Learning to Fly

Haiti Relief Mission Photos

Photos from the relief mission can be found here and here.  And a write up for non-flyers here.

Haiti Relief Mission (Day 5 & 6)

Our last day in Hispaniola.  Jim from Caribbean Flying Adventures drives us to the airport one last time.  He and his wife have been amazing hosts, and we would never have gotten anything done without him.

We are headed north to Santiago Airport to the Go Ministries outfit to pick up a team of medical staff from VA and their gear.  Another 8 people and a couple thousand pounds of gear.  Luckily, in addition to our two planes, and Glenn who arrived the previous day, we had been able to secure the help of two additional aircraft—a Bonanza and a Cessna 206 (with a lot of hauling capacity).

We get to Santiago, and the efficiency of the ground crew here is night and day compared to El Higuero.  (Santiago is technically served by Airline service—as we were arriving, an American Airlines 737 was taking off—so perhaps that explains it.)  We quickly get our aircraft refueled, load up and go.  Our passenger is flying in a "little plane" for the first time, and is clearly a little apprehensive.  And we do our best to lighten the mood, as we try to fly around and over building cloud cover.

However, our communications with Port-au-Prince does not help matters.  When we radio in this time around, we actually get a response much to our surprise.  We are instructed to give the city and airport of Port-au-Prince a wide birth.  Clearly the controller is a bit overwhelmed, and wants to have as little traffic as possible approaching her area.  After a few garbled exchanges (where she confused our call sign with a different aircraft 50 miles away), we decide to leave things alone and proceed on our own down to Jacmel avoiding overflying Port-au-Prince.

Aside from the exchange with the Port-au-Prince controller, we arrive in Jacmel for the first time without incident.  Our passenger, clearly relieved to be on firm ground, gives us a big hug.

We have a few hours before we have to depart for home, and would dearly have liked to have seen the clinic.  But as with most everything else, arranging for transportation into the city of Jacmel takes over an hour, and we quickly give up on that idea.

But, we did pick up an additional passenger who wants to hitch a ride with us back to the States.  He is a Canadian aid worker, who had been working in Jacmel for two weeks (almost since immediately after the quake), and he needed to head home to see his wife who had gotten ill.  Amazingly, he is an electrician who had been told that there would be a need for his skills at the clinic.  But once he got there, of course there was really not much for an electrician to do.  So instead, he was conscripted to be a field nurse, doing everything from changing dressings to inserting IVs.  e said that he was looking forward to a hot shower and a shave—apparently he had been told not to shave in order to avoid any infections.  Such is the state of affairs in that city still.

One minor complication.  As the Pilots in Command, we are responsible for filing the appropriate customs and immigration information with Miami Customs, and we are supposed to do this over the internet.  But of course, no internet connection in Haiti.  Right.  So, we have to call Jim in Santo Domingo, and have him process the necessary paper work.

We depart Jacmel around 3pm.  Our goal is to refuel once in the Bahams, and get to Florida, then up as far as we can up the east coast that night.  We are seeing forecasts of storm activity in the eastern seaboard.  If we don't get home by the next day, we won't get home for a few days.

We depart Jacmel, and this time we have no choice but to overfly Port-au-Prince.  We get in communication with the Port-au-Prince controller—the same woman that seemed so overwhelmed before.  We are trying to get a flight plan activated, but clearly she has little idea what we are talking about.  A jet airliner entering her area requests a transponder code (a unique radio identifier code). She responds by calling us on the radio and giving us the transponder code.  (Somewhere, someone must have been really confused seeing what is supposed to be a 737 or some such, instead traveling at a pokey 130 knots at 10,000 feet.)  As we overfly Port-au-Prince, the destruction is still pretty apparent even from that high up.

As we cross the Hatian Coast, we lose radio contact with Port-au-Prince control.  The area immediately outside of Haiti's airspace is controlled by Miami Center.  We radio into Miami Center, and are greeted with the crisp professionalism that we have gotten so accustomed to (and spoiled by?). After the controller activates our flight plan, and gives us the proper transponder code, I couldn't resist saying "It's really good to finally talk to someone who knows what they are doing."  To which she replied "Yeah, we get that a lot..."

The rest of the flight is uneventful, except for the glorious sunset in the Bahamas.  We get into Ft. Lauderdale executive around 8pm.  Customs clearance goes off without a hitch.  And we stagger into the FBO lobby to get food while our planes are refueled.  We had been at that same FBO just three days ago, but that seems like ages ago.  We drop off our life rafts (no longer necessary), and bid our passenger good luck.  After we recharge on vending machine food (yuck), we get back on the plane to try to make it to Savannah GA.

Exhausted, we arrive in Savanna, GA past 11pm.  Of course, the airport is closed.  The FBO is closed.  We park the planes, and now need to figure out how to get out of the airport.  We head towards the one building that still has its lights on—the Gulfstream service center.  The reception area is open, but no one is there.  We look around, and finally find the guard house.  The security guards kindly call us a cab. We end up at a local motel, and crash completely exhausted.

