It doesn't seem as if it has been a year since AOPA faced one of its greatest challenges: the aftermath of the September 11 tragedy. The nation and our members were shocked that four airliners were used as deadly weapons of mass destruction, but little did we realize the impact that the events would have on general aviation — small airplanes without the size, weight, or momentum to cause this sort of destruction.
The important role that your association played this year has been split between advocacy and communication. AOPA lobbied both Congress and regulators to return GA to its September 10 status. Communication was on many fronts. For members, and all pilots, AOPA has been an important link to the airspace and regulatory decisions being made on almost a moment's notice. For the general public we have been the source of information and reason as to the minimal threat posed by light aircraft.
Neither of these functions is new to our organization. You, as members who have supported AOPA over the years, provided us with the resources to be ready for the tragedy of September 11. We didn't invent a world-class Web site after the attacks; it was already in place. Pilots just used it for instant communication far more than they ever had in the past. AOPA didn't start collecting member e-mail addresses on September 12; we had been working for the previous five years to insure that we had this information for a majority of our members. Pilots benefited by receiving geographically targeted e-mail messages when airspace within a 250-nm radius of their home was changed, often with only a few hours' notice. We didn't hire more communications department spokespersons; they were already on staff and trained to work with the media. Obviously, none of us expected a task as challenging as the one with which we found our.selves, but that's our job on your behalf.
Throughout the organization, employees rallied to meet your need for information. On several weekends we asked our Aviation Services staff — those who answer the toll-free 800/USA-AOPA number — to answer the flood of questions regarding changing conditions. Our AOPA Legislative Affairs staff in Washington, D.C., made sure that Capitol Hill was aware of how general aviation was being unduly punished. There is not a division or department within your organization that did not respond admirably to the cause.
But, unfortunately, the work continues. Much attention has been paid to airlines and airline airport security, and it is now beginning to filter down to general aviation. AOPA has been proactive with regard to suggestions concerning GA pilots, aircraft, passengers, and airports. Our initiatives have been applauded by both the FAA and the new Transportation Security Agency (TSA). One thing is certain: The backing and support of almost 385,000 AOPA members give us clout in the nation's capital and at the state level. You have provided the association resources to handle the enormous tasks of the last year and those ahead. Your active and generous response to our call for letters, telephone calls, or e-mails to politicians when an issue arises exceeds that of any other aviation organization in the world. Thank you! — Phil Boyer
Reflect, Respond, Rebuild for the Future
AOPA addresses change in the wake of the terrorist attacks
BY JULIE K. BOATMAN
The timeline began at 8:46 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time on September 11, 2001.
And the timeline hasn't concluded, not by a long shot.
The repercussions of the terrorist attacks continue to shape our lives and, in particular, our flying. While much has returned to normal, this is only on the surface. A year after the events of last fall, changes and responses still happen on a weekly basis.
And AOPA continues the work it started back in 1939 as a voice for general aviation in challenging times.
The initial response
The first month following the attacks saw us stunned but charged with getting back into the air. What we didn't expect was the intense scrutiny that GA suddenly fell under. While no GA aircraft took part in the attacks, Part 91 VFR operations were among the last to gain entrée back into the system — it wasn't until September 19 that Part 91 VFR was allowed, and then only outside newly created "enhanced Class B" (ECB) areas, leaving more than 282 airports, 41,000 aircraft, and 120,000 pilots in 30 major metropolitan areas effectively shut down — and shut out. VFR flight training had to wait two more days, launching on September 21 and, again, only outside ECB. Agricultural operations faced ongoing scrutiny as THE terrorists? plots and possible intentions came to light.
In fact, it wasn't until much later that Part 91 VFR pilots could use the airspace surrounding the United States' most populated areas.
Aviation businesses — and, most important, the people who gain their livelihood through general aviation — felt the grounding deeply. Flight schools, aerial photographers, tour operators, banner towers, and other businesses based within the ECB areas continued to suffer after those outside gained clearance to fly.
That GA was poorly understood became painfully clear as AOPA worked hard in Washington, D.C., to combat misapprehensions, extol the benefits of GA, and explain standard procedures within the system to a cadre of government officials who had never before worked with aviation issues. The perception that GA was "uncontrolled," that it consisted only of recreational pilots, that it wasn't a critical part of the national transportation system — every misconception cost us time in the air.
AOPA President Phil Boyer, together with other industry representatives, testified before a congressional aviation subcommittee panel on September 25 to clarify general aviation and lay the foundation for plans to move forward with the reopening of airspace. Boyer appeared on numerous national news shows to tell GA's story. AOPA testified again in early October, with the call to "free the GA 41,000," the number of aircraft still affected by ECB restrictions at that time. Bills calling for additional control of flight training hit the table, replete with background checks and other barriers to entry — this coming a few months before the Immigration and Naturalization Service would prove incompetent at its own game and issue visas to two of the dead terrorists. Security measures were also tossed back and forth for aircraft over 12,500 pounds.
