effective well below 50 knots indicated, but moved my hand to the
yoke, anyway.
It suddenly seemed to me that it was
taking far too long to attain 70 knots, which was also the speed we'd agreed upon for
the FE to abort. Since he has all the engine stuff back there where the pilots can't
see it, I'd briefed him that if he saw anything he didn't like, just go ahead
and pull the power off on his own, but only below 70 knots. After that, it was to be my
decision alone. The center panel is strangely bare, with the only engine instruments being
manifold pressure and RPM. With our gross weight of about 114,000 pounds, refusal speed
was 100, after which I would not abort for any reason, and takeoff speed was 113.
(Technically, there is no such thing as "V1" and "V2" in this
airplane; the military did not use those terms. But "refusal speed" is roughly
equivalent to "V1" and "takeoff speed" is roughly equivalent to
"V2."
Suddenly, we seemed to be going awfully fast, so I checked both indicators, and both
were still showing about 60, and coming up kinda slowly, which did not match the
feeling in my fanny. About then I realized the airplane was telling me loud and clear
"I wanna fly!" and by golly, the end of the 6,000' runway was sort of
approaching rather briskly. We were very suddenly far too late to abort, so I eased the
nose up, and away we went, climbing at 80 knots indicated (far below stalling, normally).
The airplane flew great, so I just kept the takeoff attitude, which gave me about 300 fpm
rate of climb. I called for the gear up and kept takeoff flaps to 3,000' just to be safe,
then milked them up.
According to plan, I did a lazy climbing left turn to the downwind, then continued
turning left over the Camarillo airport. I had previously coordinated with Camarillo Tower
and Point Mugu, and let them know what was happening. I wanted Mugu to be aware of the
flight, because if we'd had any major emergency that required an immediate landing on
that first takeoff, I wanted to be able to just make a left turn, then a right turn, and
dump the airplane onto Mugu's 11,100-foot runway. Their superb emergency equipment
provided by my tax dollars also entered into the equation.
But this didn't even qualify as a minor emergency, so we climbed out to 7,000 over
the ocean west of Camarillo, where I did a couple of steep turns. They felt good, so I
went right into a series of stalls to see just what was going on with the airspeed
indicators. I usually consider stalls a waste of fuel, mostly, but this time they sure had
a valid purpose! We found stalling speeds of 87 clean, 75 with takeoff flaps, and 55 with
full flaps and gear! Somewhere between 30 and 40 knots low. The pitot/static system had
just been recertified, and we figured something had been left loose. (It turned out to be
mud-dauber's nests, deep in the pitot tubes.)
The speeds were completely repeatable, so we just computed some new speeds based on
them and continued with my planned profile, engine shutdown, maneuvering at slow speeds
down to V1, METO power, go-arounds, etc., getting a feel for the machine at altitude.
Unfortunately, the first time we put the gear down, we found an unsafe indication on
the nose gear, which was worrisome. We talked that over, and decided we'd just do the
minimum necessary stuff to get back on the ground — once. The IAS indication we were able
to correct and allow for, but the nose gear was a definite no-go for further flight
involving takeoffs and landings.
We did a landing pattern at 7,000',
to get a feel for procedures timing and checklist usage, and a rejected landing. This was
a very worthwhile exercise, for it gave me an excellent idea of how the landing pattern
would go. For one thing, I left the landing checklist a little too late, which would have
rushed us during the real thing.
I had planned to shoot several ILSs into nearby Oxnard right down to the runway with a
rejected landing in order to give me a good sight picture on a known descent path, and
later with various combinations of flaps and engines out. Since the unsafe nose gear would
not have any effect on a rejected landing, I went ahead and did one, ignoring the gear
indication, and the loud warning horn with full flaps and unsafe gear. No surprises, the
airplane was very stable on the ILS, very easy to fly, although the instruments are so
badly located, I have a terrible time getting any kind of scan going. I felt
one ILS and go-around was enough, so we flew out over the ocean again, and extended the
gear the final time, this time for real. The FE crawled down in the belly to take a peek
at the alignment lines on the nose gear, and it showed safe visually, so we figured it was
safe to land on it. Very little choice, by then!
I shot a nice, easy visual traffic
pattern into Camarillo, offsetting the final as I always do to keep from making the
noise-sensitive residents unhappy, got kind of a crunchy landing (but I'll take it!),
reversed, and could have turned off at the 3,500 foot point. To save wear and tear on the
brakes, I just let it roll to the Delta taxiway, maybe 4,500 feet down the 6,000 foot
runway.
We pulled off, stopped, shook hands all around, did the after-landing checks, and
taxied home. I was astonished to find we'd been out of the blocks for over three hours!
Except for the malfunctions, we had a very smooth flight, everyone worked really well
together, just like we'd been doing it for years. Wayne had a couple of very worthwhile
and helpful comments during the flight, and Tery did a wonderful job on the panel. Not
that I'd know if he didn't, unless he shut an engine down with fuel
mismanagement, I can't even see what he's doing, back there!
The pitot systems were blown out, and to my surprise, a lot of trash came out. (No, it
wasn't visible.) I really thought a couple nuts had been left loose (besides the ones
in the left pilot seat). How did those mud-daubers build equal nests in each pitot system,
anyway? The unsafe nose gear turned out to be a part that had been installed backwards
long ago. That was fixed, cleaned, and lubricated, and the airplane was declared ready
again. But twelve long days were to pass before all the players could assemble again,
since all are employed, and most employers don't really care about flying Connies.
This is the chronic problem with all these old airplanes, and the reason for the shortage
of crews.
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Power recovery turbine wheel visible inside exhaust stack.