The next morning, we depart bright and early.  We have to beat the storm front moving in from the south west.  We depart maybe 30 minutes ahead of the cloud buildup.  We find ourselves having to file IFR in the air—though given the possibility for icing we would dearly like to avoid flying in the clouds. We do have to fly through a few clouds, but by the time we reach Washington/Maryland the sky has cleared up considerably.  And we make it back to NJ early with the help of some tailwinds.

These few days have been utterly exhausting. But I learned a lot about what it means to fly in a completely different system. We in the US are definitely spoiled by an air traffic system that works—with capable controllers and the necessary infrastructure to support them. I learned an immense amount about the importance of proper ADM especially when the support services are less than reliable.  And, of course, I learned a great deal about the what is going on in Haiti and the people who are working incredibly hard to bring some semblance of stability and basic medical care to that community.  All in all probably the most intense and in many ways mind-blowing week I've spent in a while.

Haiti Relief Mission (Day 4)

Day Four in Haiti/Dominican Republic. First a shot of the El Higuero Airport out of which we are operating.

A full modern tower, a nice terminal building, and a very large GA hangar section.

Contrast that to the airport we are flying into in Haiti—the Jacmel Airport.  The half completed new terminal looks like this:

The Canadian military have basically taken the building over, and are currently in charge of operating the airport.  On the far right corner are the officers who manage the traffic.  Their setup is basically a fold-up table with laptops and a radio, with an antenna fixed to the roof.  It doesn't look like much, but they are the best air traffic controllers we encountered the whole trip.

The new terminal doesn't look like much, until you compare it to the old terminal which looks like:

A lot of guys hanging out, waiting for work.... Interestingly, someone had the bright idea to point the airport runway right at some mountains.  When the wind is out of the south, this makes for an interesting approach.

The runway itself is not bad for an GA airport. There is a slight bump at one end, which could be a bit squirrelly on takeoff if you aren't careful.  And if you look closely, you can see the King Air off to the side.  No taxiway, so a lot of back taxiing on the runway. 

Today, we our first mission is to fly the two aid workers who got stranded yesterday, along with the rest of their bags.  Plus, we have a new team of doctors arriving from Kansas City. We are told 8 doctors/nurses with nearly 2,000 lbs of stuff.  More aircraft are en route to help us out today, so we should be able to get all this done. Jochen takes the two remaining passengers from yesterday's flights, and I bring along an orthopedic surgeon and a bunch of luggage. By this time, the flights are starting to become routine.  We have figured out the procedures (even the maddening farce that is the Gen Decs), we have figured out the routes to fly, and how the weather is likely to change as the day goes on.  So my first flight out and back goes off with out much incident.

Today, the "Customs and Immigration" woman at Jacmel  has been replaced with a much more casual looking gentleman. Who nevertheless has his clipboard of forms, and his request for the $22 landing fee. One of the passengers we are taking in this morning is a nurse originally from Haiti currently working in Florida.  She apparently returns to Haiti once a year to do this sort of work.  She launches into a heated negotiation in Creole with the official, and after a few minutes the official takes our tail numbers down, and we are told we no longer have to pay the landing fee. One problem solved.

I hurry to get the plane back to Santo Domingo. We had discovered the day before yesterday that the plane was due for an oil change. After a flurry of emails with our maintenance guys, we decide to have the oil change done in the DR. This should be interesting. I had been told that the mechanic leaves at noon, and arrive with just 20 minutes to spare. Jim (our host and local guide) has contacted his mechanic for me, and taxis the airplane to the maintenance hangars.  This should take 45 minutes tops.  But it ends up taking 2 hours.  (To make matters more interesting, the only oil they have is 100 weight—just fine for a tropical climate like the DR, but useless when the plane returns to the northeast. We will have to have the oil changed once more when we get back.  And it also makes the case of 15w-50 we are carrying completely redundant.

After the oil change is done, the next task is to track down some fuel.  It took Jordan nearly two hours to get his plane refueled this afternoon—something that should take 15 minutes.  I also have some trouble getting the fuel truck to come around.  When one of us finally finds the fuel truck driver, he says that he cannot fuel us because he has run out of invoicing forms, and he has to go back to the office on the other side of the complex, to go get more.  10 minutes, right?  Wrong.  I finally get fueled when our host and local guide, Jim, climbs into the passenger seat of the fuel truck, and forces the fuel truck driver to drive to my plane to fuel us.  Elapsed time: an hour and 15 minutes.

In the mean time, another intrepid pilot, Glenn, who heard our urgent request for help has flown in from Jamaica where he was vacationing.  His plane is a Mooney—not much of a load hauler but will carry three passengers, and gives us much needed help in getting those 8 doctors into Jacmel.  So while I wait for the oil change and refuel, I brief him on the route and procedure.  We decide to depart as a flight of two, to ease him into the whole business of flying across the border.