Getting back in the air
Although many airports around the country opened to Part 91 operations fairly quickly, it wasn't until October 4 that Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport in D.C. reopened to commercial traffic, and just last month, the Secretary of Transportation indicated it would be indefinitely closed to general aviation, including the corporate users who rely upon its close proximity to Washington to get business accomplished efficiently. On October 6, temporary flight restrictions (TFRs) centered on the VORs for Reagan National and John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York were reduced from 25 nm to 18 nm. Restrictions on flights within 15 nm of Boston remained in place.
But it wasn't only Northeast pilots who waited for access to their airspace. Pilots within the ECB areas caught a break starting on October 15 as ECBs across the country opened up to VFR operations in waves, with ECBs at Orlando, Florida, and Chicago among the last released to VFR traffic. Chicago's Meigs Field reopened on October 11, but Manassas Regional Airport in Virginia, a major general aviation reliever airport for the Washington, D.C., area, didn't open to Part 91 VFR flights until November 27.
And the TFRs continued. An original blanket TFR prohibiting flight within 3 nm and 3,000 feet agl of sporting events and other major open-air assemblies of people soon gave way to more specific TFRs polka-dotting the country. The World Series, the Super Bowl, space shuttle launches, and high-level meetings such as the G-8 Economic Summit were all targets for TFRs. The Winter Olympics in the Salt Lake City area provoked a 45-nm-wide TFR that effectively closed many airports. Ire was raised when a TFR was announced over Washington, D.C., airspace for the State of the Union address in January — only hours prior to the event.
This notam mania created a particularly tricky problem for pilots trying to steer clear of the new restricted areas. The first round of TFRs surrounding nuclear power plants and similar facilities issued forth on October 30, all but closing 454 airports and heliports. At first — amazingly — the federal government refused to disclose the locations involved, but soon AOPA, in conjunction with Jeppesen, released graphical depictions of these TFRs on AOPA Online. "How can a pilot avoid airspace that isn't charted?" we asked ourselves.
In the following months, TFRs cropped up like cumulus clouds on a summer day — pilots could only guess where they would occur, and why. For the Independence Day weekend, TFRs covered the Statue of Liberty in New York harbor; Mount Rushmore, near Rapid City, South Dakota; and the Gateway Arch in St. Louis. One last-minute TFR cropped up for the afternoon of Independence Day over Manhattan — issued only that morning. As each TFR came forth, AOPA staff were there to help members interpret the airspace changes and to question any extreme measures taken by federal and local officials.
On June 25, the TFR centered on Ground Zero in New York was canceled, opening up the Hudson and East River corridors after more than nine months.
Changing rules
A year later, we face ongoing regulatory changes that could shape our flying for years to come.
As the nature of the terrorist schemes came to light, many states responded by arguing for greater restrictions to aircraft and on pilots. For example, South Dakota passed a law requiring "state issued" pilot ID. AOPA laid the foundation to head off such restrictions by making recommendations to the FAA as early as December — so that when a call was made to issue a photo ID to all U.S.-certificated pilots, AOPA already had a solution in place: Require pilots to carry another form of photo ID, such as a state-issued driver's license or passport — an ID that pilots probably already possess. At press time, congressional support for the initiative was building, and all indications pointed to adoption of the AOPA proposal by emergency rulemaking.
A week after the attacks, AOPA's Legislative Affairs Department had drafted a proposal that would pay reparations to general aviation businesses that suffered losses as a result of the FAA's post-September 11 GA shutdown. The proposal was woven into an initial bill, House aviation subcommittee Chairman John Mica's (R-Fla.) legislation (H.R.3347) and Sen. James Inhofe's (R-Okla.) companion legislation (S.2007), that blossomed into one with a hefty $5.5-billion price tag.
Early this summer, AOPA member Inhofe introduced a second piece of legislation in the Senate for relief funds for general aviation businesses. The original legislation, opposed by the Bush administration, stood little chance of passage. Inhofe's second bill totaled $25 million and was more directly targeted to the FBOs, flight schools, and GA manufacturers most affected by the government's airspace closure.
Airports remain closed, including Washington D.C.'s Washington Executive/Hyde Field, and several D.C.-area airports still couldn't allow transient traffic as of midsummer.
Airspace will continue to be an issue, as security concerns cause government officials to rethink the existing TFRs and restricted areas. While the FAA contracted with Jeppesen in May to graphically depict TFRs for dissemination to flight service stations, AOPA challenged the FAA to deliver these same graphics directly to pilots. The unfortunate wandering of a Cessna 182 into the Washington, D.C., TFR on June 19 illustrated the reason behind this initiative.
Addressing public reaction
The June 19 incursion also touched upon another area of fallout of the public's misunderstanding of GA: From misunderstanding comes fear.
On January 5, a Cessna 172 crashed into a bank building in downtown Tampa. The disturbed young man who perished left a suicide note expressing support for the terrorists, which fueled public apprehension about small aircraft. However, the tragic crash served mostly to highlight something obvious to GA pilots: Small aircraft have neither the mass nor the fuel capacity to do catastrophic damage such as that which felled the World Trade Center towers.
