09-05-96
1986 C-172P
TEB-N07-TEB
1.3 dual(1.3 night)
4 landings
"Night flying Intro, pattern ops, go-around"
High scattered clouds; haze; 75F
This is to be my first real night flight, and by the time I've started the preflight on 6FR, it's quite dark.
As I'm finishing up, one of the instructors and a student are starting up the Arrow in the next spot over, and the wingtip strobes blind me. I divert my gaze as I walk around 6FR's left wing, and end up walking right into the Arrow's wing.Of course, as I glance down to see what I've stumbled into, the strobe flashes again, right in my face. I shamble away awkwardly, deciding to wait until they pull out to complete the preflight.
C. arrives from his previous lesson and tells me he'll be back in another 15 minutes, so I spend a little time checking out the Cessna's cockpit lighting.
It's a little disappointing... the overhead red light is adequate, but I am distracted by the bright white light near the floor, which illuminates the fuel selector. Why isn't this red? Another annoyance is the fact that the very cleverly-placed map light is not really bright enough to illuminate the chart in my lap.
Eventually, C. joins me, and after a quick runup and speedy clearance, I find myself on the departure end of 24, blinking at a sea of bright colored lights.
As we lift off, the brightness of the edge marker lights increases, and I wonder for a moment if I'm going to take off safely. But it's over quickly, and soon we're climbing out above the lights.
I had assumed that we'd make a beeline to N07, but C. starts calling headings more to the north. The implication of this is lost on me for a minute or two, as I'm caught up in the strange new experience. I flew once before after dark, from Greenwood Lake to Teterboro, but I don't remember it being quite so dark as this... a blanket of haze smothers the horizon, and the glittering spires of Manhattan are barely visible. Spread out below is a collection of twinkling amber streetlights, with ground traffic lights crawling throughout.
As we head north of Paterson we seem to enter a great wall of darkness; there are fewer roads and buildings that way.
"Do you know where we are?" asks C.
"Um... I think that's one of the water towers near Lincoln Park..."
Indeed, there is a blinking red light on the south end of a low ridge to the west, just like near N07.
Carlos laughs. "You're where?! Look over there... what's that?"
Feeling stupid, I follow his finger to a cluster of lights on the left.
"Oh yeah... that's the Sheraton..."
What are we doing up here? I wonder. How the hell did I get so far off course?
"Well, I was gonna have you do some maneuvers, but it's no good here. Take me to Lincoln Park."
Of course- he's vectored me here! But not realizing that is worse than merely drifting off-course.
I feel fine; not sleepy at all, but I realize now that I'm not quite awake enough.
I manage to locate N07 by following the highway.
"Imagine if there was a huge blackout right now..." C. muses.
It's not a pleasant thought. We'd be fairly screwed, because with no moonlight and no power on the ground, we might not find an airport before running out of fuel.
But of course, with over 4 hours worth of fuel, we might fly beyond the affected area.
"What would you do now, if you got lost?" he asks me.
"I'd turn around and look for Teterboro", I reply.
He doesn't like that answer, but doesn't offer a better one, at least not at the moment.
"Do you see Lincoln Park yet?"
I must say that I don't and I think I know why. The little field has pilot-activated runway lights. I click the mic five times... nothing happens. C. does the same, and lo, there is the runway, right where it should be.
"Lincoln Park, radio check" I transmit.
C. chuckles. "There's nobody here," he says.
"Just making sure", I reply curtly.
Flying the pattern proves fairly easy, but I keep noticing that with one's references on the ground replaced by points of light, everything seems to move differently.
by the time i turn final, I realize I'm too high- and hot- but I get it together by the time we cross the threshold. It looks pretty good, now... floating a bit, but...
"Go around... go around!"
Without thinking, I goose the throttle while also advancing the carb heat knob with my thumb. Seemed OK to me, I think, but perhaps C. saw a less-favorable picture...I ease back a little and we begin to climb. Peering into the blackness ahead, I realize the importance of knowing a given field at night- were this a strange place to me, and I decided to turn left just now, I'd likely strike that hill less than a mile away, which at the moment looks only like a darker patch of black nothing. Embarrassed by the balked landing, I make an effort to improve. Things go better the next few times, and because the wind is calm, we land in both directions.
Night ops make for some strange perceptions... at one point, as I taxi around the sharp bend near the runway, C. tells me I'm too close to a tree nearby, even though I can see I"m right on the centerline. Haven't hit that tree yet... maybe it moves at night.
Shortly after that, I call for traffic on final before taking the runway.
C. laughs: "There's nobody else out here- we're the only crazy guys here tonight!"
"Well..." I tell him as I pull out onto the runway, "I can't see the pattern, and if I ever do get nailed taking the runway at night, it'll be because I didn't call..."
C. nods silently. I power up and roll 6FR, remembering the incident at Stroudsburg, and decide that it's not even as simple as that...
There's no guarantee of safety in flying. As soon as you start the engine, you are vulnerable. But the odds improve as you develop a culture of doubt and vigilance.
It means little that I call for traffic at some tiny airport after sunset... only a week after failing to see another plane coming right at me while landing in broad daylight!
Our return to the glowing sea of lights and the sprawl of TEB is fairly routine- I actually identify Paterson below at the appropriate time.
Approaching the field, I am struck by how, at this altitude and distance, I really can't see the lights for 24 until I turn base. This makes it tricky to make a clean approach, but I do alright, rolling a bit left after touchdown as usual. C. lectures me about that before we finish the lesson.
I must say now that I'm not crazy about his teaching style. He has his bright moments, but I think he's still learning to guide a student as much as challenging him. We seem to waste a lot of time discussing the obvious, in a way that doesn't seem to help me improve.
I've given up pointing out that I either see what I'm doing wrong or I was just about to do such-and-such, even as he gripes "I have to keep reminding you..."
In the end,I have to demonstrate what I know to his or almost anyone's satisfaction. As Richard Bach pointed out in Jonathan Livingston Seagull:
"You don't know anything until you can demonstrate it."
If I'm not quick enough for C. to see that I can demonstrate what I know, then I just have to be quicker and better prepared than I might feel is necessary.
We had scheduled another cross-country for this last weekend,but the visibility was inadequate. I pointed out that I only needed 0.6 hrs of cross-country dual to finish up the requirement, and was countered with C.'s typical condescending tone:
"That's- that's just the legal minimum! You have to prove to me that you can... I mean, last time, you were all over the place!"
As I recall, I was about 3 miles off on one leg, but... oh well. As it turns out, I should earn enough this week to cover another night flight Thursday, and a 2.5-hr X-C on Sunday.
If, after that, C. is satisfied, I can then set off for 10 hours of solo X-C time... something I am eagerly anticipating.
Thought for the day: When lost, day or night, it is best to circle until you figure out where you are...
