Flight Instructors

Aviation Ancestry: Luscombe Lineage

July 12, 2021 by Scott Spangler

Some days, opening my email inbox is like Christmas. This day’s present was from Ryan Short, a reader, aerial photographer, and part-time flight instructor who works with students by appointment through Texas Tailwheel Flight Training. Flying his 1939 Luscombe 8A, NC25215 ($120 an hour), he specializes in tailwheel endorsements, flight reviews, and general proficiency training. He wrote:

I read with interest your article about your father [Aviation Ancestry: Discovering the Logbooks of a Life Rarely Discussed].

I am the current caretaker of N25215, a Luscombe 8A that was also assigned to the Iowa Airplane Company from 1939 until close to the end of WWII.

I’m wondering if in your father’s records there are more names, photos, or other bits of information that might help me track down more about this aircraft. I’d like to put her back in Iowa Airplane Company markings as well.

In reply, I promised a return to my father’s logbooks to compile the N-numbers of his winged classrooms, all Luscombe 8As, and the names of instructors who signed each lesson’s entry. (The photo search must wait until my next with my sister, who has the family photo albums.) In a follow-up email he shared a photo (above) he’d found of some of the Iowa Airplane Company fleet of Luscombe 8As and two of its instructors.

What got me excited about his email is learning that the Luscombe that taught my dad to fly in 1943 is still serving the same purpose 78 years later. When I opened the logbook I discovered the N-numbers of Ryan’s Luscombe, NC25215, and the one my father soloed on October 23, 1943, NC25152, were, in a manner of speaking, dyslexic siblings. But Ryan’s email got me wondering, what happened to the Luscombes on my list?

In the two months of primary training my father received, he flew seven different Iowa Airplane Company 8As. Ryan’s airplane, Serial Number (SN) 1120, was not one of them, but that was surely the luck of the draw. The registration range of the seven Luscombes spanned from his solo airplane, NC25152, to NC28846, so logically Ryan’s airplane could have been a member of the Iowa Airplane family.

If Ryan’s Luscombe (right) is still teaching, maybe some of the others my father flew are doing the same. Off to the FAA Aircraft Registry.

The FAA deregistered my dad’s solo mount, NC25152, a 1939 Luscombe 8A, SN 1076, on September 12, 2012. Its last home was Eldorado, Arkansas.

A pilot in Gilbert, Arizona, has reserved N25356. Before that, it identified a 1977 Cessna 152 in Greenville, Mississippi, that the FAA deregistered on January 22, 2013.

NC28450 is still a 1940 Luscombe 8A, SN 1317, and still carrying its fractional owners aloft in Elba, Alabama.

N28543 is a 1979 Piper PA-28-236 Dakota in Apex, North Carolina.

The FAA canceled the registration of NC28828, a 1940 Luscombe 8A, SN 1570, on July 23, 2009, which then called Atlanta, Georgia, home.

N28846 expired on November 12, 2013, and it identified a deregistered 1978 Grumman American AA-5B Tiger in Houston, Texas.

N28573 is assigned to a 1977 Grumman American AA-5B Tiger now flying in Savannah, Georgia.

The dream of flying an airplane my father once flew will remain just that, at least as far as the Luscombe 8A is concerned. Given my stature, I’m a cabin-filling control locks. But I can still hope that others might see this and share what information and or images they possess on the Iowa Airplane Company Luscombes with me and Ryan, who can be reached at Texas Tailwheel Flight Training.

If you enjoyed this story, why not SUBSCRIBE to JetWhine, if you haven’t already, and please share it with anyone who might find it interesting. — Scott Spangler, Editor

Redbird Migration Looks Back at the Future of Flight Training

October 23, 2017 by Scott Spangler

For the past six years, Redbird, which has developed a family of aviation training devices, has sponsored a flight-training symposium attended by a hundred or more of the land’s leading aviation educators. Known as the Redbird Migration, in the past this flock congregated at Redbird’s roost in Texas. For its seventh season, it met in Oshkosh, hosted by EAA.

For many of the participants, it was their first time in Oshkosh outside of EAA AirVenture, and the dearth of aircraft, people, and traffic disoriented them. Fortunately, Sean D. Tucker, the keynote speaker at the opening dinner on Monday, October 16, helped acclimate them. And talking with the educators reacclimated me with a community I was once intimately a part of, which I found disorienting.