To answer this misunderstanding, a tool was already in place: Last fall AOPA launched the General Aviation Restoration Fund. Monies donated to the campaign are being used to finance advertising around the U.S. in support of general aviation and to educate the public about the benefits GA brings to everyone. As of June 30, the General Aviation Restoration Fund had raised more than $500,000 and this month ads will be placed in newspapers and other media outlets across the country (see " President's Position: www.GAservingamerica.org," p. 4).
Also, to address concerns regarding nuclear power plant security, AOPA commissioned a report that demonstrated that the plants could withstand a direct hit by a GA airplane and suffer no breach of critical containment structures. Additional reports from outside sources reiterate this, stressing that even an airliner traveling at 300-plus mph couldn't inflict the necessary damage to cause a catastrophe.
On the lighter side
During the year following September 11, life moved forward and so did GA.
Two months after the attacks, AOPA Expo 2001 posted a record turnout for an East Coast Expo, and more than 70 airplanes paraded down the streets of Fort Lauderdale, Florida, past cheering onlookers. In June, the AOPA Fly-In and Open House also saw record numbers, with 825 aircraft flying in to AOPA's headquarters in Frederick, Maryland, and more than 8,000 attendees. AOPA Expo 2002 in Palm Springs, California, from October 24 to 26 also promises to be a bustling event.
We're still flying, we're still buying airplanes, and we're still enjoying the freedoms made more precious by the events of the last year.
And AOPA is still there in the trenches, working hard to preserve those freedoms as we approach the next century of flight.
E-mail the author at [email protected].
The Longest Day
One year after the terrorist attacks, a squad of NYPD's unsung heroes looks back
BY PHIL SCOTT
Police officer and pilot Pat "Paddy" Walsh was standing inside the base of the New York City Police Department's Helicopter Unit, located at Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn. If you ignore the decay and the broken glass on the art deco building and hangar there, it's New York City's finest airport. It is now closed to aviation except the NYPD's helicopters because it's too close to the jet traffic at John F. Kennedy International Airport.
Officer Walsh was inside the base on this beautiful September morning in 2001 drinking a cup of coffee. Roll call was over and Walsh had been assigned as pilot in command of the unit's Bell 412 air-sea rescue ship. At that very moment, smoke began pouring out of the top of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. "I was standing with Detective Cornelius Murray of Operations who was on a phone call when a second phone call came in from Lt. Steve D'Antonio a recently retired member of the unit," Walsh recalls, "He had just witnessed the first plane crash into the North Tower, and he said to me, 'Paddy, send everybody, oh, my God, send everybody.'"
And so began the longest day of Walsh's life.
Walsh rounded up fellow police officer and pilot Timothy Hayes, assigned to be his copilot. They both had a lot of rotary-wing time — Walsh 3,500 hours and Hayes a more modest 1,200. While Hayes had a mixture of fixed-wing and rotary time, Walsh had logged only rotary hours. "I was a rotorhead from day one," he recalls now in a New Yawk accent. "I borrowed money from everyone in the family to learn to fly helicopters. They thought I was nuts, but it was something I wanted to do."
Walsh and Hayes, along with crew chiefs John Maier and Donald Gromling and scuba divers Steve Bienkowski and J.P. Felin, boarded the Bell and they were airborne within four minutes. They were thinking, after all, that the airplane might have ripped off its wing and spiraled into the Hudson River less than three blocks away — although why it would fly at such a low altitude and slam into such a huge building on such a clear day was anybody's guess. If so a few passengers could be fighting for their lives in that river at that moment. It's only 10 nautical miles from Floyd Bennett to the World Trade Center as the helicopter flies. Within minutes they were circling around to the north side of the North Tower. The damage was greater than they had originally thought; it was probably no small airplane that hit the building, and the sky above the Hudson River corridor (at 1,100 feet or higher) belonged to La Guardia. So the airplane had probably been under the airport's control. Walsh contacted the tower for information, but none was available. Their next plan was to recon the rooftop for a possible landing and deployment of the NYPD rappel team and fire department and EMS personnel to evacute the injured. From the building's shattered windows they saw people waving at the helicopter, hoping that the 412 could come and rescue them. And then they saw something much more troubling: people leaping out of the building to escape from the heat, the fire, the smoke of the North Tower.
Two rappellers were on board the second police 412 that had just taken off (the pilots and crew declined to be interviewed), so that the helicopter could pick up people who had climbed onto the roof of the building. Walsh lifted his 412 to the building's apex, but there was nothing there except thick black smoke pouring from the building's north side. Perhaps the exit doors had been locked to keep away vandals, cliff divers, or even, yes, terrorists. Walsh circled around to the second building's southeast side, and turned to head back northwest. Then, from the chopper's two o'clock position, one of the crew chiefs and Hayes saw a jetliner flying low over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. "What the hell's that guy doing?" Hayes asked.
"Keep an eye on that," Walsh said.
Within seconds the airliner was right on them. "We're going to get hit by this guy," Hayes yelled. "Pull up and roll right." Walsh immediately did, and the airliner brushed less than a few hundred feet from the chopper's chin bubble. The jet continued right into the South Tower, disappearing into its south side. A half a second later the explosion erupted out the north side.