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On August 21, Tery and I showed up early, and began the long, long process of doing a
thorough preflight. I volunteered to "spin the PRTs," which involves reaching
deep inside three different exhaust stacks on each engine, finding the turbine wheel, and
spinning it. This gynecological exercise is to make sure it turns freely, with only the
resistance of the fluid drive that connects it to the main crankshaft. To my surprise, the
#2 engine, lower outboard PRT made a distinct scraping noise, and resisted my efforts
enough to indicate there was a problem. I will never again be tempted to skip this check,
for this is an excellent example of one thing that can cause a PRT fire. In five minutes
we had the cowling open, exposing the outer shroud around the turbine. This consists of
two halves of a clamshell-type cover, with a large ring around the rims, holding them
together, with two large bolts squeezing the ring tightly. Tery and I busted a few
knuckles and offered up a few aviation prayers, for one bolt came easy, the other one
resisted all efforts, and finally had to be cut out. By then, the rest of the real
mechanics had arrived, and I was in the way, so I collected my two trainees and proceeded
to cockpit for some drills and discussion. Good excuse, I thought.
Dana Dorsey is the Chief Pilot for the Connie, and a good thing, too, I don't like
that sort of work, I'm content to do training programs. Let him pick ‘em,
I'll train ‘em. Dana has a brand-new job with Spirit Airlines as an MD-80 pilot,
and has a good deal of experience with radial engines on Convair 440s and North American
B-25s. Lee Hughes is a pilot for United, also with radial experience, and both are slated
for the left seat on the Connie. Lee was not present for either flight, and I doubt that
made him very happy! The other trainee for the second flight was Steve Johnson, a pilot
for SkyWest on Brasilias. With less time, and little radial experience, he is slated to
first fly as a First Officer (FO) on the Connie. None have any four-engine time, but that
doesn't mean much to me. I'm more interested in the fact that they are used to
working as a crew, and they are getting ongoing professional training and flying,
including CRM and other crew concepts, and that at least the captains know a bit about the
care and feeding of big radials.
There is a troublesome paradox in these operations. With full-time working pilots,
scheduling becomes almost impossible. It's tough enough with a two-person crew, I can
see that getting three people with the time off at the same time is going to be a
formidable challenge for Dana. So we really need to check out a number of crews, but once
we do that, there isn't enough flying to keep everyone current in the airplane. If we
use someone who is retired, he is not going to get enough time in the Connie to remain
sharp, and he won't be getting time in anything to keep the skills up. These pilots
often very quickly fall behind in regulations and procedures, and lose motor skills, too.
At least most working pilots are maintaining their skills in something, even if it
does burn kerosene.
As the King of Siam said, "'Tis a puzzlement." It's a real Catch-22
situation, with all the old airplanes. Of course, very few of these charitable,
non-profits can afford to pay for any crew member, we're all volunteers, with a few
rare exceptions.
But we're hoping to get at least one more captain fast-tracked into the seat, and
Tery is tasked with getting a couple more FEs up to speed. That will at least improve our
odds of being able to work out a schedule, and may allow us to attend an airshow or two
before the season is over.
After that, the
real work begins, getting a full training program up and running, then getting a full
complement of three crews checked out. The first step will be a good solid ground school.
I anticipate doing an intensive five-day course with a PowerPoint presentation, computer
projection, and some video. Five days is not much, compared to the old days when new hires
spent 30 to 45 days in school on an airplane like this. But there are several differences.
Back then, new hires didn't have much experience, and ground schools had to be set up
for a broad range of subjects, including regulations and procedures (company and
government), weather, aerodynamics and a lot of basic principles of airplane systems.
None of that will be mentioned in my ground schools. In the old days, pilots were
expected to be able to do some really silly things, like "draw the hydraulic system
schematic, from memory." The modern approach is "What does this cockpit lever
do, and how, when would you use it, and what happens with a failure?" I don't
care how much hydraulic pressure is available to the brakes through a reducer from the
main system. That figure can't be read in the cockpit, or anywhere. If it works, it
works, if it doesn't, deal with it. Pre-study and self-study will be musts, for those
really wanting to know the machine. It will not be a five-day vacation, unless people are
attending just for the interest and the nostalgia value!
I'm doing this already for the C-46 (two days) and the Martin 404 (three days) and
those courses have been well received. I'm looking at October 25-29 for the first
Connie ground school. The next M-404 ground school will be November 6, 7, and 8. The next
C-46 ground school is in January All will be in Camarillo, Calif.
There were rough black and white copies of various manuals floating around, but I get
very impatient with these, so I just borrowed the military manual (the "Dash
One") for this airplane, and had it copied at a good print shop. It's in full
color, so the schematics are useful. It's a great manual, as most of the old military
manuals were, for they were produced without regard for cost. If anyone is interested in
buying a color copy, contact me. The cost of color copying has dropped dramatically in the
past few years, making this sort of thing affordable. I'm also working on getting all
this on CD-ROM, and I've got several other old books duplicated too, all for sale.
If you're interested in signing up for one of the groundschools or obtaining one of the
books, drop me an enote at jdeakin@avweb.com.
I hit 60 in October, and while I've been approved by JAL to keep on
flying the 747 as a copilot to 63 (we can do that, under JCAB and ICAO rules), it is time
I began looking for new opportunities. One avenue I'm exploring is doing just this
sort of thing, highly specialized ground schools on the old airplanes, and possibly engine
management for general aviation engines, as well. I believe there is a great need for
pilot education in this area, for there are many Old Wives' Tales floating around out
there, and much misinformation. If you don't hate me too much for being so
insufferable about flying a Connie, wish me luck!
Be careful up there!
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