ISTP gets recommended...

[. ._]

Part II

I could have sworn I heard angel-song as the fog instantly dissipated. The sun torched the blue sky amongst the whitest clouds I'd ever seen. The wind-sock bounced just a little, and followed the cool fresh air blowing off Lake Superior. I would fly the shit out of the twin today- under the hood- IFR style.

I thought I'd really impress this newer to Sault College instructor. Sure he was a vet, but never before had he experienced the poetry in 3D that is an ISTP flight.

Mixtures rich, mags on, throttles full, he was about to see the best start-up any pilot could perform on the marvelously maintained 1995 Piper Seminole. Through the hangar doors, I could see the Maintenance Manager- Sir Richard Branson (not the one you're thinking of- it's an honourary title he got one time on vacation in Missouri, and it just stuck). He was peering out the hangar doors. He was sweating, with a pained look on his face. Funny, every time I start a plane, he looks that way.

Engaging both starters at the same time by quickly toggling the starter switch between L and R, the Lycomings roared to life at full power. My instructor was impressed, I could tell. “ISTP, that's a very interesting starting procedure, however, I believe on your flight test tomorrow, you should try starting the plane's engines one at a time- as per checklist, and setting the throttles somewhere closer to idle.” Man, this guy was good!

As I pulled the power levers back to a thousand RPM, I could see a few mechanics, running up to Sir Richard, who was now kind of slumped over a Zlin-wing clutching his chest, and pointing to me. Come to think of it, his face was really red too.

I did some of that checklist stuff some more, and my instructor suggested I contact Sault Ground, and copy an IFR clearance. I thought that was odd, but I went along with it.

“Sault Ground, this is GLOP.”

“GLOP, Sault Ground. Uh, oh no, is this ISTP, by any chance?”

“Why yes it is.”

“GLOP is cleared to get the @#$! out of my control zone and never come back! You menace to the skies. You're the shittiest pilot I've ever controlled, and all I have to do is say fucking “roger, taxi Charlie” all day! I need a drink, where the @#$! is my bourbon, Dennis? Oh shit! Was I transmitting?”

“ATC clears GLOP to get the @#$! out of your control zone and never come back. You menace to the skies. I'm the shittiest pilot you've ever controlled, and all you do is say 'roger, taxi Charlie' all day. You need a drink, where the @#$! is your bourbon, Dennis. Oh shit! Were you transmitting.”

“GLOP read back is correct! TAXI CHARLIE AND GET THE @#$! OUT OF MY ZONE!!”

“Roger, taxi Charlie.”

“Don't even THINK about stealing my job, you little punk! I'm the only one around here authorized to say 'roger, taxi Charlie'!”

“Roger, you guys make things way too hard. I'm going flying now. Bye.”

The radio was silent, so I guess I won that tug of war. I taxied Charlie, echo, 04/22, for the backtrack to 30, and the radio, as usual got really loud, so I turned down the volume. The whole time, the senior instructor next to me remained quiet as a church mouse until I was lined up on runway 30. He suggested I call the tower on tower frequency.

“Why, sir? I never do that. Am I supposed to?”

“Yes ISTP, it's in From the Ground Up.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. I haven't paid attention to that book for at least two years.”

“Maybe before your Group I IFR test tomorrow, you might want to re-read it. Preferably from cover to cover.”
Like I said, this guy was GOOD!

I donned my Jeppeson view limiting device.

I put the little black knobs up as far as they could go, but we weren't moving. I started singing, “Highway to the Danger Zone” as is unwritten Sault College SOP.

“ISTP, you might want to take your feet off the toe-brakes.” I heard through my headset.

So I did, as usual, whatever the voices in my head always command me, and we started moving. Faster, and faster. Now with both hands on the steering wheel, I was ready for the 75 knot back-yank. (I'm pretty sure that's one of the things I read in From the Ground Up.)

Skyward we climbed, further and further to the open space of Southern Northern Ontario.

Oh, we danced the skies as I showed the true miracle of flight to the veteran instructor at my side. The engine-out power-half stall at minimums. The auto-pilot death spiral recovery technique. The round the bend- upsy downsy cloud-bust manoeuvre. The rock it till you can't stop it VOR/GPS overlay coupled with the NDB flabbergast turn-out (with overshoot). And finally, my patented (well I'm working on the patent) half-scale, chandelle-ILS to decision height finale approach. A great way to end a flight.

As we taxied up to the college hangar gas pump, I noticed an ambulance driving off with Sir Richard's red face pressed up against the rear window. He was waving at me with his middle finger in a backwards up and down motion. I get that a lot. I think it's a Soo thing. But I got it a lot growing up in southern Ontario too, so maybe it was just TV spreading the culture around or something.

I said to my instructor as I turned off the mags to stop the engines, “Well, sir, I'd have to say that I definitely flew the shit out of the plane!”

He sighed, looked at me with glassy eyes. “ISTP, you know you have to be recommended for a flight test. I hate to see anyone not succeed in the program. And tomorrow, well, that new insane Austrian 'Siemens' character has already scheduled you. Ron Murray is on his way back from his Saskatchewan fishing ranch in his Twin Comanche as we speak to do the flight test with you tomorrow. But what about my reputation as the new Soo Legend? The Dean of the program has mandated that everyone finish up ASAP. And your flying skills are, well....”

“Great?”

“Uh, I wouldn't say that ISTP. AAAAAWWWW @#$! IT!! I'm here to have fun!”

My instructor snapped with a crazed look now in his eyes. “I can't wait to see the look on old Murray's face when you do the flight test with him! AAAAAHAHAHAAAAA!!! You'll freak him out! Oh this will be good. Oh, it will be stupendous! @#$! my reputation! You're recommended, ISTP. Just for shits and giggles, oh @#$! this is going to be sweet. You HAVE to let me sit in on your de-brief tomorrow, you HAVE to! You're ready to graduate, ISTP, HAHAHAA! YOU'RE RECOMMENDED!”

He did some bizarre jiggy-dance in his seat, then he ripped off the thermoplastic cover for the emergency exit handle, lifted the red handle, pushed out the bottom of the window, and crawled out the emergency exit right across my lap. Then I watched as he bounced up and down along the wing and did a back-flip off the tip as if he was hot-dogging at the local YMCA pool. He did really plant the dismount- landing right on his feet- arms splayed majestically. Indeed, the guy was good.

He charged out to his green Triumph Spitfire (complete with racing stripes), and peeled out of the parking lot.

Strutting off the trailing edge of the Seminole's wing, I admired the T-shaped empennage of the craft. The design had no particular aerodynamic advantage for such a slow little plane. It didn't really help you fly any better, but it definitely looked cool- much the same as an Aviation Technology diploma.