The entire crew realized that the first collision was no accident.
Walsh immediately called La Guardia Tower confirming that a second airplane had deliberately flown into the second tower, that this was a terrorist attack, and asking the controllers to keep all aircraft on the ground. Hayes called Newark, Teterboro, and Kennedy and asked them to ground all airplanes from there.
The 412's crew was more than a little moved and was striving to maintain composure. Walsh set the helicopter down on nearby Governor's Island, and everyone took a moment to simply breathe. Then Walsh turned to look at everyone. "Listen," he said. "We've got to get back up there and figure out what needs to be done. That's what we gotta do. Are you with me?" Everyone said they were. Walsh took off again, and pointed the helicopter's nose toward the World Trade Center.
Police officer and pilot William Schub and his copilot, police officer and pilot Yvonne Kelhetter, had taken off in the NYPD's Bell 206BIII JetRanger just after the second jetliner hit the South Tower. They saw black smoke pouring from both buildings, and the radio frequency was jammed with the city's emergency units. Schub and Kelhetter surveyed the west side of the North Tower. "Somebody at the window was waving a white shirt," Schub recalls. "We flew in close to the building and saw people trapped between fire floors — they were trapped with fire above them and fire below, and one guy by himself was waving at us." They relayed the man's position to the emergency services unit below.
Once Walsh's 412 reached its position on the west side of the towers, the crew continued to assess the condition of both stricken buildings, and checked the roofs again for any people stranded on top. There were none. "It was kind of an awkward situation" recalls Hayes. "We had all this equipment on board and nothing we could do." They could, however, set up the landing zone (LZ) on the ground, which they did; then they hovered and monitored the buildings' integrity from their angle, and watched helplessly as people streamed from the lobbies of both buildings — or leapt to avoid the flames of the upper floors.
The 412's low fuel light came on, so Walsh headed the helicopter back to Floyd Bennett to refuel. And on the ground he took the time out to telephone his wife, Maddy, to tell her he was all right — and would be going back up again. Once they were airborne again and on their way back to the smoking twin towers, the South Tower collapsed under the intense heat of the burning jet fuel. In the meantime, gray smoke and debris and papers roiled around the buildings down below. "We couldn't believe it happened," he remembers. So they took up position on the northeast corner of the North Tower, and hovered there. "If anyone sees anything buckle on the building let us know," Walsh said. "If you think it is going to buckle we'll tell the ground units." Even two minutes' advanced warning might give police time to evacuate more workers from the inside or give people time to run a little farther down the block.
One crewmember thought the north building's top floors seemed to begin buckling, and Hayes radioed it in for everyone — firefighters and police — to evacuate. Less than three minutes later the north corner collapsed. And again smoke and debris filled the air, following like a demon the people who were trying to run away. "And there's nothing we could do," says Walsh.
Unlike the South Tower, most people had managed to evacuate. The crew hovered on, waiting for calls to medevac someone. But no calls came. "Sadly it was very cut and dried. Most of the people walked away or they didn't," says Walsh.
Schub continued flying the 206 along the buildings' west side, when his emergency radio frequency went dead. "We could communicate among ourselves, but not to the emergency ground services," he says. When his helicopter hit low fuel, he flew back to base. While he was there he called his wife, who had just received a phone call from his mother. She worked near the Empire State Building. In his mom's office they brought in a television and watched the second jetliner hit. "She knew I was up flying and was concerned for my safety," he says. When he went up again he flew over and around Pennsylvania Station, where his mother would walk to leave the city. "I couldn't know if she saw me or not," Schub says. It wasn't until 8 p.m. that he spoke to her on the phone.
After running low on fuel a second time, Walsh landed once again back at Floyd Bennett, and another crew took over the 412. He spent the rest of the day — and most of the night — working the radios and telephones. The next morning, after 24 hours on duty, Walsh finally arrived home in Pearl River, New York. The two oldest of his six children had already left for school. The other four kids were there waiting for the bus. And his wife was also there, waiting for him. "I was so relieved to be home. I was telling about the situation and — it was the first time I cried. I just broke down. All these people were dead, and we were not able to do anything about it. That's my job, to rescue people. I couldn't do a damn thing. I had an $8 million helicopter, and a great crew with me. And we couldn't do a damn thing."
A year later he's had time to think about it and realize what it has all meant. "The most important thing was how people came together," Walsh says. "You can dwell on the actions of the terrorists or you can best honor those that lost their lives by remembering how the people of this country came together and to never forget the freedoms that we enjoy. That, I don't ever want people to forget."
Phil Scott is a freelance writer and pilot living in New York City.
New Beginnings
A pilot's return to flight after the terrorist attacks
BY GREGORY N. BROWN
There have been two first flights in my life. These weren't first flights in the sense of first solo, first glider flight, or first balloon flight, although such milestones were memorable each in its own way. Rather, these were moments when I discovered, fresh and new, the pure joy and freedom of flight.