Once in the air, I again report into Santo Domingo Info, and relay the required information.  The controller speaks with a heavily accented English.  Right behind me, I hear Glenn reporting in—he relays his departing airport, intended airport, etc.  The controller asks in a heavy accent "nombre on bard...".  Glenn is clearly confused: "say again"? Controller "nombre on bard...! Glenn: "..."  Trying not to laugh, I break in on the air-to-air frequency that we are both monitoring: "He want's to know how many are on board." For the duration of the exchange, I get to "translate".

That done, Glenn is free to fly to Jacmel.  In his fast Mooney, he has the clear advantage.  He left 10 minutes after me, but arrives 15 minutes earlier.  I arrive in Jacmel as Glenn is getting ready to depart.  I also quickly unload my passenger and cargo, and prepare to depart as well.  We are maybe 30 minutes to sunset—and the Canadians shut the airport down at dusk.  In addition, VFR flight is technically prohibited after sundown in the Dominican Republic.

As I head out, I hear Jochen and Jordan in bound in their plane delivering the last of the passengers and baggage.  They will barely make the turn around at Jacmel.  I cross the boarder with about 15 minutes of daylight left.  Santo Domingo Info takes my inbound information, and tells me to report in when I am 10 miles away from the airport.  Fair enough.  In the mean time, the clouds are starting to roll in again, being pushed up the mountains into a thick layer.  I climb to avoid the cloud layer, and proceed on.  I realize that I haven't filed an IFR flight plan (though I doubt I could have even if I had thought of it), and I do have to get down once over the airport. I have plenty of fuel, and I have at least three outs.  I know from the previous day that even with clouds over the mountains, the area in the plains tend to clear up at night.  Certainly the area over the oceans are clear.  And if push comes to shove, I can call up Santo Domingo approach and request their assistance in getting an instrument approach into El Higuero.

I come within 15 miles of the airport, and the cloud layer is still pretty thick below.  So, I decide to divert south in the direction of the ocean to try to find a hole to descend through.  A few miles from the coast, the clouds start to disperse, and I find that hole.  Duck down below the cloud layer with the cloud bases about 2,000 ft MSL, and head back in the direction of El Higuero. All in all, about a 20 mile detour.  I get to 10 miles from the airport.  I call Santo Domingo Info, as instructed.  I get no reply.  I try again, twice more.  Still no reply.  So, I just radio the control tower at El Higuero, and they clear me to approach and land.  Once on the ground I call up the tower and ask if I need to do anything since I hadn't been able to report in, even though I was instructed to do so.  Their response, "Don't worry about it. Those guys (SD Info) stop responding at sun down. There's probably no one there."

In the mean time, Jordan and Jochen land.  They had crossed the border perhaps 15 minutes behind me, right at sun down.  And SD Info simply directed them to communicate with SD Approach. (I guess the SD Info guys were getting ready to go home.) Their flight was treated as if on instrument flight plan.  It would have been nice if they had remembered that they had one more plane in the air just 15 minutes ahead that might have benefited from similar treatment...

Another exhausting day.  Especially because there are just so many logistical obstacles to getting things done.

Haiti Relief Mission (Day 3)

We arrive at the airport bright and early, but not before being treated to the spectacle of Santo Domingo rush hour traffic. It seems that traffic rules are purely optional in this city—people routinely ignore red lights, left turn on red is a common practice, people crossover planted medians to drive against oncoming traffic to avoid backups, one way is just a suggestion, and little vans flying by with people hanging out the doors is a common sight. I feel pretty safe flying around in a little plane.  Santo Domingo traffic, on the other hand...

 The first order of business is to file a VFR flight plan—since our flights are technically "international" this is required.  We march over to the flight planning office, where the officer hands us an ICAO flight plan form. To US pilots accustomed to the US flight plan form, this is a bit alien, as are the various equipment codes, and the like.  We fill it out and hand it over to a guy who corrects our mistakes, and then types it into his computer.

With that done, we proceed to the tarmac.  But not before filling out the GenDec forms in triplicate (by hand). The exact same forms we filled out not 12 hours ago, with the same info. We get through immigration and security (again, they only ID they ask for is our pilots licenses). Once on the tarmac, the first order of business is to take on some fuel. It takes us a while to find the fuel truck guy, and even more time for him to pull up and fuel. Something that would have taken 10 minutes in the states, takes much longer than it really should.

Then came a bit of a surprise. We were told that in the Caribbean there would be a hefty credit card surcharge (5%) if we use it to pay for fuel.  But what we weren't told was that in the DR, they won't take credit cards at all. They want cash. No, make that they want US dollars (hard currency). 100LL is $6 a gallon. Our 182s take 88 gallons. All that in cash. With my entire supply of cash nearly wiped out in the first fueling, I briefly wonder how I will pay for the remaining refuelings, but decide to work on that problem later.

We do an extra thorough preflight—after all, we are traversing 8,000 ft mountain ranges, and once in Haiti can expect little or no ATC help.

Before we can get going, we have even more local officials to contend with. First, the drug enforcement people come out with their dogs to sniff the plane. That done, we climb in, start up, and call up to the tower for departure clearance. The tower claims that they do not have a flight plan on file for us (impossible, since we watched the flight planning officer input the data into his computer). After some back and forth, we figure out that he was having problems understanding our airplane call sign. Instead of "zulu-victor" he was hearing "two-victor". With that sorted out, he gives us permission to taxi.