On one hand, they were exuberant about the future. With the airlines hiring and the entry-level positions now paying almost enough for students to repay their loans and put a roof over their head and food in the bellies, enrollments in their training courses was growing. And new and evolving technology (like a Redbird sim) enabled schools to make the most of their customers’ time and money.

At the same time, however, this migration was, for me, a groundhog day. Like the background soundtrack that provides continuity to a movie, the flight school educators discussed the same problems we were talking about nearly 30 years ago.

Flight Instructors to Remember and Forget

October 2, 2017 by Robert Mark

After 40 years of flying, flight instructing and communicating throughout the aviation business, it’s almost impossible for me to remember that of all my flight instructors, I almost allowed my first ago to drive me completely away from the business. Although he’s long gone from aviation, the lessons are still significant enough to pass on today at a time when the industry’s hunting and pecking for every possible student pilot. Lucky for me, another CFI entered my life years later and completely turned my world around.

In 1966 I was a 17-year old freshman at the University of Illinois Institute of Aviation and anxious to learn to fly. I never doubted my goal … to be an airline pilot.

In those days, student pilots and instructors at the school were randomly paired and I drew a guy named Tom. We flew the mighty 90-hp 7FC Tri-Champ with the student in front and the instructor behind.

School began in late September with ground school and the “Box,” a name we’d all attached to the Link trainer we were expected to partially master before we took to the air. I never realized I was a bit claustrophobic until the first time Tom sat me in the box, closed the door and pulled the cover down on top of me leaving me in nearly total darkness.

Why Was Always a Big Question

We didn’t brief much before we began so not surprisingly, the sessions didn’t go well since I never really understood the point of moving a control stick inside a dark little room as dials and gauges spun like mad before my eyes. Looking back on it today, I realize Tom talked a lot, asked few questions and simply assumed I was following along. I wasn’t since I’d never even been inside the actual airplane.

Finally one day I flew.

I clearly loved every moment in the air despite being nearly clueless about what I was supposed to be doing, except for reminders from the back seat like … “what are you doing that for?” It was at about the five-hour mark that things started getting ugly because I just didn’t seem to be getting things to come together.

There was this landing practice session that still sticks out in my mind. Right near the runway on the first few, Tom started yelling … “Flare, flare, flare.” Crunch! The Tri-Champ was pretty forgiving despite hitting hard enough to knock the headset off my head a few times. After an hour of punishing flying, we taxied in and shut down. Tom grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard from the back seat. “Why didn’t you flare when I told you too?” Somewhat worn out I just stared out the windshield and asked, “What’s a flare?” was all I could muster.

I actually managed to solo the next week and was cleared to fly the pattern that helped my confidence enormously. But soon I was back in the Tri-Champ and the Link with Tom and the yelling began again. To make matters worse, he began slapping me along side the head and yelling when I screwed up. With 15 hours total time, I finally broke. At 17 I knew I would never learn to fly. I quit school AND flying and never touched the controls of another airplane.

Until …

Jump ahead five years as I arrived to my last Air Force duty station at Bergstrom AFB, now Austin Municipal airport. How I got there is too long a story right now. It’s what happened next that’s important.

Within a few days of arrival I found the base flying club. Outside the main door near the aircraft parking area they’d installed a small set of stadium seats. I’d sit there watching the Piper Cherokees come and go, some with two people inside, some with just one. I didn’t go into the clubhouse though.

One day, I headed to the flying club to watch airplanes and eat my lunch. A Cherokee 140 pulled up near the fence, but the engine didn’t shut down. The guy in the right seat seemed to be talking to the pilot in the left. Finally the door opened, the guy in the right seat hopped out and shut the door patting it a few times, maybe for good luck I though. As the airplane taxied away, the right seat guy passed me saying hi as he did. Half an hour later the Cherokee returned and that same guy left to greet him. Later I learned the pilot was on his second supervised solo and the fellow who’d waved to me was his instructor.

Maybe a week or so later I’m back out on the seats watching the airplanes when that same instructor comes out of the clubhouse door. He looks around and happens to see me so he walks over. “Why aren’t you out there flying on such a beautiful day,” he asks. “I’m not a pilot.” “Really?” he says. “You sure hang around here a lot for a guy who doesn’t fly. My name’s Ray. Stop in one of these days,” he said before turning away toward one of the airplanes. The gauntlet had been thrown down.

I didn’t go back to the viewing area the rest of that entire week. It was simply too scary to think of being close to something I really loved, but at which I’d already failed. The next week though, I did go back, but only back to the seats.