The first of those experiences occurred in a banking turn, flying a Cessna 150 over the cracked ice and windblown snow of Lake Mendota, near Madison, Wisconsin. I don't remember if it was as a solo student or new private pilot — it doesn't matter — but at that instant I escaped for the first time the nagging traumas of becoming a pilot and the consuming minutia of doing what pilots must do to remain aloft.
Instead of fearing the terrain as a threat to be avoided, I noted with fascination sailing iceboats and fishing tents among which I'd skated between college classes in the winter. While skating I'd experienced the fast-moving iceboats only as flashes of color passing me by. From the air, however, I could see their forward progress across the lake, and the paths left by their runners for miles behind.
The pressure ridges that blocked my progress when skating could now be seen in their entirety — cracked and buckling they formed huge rational patterns stretching for miles like spider webs across the lake. I soared and gazed, soared and gazed, and knew that day for the first time that I'd achieved the ranks of birdmen and would never be cured.
My second first flight occurred on a warm autumn day just short of 30 years later — three weeks and two days after twisted souls hurled peaceful airplanes against skyscrapers. At first the grounding of all things flying seemed appropriate, in homage to those who had died and revulsion to the dark twist taken during the normally beautiful act of flight.
For days afterward I walked our quiet street, gazing up in wonder at a tranquil sky never before seen devoid of airplanes — at least in my lifetime. I'll admit to enjoying the peace of it for a time, and finding myself content with the quiet and solitude afforded by empty skies. But when airliners were again released to fly my mood changed, and I was soon overwhelmed with jealously. Overhead, airplanes traversed skies closed to me.
As days passed, sadness turned to depression. Then hopelessness took over as I realized something that was such a part of me might be gone forever. There had been other disruptions in my flying over the years — the Arab oil embargo and the air traffic controllers' strike, among them — but although challenging, none had ever been like this, threatening the very freedom of flight.
My airplane, the Flying Carpet, between whose wings I had spent so many happy hours, was now no more than a throw rug. What if it was destined to rot amid cracking Royalite and flattening tires like other poor derelicts I'd seen fading in quiet airport corners over the years? To me neglected airplanes seem as sad as down-and-out people, and these images of decay overwhelmed me to a degree I didn't fully recognize until later.
On this particular sunny October day, however, I found myself unexpectedly released from my cage. Only instrument flying was to be allowed for the time being, but that was still flying. Like other pilots, I suspect, I'd been unable to face my Flying Carpet since the events occurred. There was a shame in being a part of humankind that an airplane would never understand, its mission of flight being so simple and pure.
The Flying Carpet was covered in dust when I opened the hangar, her cockpit stale as I'd never smelled it before. Instead of the usual rich welcoming fragrance upon releasing the cabin door, only the slightest hint of drying leather was traceable in air tainted by mustiness. Compassionately, I pulled the neglected airplane into sunshine, recharged her tires, and cleaned her windshield. As the engine croaked, then stuttered and rumbled to life, my heart warmed at saving this bird from the clutches of death.
Rarely do we fly instruments in the sunny Southwest, and as I collected my clearance I recognized the strangeness of it all — three years flying from here, and it was my first instrument flight outbound from this airport. I was bound from Phoenix to Flagstaff, Arizona, to see my son, Hannis — a destination to which I'd flown many times before. This time, however, I would not fly direct. Rather, I'd be routed northwest over Phoenix, there to follow a circuitous series of airways via Prescott. I taxied for takeoff.
"My favorite part of flying is when we taxi out onto the runway and line up with the centerline." How appropriate that the words of my other son should greet me at this particular moment. An aspiring professional pilot, Austin, too, had left for college only a few months earlier. While filled with pride at both boys' accomplishments, I deeply missed their company — nowhere was the void greater than in the empty copilot seat. I relived Austin's words after savoring the engine runup — even the usual noisy gyro threatening failure didn't bother me this time. I urged the Flying Carpet down that centerline...and she flew!
That's when I experienced my second "first flight." Climbing over familiar terrain after weeks of thinking I'd never fly again, I felt anew the grace and privilege of soaring with hawks. Compounding the sensation was knowledge that tomorrow it could all be taken away again.
How we've been betrayed, I thought. In the backlash of terror we'd been chained to Earth. Fortunately what might have been a life sentence was, for the moment, commuted.
Familiar blue skies calmed me as I climbed toward the Bradshaw Mountains, and again I felt all that was flight. There's comfort and beauty in flying over familiar terrain. Those rooted to the ground imagine aviators fluttering lost from one teetering branch to another, closing their eyes, and setting out like messages in bottles for points unknown.
We pilots know that's not how it is. Every town, every mountain, every lake and river is connected to another in a continuum. Aviators over time grasp the true shape of every lake, the course of every railroad track, and where each road and gravel lane may go. Ranches lie hidden in mountain valleys far off the highway — but no matter how secret, we've been there. Yet even the most well-known hills and valleys never become so familiar as to preclude a new adventure on every trip. With each condition of clouds, time, and light, there's a new perspective.
Looking down, I noted progress over the village of Oak Creek. I'd never set foot in the place, yet in some respects I knew it better than its residents — how the town appears when first seen over red buttes from the south, the pattern formed by its streets" and how the creek itself actually meanders through town (more to it than the view from road crossings here and there). Moreover, I know the community's true location; how and where it really lies relative to its red rock surroundings and the human fabric connected to it.