As we hold short of the runway, we hear some traffic. One airplane appears to be 5 miles out, in bound for a landing. Another plane is doing practice approaches, and is in the holding pattern 3,000 ft above the airport. A third plane is doing touch and goes. Okay, no problem, tower should be able to squeeze at least one, and probably the both of us out. I wait for the tower to clear me to take off, no delay, and wait, and wait and wait.

He finally clears us to depart, but not until after the incoming traffic had landed, the touch-and-go guy had done one last touch and had gone, and the practice approach guy was well away on his outbound leg. Clearly, the tower controller is not accustomed to high volume of traffic. 

We launch, turn south to avoid some flight restricted areas, before turning west towards the mountains. From afar, they look pretty benign.  But up close, you really appreciate their beauty and majesty.  On the plus side, we verify that the terrain data in the Garmin appeared to be correct at least along our corridor of flight.

 

We are told to switch over to Santo Domingo Info.  Santo Domingo Info is basically the DR's version of "VFR flight following".  Santo Domingo Info controls all VFR traffic in the DR. But, they do not have radar, so they are entirely dependent on pilot position reports to keep tabs on traffic. It also appeared that they do not seem to get any flight plan info from the departure airport. When we contacted SD Info, we were asked for pretty much the same information that was on our initial flight plan—number of people on board, destination, departure, current altitude, intended altitude, time to destination, time to the border, and fuel on board. Finally, they ask us to let them know when we've crossed over the border into Haitian airspace.Already language is starting to surface as a potential problem. As we were monitoring the frequency, a controller with a pretty heavy Spanish accent, and a pilot with an equally heavy French accent were attempting to communicate without much success. What should have been a 30 second exchange, turned into minutes as each side had to repeat themselves many times to be understood. Around the same time, a pilot crossing into the DR from the Haitian side reported in. The conversation was going relatively smoothly until the controller asked for the plane's altitude (again in heavily accented English). "Altitude, please" "Say again?" "Your altitude" "I did not get that" "Your flight level" "...".  This went on for a while longer, until some other pilot on the frequency chimed in, "He wants to know how high you are!!!"

To make matters even more interesting, local pilots were reporting in, but obviously in Spanish. So about a third of the transmissions between aircraft and ATC were in Spanish. The problem was, they contained important position reports, that we couldn't understand. So, language was going to be an issue in more ways than one.

We get to the Haiti-DR border about 40 minutes after takeoff.  We contact Santo Domingo Info, and are told to switch over to Port-au-Prince control.  We do, and call Port-au-Prince.  We get no response, despite trying multiple times. We give up, guessing that Port-au-Prince was too busy, or the infrastructure or people stretched too thin. (Or maybe we were simply too low.) So now it's VFR all the way along the southern coast of Hispaniola.

While the mountains were stunning in their beauty, the cost was even more so. We sometimes forget that Haiti is in the Caribbean, but the azure blue sea was indescribable.

10 miles from Jacmel, we call in, and hear the crisp response of Canadian military officer—the Canadians run the field, and (as we found out over the next few days), they run a really tight ship.  The approach is a right turn over the bay for a straight in final to runway 36.

On final approach, you see the city of Jacmel to the left.  A month on, the destruction is still quite obvious, and visible from the air.  The runway is a nice 3,300 ft runway. A bit narrow, but plenty of space for a Cessna 182.  We touch down, and taxi back down the runway to the tarmac. 

As we taxi, we pass this wreck of a King Air marooned by the side of the runway.  The King Air was visible from the air.

But if I hadn't already known about it, it would have been a nerve wracking sight to see on first arrival. Apparently the pilot misjudged the approach, came in to steep, landed too hard, and collapsed one landing gear on touch down.  The plane spun out, and came to a rest at the side of the field. Thankfully, no one was hurt. The crash did almost no damage to the runway, keeping the field open for the likes of us.

We taxi up to the half completed new terminal buildig.  As I hop out of the plane, I am immediately greeted by a young, rather official looking, woman dressed in a crisp uniform carrying a clipboard of paperwork. She asks me to fill out a Gen Dec form (Why? Who will she be sending these to?), then offers to help me with my outgoing flight plan (we both know that flight plan would be a total fiction, and besides, who would the flight plan be communicated to?), then she asks me to pay the $22 landing fee.

Now landing fees are not uncommon, but even by US standards $22 is a bit steep, especially given the current state of the airport. It's probably a weeks' wage for someone. But upon reflection, I decide that while it might be a nuisance, this sort of petty local graft might simply be the cost of doing business. And if I don't shell out, I'm sure she would hit Team Ange or one of the NGOs up for it. And I rationalize that while it may be rather inefficient, and entirely unfair, nevertheless it might be a good way to get some hard currency into the local economy to get things going again. So I relent, and say that I will be paying for two aircraft, and hand over $50, at which point she says "So sorry, but I have no change...." Ah, the meaning of the odd figure is suddenly clear. Oh well.