To this day I think Ray was watching for me because he came out of the clubhouse door and waved … “Well, are you coming in?” I sighed deeply but got up and followed him in the clubhouse door. And that, as they say, was that.

Over some coffee, I told Ray my story of failure. It didn’t even slow him down because an hour later we went out flying … and I never stopped again. I went on to earn my ATP and my own flight instructor ratings, fly for a couple of airlines, a charter company and a couple of Part 91 corporate flight departments. As an aviation writer, I even managed to grab a couple of hours in an Airbus A-380. It has all been just so sweet.

My instructor Tom nearly ended my aviation career, but luckily there was another fabulous instructor like Ray out there waiting to offer me a hand up with a little encouragement, which is all I apparently needed.

Today I wonder how many instructors like Tom are still out there. Trust me, one like him is one too many.

So here’s a suggestion. When you see someone watching through the fence, go say hi and offer a little encouragement to that budding pilot. These already-eager people are the low-hanging fruit for instructors and we can’t afford to lose a one of them.

Who knows, you might just be the one to change that wannabe-pilot’s life.

Rob Mark

The Few. The Proud. The New Student Pilots

February 27, 2017 by Scott Spangler

On the road to our favorite brewpub for date night I noticed a new billboard for the U.S. Marine Corps: “We don’t accept applications. Only commitments.” The smallest member of America’s armed forces, it meets its recruitment goals by challenging volunteers to meet the Corps’ uncompromising standards. In other words: Not everyone can be a Marine. Becoming one is not easy. Do you have what it takes? Can you sustain your commitment when the rigorous training seems beyond your capabilities? Reflecting on my experience with the Corps during my naval service and after it, the Marines steadfast challenge to meet its standards might work equally well in recruiting new student pilots.

As the declining trend of student pilot starts suggests, and the roughly 80 percent who decide to pursue a less challenging activity before they solo or earn a certificate confirms, becoming a pilot is not for everyone. History suggests that making the training easier by eliminating its more challenging aspects—spin training and the recent amendment of how to teach slow flight come to mind—perhaps taking a lesson from the Marines will reduce the number who quit before certification. And in the process it might improve efforts to reduce accidents resulting from loss of control.

Posing this challenge will affect students and their instructors because the latter will have to change the way they teach.

Teaching maneuvers separately and with a rote by-the-numbers setup and recovery does not prepare students for real world situations. There are certainly many ways to accomplish this, and I had the good fortune to fly with teachers who employed several of them. One of the most effective was to discuss a situation on the ground, say a spin resulting from an uncoordinated turn from base to final, and then to make the point in the airplane. What made it effective was the true point of the teacher’s demonstration.

Measuring Aviation Rewards: A Personal Hall of Fame

November 2, 2015 by Scott Spangler

Gathering with my aeronautical peers, I rarely participate in conversations in which they compare their cumulative and recent aviation rewards in terms of certificates and ratings earned, total hours logged, or most recent aircraft flown. While I share in the joy of their accomplishments—and sometimes envy them—I measure my aviation rewards by a different standard.

Like my peers, I share their overwhelming passion for flight. But making the most of available opportunity, circumstance, and individual interest, I’ve grown into an erudite aviator. The aviation rewards that I relish is association with others who have shared their more extensive knowledge and experience with me, and the opportunity to share what they have taught me with others.

Every aviator, I’m sure, has enshrined these notable individuals in his or her personal hall of fame. Mine was founded with the flight instructors who patiently conveyed the aeronautical knowledge and stick-and-rudder skills that realized my aviation dreams. Their names, Kim Middleton, Kerry Rowan, and Caroline Kalman, are unknown to most, but that does not diminish their contribution to those of us who were their students.

In select circles of aviation, some of my personal enshrinees are better known, like Loren Doughty and David Borrows, who demystified the complexity of helicopter flight by talking me through my first hand attempts at it. Dave Gwinn, Terry Blake, and Hal Shevers taught me different aspects of the business of aviation, and dedicated FAAers, who I’m sure wish to preserve their anonymity, took me behind the curtain of terminal and en route air traffic control, flight standards, and the nuances of flight test and aircraft certification.

In my mind there is a wing reserved for those who fostered my opportunities as an aviation word merchant. Gary Worden, Melissa Murphy, Dave Ewald, Pat Luebke, Jack Olcott, and Rob Mark not only taught me by example, they endured my trials and tribulations as I worked to achieve our common successes. Without them, I would not have been able to learn from so many others.