Flagstaff's position I recognized from long familiarity, well before actually seeing the city itself. It materialized as expected, in the shadow of snow-covered Humphreys Peak. My son was waiting to greet me at the airport. We drove downtown like so man. times before and dined alfresco at a favorite sidewalk cafe.
It was there, sipping fruit smoothies in the shade and talking with my son, that I finally felt whole again. Behind me in my logbook was the equivalent of 180 workweeks in the air. I'd believed it was over. Now, in the rich company of my son, I knew there was at least one more glorious flying hour to look forward to — the journey home. What more could I ask? I'd been relieved of my bowlegs and would soon be airborne once more. Always I had envied the boundless joy of new pilots; now I'd get to be one again.
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. He is the author of numerous flight instruction books and he writes the "Flying Carpet" column for AOPA Flight Training magazine. His new book, Flying Carpet, is due out this spring.
Postcards
Flying New York: It's a Wonderful Town
BY CHRIS HAWLEY
On a sunny September day, as the streets were filling with rush-hour traffic, something happened in lower Manhattan that would echo forever in American history.
It was September 9, 1830, and a 40-foot-high, hydrogen-filled balloon had drawn 20,000 spectators — some paying a whopping 50 cents for the best seats — to the place now known as Battery Park. A band played, guns were fired, and then a man named Charles Ferson Durant climbed into the aircraft, cut the cables, and with a tip of his hat, became the first professional American aviator.
We landed in New Jersey and returned two days later by steamboat, a hero. America began flying that day. The date was September 11.
This is an important story to tell, because a disturbing thing happened in the New York City area after the attacks of September 11, 2001. Even months after most of the temporary flight restrictions were lifted in the area, the skies over New York were empty of general aviation aircraft. The transient ramps at local airports were deserted. Pilots were planning their flights to avoid New York City altogether. For a while it was as if 171 years of aviation history had suddenly come to an end.
It was a shame, because New York City remains one of the best tourist attractions in the world. Plus, it's chock-full of things for pilots to see. Within the city and its environs there are three top-notch airplane museums, an aviation hall of fame, a Navy airfield-turned-park, and an abundance of aviation-related historic sites.
It's also surprisingly easy to visit New York by airplane. The city is surrounded by a half-dozen friendly little airports, and the area's excellent public transportation can get you to Times Square in 30 minutes.
"New York is a great destination for flying," said Dennis Moyes, an officer of the local Paramus Flying Club in nearby Teterboro, New Jersey. "There are just thousands of things to do in New York. And that flight down the river past Manhattan is just a spectacular trip. It's unforgettable."
The Hudson River corridor
You'll want to arrive in style, with a flight down the Hudson River corridor, a VFR "tunnel" running through the thicket of Class B airspace. Study the New York terminal area chart and give the notams a thorough reading, then back it up with a briefing from the New York Flight Service Station (631/737-1000).
Approaching from the north, make sure your Mode C transponder is on at least 30 miles outside Manhattan. Turn on all your lights and tune the radio to 123.05 MHz, used by all traffic on the river to call out positions.
Fly south down the Hudson, keeping on the right (New Jersey) side. By the time you reach the Alpine Towers, two candy-striped radio towers across the river from Yonkers, you should be at 900 feet. That altitude will keep you out of the 1,100-foot floor of New York's Class B airspace.
Call out your position at the George Washington Bridge at the northern tip of Manhattan, the USS Intrepid aircraft carrier museum, and again over the bluish-green Colgate Building on the New Jersey shore. Remember not to fly directly over the Statue of Liberty or Ellis Island, as they both lie under the 2,000-foot agl exclusion zones you'll find over any national landmark. At the moment, there is also a temporary flight restriction prohibiting operations within a one nautical mile radius of the statue. That TFR is scheduled to expire September 30, but be sure to check AOPA Online for current information ( www.aopa.org/whatsnew/newsitems/2001/010915tfr.html#ny).
Like most celebrities, Lady Liberty is shorter in real life at only 305 feet, so you may be tempted to descend lower than is safe to get a good look. If you plan to circle the statue, remember that Newark's airspace starts at 500 feet just a half-mile to the west. Local helicopter pilots fondly call the statue "the lady" on the radio, as in "500 feet at Colgate, going out to visit the lady."
Now that the World Trade Center TFR has been lifted, you can fly up the East River, but fly respectfully and avoid flying too low or loitering in the area. And don't forget to turn back at Roosevelt Island to avoid La Guardia's airspace. Announce your position on 123.075.
The flight back up the Hudson (again, staying on the right) gives you a stunning view of the skyscrapers, the green copper roofs of Columbia University, John Rockefeller's gigantic Riverside Church, and Grant's Tomb. At night, the city becomes a breathtaking sea of lights.
A wealth of airports
Now that you've wowed your passengers, it's time to get on the ground and see the sights. While New York's big three airports labor away as the transportation hub of the universe, several smaller airports quietly operate nearby.