After this exchange, my plane is surrounded by a team of young men who help to unload the aircraft. Again, no doubt hired by an NGO to help, to provide some employment, and to help keep an eye on all the materiel coming in.

The men make quick work of unloading our cargo, and briefly marvel at the quantity of stuff that was packed in the back of such a small plane. They then help to unload Jochen's plane. They also marvel at the stuff—particularly the portable generator, no doubt a precious and much-in-demand item. Other planes are being unloaded as well. Another item that attracts particular attention are tents—probably in this environment worth their weight in gold.

Unloaded, we prepare to turn around and head back to Santo Domingo. At that point, we were still hoping to do two more trips that day. Jordan elects to stay behind, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Team Ange operations in Jacmel. I'm supposed to bring one aid worker—a nurse who had spent 2 weeks at the clinic—out. As we are preparing to leave, a Team Ange coordinator (an impossibly young looking Canadian woman who had the place impressively under control) approaches us and asks if we can bring a few more people back with us. Apparently three Dominican aid workers had been waiting for three days to find transport out of Jacmel.  With our planes empty, we have plenty of room, and are happy to oblige. 

En route, our passenger happily points out some of the landmarks for us including this lake which lies between the two mountain ranges between Jacmel and the Dominican Republic, and sits 120 feet below sea level.

Once back in Santo Domingo, we go through the exercise of filling out the Gen Dec forms, again, to meet the next group of doctors/nurses and their equipment in the terminal. The next group consists of 6 people and a good 1,500 pounds of bags. (Apparently the airlines are waiving their extra luggage fees for aid workers going into Haiti via the Dominican Republic.) We decide to take four doctors/nurses in the first trip, and whatever bags we could carry. We will come back for the two remaining staff and the remaining luggage. We also decide not to refuel (given our previous experience with refueling), and both planes were carrying full fuel at departure, we should be good for another round trip.

We head out to the tarmac, but not before another encounter with the airport security people. The formality of the 3 Gen Dec forms are starting to be a little bit more than a minor annoyance. But in addition, they apparently decide that some of our bags are to big to go through the normal way. They ask us to go to the airline counter (to the UN Humanitarian Air Service, it turns out), and have our bags put through the checked-luggage x-ray machine. But, with the language barrier, it is initially not clear what they are asking us to do. We are getting irritated, as are they. Finally, we find a Team Ange volunteer who speaks a little Spanish, and we finally understand what they want us to do. The source of the confusion, however, was the fact that all the luggage was basically identical. So we weren't sure why they wanted some bags sent one way, and other sent another. So, we send the baggage through the checked baggage, and pick up the bags on the other side. One side benefit of this whole exchange, though, is now we have discovered the "employee entrance" to the tarmac.

We walk out to the tarmac and my passenger Jackie is decidedly nervous.  As we march out to our trusty C182s, she gasps and mutters, "You have got to be kidding me...."  Nevertheless, she hasn't come this far to let a little thing like a small airplane deter her from getting what she needs to get done, done. So, she bravely climbs in.  I start the plane up, pull up to the runway holding line, and pull out the run-up checklist.  At which point she exclaims (only half in jest), "You need instructions to fly this thing!!!"  Once airborne, she relaxes just a little.  At least enough to take an occasional picture out the window.

En route, we notice the clouds closing in.  As the day goes on, the sea breeze pushes moist air up the slopes of the mountains, and they turn into clouds that often obscure the top.  Our only choice is to go over or go around.  I elect to go around, which has me shooting a gap between two mountains, then dropping down below the cloud deck and flying low over the coast.  Once established, nothing too it, but no doubt pretty exciting for my passenger.  This adds a good 50 miles to the trip, but otherwise the trip itself is uneventful.  Again, we go through the routine of trying to contact Port-au-Prince but again to no avail.

Interestingly, this time, I also fail to raise Santo Domingo Info on the radio upon crossing the border. Presumably, the peaks behind me are in the way. But SD info specifically requested that I call in when I left DR airspace.  And I do have an VFR flight plan on file. In the States, a pilot failing to report back in or failing to close his flight plan properly would automatically set in motion a sequence of events that could result in a full blow search and rescue effort.  I bet that here, particularly in this environment, such an outcome is unlikely, and proceed (besides, what choice did I have?).

We land uneventfully at Jacmel again, where we unload with the help of the local workers.  (By the way, the woman below is my intrepid passenger Jackie, who seemed to relax once her foot touched solid ground, and even joked about our flight.  Notice all the bags.)

We execute a quick turn around, hoping to fit another flight in, but with the day light waning (and with the prohibition on VFR flights after dark), that is looking increasingly unlikely. The clouds are still hanging low over the slopes, so we make yet another detour along the coast, before the clouds clear sufficiently for us to climb directly over the last set of mountains. Once clear of the border, I call SD Info again to report in. And I apologize for not reporting back earlier. But the controller is a different person, and she is clearly confused about what I am talking about. Suffice it to say, no SAR effort is underway. Lesson learned. Flight plans really mean something entirely different here.

On the way back, however, I notice the fuel gauge reading uncomfortably low.  The right tank (which seems to drain first) has dipped below the 5 gal mark, and the left tank is hovering around 10. (That's a total of an hours worth of fuel, with about that much left to go.)  These gauges are notoriously inaccurate—the old rule is that they only read correctly at full and at empty. I raise Jochen and Jordan in the other plane over the radio, and we discuss this. We independently go over the fuel burn calculations, and agree that I should be able to land with at least an hour and a half of fuel left. So we proceed.  By the time I land, the right tank is reading 1 gal, the left is reading 5 gals.

We call over the fuel truck, and have them top off the tanks—the plane takes 80 gals.  I had 8 gals—or about 40 minutes of flight time—left in the tanks. Legal VFR reserves, even by US standards, to be sure, but given the terrain and unfamiliar airspace a little too close for comfort. We discuss how all three of us could have gotten the fuel burn calculations so wrong.

Later I sit down at the hotel with the POH, and run the numbers. The problem was that we were using the conservative "rule of thumb" 14 gal/hour to estimate fuel burn. We had flown about 5 hours that day, so we should have burnt about 70 gals, and I should have landed with 18 gals—or about an hour and 15 minutes of flight time. But, we had forgotten to figure that we were climbing to 8,500-10,500 at full gross, in warm weather. And earlier in the day, we had idled on the ground for a good 30 minutes waiting for clearance. Work those numbers in to the calculations, and I quickly understood the reason why we were so far off. Lesson learned. Don't make easy assumptions.

We weren't able to make the third trip, so we settle for loading up the planes with the baggage. This requires, you guessed it, Gen Dec forms, again in triplicate. We had filled out a set not 20 minutes ago to get into the DR. Now, we have to fill out another set to bring the bags out, and yet a third set to get back in.  Clearly the customs/immigrations officials recognize us, and know what we are doing. But that does not seem to matter.

All in all, a pretty exhausting day.

Haiti Relief Mission (Day 1 & 2)

Predictably, didn't have the time or energy to post while I was down in Haiti.  So, this is an after action reports of sorts.

Day 1 (Wednesday 2/17): Departed KCDW and headed to KVAY to pick up the supplies.  The Team Ange guys showed up with three pickup trucks—clearly over estimating the carrying capability of two Cessna 182s. Nevertheless, we manage to stuff about 500 lbs of supplies—everything from generators, medical supplies to plush toys—into each plane.

The front seats are pushed full forward.  Getting in and out of the plane is a contortionist act.  Add as much fuel as to bring the plane up to max gross.  Loaded down like this, the plane handles like slug. Depart KVAY around 6pm, with snow threatening to start.

We head down to Brunswick County Airport (KSUT) on Oak Island in North Carolina.  We were hoping for some warm weather in NC—no such luck.  The air is chilly and crisp.  The warm hospitality we received, on the other hand, was memorable.  There, Steve (a fellow pilot who himself has been down to Haiti a few times) and his wife has graciously agreed to put us up for the night. They welcomed us into their lovely home on an island on the NC coast (the name of the island escapes me, only that John Edwards just bought a house there)—and we thought he was kidding when he said that we were going to take a truck, then a boat, then a golf cart to get to his house.  They fed us extremely well, and provided us with nice comfortable beds—a much needed good rest in preparation for the days to follow. I am often surprised by the generosity of fellow pilots.

Day 2 (Thursday 2/18): We depart bright and early, but not before grabbing breakfast at a little breakfast place.  Upon hearing that we were on our way to Haiti, the owner simply declared "I just bought you breakfast"—again, I'm astonished sometimes by the generosity of strangers.  Unfortunately, I'm blanking on the name of the establishment.  It is literally minutes from KSUT, right by the marina.

We depart KSUT and head for KFXE, VFR.  We ask for VFR flight following, as a flight of two. (Didn't know you could do that.)  Jochen flying the other 182 took the lead (and got a squawk code), while the controller asked us to turn our transponder to standby to keep it from triggering alerts on her screen.

We work our way down the coast.  Probably added a hundred or so miles over going direct, but we aren't carrying life rafts yet, and aren't prepared to fly over open water.  We arrive at Fort Lauderdale Executive (KFXE) a little past noon.  KFXE turned out to be a ridiculously busy airport, and in close proximity to other airports, which made it pretty interesting. 

At KFXE, we refuel (Haiti relief fuel rates!), pickup Jim Parker from Caribbean Flying Adventures (which by the way is a great resource) who has been organizing relief missions to Haiti, and of course our life rafts.

After a quick lunch (from the vending machines at the FBO), we launch into the Caribbean.  The skies are clear, the air is warm (we quickly ditch our winter coats), and the flying is smooth.

Against the vast expanse of the sky and ocean, our planes look tiny.

But it seems like every island in the Bahamas has an airport.

Now there's a place to go practice some short field landings...