Teterboro Airport (TEB), just five nautical miles from Manhattan, is where New York's business jets go (201/288-1775). Dassault Aviation has its U.S. headquarters there. Landing fees and tiedowns are pricey, but Manhattan is an easy taxi ride away. You can also take the 161 New Jersey Transit bus to the Port Authority Bus Terminal in Times Square ($2.55 each way).
Built in 1918, Teterboro is one of the oldest continuously active airports in the United States. The Fokker F.VII-3m that Richard Byrd and Floyd Bennett flew over the North Pole was built at Teterboro, and Bendix built and tested avionics there. The airport hosted the United States' first airborne police force, which flew a plane donated by Anthony Fokker himself. The Witteman Aircraft Co. built its enormous triplane, the Barling Bomber, here in 1923. With three 120-foot-long wings, the Barling could cruise at 10,000 feet for 12 hours.
Teterboro is home to the New Jersey Aviation Hall of Fame, popular with school groups for its recreated control tower and exhaustive displays on local heroes. In the backyard, the museum has a 1950s' M.A.S.H. unit, complete with helicopters, jeeps, personnel carriers and a surgical tent (201/288-6344).
Linden Airport (LDJ), 11 nautical miles from Manhattan, is a nontowered airport hidden among fuel farms near Newark (908/862-5557). Eastern Aircraft built F4F Wildcat fighters for Grumman at Linden during World War II. (There are pictures of the plant in the Applebee's restaurant next to the airport.) Take a short taxi ride to the train station (taxi service 908/862-6262), where New Jersey Transit trains run every half-hour from Linden to Manhattan ($5.50 each way, 30 minutes).
Essex County Airport (CDW) and Lincoln Park Airport (N07), 15 nm and 18 nm from Manhattan, respectively, are an easy bus ride from Times Square (973/227-4567 and 973/628-7166). The Wright engine factories in nearby Patterson and Woodridge tested their engines at the Essex County airport during World War II. The New Jersey Transit 194 bus passes near both airports ($4.60 and $5.30 to Manhattan, respectively).
On the other side of the Hudson are Westchester County Airport (HPN) and Republic Airport (FRG), two active GA fields about 25 nautical miles from downtown (914/995-4850 and 631/752-7707). The train ride from Westchester ends at the newly restored Grand Central Terminal, which is well worth a visit. (From White Plains, the trip is $6.50 one-way; from Farmingdale, it's $7).
If you're in a seaplane, of course, you can skip the commute completely and land at the 23rd St. Seaplane Base in Manhattan (212/686-4548) or the Evers Seaplane Base in the Bronx (718/863-9111).
Seeing the sights
New York itself is a tourist's paradise, and you could spend weeks in the art museums alone. The place bulges with theaters, concert halls, historic sites, parks, and architectural landmarks. Pick up any good travel book and buy a copy of Time Out at a newsstand for the thousands of events happening every week.
One must-see is the USS Intrepid Sea-Air-Space Museum. Historic airplanes crowd its flight and hangar decks, and a Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird perches at the bow as if ready to be catapulted into Madison Square Garden (212/245-0072; www.intrepidmuseum.org).
If you're a fan of aviation art, head to nearby Rockefeller Center for the Sistine Chapel of airplane worship — a dazzling ceiling by Jose Maria Sert in which a heavenly host of aircraft spiral upward to Paradise. It's in the old RCA Building (now headquarters of NBC). Next door is the Eastern Airlines Building where flying ace Eddie Rickenbacker had his office. It's better known as the home of NBC's Today Show, but the lobby still boasts an immense triptych of goddesses frolicking with airplanes. (Guided tours 212/664-3700.)
Brooklyn's aviation treasure is Floyd Bennett Field, now part of the Gateway National Recreation Area. If you've ever flown along the coast toward John F. Kennedy International Airport, you've seen it: four massive runways, 300 feet wide and up to 7,000 feet long. During World War II, the airport became Naval Air Station New York and was charged with defending the city from the Axis. It was also the main site for testing tens of thousands of warplanes before they were ferried to Europe.
Floyd Bennett's massive Hangar B is staffed by volunteers who rebuild aircraft for museums. They have dozens of airplanes under renovation, and they love visitors although the hangar is only open Monday, Thursday, and Saturday (718/338-5986). The Berlin Airlift Historical Foundation keeps some of its aircraft here during the winter, meaning the old runways still get used once in a while. The New York City Police Department keeps its fleet of helicopters here, and one of New York's biggest radio-controlled airplane clubs uses a patch of runway as its airfield.
Floyd Bennett was the starting line for many air races in the 1930s, meaning most of the famous pilots of that era passed through at one time or another. One of the restoration volunteers, Sal Tuttino, remembers hitching a ride out to the airport in 1938 to see Howard Hughes finish his record-smashing around-the-world flight.
"The mayor was there, and when Howard Hughes got out and put on his famous felt hat, the whole crowd started cheering," Tuttino said. "It seemed like every month there was something historic like that happening here."