We make a brief stop at Stella Maris Airport (MYLS) on the Long Island in the Bahamas.  This airport was right out of a Hollywood movie.  Two shacks—one with the red roof is "Customs and Immigration" and the white building on the right is the "Terminal".  Perfect.

We depart with about half an hour of day light left—just before the ban on take-offs and landings after sundown kicked in.  VFR flights after sundown is illegal in the Bahamas, and it becomes clear why. Flying over the ocean, with almost no ground lights (most of the smaller islands have very little lighting visible from the air), the landscape below is pitch black.  On this moonless night, the sky is pitch black as well, with an occasional star shining through the clouds.  The sky is overcast at about 12,000 feet. Well above our altitude, so technically VFR weather, but with no horizon for reference we might as well have been flying through clouds. You got this sensation of being sucked in to the darkness, and there was really no way to tell which way was up. So, it was instrument flying all the way.

About 20nm from the coast of Hispaniola, we get handed off from Miami Center to Puerto Plata Approach.  This is where we get our first taste of ATC outside of the U.S.  Puerto Plata Approach apparently does not have radar, or at least no radar that comes out this far.  So we are asked to make position reports.  Separation then is strictly based on these position reports, and see and avoid.  We had noticed the mountain ranges just to the west of Puerto Plata, and make a mental note to stay well clear. At this point, we figure out that the terrain database in our Garmin 430Ws actually covers Hispaniola, which will be very helpful given the relatively limited capabilities of ATC down there.

As we near El Higuero, we are told by ATC that the weather at El Higuero is overcast 1,800 ft.  We might have to do an instrument approach—El Higuero has an NDB approach, and the Garmin 430W has the approach in its database.  Good thing, since the 182 otherwise lacks an ADF, and we would have to have diverted to Las Americas (a much bigger airport) with an ILS.  We scramble to pull out the approach plate, and make sense of it.

Fortunately, it turned out that the weather was wrong.  Once we passed over the cloud layer hovering north of the airport, the weather cleared up dramatically, and it was visual all the way down.

We land, and taxi up to a pretty impressive tarmac. The immigrations officer glances at our pilot credentials (but not at our passports), and waives us through.  Though not before filling out a "General Declaration" (or "GenDec") form.  This form is required for each and every aircraft, and is the responsibility of the PIC to fill out.  It basically asks four things: 1) who was on the plane; 2) was anyone sick; 3) were there conditions conducive to contagion on the plane, and; 4) what did you do about it.  For the first, you fill in the names, and for the remaining three, you scrawl in none.  Purely a formality.  But the rule is "three in, three out"—that is, the forms need to be filled out in triplicate each time you leave or come back.  (And no the forms aren't the convenient carbon-paper kind, and no they won't photocopy it for you.)  This form will prove to be the bane of our existence for much of our stay.

After a long day—nearly 10 hours in the plane—Jim and his wife (who works for the US Embassy in Santo Domingo) host us to a warm tasty dinner. (Again the kindness of fellow pilots.)  We get dropped off at the hotel, find a Wifi connection (!) to Skype home, then pretty much collapse.

 

Talking to the kid

Spent some time talking to my son about why I was going to be gone for a week.  We found Haiti on a map, we talked about what earthquakes were, and what happened there.  We talked about why the people there needed help, and what I was going to be doing. This conversation I was able to have with him maybe the best thing about this trip.

Preparing for the trip to Haiti

Turns out there is a lot to be done in preparation for flying to Haiti.

First, there are a bunch of regulatory requirements.  Thankfully AOPA has a nice primer on what is required (http://www.aopa.org/members/pic/intl/).

• First order of business.  Sign up for an eAPIS account.  (Again, AOPA has put together a nice primer on eAPIS which can be found here: http://flash.aopa.org/asf/eAPIS/).  You go to the eAPIS page at the Customs and Boarder Protection website (https://eapis.cbp.dhs.gov/) to sign up. Since the fine for non-compliance is $5,000 for the first offense and $10,000 for every offense there after, they certainly give you incentive to get it right.
• Next, customs user fee decals.  That, you get from here: https://dtops.cbp.dhs.gov/.  $27.50, and lasts the whole year.  They give you the option to expedite shipping, but I am told that a printout of the receipt will suffice if the decal does not arrive on time.
• Next.  Radio licenses for both the pilot (me) and the plane.  (The second "R" in ARROW.)  The licenses needed are: Restrected Radiotelephone Operators Permit ($60, and lasts for ever) and the Radio Station License ($110, and valid for 10 years).  Both can be obtained from the "Universal Licensing System" <http://wireless.fcc.gov/uls/index.htm> over at the friendly FCC.  No exam or anything.  Just the filing fee—another way to give the government money.  Pilot's I've spoken to have said that they've never been ramp-checked and asked for these licenses when flying abroad.  On the other hand, since the potential penalty is the grounding of the plane until the documents are produced, I figured I should play it safe and legal.
• Finally, since the plane is not registered in my name, I need a notarized letter from the club stating that I am authorized to fly the aircraft out of the U.S.  A quick email to Rodrigo, the president, and the letter is in the mail.

So that is the legal stuff.  Then comes more interesting stuff.

• Transponder.  The Bahamas and the DR have moved away from the old 121.5MHz ELTs.  Of course, satellite monitoring is "turned-off" every where, but I'm not positive that they are even monitoring 121.5MHz on the ground.  There is an exemption in place for US registered aircraft and we are allowed to fly in the Caribbean with the older equipment (which the plane I will be flying will have), but whether that's a prudent thing is a different issue all together.  And given the amount of flying I will be doing over open water, and over mountainous train (once in DR/Haiti), I opt to spring for a 406MHz Personal Locator Beacon.  This has to be registered with NOAA.
• The longest over water leg is about 70NM between the Turks and Caicos and the Dominican Republic.  So, also acquire one of those airline style self-inflating life vests.
• Though technically not required, the thought of floating around in the ocean in just a life vest isn't appealing, so we make arrangements to rent emergency life rafts for the trip.  These will be picked up at Fort Lauderdale Executive (KFXE) when we stop for fuel.  $15 per day—not bad.
• Finally, picked up a "survival kit".  The contents of the kit really didn't interest me that much—the usual first aid fare.  The part that was important to me was a few days supply of drinking water and energy bars.

Okay, so that's for equipment.  Next come charts

• First, we need all VFR and IFR low enroute charts for most of the eastern seaboard.
• Then we need the WAC charts CJ-25, 26 & 27 as well as IFR low enroute charts for the Bahamas.
• No AF/D for the Caribbean, but was told that the Bahamas & Caribbean Pilot's Guide was a good source of airport info.
• Approach plates.  Okay, am carrying a full set for the Eastern US in the Kindle DX.  As for the Caribbean, I'm told that there is no online (free) source for government plates (akin to the NACO plates).  I read while researching this that they were available online from the U.S. Government until a few years ago when the DOD shut it down citing security concerns and copyright issues.  So, the only recourse is to spring for the $120 Jeppesen Trip Kit for the Caribbean.

This is turning out to be an awful lot of paper I will be carrying.

As for the flight, the current plan is to start Wednesday afternoon at Caldwell (KCDW), pickup the supplies at Southern Jersey Regional (KVAY), and go south to somewhere in the Carolinas.  Thursday, we get an early start, get to Fort Lauderdale Executive (KFXE), pickup the life rafts and one passenger. From there, we head out over the Bahamas, stopping at Stella Maris Airport (MYLS) for fuel, then down to El Higuero International Airport (MDJB) in Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic.  We will use El Higuero as the base for our operations in and out of Haiti, where we will be flying to Jacmel Airport (MTJA).

Flying for Haiti

Got asked by friend and fellow Pilot/PFC member Jochen to help with a relief mission to Haiti.  A charity Doctors United for Haiti has organized a mission called Team Ange (Creole for angel), and set up a clinic/field-hospital in Jacmel, Haiti.  They've committed to giving three months of free post-earthquake medical care there.  They've collected a significant amount of medical supplies that need to get down there from Philadelphia.

The mission is being organized as an Angel Flight.  I've been meaning to sign up with Angel Flight East, but didn't meet their 300 hour flight time requirement.  Turns out, it's only 100 hours if all I do is fly supplies.  (And by the time I get back from Haiti, I should have well in excess of 300 hours.)  So this sounded like a really good opportunity to do some good, and get a lot of interesting flying experience.

In addition, with no commercial flights into Port-au-Prince, all civilian doctors/nurses/aid-workers are flying to the Dominican Republic.  From there, they need transport into Haiti.  But given the geography of Hispaniola (8,000-10,000 ft mountain ranges separate the two countries), and given the state of ground transport in both Haiti and the DR, small aircraft is the best way to ferry people and supplies in.

So I'm in.  Decide to take the PFC's C182RG for the mission.  Only problem—that aircraft does not have a working auto-pilot, and I'm not looking forward at all to flying for 8-10 hours without one.  Thankfully, Jordan (a PFC alumnus and CFI) volunteers to come along and share flying duties with me.

Will prepare for the flight over the next few days, with the intended departure set for Wednesday, February 17.

Learning to land again???

Been practicing for the commercial maneuvers in the C182RG.  A lot of power-off 180 approaches—this is an emergency maneuver to see if you can land the plane with precision, without engine power.  Fly the pattern, and when the plane is abeam the numbers, pull the engine back to idle.  Try to land the plane within 50 feet of the numbers with no power.

The problem for me is that compared to the 172s, the 182s feel a lot more nose heavy on the landings.  It seems to take a lot more pressure on the yoke to get the nose flared properly for the landing.  Not to mention the fact that the different "sight-picture" is really messing with my timing.  The upshot is that I'm consistently either flaring too high (and dropping the plane a little more than I would like), or I'm flaring too late and am landing flat.  Either way, not very pretty.

I struggled with learning how to land the 172s during the primary training.  It feels like that all over again.  Didn't think going up to a 182 would make that much of a difference — it is a Cessna after all, and not that much bigger.

I need to go back up with the 182s some more to get a better feel for the plane.