The old terminal building is being renovated by the National Park Service, and a small museum is due to open later this year. "We're pretty proud of this place," said Pete McCarthy, chief ranger at the park. "Other historic airports are highways and shopping malls, but this is probably the only airport from the 1930s that is still pretty much the way it was."
The Park Service also offers free historical lectures several times a month. Recent subjects included John Glenn, who set a transcontinental speed record from Los Angeles to Floyd Bennett, and Jackie Cochran, a Floyd Bennett flier who held more aviation records than anyone in history (718/338-3799).
Brooklyn, incidentally, was also the site of the first powered flight in the United States — a 1902 flight by two small blimps, one French and one American. Driven by 10-horsepower engines, they flew over Brighton Beach for about 45 minutes before mechanical problems forced them down.
Another glimpse of aviation's glory days is visible at the old Marine Air Terminal at La Guardia Airport in Queens. Huge Pan Am Clipper flying boats, each the size of a Boeing 707, once departed from this terminal bound for Europe. The circular building is pure art deco. Outside, it's decorated with pictures of flying fish, while the inside has a circular mural by James Brooks depicting the history of flight, as well as photographs of the terminal's heyday.
At the center of the building is a bust of a certain Italian-American lawyer who learned to fly over Brooklyn. On his first flight, he and his instructor landed in a tree. The student was Fiorello La Guardia, who went on to become New York's most beloved mayor. His instructor was Guiseppe Mario Bellanca, founder of the Bellanca Aeroplane Co. La Guardia was the attorney who drew up the papers for the new company in 1912.
Another art deco landmark, America's first passenger terminal, will soon reopen to the public at Newark Airport. In 2001, it was loaded onto 1,408 trucks and wheeled a half-mile to make room for a longer runway. It will reopen as the airport's main administration building, complete with a historical exhibit, later this year.
The building was dedicated by Amelia Earhart in 1935 and is a National Historic Landmark. Air traffic control was invented in its pointy glass control booth, which looks like it was borrowed from a lighthouse. Many of the airport innovations we take for granted, such as paved runways, runway lighting, and instrument landing systems, were pioneered at Newark.
Another old airport sits atop the Empire State Building. The building's top 200 feet were built as a mooring mast for airships, and passengers were to disembark on the 86th floor. But when the plan was tested with a Navy blimp in 1931, the water ballast released by the airship drenched passersby and the winds at 1,350 feet proved to be too strong. Only two airships docked there before the idea was abandoned.
The Empire State Building was also the site of a notable airplane crash, when a B-25 embedded itself in the 79th floor in dense fog in 1945.
Just east of New York lies one of the most important places in aviation history, the Hempstead Plains of Long Island. At one time, five different airfields occupied a five-square-mile section of these flatlands.
Charles Lindbergh left from here on his transatlantic flight. Earhart, Glenn Curtiss, Wiley Post, Byrd, and "Wrong-Way" Corrigan made history and became national icons here. Harriet Quimby, the first licensed American woman pilot, learned to fly at Hempstead Plains Field in 1911, and Jimmy Doolittle performed the first instrument landing at Mitchel Field in 1929. The Ninety-Nines association of women pilots was formed at Curtiss Field the same year. In fact, practically every aviation pioneer in the world flew here at one time, trying to win fame and financing in New York.
"The great, flat geography, the population, and the funding were all in one place," said Joshua Stoff, curator of the Cradle of Aviation Museum. "This really was the focal point of aviation in the United States in the 1920s and 1930s."
Soon aircraft companies were popping up all over. Curtiss-Wright, Sperry, Sikorsky, Vought, Brewster, Fairchild, Republic, and Grumman cranked out everything from the Seabee to wings for the space shuttle here. And those metal EDO floats made famous by bush pilots everywhere? For decades they were made in Queens, New York City — about as far from the bush as you can get.
There are two aviation museums here: the American Air Power Museum at Republic Airport and the new Cradle of Aviation Museum, a $40 million complex on the site of the old Mitchel Field. The latter has 65 airplanes (all but three built on Long Island), two restored lunar landers, a restaurant, and an Imax theater (631/293-6398 and 516/572-4111, respectively).
After a hard day of sightseeing, you'll be hungry. Manhattan seems to have an amazing number of restaurants and bars with aviation themes. For burgers and Budweiser, check out Flight 151 and its sister bar, Flight 1668 (212/229-1868 and 426-1416). The Redeye Grill across from Carnegie Hall offers more upscale fare under murals of roaring DC-3s (212/541-9000).
And then there's the ultimate in airplane decor: Idlewild, a bar at 145 Houston Street in New York's East Village (212/477-5005). The bar is built inside a real Boeing 747 fuselage and is named after Idlewild Airport, the name used before it became J.F.K. International. The chairs and tables are all authentic Boeing — and unfortunately, so are the bathrooms.
Whether it's nightlife, Broadway shows, museums, or just a fix of aviation history you're looking for, New York has it all. So go ahead and plot a course for the Big Apple. The city has been attracting aviators since before there were airplanes, and there's no reason to stay away now. It's still the grandest destination in the world.
Chris Hawley is a private pilot and journalist living in New York City.
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